ALL ROADS LEAD TO CALVARY

CHAPTER I

She had not meant to stay for the service. The door had stood invitinglyopen, and a glimpse of the interior had suggested to her the idea that itwould make good copy. "Old London Churches: Their Social and HistoricalAssociations. " It would be easy to collect anecdotes of the famouspeople who had attended them. She might fix up a series for one of thereligious papers. It promised quite exceptional material, thisparticular specimen, rich in tombs and monuments. There was characterabout it, a scent of bygone days. She pictured the vanishedcongregations in their powdered wigs and stiff brocades. How picturesquemust have been the marriages that had taken place there, say in the reignof Queen Anne or of the early Georges. The church would have beenancient even then. With its air of faded grandeur, its sculpturedrecesses and dark niches, the tattered banners hanging from its roof, itmust have made an admirable background. Perhaps an historical novel inthe Thackeray vein? She could see her heroine walking up the aisle onthe arm of her proud old soldier father. Later on, when her journalisticposition was more established, she might think of it. It was still quiteearly. There would be nearly half an hour before the first worshipperswould be likely to arrive: just time enough to jot down a few notes. Ifshe did ever take to literature it would be the realistic school, shefelt, that would appeal to her. The rest, too, would be pleasant afterher long walk from Westminster. She would find a secluded seat in one ofthe high, stiff pews, and let the atmosphere of the place sink into her. 

And then the pew-opener had stolen up unobserved, and had taken it so forgranted that she would like to be shown round, and had seemed so pleasedand eager, that she had not the heart to repel her. A curious little oldparty with a smooth, peach-like complexion and white soft hair that thefading twilight, stealing through the yellow glass, turned to gold. Sothat at first sight Joan took her for a child. The voice, too, was soabsurdly childish--appealing, and yet confident. Not until they werecrossing the aisle, where the clearer light streamed in through the opendoors, did Joan see that she was very old and feeble, with about herfigure that curious patient droop that comes to the work-worn. Sheproved to be most interesting and full of helpful information. MaryStopperton was her name. She had lived in the neighbourhood all herlife; had as a girl worked for the Leigh Hunts and had "assisted" Mrs. Carlyle. She had been very frightened of the great man himself, and hadalways hidden herself behind doors or squeezed herself into corners andstopped breathing whenever there had been any fear of meeting him uponthe stairs. Until one day having darted into a cupboard to escape fromhim and drawn the door to after her, it turned out to be the cupboard inwhich Carlyle was used to keep his boots. So that there was quite astruggle between them; she holding grimly on to the door inside andCarlyle equally determined to open it and get his boots. It had ended inher exposure, with trembling knees and scarlet face, and Carlyle hadaddressed her as "woman, " and had insisted on knowing what she was doingthere. And after that she had lost all terror of him. And he had evenallowed her with a grim smile to enter occasionally the sacred study withher broom and pan. It had evidently made a lasting impression upon her, that privilege. 

"They didn't get on very well together, Mr. And Mrs. Carlyle?" Joanqueried, scenting the opportunity of obtaining first-class evidence. 

"There wasn't much difference, so far as I could see, between them andmost of us, " answered the little old lady. "You're not married, dear, "she continued, glancing at Joan's ungloved hand, "but people must have adeal of patience when they have to live with us for twenty-four hours aday. You see, little things we do and say without thinking, and littleways we have that we do not notice ourselves, may all the time beirritating to other people. "

"What about the other people irritating us?" suggested Joan. 

"Yes, dear, and of course that can happen too, " agreed the little oldlady. 

"Did he, Carlyle, ever come to this church?" asked Joan. 

Mary Stopperton was afraid he never had, in spite of its being so near. "And yet he was a dear good Christian--in his way, " Mary Stopperton feltsure. 

"How do you mean 'in his way'?" demanded Joan. It certainly, if Froudewas to be trusted, could not have been the orthodox way. 

"Well, you see, dear, " explained the little old lady, "he gave up things. He could have ridden in his carriage"--she was quoting, it seemed, thewords of the Carlyles' old servant--"if he'd written the sort of liesthat people pay for being told, instead of throwing the truth at theirhead. "

"But even that would not make him a Christian, " argued Joan. 

"It is part of it, dear, isn't it?" insisted Mary Stopperton. "To sufferfor one's faith. I think Jesus must have liked him for that. "

They had commenced with the narrow strip of burial ground lying betweenthe south side of the church and Cheyne Walk. And there the little pew-opener had showed her the grave of Anna, afterwards Mrs. Spragg. "Wholong declining wedlock and aspiring above her sex fought under herbrother with arms and manly attire in a flagship against the French. " Asalso of Mary Astell, her contemporary, who had written a spirited "Essayin Defence of the Fair Sex. " So there had been a Suffrage Movement asfar back as in the days of Pope and Swift. 

Returning to the interior, Joan had duly admired the Cheyne monument, buthad been unable to disguise her amusement before the tomb of Mrs. Colvile, whom the sculptor had represented as a somewhat impatient lady, refusing to await the day of resurrection, but pushing through her coffinand starting for Heaven in her grave-clothes. Pausing in front of theDacre monument, Joan wondered if the actor of that name, who hadcommitted suicide in Australia, and whose London address she rememberedhad been Dacre House just round the corner, was descended from thefamily; thinking that, if so, it would give an up-to-date touch to thearticle. She had fully decided now to write it. But Mary Stoppertoncould not inform her. They had ended up in the chapel of Sir ThomasMore. He, too, had "given up things, " including his head. Though MaryStopperton, siding with Father Morris, was convinced he had now got itback, and that with the remainder of his bones it rested in the tombbefore them. 

There, the little pew-opener had left her, having to show theearly-comers to their seats; and Joan had found an out-of-the-way pewfrom where she could command a view of the whole church. They werechiefly poor folk, the congregation; with here and there a sprinkling offaded gentility. They seemed in keeping with the place. The twilightfaded and a snuffy old man shuffled round and lit the gas. 

It was all so sweet and restful. Religion had never appealed to herbefore. The business-like service in the bare cold chapel where she hadsat swinging her feet and yawning as a child had only repelled her. Shecould recall her father, aloof and awe-inspiring in his Sunday black, passing round the bag. Her mother, always veiled, sitting beside her, athin, tall woman with passionate eyes and ever restless hands; the womenmostly overdressed, and the sleek, prosperous men trying to look meek. Atschool and at Girton, chapel, which she had attended no oftener than shewas obliged, had had about it the same atmosphere of chill compulsion. But here was poetry. She wondered if, after all, religion might not haveits place in the world--in company with the other arts. It would be apity for it to die out. There seemed nothing to take its place. Allthese lovely cathedrals, these dear little old churches, that forcenturies had been the focus of men's thoughts and aspirations. Theharbour lights, illumining the troubled waters of their lives. Whatcould be done with them? They could hardly be maintained out of thepublic funds as mere mementoes of the past. Besides, there were too manyof them. The tax-payer would naturally grumble. As Town Halls, AssemblyRooms? The idea was unthinkable. It would be like a performance ofBarnum's Circus in the Coliseum at Rome. Yes, they would disappear. Though not, she was glad to think, in her time. In towns, the spacewould be required for other buildings. Here and there some graduallydecaying specimen would be allowed to survive, taking its place with thefeudal castles and walled cities of the Continent: the joy of theAmerican tourist, the text-book of the antiquary. A pity! Yes, but thenfrom the aesthetic point of view it was a pity that the groves of ancientGreece had ever been cut down and replanted with currant bushes, theiraltars scattered; that the stones of the temples of Isis should have cometo be the shelter of the fisher of the Nile; and the corn wave in thewind above the buried shrines of Mexico. All these dead truths that fromtime to time had encumbered the living world. Each in its turn had hadto be cleared away. 

And yet was it altogether a dead truth: this passionate belief in apersonal God who had ordered all things for the best: who could beappealed to for comfort, for help? Might it not be as good anexplanation as any other of the mystery surrounding us? It had been souniversal. She was not sure where, but somewhere she had come across ananalogy that had strongly impressed her. "The fact that a man feelsthirsty--though at the time he may be wandering through the Desert ofSahara--proves that somewhere in the world there is water. " Might notthe success of Christianity in responding to human needs be evidence inits favour? The Love of God, the Fellowship of the Holy Ghost, the Graceof Our Lord Jesus Christ. Were not all human needs provided for in thatone comprehensive promise: the desperate need of man to be convinced thatbehind all the seeming muddle was a loving hand guiding towards good; theneed of the soul in its loneliness for fellowship, for strengthening; theneed of man in his weakness for the kindly grace of human sympathy, ofhuman example. 

And then, as fate would have it, the first lesson happened to be thestory of Jonah and the whale. Half a dozen shocked faces turned suddenlytowards her told Joan that at some point in the thrilling history shemust unconsciously have laughed. Fortunately she was alone in the pew, and feeling herself scarlet, squeezed herself into its farthest cornerand drew down her veil. 

No, it would have to go. A religion that solemnly demanded of grown menand women in the twentieth century that they should sit and listen withreverential awe to a prehistoric edition of "Grimm's Fairy Stories, "including Noah and his ark, the adventures of Samson and Delilah, theconversations between Balaam and his ass, and culminating in what if itwere not so appallingly wicked an idea would be the most comical of themall: the conception of an elaborately organized Hell, into which the Godof the Christians plunged his creatures for all eternity! Of what usewas such a religion as that going to be to the world of the future?

She must have knelt and stood mechanically, for the service was ended. The pulpit was occupied by an elderly uninteresting-looking man with atroublesome cough. But one sentence he had let fall had gripped herattention. For a moment she could not remember it, and then it came toher: "All Roads lead to Calvary. " It struck her as rather good. Perhapshe was going to be worth listening to. "To all of us, sooner or later, "he was saying, "comes a choosing of two ways: either the road leading tosuccess, the gratification of desires, the honour and approval of ourfellow-men--or the path to Calvary. "

And then he had wandered off into a maze of detail. The tradesman, dreaming perhaps of becoming a Whiteley, having to choose whether to goforward or remain for all time in the little shop. The statesman--shouldhe abide by the faith that is in him and suffer loss of popularity, orrenounce his God and enter the Cabinet? The artist, the writer, the merelabourer--there were too many of them. A few well-chosen examples wouldhave sufficed. And then that irritating cough!

And yet every now and then he would be arresting. In his prime, Joanfelt, he must have been a great preacher. Even now, decrepit and wheezy, he was capable of flashes of magnetism, of eloquence. The passage wherehe pictured the Garden of Gethsemane. The fair Jerusalem, only hiddenfrom us by the shadows. So easy to return to. Its soft lights shiningthrough the trees, beckoning to us; its mingled voices stealing to usthrough the silence, whispering to us of its well-remembered ways, itspleasant places, its open doorways, friends and loved ones waiting forus. And above, the rock-strewn Calvary: and crowning its summit, clearagainst the starlit sky, the cold, dark cross. "Not perhaps to us thebleeding hands and feet, but to all the bitter tears. Our Calvary may bea very little hill compared with the mountains where Prometheus suffered, but to us it is steep and lonely. "

There he should have stopped. It would have been a good note on which tofinish. But it seemed there was another point he wished to make. Evento the sinner Calvary calls. To Judas--even to him the gates of the life-giving Garden of Gethsemane had not been closed. "With his thirty piecesof silver he could have stolen away. In some distant crowded city of theRoman Empire have lived unknown, forgotten. Life still had itspleasures, its rewards. To him also had been given the choice. Thethirty pieces of silver that had meant so much to him! He flings them atthe feet of his tempters. They would not take them back. He rushes outand hangs himself. Shame and death. With his own hands he will buildhis own cross, none to help him. He, too--even Judas, climbs hisCalvary. Enters into the fellowship of those who through all ages havetrod its stony pathway. "

Joan waited till the last of the congregation had disappeared, and thenjoined the little pew-opener who was waiting to close the doors. Joanasked her what she had thought of the sermon, but Mary Stopperton, beinga little deaf, had not heard it. 

"It was quite good--the matter of it, " Joan told her. "All Roads lead toCalvary. The idea is that there comes a time to all of us when we haveto choose. Whether, like your friend Carlyle, we will 'give up things'for our faith's sake. Or go for the carriage and pair. "

Mary Stopperton laughed. "He is quite right, dear, " she said. "It doesseem to come, and it is so hard. You have to pray and pray and pray. Andeven then we cannot always do it. " She touched with her little witheredfingers Joan's fine white hand. "But you are so strong and brave, " shecontinued, with another little laugh. "It won't be so difficult foryou. "

It was not until well on her way home that Joan, recalling theconversation, found herself smiling at Mary Stopperton's literalacceptation of the argument. At the time, she remembered, the shadow ofa fear had passed over her. 

Mary Stopperton did not know the name of the preacher. It was quitecommon for chance substitutes to officiate there, especially in theevening. Joan had insisted on her acceptance of a shilling, and had madea note of her address, feeling instinctively that the little old womanwould "come in useful" from a journalistic point of view. 

Shaking hands with her, she had turned eastward, intending to walk toSloane Square and there take the bus. At the corner of Oakley Street sheovertook him. He was evidently a stranger to the neighbourhood, and waspeering up through his glasses to see the name of the street; and Joancaught sight of his face beneath a gas lamp. 

And suddenly it came to her that it was a face she knew. In the dim-litchurch she had not seen him clearly. He was still peering upward. Joanstole another glance. Yes, she had met him somewhere. He was verychanged, quite different, but she was sure of it. It was a long timeago. She must have been quite a child. 

CHAPTER II

One of Joan's earliest recollections was the picture of herself standingbefore the high cheval glass in her mother's dressing-room. Her clotheslay scattered far and wide, falling where she had flung them; not a shredof any kind of covering was left to her. She must have been very small, for she could remember looking up and seeing high above her head the twobrass knobs by which the glass was fastened to its frame. Suddenly, outof the upper portion of the glass, there looked a scared red face. Ithovered there a moment, and over it in swift succession there passed theexpressions, first of petrified amazement, secondly of shockedindignation, and thirdly of righteous wrath. And then it swooped downupon her, and the image in the glass became a confusion of small nakedarms and legs mingled with green cotton gloves and purple bonnet strings. 

"You young imp of Satan!" demanded Mrs. Munday--her feelings of outragedvirtue exaggerating perhaps her real sentiments. "What are you doing?"

"Go away. I'se looking at myself, " had explained Joan, strugglingfuriously to regain the glass. 

"But where are your clothes?" was Mrs. Munday's wonder. 

"I'se tooked them off, " explained Joan. A piece of information thatreally, all things considered, seemed unnecessary. 

"But can't you see yourself, you wicked child, without stripping yourselfas naked as you were born?"

"No, " maintained Joan stoutly. "I hate clothes. " As a matter of factshe didn't, even in those early days. On the contrary, one of herfavourite amusements was "dressing up. " This sudden overmastering desireto arrive at the truth about herself had been a new conceit. 

"I wanted to see myself. Clothes ain't me, " was all she would or couldvouchsafe; and Mrs. Munday had shook her head, and had freely confessedthat there were things beyond her and that Joan was one of them; and hadsucceeded, partly by force, partly by persuasion, in restoring to Joanonce more the semblance of a Christian child. 

It was Mrs. Munday, poor soul, who all unconsciously had planted theseeds of disbelief in Joan's mind. Mrs. Munday's God, from Joan's pointof view, was a most objectionable personage. He talked a lot--or ratherMrs. Munday talked for Him--about His love for little children. But itseemed He only loved them when they were good. Joan was under nodelusions about herself. If those were His terms, well, then, so far asshe could see, He wasn't going to be of much use to her. Besides, if Hehated naughty children, why did He make them naughty? At a moderateestimate quite half Joan's wickedness, so it seemed to Joan, came to herunbidden. Take for example that self-examination before the chevalglass. The idea had come into her mind. It had never occurred to herthat it was wicked. If, as Mrs. Munday explained, it was the Devil thathad whispered it to her, then what did God mean by allowing the Devil togo about persuading little girls to do indecent things? God could doeverything. Why didn't He smash the Devil? It seemed to Joan a meantrick, look at it how you would. Fancy leaving a little girl to fightthe Devil all by herself. And then get angry because the Devil won! Joancame to cordially dislike Mrs. Munday's God. 

Looking back it was easy enough to smile, but the agony of many nightswhen she had lain awake for hours battling with her childish terrors hadleft a burning sense of anger in Joan's heart. Poor mazed, bewilderedMrs. Munday, preaching the eternal damnation of the wicked--who had lovedher, who had only thought to do her duty, the blame was not hers. Butthat a religion capable of inflicting such suffering upon the innocentshould still be preached; maintained by the State! That its educatedfollowers no longer believed in a physical Hell, that its more advancedclergy had entered into a conspiracy of silence on the subject was noanswer. The great mass of the people were not educated. OfficialChristendom in every country still preached the everlasting torture ofthe majority of the human race as a well thought out part of theCreator's scheme. No leader had been bold enough to come forward anddenounce it as an insult to his God. As one grew older, kindly motherNature, ever seeking to ease the self-inflicted burdens of her foolishbrood, gave one forgetfulness, insensibility. The condemned criminalputs the thought of the gallows away from him as long as may be: eats, and sleeps and even jokes. Man's soul grows pachydermoid. But thechildren! Their sensitive brains exposed to every cruel breath. Nophilosophic doubt permitted to them. No learned disputation on therelationship between the literal and the allegorical for the easing oftheir frenzied fears. How many million tiny white-faced figuresscattered over Christian Europe and America, stared out each night into avision of black horror; how many million tiny hands clutched wildly atthe bedclothes. The Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children, if they had done their duty, would have prosecuted before now theArchbishop of Canterbury. 

Of course she would go to Hell. As a special kindness some generousrelative had, on Joan's seventh birthday, given her an edition of Dante's"Inferno, " with illustrations by Dore. From it she was able to form somenotion of what her eternity was likely to be. And God all the while upin His Heaven, surrounded by that glorious band of praise-trumpetingangels, watching her out of the corner of His eye. Her courage saved herfrom despair. Defiance came to her aid. Let Him send her to Hell! Shewas not going to pray to Him and make up to Him. He was a wicked God. Yes, He was: a cruel, wicked God. And one night she told Him so to Hisface. 

It had been a pretty crowded day, even for so busy a sinner as littleJoan. It was springtime, and they had gone into the country for hermother's health. Maybe it was the season: a stirring of the human sap, conducing to that feeling of being "too big for one's boots, " as thesaying is. A dangerous period of the year. Indeed, on the principlethat prevention is better than cure, Mrs. Munday had made it a customduring April and May to administer to Joan a cooling mixture; but on thisoccasion had unfortunately come away without it. Joan, dressed for userather than show, and without either shoes or stockings, had stolenstealthily downstairs: something seemed to be calling to her. Silently--"like a thief in the night, " to adopt Mrs. Munday'smetaphor--had slipped the heavy bolts; had joined the thousand creaturesof the wood--had danced and leapt and shouted; had behaved, in short, more as if she had been a Pagan nymph than a happy English child. Shehad regained the house unnoticed, as she thought, the Devil, no doubt, assisting her; and had hidden her wet clothes in the bottom of a mightychest. Deceitfulness in her heart, she had greeted Mrs. Munday in sleepytones from beneath the sheets; and before breakfast, assailed bysuspicious questions, had told a deliberate lie. Later in the morning, during an argument with an active young pig who was willing enough toplay at Red Riding Hood so far as eating things out of a basket wasconcerned, but who would not wear a night-cap, she had used a wickedword. In the afternoon she "might have killed" the farmer's only son andheir. They had had a row. In one of those sad lapses from the higherChristian standards into which Satan was always egging her, she hadpushed him; and he had tumbled head over heels into the horse-pond. Thereason, that instead of lying there and drowning he had got up and walkedback to the house howling fit to wake the Seven Sleepers, was that God, watching over little children, had arranged for the incident taking placeon that side of the pond where it was shallow. Had the scrimmageoccurred on the opposite bank, beneath which the water was much deeper, Joan in all probability would have had murder on her soul. It seemed toJoan that if God, all-powerful and all-foreseeing, had been so careful inselecting the site, He might with equal ease have prevented the row fromever taking place. Why couldn't the little beast have been guided backfrom school through the orchard, much the shorter way, instead of beingbrought round by the yard, so as to come upon her at a moment when shewas feeling a bit short-tempered, to put it mildly? And why had Godallowed him to call her "Carrots"? That Joan should have "put it" thisway, instead of going down on her knees and thanking the Lord for havingsaved her from a crime, was proof of her inborn evil disposition. In theevening was reached the culminating point. Just before going to bed shehad murdered old George the cowman. For all practical purposes she mightjust as well have been successful in drowning William Augustus earlier inthe day. It seemed to be one of those things that had to be. Mr. Hornflower still lived, it was true, but that was not Joan's fault. Joan, standing in white night-gown beside her bed, everything around herbreathing of innocence and virtue: the spotless bedclothes, the chintzcurtains, the white hyacinths upon the window-ledge, Joan's Bible, apresent from Aunt Susan; her prayer-book, handsomely bound in calf, apresent from Grandpapa, upon their little table; Mrs. Munday in eveningblack and cameo brooch (pale red with tomb and weeping willow in whiterelief) sacred to the memory of the departed Mr. Munday--Joan standingthere erect, with pale, passionate face, defying all these aids torighteousness, had deliberately wished Mr. Hornflower dead. Old GeorgeHornflower it was who, unseen by her, had passed her that morning in thewood. Grumpy old George it was who had overheard the wicked word withwhich she had cursed the pig; who had met William Augustus on hisemergence from the pond. To Mr. George Hornflower, the humble instrumentin the hands of Providence, helping her towards possible salvation, sheought to have been grateful. And instead of that she had flung into theagonized face of Mrs. Munday these awful words:

"I wish he was dead!"

"He who in his heart--" there was verse and chapter for it. Joan was amurderess. Just as well, so far as Joan was concerned, might she havetaken a carving-knife and stabbed Deacon Hornflower to the heart. 

Joan's prayers that night, to the accompaniment of Mrs. Munday's sobs, had a hopeless air of unreality about them. Mrs. Munday's kiss was cold. 

How long Joan lay and tossed upon her little bed she could not tell. Somewhere about the middle of the night, or so it seemed to her, thefrenzy seized her. Flinging the bedclothes away she rose to her feet. Itis difficult to stand upon a spring mattress, but Joan kept her balance. Of course He was there in the room with her. God was everywhere, spyingupon her. She could distinctly hear His measured breathing. Face toface with Him, she told Him what she thought of Him. She told Him He wasa cruel, wicked God. 

There are no Victoria Crosses for sinners, or surely little Joan thatnight would have earned it. It was not lack of imagination that helpedher courage. God and she alone, in the darkness. He with all the forcesof the Universe behind Him. He armed with His eternal pains andpenalties, and eight-year-old Joan: the creature that He had made in HisOwn Image that He could torture and destroy. Hell yawned beneath her, but it had to be said. Somebody ought to tell Him. 

"You are a wicked God, " Joan told Him. "Yes, You are. A cruel, wickedGod. "

And then that she might not see the walls of the room open before her, hear the wild laughter of the thousand devils that were coming to bearher off, she threw herself down, her face hidden in the pillow, andclenched her hands and waited. 

And suddenly there burst a song. It was like nothing Joan had ever heardbefore. So clear and loud and near that all the night seemed filled withharmony. It sank into a tender yearning cry throbbing with passionatedesire, and then it rose again in thrilling ecstasy: a song of hope, ofvictory. 

Joan, trembling, stole from her bed and drew aside the blind. There wasnothing to be seen but the stars and the dim shape of the hills. Butstill that song, filling the air with its wild, triumphant melody. 

Years afterwards, listening to the overture to _Tannhauser_, there cameback to her the memory of that night. Ever through the mad Satanicdiscords she could hear, now faint, now conquering, the Pilgrims' onwardmarch. So through the jangled discords of the world one heard the Songof Life. Through the dim aeons of man's savage infancy; through thecenturies of bloodshed and of horror; through the dark ages of tyrannyand superstition; through wrong, through cruelty, through hate; heedlessof doom, heedless of death, still the nightingale's song: "I love you. Ilove you. I love you. We will build a nest. We will rear our brood. Ilove you. I love you. Life shall not die. "

Joan crept back into bed. A new wonder had come to her. And from thatnight Joan's belief in Mrs. Munday's God began to fade, circumstanceshelping. 

Firstly there was the great event of going to school. She was glad toget away from home, a massive, stiffly furnished house in a wealthysuburb of Liverpool. Her mother, since she could remember, had been aninvalid, rarely leaving her bedroom till the afternoon. Her father, theowner of large engineering works, she only saw, as a rule, atdinner-time, when she would come down to dessert. It had been differentwhen she was very young, before her mother had been taken ill. Then shehad been more with them both. She had dim recollections of her fatherplaying with her, pretending to be a bear and growling at her from behindthe sofa. And then he would seize and hug her and they would both laugh, while he tossed her into the air and caught her. He had looked so bigand handsome. All through her childhood there had been the desire torecreate those days, to spring into the air and catch her arms about hisneck. She could have loved him dearly if he had only let her. Once, seeking explanation, she had opened her heart a little to Mrs. Munday. Itwas disappointment, Mrs. Munday thought, that she had not been a boy; andwith that Joan had to content herself. Maybe also her mother's illnesshad helped to sadden him. Or perhaps it was mere temperament, as sheargued to herself later, for which they were both responsible. Thoselittle tricks of coaxing, of tenderness, of wilfulness, by means of whichother girls wriggled their way so successfully into a warm nest of cosyaffection: she had never been able to employ them. Beneath herself-confidence was a shyness, an immovable reserve that had alwaysprevented her from expressing her emotions. She had inherited it, doubtless enough, from him. Perhaps one day, between them, they wouldbreak down the barrier, the strength of which seemed to lie in its veryflimsiness, its impalpability. 

And then during college vacations, returning home with growing notionsand views of her own, she had found herself so often in antagonism withhim. His fierce puritanism, so opposed to all her enthusiasms. Arguingwith him, she might almost have been listening to one of his Cromwellianancestors risen from the dead. There had been disputes between him andhis work-people, and Joan had taken the side of the men. He had not beenangry with her, but coldly contemptuous. And yet, in spite of it all, ifhe had only made a sign! She wanted to fling herself crying into hisarms and shake him--make him listen to her wisdom, sitting on his kneewith her hands clasped round his neck. He was not really intolerant andstupid. That had been proved by his letting her go to a Church ofEngland school. Her mother had expressed no wish. It was he who hadselected it. 

Of her mother she had always stood somewhat in fear, never knowing whenthe mood of passionate affection would give place to a chill aversionthat seemed almost like hate. Perhaps it had been good for her, so shetold herself in after years, her lonely, unguided childhood. It hadforced her to think and act for herself. At school she reaped thebenefit. Self-reliant, confident, original, leadership was granted toher as a natural prerogative. Nature had helped her. Nowhere does ayoung girl rule more supremely by reason of her beauty than among herfellows. Joan soon grew accustomed to having her boots put on and takenoff for her; all her needs of service anticipated by eager slaves, contending with one another for the privilege. By giving a command, bybestowing a few moments of her conversation, it was within her power tomake some small adoring girl absurdly happy for the rest of the day;while her displeasure would result in tears, in fawning pleadings forforgiveness. The homage did not spoil her. Rather it helped to developher. She accepted it from the beginning as in the order of things. Powerhad been given to her. It was her duty to see to it that she did not useit capriciously, for her own gratification. No conscientious youthfulqueen could have been more careful in the distribution of herfavours--that they should be for the encouragement of the deserving, thereward of virtue; more sparing of her frowns, reserving them for therectification of error. 

At Girton it was more by force of will, of brain, that she had to makeher position. There was more competition. Joan welcomed it, as givingmore zest to life. But even there her beauty was by no means anegligible quantity. Clever, brilliant young women, accustomed to sweepaside all opposition with a blaze of rhetoric, found themselves to theirirritation sitting in front of her silent, not so much listening to heras looking at her. It puzzled them for a time. Because a girl'sfeatures are classical and her colouring attractive, surely that hasnothing to do with the value of her political views? Until one of themdiscovered by chance that it has. 

"Well, what does Beauty think about it?" this one had asked, laughing. She had arrived at the end of a discussion just as Joan was leaving theroom. And then she gave a long low whistle, feeling that she hadstumbled upon the explanation. Beauty, that mysterious force that fromthe date of creation has ruled the world, what does It think? Dumb, passive, as a rule, exercising its influence unconsciously. But if itshould become intelligent, active! A Philosopher has dreamed of the vastinfluence that could be exercised by a dozen sincere men acting in unity. Suppose a dozen of the most beautiful women in the world could formthemselves into a league! Joan found them late in the evening stilldiscussing it. 

Her mother died suddenly during her last term, and Joan hurried back toattend the funeral. Her father was out when she reached home. Joanchanged her travel-dusty clothes, and then went into the room where hermother lay, and closed the door. She must have been a beautiful woman. Now that the fret and the restlessness had left her it had come back toher. The passionate eyes were closed. Joan kissed the marble lids, anddrawing a chair to the bedside, sat down. It grieved her that she hadnever loved her mother--not as one ought to love one's mother, unquestioningly, unreasoningly, as a natural instinct. For a moment astrange thought came to her, and swiftly, almost guiltily, she stoleacross, and drawing back a corner of the blind, examined closely her ownfeatures in the glass, comparing them with the face of the dead woman, thus called upon to be a silent witness for or against the living. Joandrew a sigh of relief and let fall the blind. There could be nomisreading the evidence. Death had smoothed away the lines, given backyouth. It was almost uncanny, the likeness between them. It might havebeen her drowned sister lying there. And they had never known oneanother. Had this also been temperament again, keeping them apart? Whydid it imprison us each one as in a moving cell, so that we never couldstretch out our arms to one another, except when at rare intervals Loveor Death would unlock for a while the key? Impossible that two beingsshould have been so alike in feature without being more or less alike inthought and feeling. Whose fault had it been? Surely her own; she wasso hideously calculating. Even Mrs. Munday, because the old lady hadbeen fond of her and had shown it, had been of more service to her, morea companion, had been nearer to her than her own mother. In self-excuseshe recalled the two or three occasions when she had tried to win hermother. But fate seemed to have decreed that their moods should nevercorrespond. Her mother's sudden fierce outbursts of love, when she wouldbe jealous, exacting, almost cruel, had frightened her when she was achild, and later on had bored her. Other daughters would have shownpatience, unselfishness, but she had always been so self-centred. Whyhad she never fallen in love like other girls? There had been a boy atBrighton when she was at school there--quite a nice boy, who had writtenher wildly extravagant love-letters. It must have cost him half hispocket-money to get them smuggled in to her. Why had she only beenamused at them? They might have been beautiful if only one had read themwith sympathy. One day he had caught her alone on the Downs. Evidentlyhe had made it his business to hang about every day waiting for some suchchance. He had gone down on his knees and kissed her feet, and had beenso abject, so pitiful that she had given him some flowers she waswearing. And he had sworn to dedicate the rest of his life to beingworthy of her condescension. Poor lad! She wondered--for the first timesince that afternoon--what had become of him. There had been others; athird cousin who still wrote to her from Egypt, sending her presents thatperhaps he could ill afford, and whom she answered about once a year. Andpromising young men she had met at Cambridge, ready, the feltinstinctively, to fall down and worship her. And all the use she had hadfor them was to convert them to her views--a task so easy as to be quiteuninteresting--with a vague idea that they might come in handy in thefuture, when she might need help in shaping that world of the future. 

Only once had she ever thought of marriage. And that was in favour of amiddle-aged, rheumatic widower with three children, a professor ofchemistry, very learned and justly famous. For about a month she hadthought herself in love. She pictured herself devoting her life to him, rubbing his poor left shoulder where it seemed he suffered most, andbrushing his picturesque hair, inclined to grey. Fortunately his eldestdaughter was a young woman of resource, or the poor gentleman, naturallycarried off his feet by this adoration of youth and beauty, might havemade an ass of himself. But apart from this one episode she had reachedthe age of twenty-three heart-whole. 

She rose and replaced the chair. And suddenly a wave of pity passed overher for the dead woman, who had always seemed so lonely in the greatstiffly-furnished house, and the tears came. 

She was glad she had been able to cry. She had always hated herself forher lack of tears; it was so unwomanly. Even as a child she had rarelycried. 

Her father had always been very tender, very patient towards her mother, but she had not expected to find him so changed. He had aged and hisshoulders drooped. She had been afraid that he would want her to staywith him and take charge of the house. It had worried her considerably. It would be so difficult to refuse, and yet she would have to. But whenhe never broached the subject she was hurt. He had questioned her abouther plans the day after the funeral, and had seemed only anxious toassist them. She proposed continuing at Cambridge till the end of theterm. She had taken her degree the year before. After that, she wouldgo to London and commence her work. 

"Let me know what allowance you would like me to make you, when you havethought it out. Things are not what they were at the works, but therewill always be enough to keep you in comfort, " he had told her. She hadfixed it there and then at two hundred a year. She would not take more, and that only until she was in a position to keep herself. 

"I want to prove to myself, " she explained, "that I am capable of earningmy own living. I am going down into the market-place. If I'm no good, if I can't take care of even one poor woman, I'll come back and ask youto keep me. " She was sitting on the arm of his chair, and laughing, shedrew his head towards her and pressed it against her. "If I succeed, ifI am strong enough to fight the world for myself and win, that will meanI am strong enough and clever enough to help others. "

"I am only at the end of a journey when you need me, " he had answered, and they had kissed. And next morning she returned to her own life. 

CHAPTER III

It was at Madge Singleton's rooms that the details of Joan's entry intojournalistic London were arranged. "The Coming of Beauty, " was FloraLessing's phrase for designating the event. Flora Lessing, known amongher associates as "Flossie, " was the girl who at Cambridge hadaccidentally stumbled upon the explanation of Joan's influence. Inappearance she was of the Fluffy Ruffles type, with childish innocenteyes, and the "unruly curls" beloved of the _Family Herald_ novelist. Atthe first, these latter had been the result of a habit of late rising andconsequent hurried toilet operations; but on the discovery that for thepurposes of her profession they possessed a market value they had beensedulously cultivated. Editors of the old order had ridiculed the ideaof her being of any use to them, when two years previously she had, bycombination of cheek and patience, forced herself into their sanctum; hadpatted her paternally upon her generally ungloved hand, and told her togo back home and get some honest, worthy young man to love and cherishher. 

It was Carleton of the _Daily Dispatch_ group who had first divined herpossibilities. With a swift glance on his way through, he had picked herout from a line of depressed-looking men and women ranged against thewall of the dark entrance passage; and with a snap of his fingers hadbeckoned to her to follow him. Striding in front of her up to his room, he had pointed to a chair and had left her sitting there forthree-quarters of an hour, while he held discussion with a stream ofsubordinates, managers and editors of departments, who entered anddeparted one after another, evidently in pre-arranged order. All of themspoke rapidly, without ever digressing by a single word from the point, giving her the impression of their speeches having been rehearsedbeforehand. 

Carleton himself never interrupted them. Indeed, one might have thoughthe was not listening, so engrossed he appeared to be in the pile ofletters and telegrams that lay waiting for him on his desk. When theyhad finished he would ask them questions, still with his attention fixedapparently upon the paper in his hand. Then, looking up for the firsttime, he would run off curt instructions, much in the tone of a Commander-in-Chief giving orders for an immediate assault; and, finishing abruptly, return to his correspondence. When the last, as it transpired, hadclosed the door behind him, he swung his chair round and faced her. 

"What have you been doing?" he asked her. 

"Wasting my time and money hanging about newspaper offices, listening tosilly talk from old fossils, " she told him. 

"And having learned that respectable journalism has no use for brains, you come to me, " he answered her. "What do you think you can do?"

"Anything that can be done with a pen and ink, " she told him. 

"Interviewing?" he suggested. 

"I've always been considered good at asking awkward questions, " sheassured him. 

He glanced at the clock. "I'll give you five minutes, " he said. "Interview me. "

She moved to a chair beside the desk, and, opening her bag, took out awriting-block. 

"What are your principles?" she asked him. "Have you got any?"

He looked at her sharply across the corner of the desk. 

"I mean, " she continued, "to what fundamental rule of conduct do youattribute your success?"

She leant forward, fixing her eyes on him. "Don't tell me, " shepersisted, "that you had none. That life is all just mere blind chance. Think of the young men who are hanging on your answer. Won't you sendthem a message?"

"Yes, " he answered musingly. "It's your baby face that does the trick. In the ordinary way I should have known you were pulling my leg, and haveshown you the door. As it was, I felt half inclined for the moment toreply with some damned silly platitude that would have set all FleetStreet laughing at me. Why do my 'principles' interest you?"

"As a matter of fact they don't, " she explained. "But it's what peopletalk about whenever they discuss you. "

"What do they say?" he demanded. 

"Your friends, that you never had any. And your enemies, that they arealways the latest, " she informed him. 

"You'll do, " he answered with a laugh. "With nine men out of ten thatspeech would have ended your chances. You sized me up at a glance, andknew it would only interest me. And your instinct is right, " he added. "What people are saying: always go straight for that. "

He gave her a commission then and there for a heart to heart talk with agentleman whom the editor of the Home News Department of the _DailyDispatch_ would have referred to as a "Leading Literary Luminary, " andwho had just invented a new world in two volumes. She had asked himchildish questions and had listened with wide-open eyes while he, sittingover against her, and smiling benevolently, had laid bare to her all theseeming intricacies of creation, and had explained to her in simplelanguage the necessary alterations and improvements he was hoping tobring about in human nature. He had the sensation that his hair must bestanding on end the next morning after having read in cold print what hehad said. Expanding oneself before the admiring gaze of innocentsimplicity and addressing the easily amused ear of an unsympatheticpublic are not the same thing. He ought to have thought of that. 

It consoled him, later, that he was not the only victim. The _DailyDispatch_ became famous for its piquant interviews; especially withelderly celebrities of the masculine gender. 

"It's dirty work, " Flossie confided one day to Madge Singleton. "I tradeon my silly face. Don't see that I'm much different to any of these poordevils. " They were walking home in the evening from a theatre. "If Ihadn't been stony broke I'd never have taken it up. I shall get out ofit as soon as I can afford to. "

"I should make it a bit sooner than that, " suggested the elder woman. "One can't always stop oneself just where one wants to when sliding downa slope. It has a knack of getting steeper and steeper as one goes on. "

Madge had asked Joan to come a little earlier so that they could have achat together before the others arrived. 

"I've only asked a few, " she explained, as she led Joan into the restfulwhite-panelled sitting-room that looked out upon the gardens. Madgeshared a set of chambers in Gray's Inn with her brother who was an actor. "But I have chosen them with care. "

Joan murmured her thanks. 

"I haven't asked any men, " she added, as she fixed Joan in an easy chairbefore the fire. "I was afraid of its introducing the wrong element. "

"Tell me, " asked Joan, "am I likely to meet with much of that sort ofthing?"

"Oh, about as much as there always is wherever men and women worktogether, " answered Madge. "It's a nuisance, but it has to be faced. "

"Nature appears to have only one idea in her head, " she continued after apause, "so far as we men and women are concerned. She's been kinder tothe lower animals. "

"Man has more interests, " Joan argued, "a thousand other allurements todistract him; we must cultivate his finer instincts. "

"It doesn't seem to answer, " grumbled Madge. "One is always told it isthe artist--the brain worker, the very men who have these fine instincts, who are the most sexual. "

She made a little impatient movement with her hands that wascharacteristic of her. "Personally, I like men, " she went on. "It is sosplendid the way they enjoy life: just like a dog does, whether it's wetor fine. We are always blinking up at the clouds and worrying about ourhat. It would be so nice to be able to have friendship with them. 

"I don't mean that it's all their fault, " she continued. "We do all wecan to attract them--the way we dress. Who was it said that to everywoman every man is a potential lover. We can't get it out of our minds. It's there even when we don't know it. We will never succeed incivilizing Nature. "

"We won't despair of her, " laughed Joan. "She's creeping up, poor lady, as Whistler said of her. We have passed the phase when everything shedid was right in our childish eyes. Now we dare to criticize her. Thatshows we are growing up. She will learn from us, later on. She's a dearold thing, at heart. "

"She's been kind enough to you, " replied Madge, somewhat irrelevantly. There was a note of irritation in her tone. "I suppose you know you aresupremely beautiful. You seem so indifferent to it, I wonder sometimesif you do. "

"I'm not indifferent to it, " answered Joan. "I'm reckoning on it to helpme. "

"Why not?" she continued, with a flash of defiance, though Madge had notspoken. "It is a weapon like any other--knowledge, intellect, courage. God has given me beauty. I shall use it in His service. "

They formed a curious physical contrast, these two women in this moment. Joan, radiant, serene, sat upright in her chair, her head slightly thrownback, her fine hands clasping one another so strongly that the delicatemuscles could be traced beneath the smooth white skin. Madge, withpuckered brows, leant forward in a crouching attitude, her thin nervoushands stretched out towards the fire. 

"How does one know when one is serving God?" she asked after a pause, apparently rather of herself than of Joan. "It seems so difficult. "

"One feels it, " explained Joan. 

"Yes, but didn't they all feel it, " Madge suggested. She still seemed tobe arguing with herself rather than with Joan. "Nietzsche. I have beenreading him. They are forming a Nietzsche Society to give lectures abouthim--propagate him over here. Eleanor's in it up to the neck. It seemsto me awful. Every fibre in my being revolts against him. Yet they'reall cocksure that he is the coming prophet. He must have convincedhimself that he is serving God. If I were a fighter I should feel I wasserving God trying to down Him. How do I know which of us is right?Torquemada--Calvin, " she went on, without giving Joan the chance of areply. "It's easy enough to see they were wrong now. But at the timemillions of people believed in them--felt it was God's voice speakingthrough them. Joan of Arc! Fancy dying to put a thing like that upon athrone. It would be funny if it wasn't so tragic. You can say she droveout the English--saved France. But for what? The Bartholomew massacres. The ruin of the Palatinate by Louis XIV. The horrors of the FrenchRevolution, ending with Napoleon and all the misery and degeneracy thathe bequeathed to Europe. History might have worked itself out so muchbetter if the poor child had left it alone and minded her sheep. "

"Wouldn't that train of argument lead to nobody ever doing anything?"suggested Joan. 

"I suppose it would mean stagnation, " admitted Madge. "And yet I don'tknow. Are there not forces moving towards right that are crying to us tohelp them, not by violence, which only interrupts--delays them, but byquietly preparing the way for them? You know what I mean. Erasmusalways said that Luther had hindered the Reformation by stirring uppassion and hate. " She broke off suddenly. There were tears in hereyes. "Oh, if God would only say what He wants of us, " she almost cried;"call to us in trumpet tones that would ring through the world, compelling us to take sides. Why can't He speak?"

"He does, " answered Joan. "I hear His voice. There are things I've gotto do. Wrongs that I must fight against. Rights that I must never dareto rest till they are won. " Her lips were parted. Her breasts heaving. "He does call to us. He has girded His sword upon me. "

Madge looked at her in silence for quite a while. "How confident youare, " she said. "How I envy you. "

They talked for a time about domestic matters. Joan had establishedherself in furnished rooms in a quiet street of pleasant Georgian housesjust behind the Abbey; a member of Parliament and his wife occupied thelower floors, the landlord, a retired butler, and his wife, an excellentcook, confining themselves to the basement and the attics. The remainingfloor was tenanted by a shy young man--a poet, so the landlady thought, but was not sure. Anyhow he had long hair, lived with a pipe in hismouth, and burned his lamp long into the night. Joan had omitted to askhis name. She made a note to do so. 

They discussed ways and means. Joan calculated she could get through ontwo hundred a year, putting aside fifty for dress. Madge was doubtful ifthis would be sufficient. Joan urged that she was "stock size" and wouldbe able to pick up "models" at sales; but Madge, measuring her againstherself, was sure she was too full. 

"You will find yourself expensive to dress, " she told her, "cheap thingswon't go well on you; and it would be madness, even from a business pointof view, for you not to make the best of yourself. "

"Men stand more in awe of a well-dressed woman than they do even of abeautiful woman, " Madge was of opinion. "If you go into an officelooking dowdy they'll beat you down. Tell them the price they areoffering you won't keep you in gloves for a week and they'll be ashamedof themselves. There's nothing _infra dig_. In being mean to the poor;but not to sympathize with the rich stamps you as middle class. " Shelaughed. 

Joan was worried. "I told Dad I should only ask him for enough to makeup two hundred a year, " she explained. "He'll laugh at me for notknowing my own mind. "

"I should let him, " advised Madge. She grew thoughtful again. "Wecranky young women, with our new-fangled, independent ways, I guess wehurt the old folks quite enough as it is. "

The bell rang and Madge opened the door herself. It turned out to beFlossie. Joan had not seen her since they had been at Girton together, and was surprised at Flossie's youthful "get up. " Flossie explained, andwithout waiting for any possible attack flew to her own defence. 

"The revolution that the world is waiting for, " was Flossie's opinion, "is the providing of every man and woman with a hundred and fifty a year. Then we shall all be able to afford to be noble and high-minded. As itis, nine-tenths of the contemptible things we do comes from the necessityof our having to earn our living. A hundred and fifty a year woulddeliver us from evil. "

"Would there not still be the diamond dog-collar and the motor car leftto tempt us?" suggested Madge. 

"Only the really wicked, " contended Flossie. "It would classify us. Weshould know then which were the sheep and which the goats. At presentwe're all jumbled together: the ungodly who sin out of mere greed andrapacity, and the just men compelled to sell their birthright of fineinstincts for a mess of meat and potatoes. "

"Yah, socialist, " commented Madge, who was busy with the tea things. 

Flossie seemed struck by an idea. 

"By Jove, " she exclaimed. "Why did I never think of it. With a red flagand my hair down, I'd be in all the illustrated papers. It would put upmy price no end. And I'd be able to get out of this silly job of mine. Ican't go on much longer. I'm getting too well known. I do believe I'lltry it. The shouting's easy enough. " She turned to Joan. "Are yougoing to take up socialism?" she demanded. 

"I may, " answered Joan. "Just to spank it, and put it down again. I'mrather a believer in temptation--the struggle for existence. I only wantto make it a finer existence, more worth the struggle, in which the bestman shall rise to the top. Your 'universal security'--that will be thelast act of the human drama, the cue for ringing down the curtain. "

"But do not all our Isms work towards that end?" suggested Madge. 

Joan was about to reply when the maid's announcement of "Mrs. Denton"postponed the discussion. 

Mrs. Denton was a short, grey-haired lady. Her large strong featuresmust have made her, when she was young, a hard-looking woman; but timeand sorrow had strangely softened them; while about the corners of thethin firm mouth lurked a suggestion of humour that possibly had notalways been there. Joan, waiting to be introduced, towered head andshoulders above her; yet when she took the small proffered hand and feltthose steely blue eyes surveying her, she had the sensation of beingquite insignificant. Mrs. Denton seemed to be reading her, and thenstill retaining Joan's hand she turned to Madge with a smile. 

"So this is our new recruit, " she said. "She is come to bring healing tothe sad, sick world--to right all the old, old wrongs. "

She patted Joan's hand and spoke gravely. "That is right, dear. That isyouth's _metier_; to take the banner from our failing hands, bear itstill a little onward. " Her small gloved hand closed on Joan's with apressure that made Joan wince. 

"And you must not despair, " she continued; "because in the end it willseem to you that you have failed. It is the fallen that win thevictories. "

She released Joan's hand abruptly. "Come and see me to-morrow morning atmy office, " she said. "We will fix up something that shall beserviceable to us both. "

Madge flashed Joan a look. She considered Joan's position alreadysecured. Mrs. Denton was the doyen of women journalists. She edited amonthly review and was leader writer of one of the most importantdailies, besides being the controlling spirit of various socialmovements. Anyone she "took up" would be assured of steady work. Thepay might not be able to compete with the prices paid for more popularjournalism, but it would afford a foundation, and give to Joan thatopportunity for influence which was her main ambition. 

Joan expressed her thanks. She would like to have had more talk with thestern old lady, but was prevented by the entrance of two new comers. Thefirst was Miss Lavery, a handsome, loud-toned young woman. She ran anursing paper, but her chief interest was in the woman's suffragequestion, just then coming rapidly to the front. She had heard Joanspeak at Cambridge and was eager to secure her adherence, being wishfulto surround herself with a group of young and good-looking women whoshould take the movement out of the hands of the "frumps, " as she termedthem. Her doubt was whether Joan would prove sufficiently tractable. Sheintended to offer her remunerative work upon the _Nursing News_ withoutsaying anything about the real motive behind, trusting to gratitude tomake her task the easier. 

The second was a clumsy-looking, overdressed woman whom Miss Laveryintroduced as "Mrs. Phillips, a very dear friend of mine, who is going tobe helpful to us all, " adding in a hurried aside to Madge, "I simply hadto bring her. Will explain to you another time. " An apology certainlyseemed to be needed. The woman was absurdly out of her place. She stoodthere panting and slightly perspiring. She was short and fat, with dyedhair. As a girl she had possibly been pretty in a dimpled, giggling sortof way. Joan judged her, in spite of her complexion, to be about forty. 

Joan wondered if she could be the wife of the Member of Parliament whooccupied the rooms below her in Cowley Street. His name, so the landladyhad told her, was Phillips. She put the suggestion in a whisper toFlossie. 

"Quite likely, " thought Flossie; "just the type that sort of man doesmarry. A barmaid, I expect. "

Others continued to arrive until altogether there must have been about adozen women present. One of them turned out to be an old schoolfellow ofJoan's and two had been with her at Girton. Madge had selected those whoshe knew would be sympathetic, and all promised help: those who could notgive it direct undertaking to provide introductions and recommendations, though some of them were frankly doubtful of journalism affording Joananything more than the means--not always, too honest--of earning aliving. 

"I started out to preach the gospel: all that sort of thing, " drawled aMiss Simmonds from beneath a hat that, if she had paid for it, would havecost her five guineas. "Now my chief purpose in life is to tickle sillywomen into spending twice as much upon their clothes as their husbandscan afford, bamboozling them into buying any old thing that ourAdvertising Manager instructs me to boom. "

"They talk about the editor's opinions, " struck in a fiery little womanwho was busy flinging crumbs out of the window to a crowd of noisysparrows. "It's the Advertiser edits half the papers. Write anythingthat three of them object to, and your proprietor tells you to changeyour convictions or go. Most of us change. " She jerked down the windowwith a slam. 

"It's the syndicates that have done it, " was a Mrs. Elliot's opinion. Shewrote "Society Notes" for a Labour weekly. "When one man owned a paperhe wanted it to express his views. A company is only out for profit. Your modern newspaper is just a shop. It's only purpose is to attractcustomers. Look at the _Methodist Herald_, owned by the same syndicateof Jews that runs the _Racing News_. They work it as far as possiblewith the same staff. "

"We're a pack of hirelings, " asserted the fiery little woman. "Our pensare for sale to the highest bidder. I had a letter from Jocelyn only twodays ago. He was one of the original staff of the _Socialist_. Hewrites me that he has gone as leader writer to a Conservative paper attwice his former salary. Expected me to congratulate him. "

"One of these days somebody will start a Society for the Reformation ofthe Press, " thought Flossie. "I wonder how the papers will take it?"

"Much as Rome took Savonarola, " thought Madge. 

Mrs. Denton had risen. 

"They are right to a great extent, " she said to Joan. "But not all thetemple has been given over to the hucksters. You shall place yourpreaching stool in some quiet corner, where the passing feet shall pauseawhile to listen. "

Her going was the signal for the breaking up of the party. In a shorttime Joan and Madge found themselves left with only Flossie. 

"What on earth induced Helen to bring that poor old Dutch doll along withher?" demanded Flossie. "The woman never opened her mouth all the time. Did she tell you?"

"No, " answered Madge, "but I think I can guess. She hopes--or perhaps'fears' would be more correct--that her husband is going to join theCabinet, and is trying to fit herself by suddenly studying political andsocial questions. For a month she's been clinging like a leech to HelenLavery, who takes her to meetings and gatherings. I suppose they'vestruck up some sort of a bargain. It's rather pathetic. "

"Good Heavens! What a tragedy for the man, " commented Flossie. 

"What is he like?" asked Joan. 

"Not much to look at, if that's what you mean, " answered Madge. "Beganlife as a miner, I believe. Looks like ending as Prime Minister. "

"I heard him at the Albert Hall last week, " said Flossie. "He's quitewonderful. "

"In what way?" questioned Joan. 

"Oh, you know, " explained Flossie. "Like a volcano compressed into asteam engine. "

They discussed Joan's plans. It looked as if things were going to beeasy for her. 

CHAPTER IV

Yet in the end it was Carleton who opened the door for her. 

Mrs. Denton was helpful, and would have been more so, if Joan had onlyunderstood. Mrs. Denton lived alone in an old house in Gower Street, with a high stone hall that was always echoing to sounds that no one butitself could ever hear. Her son had settled, it was supposed, in one ofthe Colonies. No one knew what had become of him, and Mrs. Dentonherself never spoke of him; while her daughter, on whom she had centredall her remaining hopes, had died years ago. To those who remembered thegirl, with her weak eyes and wispy ginger coloured hair, it would haveseemed comical, the idea that Joan resembled her. But Mrs. Denton'smemory had lost itself in dreams; and to her the likeness had appearedquite wonderful. The gods had given her child back to her, grown strongand brave and clever. Life would have a new meaning for her. Her workwould not die with her. 

She thought she could harness Joan's enthusiasm to her own wisdom. Shewould warn her of the errors and pitfalls into which she herself hadfallen: for she, too, had started as a rebel. Youth should begin whereage left off. Had the old lady remembered a faded dogs-eared volumelabelled "Oddments" that for many years had rested undisturbed upon itsshelf in her great library, and opening it had turned to the letter E, she would have read recorded there, in her own precise thin penmanship, this very wise reflection:

"Experience is a book that all men write, but no man reads. "

To which she would have found added, by way of complement, "Experience isuntranslatable. We write it in the cipher of our sufferings, and the keyis hidden in our memories. "

And turning to the letter Y, she might have read:

"Youth comes to teach. Age remains to listen, " and underneath thefollowing:

"The ability to learn is the last lesson we acquire. "

Mrs. Denton had long ago given up the practice of jotting down herthoughts, experience having taught her that so often, when one comes touse them, one finds that one has changed them. But in the case of Joanthe recollection of these twin "oddments" might have saved herdisappointment. Joan knew of a new road that avoided Mrs. Denton'spitfalls. She grew impatient of being perpetually pulled back. 

For the _Nursing Times_ she wrote a series of condensed biographies, entitled "Ladies of the Lamp, " commencing with Elizabeth Fry. Theyformed a record of good women who had battled for the weak and suffering, winning justice for even the uninteresting. Miss Lavery was delightedwith them. But when Joan proposed exposing the neglect and even crueltytoo often inflicted upon the helpless patients of private Nursing Homes, Miss Lavery shook her head. 

"I know, " she said. "One does hear complaints about them. Unfortunatelyit is one of the few businesses managed entirely by women; and just now, in particular, if we were to say anything, it would be made use of by ourenemies to injure the Cause. "

There was a summer years ago--it came back to Joan's mind--when she hadshared lodgings with a girl chum at a crowded sea-side watering-place. The rooms were shockingly dirty; and tired of dropping hints shedetermined one morning to clean them herself. She climbed a chair andstarted on a row of shelves where lay the dust of ages. It was a jerry-built house, and the result was that she brought the whole lot down abouther head, together with a quarter of a hundred-weight of plaster. 

"Yes, I thought you'd do some mischief, " had commented the landlady, wearily. 

It seemed typical. A jerry-built world, apparently. With the bestintentions it seemed impossible to move in it without doing more harmthan good to it, bringing things down about one that one had notintended. 

She wanted to abolish steel rabbit-traps. She had heard the littlebeggars cry. It had struck her as such a harmless reform. But they toldher there were worthy people in the neighbourhood of Wolverhampton--quitea number of them--who made their living by the manufacture of steelrabbit-traps. If, thinking only of the rabbits, you prohibited steelrabbit-traps, then you condemned all these worthy people to slowstarvation. The local Mayor himself wrote in answer to her article. Hedrew a moving picture of the sad results that might follow such an ill-considered agitation: hundreds of grey-haired men, too old to learn newjobs, begging from door to door; shoals of little children, white-facedand pinched; sobbing women. Her editor was sorry for the rabbits. Hadoften spent a pleasant day with them himself. But, after all, the HumanRace claimed our first sympathies. 

She wanted to abolish sweating. She had climbed the rotting stairways, seen the famished creatures in their holes. But it seemed that if youinterfered with the complicated system based on sweating then youdislocated the entire structure of the British export clothing trade. Notonly would these poor creatures lose their admittedly wretched living--butstill a living--but thousands of other innocent victims would also beinvolved in the common ruin. All very sad, but half a loaf--or even letus frankly say a thin slice--is better than no bread at all. 

She wanted board school children's heads examined. She had examined oneor two herself. It seemed to her wrong that healthy children should becompelled to sit for hours within jumping distance of the diseased. Shethought it better that the dirty should be made fit company for the cleanthan the clean should be brought down to the level of the dirty. Itseemed that in doing this you were destroying the independence of thepoor. Opposition reformers, in letters scintillating with paradox, bristling with classical allusion, denounced her attempt to impose middle-class ideals upon a too long suffering proletariat. Better far a fewlively little heads than a broken-spirited people robbed of theirparental rights. 

Through Miss Lavery she obtained an introduction to the great SirWilliam. He owned a group of popular provincial newspapers, and was mostencouraging. Sir William had often said to himself:

"What can I do for God who has done so much for me?" It seemed onlyfair. 

He asked her down to his "little place in Hampshire, " to talk plans over. The "little place, " it turned out, ran to forty bedrooms, and wassurrounded by three hundred acres of park. God had evidently done hisbit quite handsomely. 

It was in a secluded corner of the park that Sir William had gone downupon one knee and gallantly kissed her hand. His idea was that if shecould regard herself as his "Dear Lady, " and allow him the honour andprivilege of being her "True Knight, " that, between them, they mightaccomplish something really useful. There had been some difficulty abouthis getting up again, Sir William being an elderly gentleman subject torheumatism, and Joan had had to expend no small amount of muscular effortin assisting him; so that the episode which should have been symbolicalended by leaving them both red and breathless. 

He referred to the matter again the same evening in the library whileLady William slept peacefully in the blue drawing-room; but as itappeared necessary that the compact should be sealed by a knightly kissJoan had failed to ratify it. 

She blamed herself on her way home. The poor old gentleman could easilyhave been kept in his place. The suffering of an occasional harmlesscaress would have purchased for her power and opportunity. Had it notbeen somewhat selfish of her? Should she write to him--see him again?

She knew that she never would. It was something apart from her reason. It would not even listen to her. It bade or forbade as if one were achild without any right to a will of one's own. It was decidedlyexasperating. 

There were others. There were the editors who frankly told her that thebusiness of a newspaper was to write what its customers wanted to read;and that the public, so far as they could judge, was just about fed upwith plans for New Jerusalems at their expense. And the editors who wereprepared to take up any number of reforms, insisting only that theyshould be new and original and promise popularity. 

And then she met Greyson. 

It was at a lunch given by Mrs. Denton. Greyson was a bachelor and livedwith an unmarried sister, a few years older than himself. He was editorand part proprietor of an evening paper. It had ideals and was, inconsequence, regarded by the general public with suspicion; but by reasonof sincerity and braininess was rapidly becoming a power. He was a shy, reserved man with an aristocratic head set upon stooping shoulders. Theface was that of a dreamer, but about the mouth there was suggestion ofthe fighter. Joan felt at her ease with him in spite of the air ofdetachment that seemed part of his character. Mrs. Denton had pairedthem off together; and, during the lunch, one of them--Joan could notremember which--had introduced the subject of reincarnation. 

Greyson was unable to accept the theory because of the fact that, in oldage, the mind in common with the body is subject to decay. 

"Perhaps by the time I am forty--or let us say fifty, " he argued, "Ishall be a bright, intelligent being. If I die then, well and good. Iselect a likely baby and go straight on. But suppose I hang about tilleighty and die a childish old gentleman with a mind all gone to seed. What am I going to do then? I shall have to begin all over again:perhaps worse off than I was before. That's not going to help us much. "

Joan explained it to him: that old age might be likened to an illness. Agenius lies upon a bed of sickness and babbles childish nonsense. Butwith returning life he regains his power, goes on increasing it. Themind, the soul, has not decayed. It is the lines of communication thatold age has destroyed. 

"But surely you don't believe it?" he demanded. 

"Why not?" laughed Joan. "All things are possible. It was thepossession of a hand that transformed monkeys into men. We used to takethings up, you know, and look at them, and wonder and wonder and wonder, till at last there was born a thought and the world became visible. Itis curiosity that will lead us to the next great discovery. We must takethings up; and think and think and think till one day there will comeknowledge, and we shall see the universe. "

Joan always avoided getting excited when she thought of it. 

"I love to make you excited, " Flossie had once confessed to her in theold student days. "You look so ridiculously young and you are so pleasedwith yourself, laying down the law. "

She did not know she had given way to it. He was leaning back in hischair, looking at her; and the tired look she had noticed in his eyes, when she had been introduced to him in the drawing-room, had gone out ofthem. 

During the coffee, Mrs. Denton beckoned him to come to her; and MissGreyson crossed over and took his vacant chair. She had been sittingopposite to them. 

"I've been hearing so much about you, " she said. "I can't help thinkingthat you ought to suit my brother's paper. He has all your ideas. Haveyou anything that you could send him?"

Joan considered a moment. 

"Nothing very startling, " she answered. "I was thinking of a series ofarticles on the old London Churches--touching upon the people connectedwith them and the things they stood for. I've just finished the firstone. "

"It ought to be the very thing, " answered Miss Greyson. She was a thin, faded woman with a soft, plaintive voice. "It will enable him to judgeyour style. He's particular about that. Though I'm confident he'll likeit, " she hastened to add. "Address it to me, will you. I assist him asmuch as I can. "

Joan added a few finishing touches that evening, and posted it; and a dayor two later received a note asking her to call at the office. 

"My sister is enthusiastic about your article on Chelsea Church andinsists on my taking the whole series, " Greyson informed her. "She saysyou have the Stevensonian touch. "

Joan flushed with pleasure. 

"And you, " she asked, "did you think it had the Stevensonian touch?"

"No, " he answered, "it seemed to me to have more of your touch. "

"What's that like?" she demanded. 

"They couldn't suppress you, " he explained. "Sir Thomas More with hishead under his arm, bloody old Bluebeard, grim Queen Bess, snarling oldSwift, Pope, Addison, Carlyle--the whole grisly crowd of them! I couldsee you holding your own against them all, explaining things to them, getting excited. " He laughed. 

His sister joined them, coming in from the next room. She had a proposalto make. It was that Joan should take over the weekly letter from"Clorinda. " It was supposed to give the views of a--perhapsunusually--sane and thoughtful woman upon the questions of the day. MissGreyson had hitherto conducted it herself, but was wishful as sheexplained to be relieved of it; so that she might have more time for homeaffairs. It would necessitate Joan's frequent attendance at the office;for there would be letters from the public to be answered, and points tobe discussed with her brother. She was standing behind his chair withher hands upon his head. There was something strangely motherly abouther whole attitude. 

Greyson was surprised, for the Letter had been her own conception, andhad grown into a popular feature. But she was evidently in earnest; andJoan accepted willingly. "Clorinda" grew younger, more self-assertive;on the whole more human. But still so eminently "sane" and reasonable. 

"We must not forget that she is quite a respectable lady, connected--according to her own account--with the higher politicalcircles, " Joan's editor would insist, with a laugh. 

Miss Greyson, working in the adjoining room, would raise her head andlisten. She loved to hear him laugh. 

"It's absurd, " Flossie told her one morning, as having met by chance theywere walking home together along the Embankment. "You're not 'Clorinda';you ought to be writing letters to her, not from her, waking her up, telling her to come off her perch, and find out what the earth feelslike. I'll tell you what I'll do: I'll trot you round to Carleton. Ifyou're out for stirring up strife and contention, well, that's his game, too. He'll use you for his beastly sordid ends. He'd have roped in Johnthe Baptist if he'd been running the 'Jerusalem Star' at the time, andhave given him a daily column for so long as the boom lasted. What'sthat matter, if he's willing to give you a start?"

Joan jibbed at first. But in the end Flossie's arguments prevailed. Oneafternoon, a week later, she was shown into Carleton's private room, andthe door closed behind her. The light was dim, and for a moment shecould see no one; until Carleton, who had been standing near one of thewindows, came forward and placed a chair for her. And they both satdown. 

"I've glanced through some of your things, " he said. "They're all right. They're alive. What's your idea?"

Remembering Flossie's counsel, she went straight to the point. Shewanted to talk to the people. She wanted to get at them. If she hadbeen a man, she would have taken a chair and gone to Hyde Park. As itwas, she hadn't the nerve for Hyde Park. At least she was afraid shehadn't. It might have to come to that. There was a trembling in hervoice that annoyed her. She was so afraid she might cry. She wasn't outfor anything crazy. She wanted only those things done that could be doneif the people would but lift their eyes, look into one another's faces, see the wrong and the injustice that was all around them, and swear thatthey would never rest till the pain and the terror had been driven fromthe land. She wanted soldiers--men and women who would forget their ownsweet selves, not counting their own loss, thinking of the greater gain;as in times of war and revolution, when men gave even their lives gladlyfor a dream, for a hope--

Without warning he switched on the electric lamp that stood upon thedesk, causing her to draw back with a start. 

"All right, " he said. "Go ahead. You shall have your tub, and a weeklyaudience of a million readers for as long as you can keep theminterested. Up with anything you like, and down with everything youdon't. Be careful not to land me in a libel suit. Call the whole Benchof Bishops hypocrites, and all the ground landlords thieves, if you will:but don't mention names. And don't get me into trouble with the police. Beyond that, I shan't interfere with you. "

She was about to speak. 

"One stipulation, " he went on, "that every article is headed with yourphotograph. "

He read the sudden dismay in her eyes. 

"How else do you think you are going to attract their attention?" heasked her. "By your eloquence! Hundreds of men and women as eloquent asyou could ever be are shouting to them every day. Who takes any noticeof them? Why should they listen any the more to you--another crankyhighbrow: some old maid, most likely, with a bony throat and a beakynose. If Woman is going to come into the fight she will have to use herown weapons. If she is prepared to do that she'll make things hum with avengeance. She's the biggest force going, if she only knew it. "

He had risen and was pacing the room. 

"The advertiser has found that out, and is showing the way. " He snatchedat an illustrated magazine, fresh from the press, that had been placedupon his desk, and opened it at the first page. "Johnson's Blacking, " heread out, "advertised by a dainty little minx, showing her ankles. Who'sgoing to stop for a moment to read about somebody's blacking? If a saucylittle minx isn't there to trip him up with her ankles!"

He turned another page. "Do you suffer from gout? Classical ladypreparing to take a bath and very nearly ready. The old Johnny in thetrain stops to look at her. Reads the advertisement because she seems towant him to. Rubber heels. Save your boot leather! Lady in eveningdress--jolly pretty shoulders--waves them in front of your eyes. Otherwise you'd never think of them. "

He fluttered the pages. Then flung the thing across to her. 

"Look at it, " he said. "Fountain pens--Corn plasters--Charitableappeals--Motor cars--Soaps--Grand pianos. It's the girl in tights andspangles outside the show that brings them trooping in. "

"Let them see you, " he continued. "You say you want soldiers. Throw offyour veil and call for them. Your namesake of France! Do you think ifshe had contented herself with writing stirring appeals that Orleanswould have fallen? She put on a becoming suit of armour and got upon ahorse where everyone could see her. Chivalry isn't dead. You modernwomen are ashamed of yourselves--ashamed of your sex. You don't give ita chance. Revive it. Stir the young men's blood. Their souls willfollow. "

He reseated himself and leant across towards her. 

"I'm not talking business, " he said. "This thing's not going to meanmuch to me one way or the other. I want you to win. Farm labourersbringing up families on twelve and six a week. Shirt hands working halfinto the night for three farthings an hour. Stinking dens for men tolive in. Degraded women. Half fed children. It's damnable. Tell themit's got to stop. That the Eternal Feminine has stepped out of theposter and commands it. "

A dapper young man opened the door and put his head into the room. 

"Railway smash in Yorkshire, " he announced. 

Carleton sat up. "Much of a one?" he asked. 

The dapper gentleman shrugged his shoulders. "Three killed, eightinjured, so far, " he answered. 

Carleton's interest appeared to collapse. 

"Stop press column?" asked the dapper gentleman. 

"Yes, I suppose so, " replied Carleton. "Unless something better turnsup. "

The dapper young gentleman disappeared. Joan had risen. 

"May I talk it over with a friend?" she asked. "Myself, I'm inclined toaccept. "

"You will, if you're in earnest, " he answered. "I'll give you twenty-four hours. Look in to-morrow afternoon, and see Finch. It will be forthe _Sunday Post_--the Inset. We use surfaced paper for that and can doyou justice. Finch will arrange about the photograph. " He held out hishand. "Shall be seeing you again, " he said. 

It was but a stone's throw to the office of the _Evening Gazette_. Shecaught Greyson just as he was leaving and put the thing before him. Hissister was with him. 

He did not answer at first. He was walking to and fro; and, catching hisfoot in the waste paper basket, he kicked it savagely out of his way, sothat the contents were scattered over the room. 

"Yes, he's right, " he said. "It was the Virgin above the altar thatpopularized Christianity. Her face has always been woman's fortune. Ifshe's going to become a fighter, it will have to be her weapon. "

He had used almost the same words that Carleton had used. 

"I so want them to listen to me, " she said. "After all, it's only likehaving a very loud voice. "

He looked at her and smiled. "Yes, " he said, "it's a voice men willlisten to. "

Mary Greyson was standing by the fire. She had not spoken hitherto. 

"You won't give up 'Clorinda'?" she asked. 

Joan had intended to do so, but something in Mary's voice caused her, against her will, to change her mind. 

"Of course not, " she answered. "I shall run them both. It will be likewriting Jekyll and Hyde. "

"What will you sign yourself?" he asked. 

"My own name, I think, " she said. "Joan Allway. "

Miss Greyson suggested her coming home to dinner with them; but Joanfound an excuse. She wanted to be alone. 

CHAPTER V

The twilight was fading as she left the office. She turned northward, choosing a broad, ill-lighted road. It did not matter which way shetook. She wanted to think; or, rather, to dream. 

It would all fall out as she had intended. She would commence bybecoming a power in journalism. She was reconciled now to the photographidea--was even keen on it herself. She would be taken full face so thatshe would be looking straight into the eyes of her readers as she talkedto them. It would compel her to be herself; just a hopeful, lovingwoman: a little better educated than the majority, having had greateropportunity: a little further seeing, maybe, having had more leisure forthought: but otherwise, no whit superior to any other young, eager womanof the people. This absurd journalistic pose of omniscience, ofinfallibility--this non-existent garment of supreme wisdom that, like theKing's clothes in the fairy story, was donned to hide his nakedness byevery strutting nonentity of Fleet Street! She would have no use for it. It should be a friend, a comrade, a fellow-servant of the great Master, taking counsel with them, asking their help. Government by the peoplefor the people! It must be made real. These silent, thoughtful-lookingworkers, hurrying homewards through the darkening streets; these patient, shrewd-planning housewives casting their shadows on the drawn-downblinds: it was they who should be shaping the world, not the journaliststo whom all life was but so much "copy. " This monstrous conspiracy, onceof the Sword, of the Church, now of the Press, that put all Governmentinto the hands of a few stuffy old gentlemen, politicians, leaderwriters, without sympathy or understanding: it was time that it was sweptaway. She would raise a new standard. It should be, not "Listen to me, oh ye dumb, " but, "Speak to me. Tell me your hidden hopes, your fears, your dreams. Tell me your experience, your thoughts born of knowledge, of suffering. "

She would get into correspondence with them, go among them, talk to them. The difficulty, at first, would be in getting them to write to her, toopen their minds to her. These voiceless masses that never spoke, butwere always being spoken for by self-appointed "leaders, ""representatives, " who immediately they had climbed into prominence tooktheir place among the rulers, and then from press and platform shouted tothem what they were to think and feel. It was as if the Drill-Sergeantwere to claim to be the "leader, " the "representative" of his squad; orthe sheep-dog to pose as the "delegate" of the sheep. Dealt with alwaysas if they were mere herds, mere flocks, they had almost lost the powerof individual utterance. One would have to teach them, encourage them. 

She remembered a Sunday class she had once conducted; and how for a longtime she had tried in vain to get the children to "come in, " to take ahand. That she might get in touch with them, understand their smallproblems, she had urged them to ask questions. And there had fallen suchlong silences. Until, at last, one cheeky ragamuffin had piped out:

"Please, Miss, have you got red hair all over you? Or only on yourhead?"

For answer she had rolled up her sleeve, and let them examine her arm. And then, in her turn, had insisted on rolling up his sleeve, revealingthe fact that his arms above the wrists had evidently not too recentlybeen washed; and the episode had ended in laughter and a babel of shrillvoices. And, at once, they were a party of chums, discussing matterstogether. 

They were but children, these tired men and women, just released fromtheir day's toil, hastening homeward to their play, or to their eveningtasks. A little humour, a little understanding, a recognition of thewonderful likeness of us all to one another underneath our outwardcoverings was all that was needed to break down the barrier, establishcomradeship. She stood aside a moment to watch them streaming by. Keen, strong faces were among them, high, thoughtful brows, kind eyes; theymust learn to think, to speak for themselves. 

She would build again the Forum. The people's business should no longerbe settled for them behind lackey-guarded doors. The good of the farmlabourer should be determined not exclusively by the squire and hisrelations. The man with the hoe, the man with the bent back and thepatient ox-like eyes: he, too, should be invited to the Council board. Middle-class domestic problems should be solved not solely by finegentlemen from Oxford; the wife of the little clerk should be allowed hersay. War or peace, it should no longer be regarded as a questionconcerning only the aged rich. The common people--the cannon fodder, themen who would die, and the women who would weep: they should be givensomething more than the privilege of either cheering platform patriots orbeing summoned for interrupting public meetings. 

From a dismal side street there darted past her a small, shapeless figurein crumpled cap and apron: evidently a member of that lazy, over-indulgedclass, the domestic servant. Judging from the talk of the drawing-rooms, the correspondence in the papers, a singularly unsatisfactory body. Theytoiled not, lived in luxury and demanded grand pianos. Someone hadproposed doing something for them. They themselves--it seemed that eventhey had a sort of conscience--were up in arms against it. Too muchkindness even they themselves perceived was bad for them. They wereholding a meeting that night to explain how contented they were. Sixpeeresses had consented to attend, and speak for them. 

Likely enough that there were good-for-nothing, cockered menials imposingupon incompetent mistresses. There were pampered slaves in Rome. Butthese others. These poor little helpless sluts. There were thousandssuch in every city, over-worked and under-fed, living lonely, pleasureless lives. They must be taught to speak in other voices thanthe dulcet tones of peeresses. By the light of the guttering candles, from their chill attics, they should write to her their ill-speltvisions. 

She had reached a quiet, tree-bordered road, surrounding a great park. Lovers, furtively holding hands, passed her by, whispering. 

She would write books. She would choose for her heroine a woman of thepeople. How full of drama, of tragedy must be their stories: theirproblems the grim realities of life, not only its mere sentimentalembroideries. The daily struggle for bare existence, the ever-shadowingmenace of unemployment, of illness, leaving them helpless amid thegrinding forces crushing them down on every side. The ceaseless need forcourage, for cunning. For in the kingdom of the poor the tyrant and theoppressor still sit in the high places, the robber still rides fearless. 

In a noisy, flaring street, a thin-clad woman passed her, carrying anetted bag showing two loaves. In a flash, it came to her what it mustmean to the poor; this daily bread that in comfortable homes had come tobe regarded as a thing like water; not to be considered, to be usedwithout stint, wasted, thrown about. Borne by those feeble, knottedhands, Joan saw it revealed as something holy: hallowed by labour;sanctified by suffering, by sacrifice; worshipped with fear and prayer. 

In quiet streets of stately houses, she caught glimpses throughuncurtained windows of richly-laid dinner-tables about which servantsmoved noiselessly, arranging flowers and silver. She wondered idly ifshe would every marry. A gracious hostess, gathering around herbrilliant men and women, statesmen, writers, artists, captains ofindustry: counselling them, even learning from them: encouraging shygenius. Perhaps, in a perfectly harmless way, allowing it theinspiration derivable from a well-regulated devotion to herself. A salonthat should be the nucleus of all those forces that influence influences, over which she would rule with sweet and wise authority. The ideaappealed to her. 

Into the picture, slightly to the background, she unconsciously placedGreyson. His tall, thin figure with its air of distinction seemed to fitin; Greyson would be very restful. She could see his handsome, asceticface flush with pleasure as, after the guests were gone, she would leanover the back of his chair and caress for a moment his dark, soft hairtinged here and there with grey. He would always adore her, in thatdistant, undemonstrative way of his that would never be tiresome orexacting. They would have children. But not too many. That would makethe house noisy and distract her from her work. They would be beautifuland clever; unless all the laws of heredity were to be set aside for herespecial injury. She would train them, shape them to be the heirs of herlabour, bearing her message to the generations that should follow. 

At a corner where the trams and buses stopped she lingered for a while, watching the fierce struggle; the weak and aged being pushed back timeafter time, hardly seeming to even resent it, regarding it as in thenatural order of things. It was so absurd, apart from the injustice, thebrutality of it! The poor, fighting among themselves! She felt as oncewhen watching a crowd of birds to whom she had thrown a handful of crumbsin winter time. As if they had not enemies enough: cats, weasels, rats, hawks, owls, the hunger and the cold. And added to all, they must needsmake the struggle yet harder for one another: pecking at each other'seyes, joining with one another to attack the fallen. These tired men, these weary women, pale-faced lads and girls, why did they not organizeamong themselves some system that would do away with this daily warfareof each against all. If only they could be got to grasp the fact thatthey were one family, bound together by suffering. Then, and not tillthen, would they be able to make their power felt? That would have tocome first: the _Esprit de Corps_ of the Poor. 

In the end she would go into Parliament. It would be bound to come soon, the woman's vote. And after that the opening of all doors would follow. She would wear her college robes. It would be far more fitting than asuccession of flimsy frocks that would have no meaning in them. Whatpity it was that the art of dressing--its relation to life--was notbetter understood. What beauty-hating devil had prompted the workers todiscard their characteristic costumes that had been both beautiful andserviceable for these hateful slop-shop clothes that made them look likewalking scarecrows. Why had the coming of Democracy coincided seeminglywith the spread of ugliness: dull towns, mean streets, paper-strewnparks, corrugated iron roofs, Christian chapels that would be an insultto a heathen idol; hideous factories (Why need they be hideous!); chimney-pot hats, baggy trousers, vulgar advertisements, stupid fashions forwomen that spoilt every line of their figure: dinginess, drabness, monotony everywhere. It was ugliness that was strangling the soul of thepeople; stealing from them all dignity, all self-respect, all honour forone another; robbing them of hope, of reverence, of joy in life. 

Beauty. That was the key to the riddle. All Nature: its golden sunsetsand its silvery dawns; the glory of piled-up clouds, the mystery ofmoonlit glades; its rivers winding through the meadows; the calling ofits restless seas; the tender witchery of Spring; the blazonry of autumnwoods; its purple moors and the wonder of its silent mountains; itscobwebs glittering with a thousand jewels; the pageantry of starrynights. Form, colour, music! The feathered choristers of bush and brakeraising their matin and their evensong, the whispering of the leaves, thesinging of the waters, the voices of the winds. Beauty and grace inevery living thing, but man. The leaping of the hares, the grouping ofcattle, the flight of swallows, the dainty loveliness of insects' wings, the glossy skin of horses rising and falling to the play of mightymuscles. Was it not seeking to make plain to us that God's language wasbeauty. Man must learn beauty that he may understand God. 

She saw the London of the future. Not the vision popular just then: asoaring whirl of machinery in motion, of moving pavements and flyingomnibuses; of screaming gramophones and standardized "homes": a citywhere Electricity was King and man its soulless slave. But a city ofpeace, of restful spaces, of leisured men and women; a city of finestreets and pleasant houses, where each could live his own life, learningfreedom, individuality; a city of noble schools; of workshops that shouldbe worthy of labour, filled with light and air; smoke and filth drivenfrom the land: science, no longer bound to commercialism, havingdiscovered cleaner forces; a city of gay playgrounds where childrenshould learn laughter; of leafy walks where the creatures of the wood andfield should be as welcome guests helping to teach sympathy andkindliness: a city of music, of colour, of gladness. Beauty worshippedas religion; ugliness banished as a sin: no ugly slums, no ugly cruelty, no slatternly women and brutalized men, no ugly, sobbing children; nougly vice flaunting in every highway its insult to humanity: a city cladin beauty as with a living garment where God should walk with man. 

She had reached a neighbourhood of narrow, crowded streets. The womenwere mostly without hats; and swarthy men, rolling cigarettes, loungedagainst doorways. The place had a quaint foreign flavour. Tiny cafes, filled with smoke and noise, and clean, inviting restaurants abounded. She was feeling hungry, and, choosing one the door of which stood open, revealing white tablecloths and a pleasant air of cheerfulness, sheentered. It was late and the tables were crowded. Only at one, in a farcorner, could she detect a vacant place, opposite to a slight, pretty-looking girl very quietly dressed. She made her way across and the girl, anticipating her request, welcomed her with a smile. They ate for awhile in silence, divided only by the narrow table, their heads, whenthey leant forward, almost touching. Joan noticed the short, whitehands, the fragrance of some delicate scent. There was something oddabout her. She seemed to be unnecessarily conscious of being alone. Suddenly she spoke. 

"Nice little restaurant, this, " she said. "One of the few places whereyou can depend upon not being annoyed. "

Joan did not understand. "In what way?" she asked. 

"Oh, you know, men, " answered the girl. "They come and sit down oppositeto you, and won't leave you alone. At most of the places, you've got toput up with it or go outside. Here, old Gustav never permits it. "

Joan was troubled. She was rather looking forward to occasionalrestaurant dinners, where she would be able to study London's Bohemia. 

"You mean, " she asked, "that they force themselves upon you, even if youmake it plain--"

"Oh, the plainer you make it that you don't want them, the more sportthey think it, " interrupted the girl with a laugh. 

Joan hoped she was exaggerating. "I must try and select a table wherethere is some good-natured girl to keep me in countenance, " she said witha smile. 

"Yes, I was glad to see you, " answered the girl. "It's hateful, diningby oneself. Are you living alone?"

"Yes, " answered Joan. "I'm a journalist. "

"I thought you were something, " answered the girl. "I'm an artist. Or, rather, was, " she added after a pause. 

"Why did you give it up?" asked Joan. 

"Oh, I haven't given it up, not entirely, " the girl answered. "I canalways get a couple of sovereigns for a sketch, if I want it, from one oranother of the frame-makers. And they can generally sell them for afiver. I've seen them marked up. Have you been long in London?"

"No, " answered Joan. "I'm a Lancashire lass. "

"Curious, " said the girl, "so am I. My father's a mill manager nearBolton. You weren't educated there?"

"No, " Joan admitted. "I went to Rodean at Brighton when I was ten yearsold, and so escaped it. Nor were you, " she added with a smile, "judgingfrom your accent. "

"No, " answered the other, "I was at Hastings--Miss Gwyn's. Funny how weseem to have always been near to one another. Dad wanted me to be adoctor. But I'd always been mad about art. "

Joan had taken a liking to the girl. It was a spiritual, vivacious facewith frank eyes and a firm mouth; and the voice was low and strong. 

"Tell me, " she said, "what interfered with it?" Unconsciously she wasleaning forward, her chin supported by her hands. Their faces were verynear to one another. 

The girl looked up. She did not answer for a moment. There came ahardening of the mouth before she spoke. 

"A baby, " she said. "Oh, it was my own fault, " she continued. "I wantedit. It was all the talk at the time. You don't remember. Our right tochildren. No woman complete without one. Maternity, woman's kingdom. All that sort of thing. As if the storks brought them. Don't suppose itmade any real difference; but it just helped me to pretend that it wassomething pretty and high-class. 'Overmastering passion' used to be theexplanation, before that. I guess it's all much of a muchness: justnatural instinct. "

The restaurant had been steadily emptying. Monsieur Gustav and his ample-bosomed wife were seated at a distant table, eating their own dinner. 

"Why couldn't you have married?" asked Joan. 

The girl shrugged her shoulders. "Who was there for me to marry?" sheanswered. "The men who wanted me: clerks, young tradesmen, down athome--I wasn't taking any of that lot. And the men I might have fanciedwere all of them too poor. There was one student. He's got on since. Easy enough for him to talk about waiting. Meanwhile. Well, it's likesomebody suggesting dinner to you the day after to-morrow. All rightenough, if you're not troubled with an appetite. "

The waiter came to clear the table. They were almost the last customersleft. The man's tone and manner jarred upon Joan. She had not noticedit before. Joan ordered coffee and the girl, exchanging a joke with thewaiter, added a liqueur. 

"But why should you give up your art?" persisted Joan. It was that wassticking in her mind. "I should have thought that, if only for the sakeof the child, you would have gone on with it. "

"Oh, I told myself all that, " answered the girl. "Was going to devote mylife to it. Did for nearly two years. Till I got sick of living like anun: never getting a bit of excitement. You see, I've got the poison inme. Or, maybe, it had always been there. "

"What's become of it?" asked Joan. "The child?"

"Mother's got it, " answered the girl. "Seemed best for the poor littlebeggar. I'm supposed to be dead, and my husband gone abroad. " She gavea short, dry laugh. "Mother brings him up to see me once a year. They'vegot quite fond of him. "

"What are you doing now?" asked Joan, in a low tone. 

"Oh, you needn't look so scared, " laughed the girl, "I haven't come downto that. " Her voice had changed. It had a note of shrillness. In someindescribable way she had grown coarse. "I'm a kept woman, " sheexplained. "What else is any woman?"

She reached for her jacket; and the waiter sprang forward and helped heron with it, prolonging the business needlessly. She wished him "Goodevening" in a tone of distant hauteur, and led the way to the door. Outside the street was dim and silent. Joan held out her hand. 

"No hope of happy endings, " she said with a forced laugh. "Couldn'tmarry him I suppose?"

"He has asked me, " answered the girl with a swagger. "Not sure that itwould suit me now. They're not so nice to you when they've got you fixedup. So long. "

She turned abruptly and walked rapidly away. Joan moved instinctively inthe opposite direction, and after a few minutes found herself in a broadwell-lighted thoroughfare. A newsboy was shouting his wares. 

"'Orrible murder of a woman. Shockin' details. Speshul, " repeating itover and over again in a hoarse, expressionless monotone. 

He was selling the papers like hot cakes; the purchasers too eager toeven wait for their change. She wondered, with a little lump in herthroat, how many would have stopped to buy had he been calling instead:"Discovery of new sonnet by Shakespeare. Extra special. "

Through swinging doors, she caught glimpses of foul interiors, crowdedwith men and women released from their toil, taking their eveningpleasure. From coloured posters outside the great theatres and musichalls, vulgarity and lewdness leered at her, side by side withannouncements that the house was full. From every roaring corner, scintillating lights flared forth the merits of this public benefactor'swhisky, of this other celebrity's beer: it seemed the only message thepeople cared to hear. Even among the sirens of the pavement, she noticedthat the quiet and merely pretty were hardly heeded. It was everywherethe painted and the overdressed that drew the roving eyes. 

She remembered a pet dog that someone had given her when she was a girl, and how one afternoon she had walked with the tears streaming down herface because, in spite of her scoldings and her pleadings, it would keepstopping to lick up filth from the roadway. A kindly passer-by hadlaughed and told her not to mind. 

"Why, that's a sign of breeding, that is, Missie, " the man had explained. "It's the classy ones that are always the worst. "

It had come to her afterwards craving with its soft brown, troubled eyesfor forgiveness. But she had never been able to break it of the habit. 

Must man for ever be chained by his appetites to the unclean: ever bedriven back, dragged down again into the dirt by his own instincts: everbe rendered useless for all finer purposes by the baseness of his owndesires?

The City of her Dreams! The mingled voices of the crowd shaped itselfinto a mocking laugh. 

It seemed to her that it was she that they were laughing at, pointing herout to one another, jeering at her, reviling her, threatening her. 

She hurried onward with bent head, trying to escape them. She felt sosmall, so helpless. Almost she cried out in her despair. 

She must have walked mechanically. Looking up she found herself in herown street. And as she reached her doorway the tears came suddenly. 

She heard a quick step behind her, and turning, she saw a man with alatch key in his hand. He passed her and opened the door; and then, facing round, stood aside for her to enter. He was a sturdy, thick-setman with a strong, massive face. It would have been ugly but for thedeep, flashing eyes. There was tenderness and humour in them. 

"We are next floor neighbours, " he said. "My name's Phillips. "

Joan thanked him. As he held the door open for her their handsaccidentally touched. Joan wished him good-night and went up the stairs. There was no light in her room: only the faint reflection of the streetlamp outside. 

She could still see him: the boyish smile. And his voice that had senther tears back again as if at the word of command. 

She hoped he had not seen them. What a little fool she was. 

A little laugh escaped her. 

CHAPTER VI

One day Joan, lunching at the club, met Madge Singleton. 

"I've had such a funny letter from Flossie, " said Joan, "begging mealmost with tears in her ink to come to her on Sunday evening to meet a'gentleman friend' of hers, as she calls him, and give her my opinion ofhim. What on earth is she up to?"

"It's all right, " answered Madge. "She doesn't really want our opinionof him--or rather she doesn't want our real opinion of him. She onlywants us to confirm hers. She's engaged to him. "

"Flossie engaged!" Joan seemed surprised. 

"Yes, " answered Madge. "It used to be a custom. Young men used to askyoung women to marry them. And if they consented it was called 'beingengaged. ' Still prevails, so I am told, in certain classes. "

"Thanks, " said Joan. "I have heard of it. "

"I thought perhaps you hadn't from your tone, " explained Madge. 

"But if she's already engaged to him, why risk criticism of him, " arguedJoan, ignoring Madge's flippancy. "It's too late. "

"Oh, she's going to break it off unless we all assure her that we findhim brainy, " Madge explained with a laugh. "It seems her father wasn'tbrainy and her mother was. Or else it was the other way about: I'm notquite sure. But whichever it was, it led to ructions. Myself, if he'sat all possible and seems to care for her, I intend to find himbrilliant. "

"And suppose she repeats her mother's experience, " suggested Joan. 

"There were the Norton-Browns, " answered Madge. "Impossible to havefound a more evenly matched pair. They both write novels--very goodnovels, too; and got jealous of one another; and threw press-notices atone another's head all breakfast-time; until they separated. Don't knowof any recipe myself for being happy ever after marriage, except notexpecting it. "

"Or keeping out of it altogether, " added Joan. 

"Ever spent a day at the Home for Destitute Gentlewomen at East Sheen?"demanded Madge. 

"Not yet, " admitted Joan. "May have to, later on. "

"It ought to be included in every woman's education, " Madge continued. "It is reserved for spinsters of over forty-five. Susan Fleming wrote anarticle upon it for the _Teacher's Friend_; and spent an afternoon andevening there. A month later she married a grocer with five children. The only sound suggestion for avoiding trouble that I ever came acrosswas in a burlesque of the _Blue Bird_. You remember the scene where thespirits of the children are waiting to go down to earth and be made intobabies? Someone had stuck up a notice at the entrance to the gangway:'Don't get born. It only means worry. '"

Flossie had her dwelling-place in a second floor bed-sitting-room of alodging house in Queen's Square, Bloomsbury; but the drawing-room floorbeing for the moment vacant, Flossie had persuaded her landlady to lether give her party there; it seemed as if fate approved of the idea. Theroom was fairly full when Joan arrived. Flossie took her out on thelanding, and closed the door behind them. 

"You will be honest with me, won't you?" pleaded Flossie, "because it'sso important, and I don't seem able to think for myself. As they say, noman can be his own solicitor, can he? Of course I like him, and allthat--very much. And I really believe he loves me. We were childrentogether when Mummy was alive; and then he had to go abroad; and has onlyjust come back. Of course, I've got to think of him, too, as he says. But then, on the other hand, I don't want to make a mistake. That wouldbe so terrible, for both of us; and of course I am clever; and there waspoor Mummy and Daddy. I'll tell you all about them one day. It was soawfully sad. Get him into a corner and talk to him. You'll be able tojudge in a moment, you're so wonderful. He's quiet on the outside, but Ithink there's depth in him. We must go in now. "

She had talked so rapidly Joan felt as if her hat were being blown away. She had difficulty in recognizing Flossie. All the cocksure pertness haddeparted. She seemed just a kid. 

Joan promised faithfully; and Flossie, standing on tiptoe, suddenlykissed her and then bustled her in. 

Flossie's young man was standing near the fire talking, or ratherlistening, to a bird-like little woman in a short white frock and blueribbons. A sombre lady just behind her, whom Joan from the distance tookto be her nurse, turned out to be her secretary, whose duty it was to bealways at hand, prepared to take down any happy idea that might occur tothe bird-like little woman in the course of conversation. The bird-likelittle woman was Miss Rose Tolley, a popular novelist. She wasexplaining to Flossie's young man, whose name was Sam Halliday, thereason for her having written "Running Waters, " her latest novel. 

"It is daring, " she admitted. "I must be prepared for opposition. Butit had to be stated. "

"I take myself as typical, " she continued. "When I was twenty I couldhave loved you. You were the type of man I did love. "

Mr. Halliday, who had been supporting the weight of his body upon hisright leg, transferred the burden to his left. 

"But now I'm thirty-five; and I couldn't love you if I tried. " She shookher curls at him. "It isn't your fault. It is that I have changed. Suppose I'd married you?"

"Bit of bad luck for both of us, " suggested Mr. Halliday. 

"A tragedy, " Miss Tolley corrected him. "There are millions of suchtragedies being enacted around us at this moment. Sensitive womencompelled to suffer the embraces of men that they have come to loathe. What's to be done?"

Flossie, who had been hovering impatient, broke in. 

"Oh, don't you believe her, " she advised Mr. Halliday. "She loves youstill. She's only teasing you. This is Joan. "

She introduced her. Miss Tolley bowed; and allowed herself to be drawnaway by a lank-haired young man who had likewise been waiting for anopening. He represented the Uplift Film Association of Chicago, and waswishful to know if Miss Tolley would consent to altering the last chapterand so providing "Running Waters" with a happy ending. He pointed outthe hopelessness of it in its present form, for film purposes. 

The discussion was brief. "Then I'll send your agent the contract to-morrow, " Joan overheard him say a minute later. 

Mr. Sam Halliday she liked at once. He was a clean-shaven, square-jawedyoung man, with quiet eyes and a pleasant voice. 

"Try and find me brainy, " he whispered to her, as soon as Flossie was outof earshot. "Talk to me about China. I'm quite intelligent on China. "

They both laughed, and then shot a guilty glance in Flossie's direction. 

"Do the women really crush their feet?" asked Joan. 

"Yes, " he answered. "All those who have no use for them. About one percent. Of the population. To listen to Miss Tolley you would think thathalf the women wanted a new husband every ten years. It's always the oneper cent. That get themselves talked about. The other ninety-nine aretoo busy. "

"You are young for a philosopher, " said Joan. 

He laughed. "I told you I'd be all right if you started me on China, " hesaid. 

"Why are you marrying. Flossie?" Joan asked him. She thought his pointof view would be interesting. 

"Not sure I am yet, " he answered with a grin. "It depends upon how I getthrough this evening. " He glanced round the room. "Have I got to passall this crowd, I wonder?" he added. 

Joan's eyes followed. It was certainly an odd collection. Flossie, inher hunt for brains, had issued her invitations broadcast; and her fatehad been that of the Charity concert. Not all the stars upon whom shehad most depended had turned up. On the other hand not a single freakhad failed her. At the moment, the centre of the room was occupied by agentleman and two ladies in classical drapery. They were holding handsin an attitude suggestive of a bas-relief. Joan remembered them, havingseen them on one or two occasions wandering in the King's Road, Chelsea;still maintaining, as far as the traffic would allow, the bas-reliefsuggestion; and generally surrounded by a crowd of children, ever hopefulthat at the next corner they would stop and do something reallyinteresting. They belonged to a society whose object was to lure theLondon public by the force of example towards the adoption of the earlyGreek fashions and the simpler Greek attitudes. A friend of Flossie'shad thrown in her lot with them, but could never be induced to abandonher umbrella. They also, as Joan told herself, were reformers. Near tothem was a picturesque gentleman with a beard down to his waist whose"stunt"--as Flossie would have termed it--was hygienic clothing; itseemed to contain an undue proportion of fresh air. There were ladies incoats and stand-up collars, and gentlemen with ringlets. More than oneof the guests would have been better, though perhaps not happier, for abath. 

"I fancy that's the idea, " said Joan. "What will you do if you fail? Goback to China?"

"Yes, " he answered. "And take her with me. Poor little girl. "

Joan rather resented his tone. 

"We are not all alike, " she remarked. "Some of us are quite sane. "

He looked straight into her eyes. "You are, " he said. "I have beenreading your articles. They are splendid. I'm going to help. "

"How can you?" she said. "I mean, how will you?"

"Shipping is my business, " he said. "I'm going to help sailor men. Seethat they have somewhere decent to go to, and don't get robbed. And thenthere are the Lascars, poor devils. Nobody ever takes their part. "

"How did you come across them?" she asked. "The articles, I mean. DidFlo give them to you?"

"No, " he answered. "Just chance. Caught sight of your photo. "

"Tell me, " she said. "If it had been the photo of a woman with a bonythroat and a beaky nose would you have read them?"

He thought a moment. "Guess not, " he answered. "You're just as bad, " hecontinued. "Isn't it the pale-faced young clergyman with the wavy hairand the beautiful voice that you all flock to hear? No getting away fromnature. But it wasn't only that. " He hesitated. 

"I want to know, " she said. 

"You looked so young, " he answered. "I had always had the idea that itwas up to the old people to put the world to rights--that all I had to dowas to look after myself. It came to me suddenly while you were talkingto me--I mean while I was reading you: that if you were worrying yourselfabout it, I'd got to come in, too--that it would be mean of me not to. Itwasn't like being preached to. It was somebody calling for help. "

Instinctively she held out her hand and he grasped it. 

Flossie came up at the same instant. She wanted to introduce him to MissLavery, who had just arrived. 

"Hullo!" she said. "Are you two concluding a bargain?"

"Yes, " said Joan. "We are founding the League of Youth. You've got tobe in it. We are going to establish branches all round the world. "

Flossie's young man was whisked away. Joan, who had seated herself in asmall chair, was alone for a few minutes. 

Miss Tolley had chanced upon a Human Document, with the help of which shewas hopeful of starting a "Press Controversy" concerning the morality, orotherwise, of "Running Waters. " The secretary stood just behind her, taking notes. They had drifted quite close. Joan could not helpoverhearing. 

"It always seemed to me immoral, the marriage ceremony, " the HumanDocument was explaining. She was a thin, sallow woman, with an untidyhead and restless eyes that seemed to be always seeking something to lookat and never finding it. "How can we pledge the future? To bind oneselfto live with a man when perhaps we have ceased to care for him; it'shideous. "

Miss Tolley murmured agreement. 

"Our love was beautiful, " continued the Human Document, eager, apparently, to relate her experience for the common good; "just becauseit was a free gift. We were not fettered to one another. At any momenteither of us could have walked out of the house. The idea never occurredto us; not for years--five, to be exact. "

The secretary, at a sign from Miss Tolley, made a memorandum of it. 

"And then did your feelings towards him change suddenly?" questioned MissTolley. 

"No, " explained the Human Document, in the same quick, even tones; "sofar as I was concerned, I was not conscious of any alteration in my ownattitude. But he felt the need of more solitude--for his development. Weparted quite good friends. "

"Oh, " said Miss Tolley. "And were there any children?"

"Only two, " answered the Human Document, "both girls. "

"What has become of them?" persisted Miss Tolley. 

The Human Document looked offended. "You do not think I would havepermitted any power on earth to separate them from me, do you?" sheanswered. "I said to him, 'They are mine, mine. Where I go, they go. Where I stay, they stay. ' He saw the justice of my argument. "

"And they are with you now?" concluded Miss Tolley. 

"You must come and see them, " the Human Document insisted. "Such dear, magnetic creatures. I superintend their entire education myself. Wehave a cottage in Surrey. It's rather a tight fit. You see, there areseven of us now. But the three girls can easily turn in together for anight, Abner will be delighted. "

"Abner is your second?" suggested Miss Tolley. 

"My third, " the Human Document corrected her. "After Eustace, I marriedIvanoff. I say 'married' because I regard it as the holiest form ofmarriage. He had to return to his own country. There was a politicalmovement on foot. He felt it his duty to go. I want you particularly tomeet the boy. He will interest you. "

Miss Tolley appeared to be getting muddled. "Whose boy?" she demanded. 

"Ivanoff's, " explained the Human Document. "He was our only child. "

Flossie appeared, towing a white-haired, distinguished-looking man, a Mr. Folk. She introduced him and immediately disappeared. Joan wished shehad been left alone a little longer. She would like to have heard more. Especially was she curious concerning Abner, the lady's third. Would thehigher moral law compel him, likewise, to leave the poor lady saddledwith another couple of children? Or would she, on this occasion, getin--or rather, get off, first? Her own fancy was to back Abner. She didcatch just one sentence before Miss Tolley, having obtained more food forreflection than perhaps she wanted, signalled to her secretary that thenote-book might be closed. 

"Woman's right to follow the dictates of her own heart, uncontrolled byany law, " the Human Document was insisting: "That is one of the firstthings we must fight for. "

Mr. Folk was a well-known artist. He lived in Paris. "You arewonderfully like your mother, " he told Joan. "In appearance, I mean, " headded. "I knew her when she was Miss Caxton. I acted with her inAmerica. "

Joan made a swift effort to hide her surprise. She had never heard ofher mother having been upon the stage. 

"I did not know that you had been an actor, " she answered. 

"I wasn't really, " explained Mr. Folk. "I just walked and talkednaturally. It made rather a sensation at the time. Your mother was agenius. You have never thought of going on the stage yourself?"

"No, " said Joan. "I don't think I've got what you call the artistictemperament. I have never felt drawn towards anything of that sort. "

"I wonder, " he said. "You could hardly be your mother's daughter withoutit. "

"Tell me, " said Joan. "What was my mother like? I can only remember heras more or less of an invalid. "

He did not reply to her question. "Master or Mistress Eminent Artist, "he said; "intends to retire from his or her particular stage, whatever itmay be. That paragraph ought always to be put among the obituarynotices. "

"What's your line?" he asked her. "I take it you have one by your beinghere. Besides, I am sure you have. I am an old fighter. I can tell theyoung soldier. What's your regiment?"

Joan laughed. "I'm a drummer boy, " she answered. "I beat my drum eachweek in a Sunday newspaper, hoping the lads will follow. "

"You feel you must beat that drum, " he suggested. "Beat it louder andlouder and louder till all the world shall hear it. "

"Yes, " Joan agreed, "I think that does describe me. "

He nodded. "I thought you were an artist, " he said. "Don't let themever take your drum away from you. You'll go to pieces and get intomischief without it. "

"I know an old actress, " he continued. "She's the mother of four. Theyare all on the stage and they've all made their mark. The youngest wasborn in her dressing-room, just after the curtain had fallen. She wasplaying the Nurse to your mother's Juliet. She is still the best Nursethat I know. 'Jack's always worrying me to chuck it and devote myself tothe children, ' she confided to me one evening, while she was waiting forher cue. 'But, as I tell him, I'm more helpful to them being with themhalf the day alive than all the day dead. ' That's an anecdote worthremembering, when your time comes. If God gives woman a drum he doesn'tmean man to take it away from her. She hasn't got to be playing it fortwenty-four hours a day. I'd like you to have seen your mother'sCordelia. "

Flossie was tacking her way towards them. Joan acted on impulse. "Iwish you'd give me your address, " she said "where I could write to you. Or perhaps you would not mind my coming and seeing you one day. I wouldlike you to tell me more about my mother. "

He gave her his address in Paris where he was returning almostimmediately. 

"Do come, " he said. "It will take me back thirty-three years. Iproposed to your mother on La Grande Terrasse at St. Germain. We willwalk there. I'm still a bachelor. " He laughed, and, kissing her hand, allowed himself to be hauled away by Flossie, in exchange for Mrs. Phillips, for whom Miss Lavery had insisted on an invitation. 

Joan had met Mrs. Phillips several times; and once, on the stairs, hadstopped and spoken to her; but had never been introduced to her formallytill now. 

"We have been meaning to call on you so often, " panted Mrs. Phillips. Theroom was crowded and the exertion of squeezing her way through had windedthe poor lady. "We take so much interest in your articles. My husband--"she paused for a second, before venturing upon the word, and the aitchcame out somewhat over-aspirated--"reads them most religiously. You mustcome and dine with us one evening. "

Joan answered that she would be very pleased. 

"I will find out when Robert is free and run up and let you know, " shecontinued. "Of course, there are so many demands upon him, especiallyduring this period of national crisis, that I spare him all the socialduties that I can. But I shall insist on his making an exception in yourcase. "

Joan murmured her sense of favour, but hoped she would not be allowed tointerfere with more pressing calls upon Mr. Phillips's time. 

"It will do him good, " answered Mrs. Phillips; "getting away from themall for an hour or two. I don't see much of him myself. "

She glanced round and lowered her voice. "They tell me, " she said, "thatyou're a B. A. "

"Yes, " answered Joan. "One goes in for it more out of vanity, I'mafraid, than for any real purpose that it serves. "

"I took one or two prizes myself, " said Mrs. Phillips. "But, of course, one forgets things. I was wondering if you would mind if I ran upoccasionally to ask you a question. Of course, as you know, my 'usband'as 'ad so few advantages"--the lady's mind was concerned with moreimportant matters, and the aspirates, on this occasion, got themselvesneglected--"It is wonderful what he 'as done without them. But if, nowand then, I could 'elp him--"

There was something about the poor, foolish painted face, as it looked uppleadingly, that gave it a momentary touch of beauty. 

"Do, " said Joan, speaking earnestly. "I shall be so very pleased if youwill. "

"Thank you, " said the woman. Miss Lavery came up in a hurry to introduceher to Miss Tolley. "I am telling all my friends to read your articles, "she added, resuming the gracious patroness, as she bowed her adieus. 

Joan was alone again for a while. A handsome girl, with her hair cutshort and parted at the side, was discussing diseases of the spine with acurly-headed young man in a velvet suit. The gentleman was describingsome of the effects in detail. Joan felt there was danger of her beingtaken ill if she listened any longer; and seeing Madge's brother near thedoor, and unoccupied, she made her way across to him. 

Niel Singleton, or Keeley, as he called himself upon the stage, was quiteunlike his sister. He was short and plump, with a preternaturally solemnface, contradicted by small twinkling eyes. He motioned Joan to a chairand told her to keep quiet and not disturb the meeting. 

"Is he brainy?" he whispered after a minute. 

"I like him, " said Joan. 

"I didn't ask you if you liked him, " he explained to her. "I asked youif he was brainy. I'm not too sure that you like brainy men. "

"Yes, I do, " said Joan. "I like you, sometimes. "

"Now, none of that, " he said severely. "It's no good your thinking ofme. I'm wedded to my art. We are talking about Mr. Halliday. "

"What does Madge think of him?" asked Joan. 

"Madge has fallen in love with him, and her judgment is not to be reliedupon, " he said. "I suppose you couldn't answer a straight question, ifyou tried. "

"Don't be so harsh with me, " pleaded Joan meekly. "I'm trying to think. Yes, " she continued, "decidedly he's got brains. "

"Enough for the two of them?" demanded Mr. Singleton. "Because he willwant them. Now think before you speak. "

Joan considered. "Yes, " she answered. "I should say he's just the manto manage her. "

"Then it's settled, " he said. "We must save her. "

"Save her from what?" demanded Joan. 

"From his saying to himself: 'This is Flossie's idea of a party. This isthe sort of thing that, if I marry her, I am letting myself in for. ' Ifhe hasn't broken off the engagement already, we may be in time. "

He led the way to the piano. "Tell Madge I want her, " he whispered. Hestruck a few notes; and then in a voice that drowned every other sound inthe room, struck up a comic song. 

The effect was magical. 

He followed it up with another. This one with a chorus, consistingchiefly of "Umpty Umpty Umpty Umpty Ay, " which was vociferously encored. 

By the time it was done with, Madge had discovered a girl who could sing"Three Little Pigs;" and a sad, pale-faced gentleman who told stories. Atthe end of one of them Madge's brother spoke to Joan in a tone more ofsorrow than of anger. 

"Hardly the sort of anecdote that a truly noble and high-minded youngwoman would have received with laughter, " he commented. 

"Did I laugh?" said Joan. 

"Your having done so unconsciously only makes the matter worse, " observedMr. Singleton. "I had hoped it emanated from politeness, not enjoyment. "

"Don't tease her, " said Madge. "She's having an evening off. "

Joan and the Singletons were the last to go. They promised to show Mr. Halliday a short cut to his hotel in Holborn. 

"Have you thanked Miss Lessing for a pleasant evening?" asked Mr. Singleton, turning to Mr. Halliday. 

He laughed and put his arm round her. "Poor little woman, " he said. "You're looking so tired. It was jolly at the end. " He kissed her. 

He had passed through the swing doors; and they were standing on thepavement waiting for Joan's bus. 

"Why did we all like him?" asked Joan. "Even Miss Lavery. There'snothing extraordinary about him. "

"Oh yes there is, " said Madge. "Love has lent him gilded armour. Fromhis helmet waves her crest, " she quoted. "Most men look fine in thatcostume. Pity they can't always wear it. "

The conductor seemed impatient. Joan sprang upon the step and waved herhand. 

CHAPTER VII

Joan was making herself a cup of tea when there came a tap at the door. It was Mrs. Phillips. 

"I heard you come in, " she said. "You're not busy, are you?"

"No, " answered Joan. "I hope you're not. I'm generally in about thistime; and it's always nice to gossip over a dish of tea. "

"Why do you say 'dish' of tea!" asked Mrs. Phillips, as she loweredherself with evident satisfaction into the easy chair Joan placed forher. 

"Oh, I don't know, " laughed Joan. "Dr. Johnson always talked of a 'dish'of tea. Gives it a literary flavour. "

"I've heard of him, " said Mrs. Phillips. "He's worth reading, isn't he?"

"Well, he talked more amusingly than he wrote, " explained Joan. "GetBoswell's Life of him. Or I'll lend you mine, " she added, "if you'll becareful of it. You'll find all the passages marked that are best worthremembering. At least, I think so. "

"Thanks, " said Mrs. Phillips. "You see, as the wife of a public man, Iget so little time for study. "

"Is it settled yet?" asked Joan. "Are they going to make room for him inthe Cabinet?

"I'm afraid so, " answered Mrs. Phillips. "Oh, of course, I want him to, "she corrected herself. "And he must, of course, if the King insists uponit. But I wish it hadn't all come with such a whirl. What shall I haveto do, do you think?"

Joan was pouring out the tea. "Oh, nothing, " she answered, "but just beagreeable to the right people. He'll tell you who they are. And takecare of him. "

"I wish I'd taken more interest in politics when I was young, " said Mrs. Phillips. "Of course, when I was a girl, women weren't supposed to. "

"Do you know, I shouldn't worry about them, if I were you, " Joan advisedher. "Let him forget them when he's with you. A man can have too muchof a good thing, " she laughed. 

"I wonder if you're right, " mused Mrs. Phillips. "He does often say thathe'd just as soon I didn't talk about them. "

Joan shot a glance from over her cup. The poor puzzled face was staringinto the fire. Joan could almost hear him saying it. 

"I'm sure I am, " she said. "Make home-coming a change to him. As yousaid yourself the other evening. It's good for him to get away from itall, now and then. "

"I must try, " agreed Mrs. Phillips, looking up. "What sort of thingsought I to talk to him about, do you think?"

Joan gave an inward sigh. Hadn't the poor lady any friends of her own. "Oh, almost anything, " she answered vaguely: "so long as it's cheerfuland non-political. What used you to talk about before he became a greatman?"

There came a wistful look into the worried eyes. "Oh, it was all sodifferent then, " she said. "'E just liked to--you know. We didn't seemto 'ave to talk. 'E was a rare one to tease. I didn't know 'ow clever'e was, then. "

It seemed a difficult case to advise upon. "How long have you beenmarried?" Joan asked. 

"Fifteen years, " she answered. "I was a bit older than 'im. But I'venever looked my age, they tell me. Lord, what a boy 'e was! Swept youoff your feet, like. 'E wasn't the only one. I'd got a way with me, Isuppose. Anyhow, the men seemed to think so. There was always a few'anging about. Like flies round a 'oney-pot, Mother used to say. " Shegiggled. "But 'e wouldn't take No for an answer. And I didn't want togive it 'im, neither. I was gone on 'im, right enough. No use saying Iwasn't. "

"You must be glad you didn't say No, " suggested Joan. 

"Yes, " she answered, "'E's got on. I always think of that little poem, 'Lord Burleigh, '" she continued; "whenever I get worrying about myself. Ever read it?"

"Yes, " answered Joan. "He was a landscape painter, wasn't he?"

"That's the one, " said Mrs. Phillips. "I little thought I was lettingmyself in for being the wife of a big pot when Bob Phillips came along in'is miner's jacket. "

"You'll soon get used to it, " Joan told her. "The great thing is not tobe afraid of one's fate, whatever it is; but just to do one's best. " Itwas rather like talking to a child. 

"You're the right sort to put 'eart into a body. I'm glad I came up, "said Mrs. Phillips. "I get a bit down in the mouth sometimes when 'egoes off into one of 'is brown studies, and I don't seem to know what'e's thinking about. But it don't last long. I was always one of thelight-'earted ones. "

They discussed life on two thousand a year; the problems it wouldpresent; and Mrs. Phillips became more cheerful. Joan laid herself outto be friendly. She hoped to establish an influence over Mrs. Phillipsthat should be for the poor lady's good; and, as she felt instinctively, for poor Phillips's also. It was not an unpleasing face. Underneath thepaint, it was kind and womanly. Joan was sure he would like it betterclean. A few months' attention to diet would make a decent figure of herand improve her wind. Joan watched her spreading the butter a quarter ofan inch thick upon her toast and restrained with difficulty the impulseto take it away from her. And her clothes! Joan had seen guys carriedthrough the streets on the fifth of November that were less obtrusive. 

She remembered, as she was taking her leave, what she had come for: whichwas to invite Joan to dinner on the following Friday. 

"It's just a homely affair, " she explained. She had recovered her formand was now quite the lady again. "Two other guests beside yourself: aMr. Airlie--I am sure you will like him. He's so dilletanty--and Mr. McKean. He's the young man upstairs. Have you met him?"

Joan hadn't: except once on the stairs when, to avoid having to pass her, he had gone down again and out into the street. From the doorstep shehad caught sight of his disappearing coat-tails round the corner. Yielding to impishness, she had run after him, and his expression ofblank horror when, glancing over his shoulder, he found her walkingabstractedly three yards behind him, had gladdened all her evening. 

Joan recounted the episode--so far as the doorstep. 

"He tried to be shy with me, " said Mrs. Phillips, "but I wouldn't lethim. I chipped him out of it. If he's going to write plays, as I toldhim, he will have to get over his fear of a petticoat. "

She offered her cheek, and Joan kissed it, somewhat gingerly. 

"You won't mind Robert not wearing evening dress, " she said. "He neverwill if he can help it. I shall just slip on a semi-toilette myself. "

Joan had difficulty in deciding on her own frock. Her four eveningdresses, as she walked round them, spread out upon the bed, all lookedtoo imposing, for what Mrs. Phillips had warned her would be a "homelyaffair. " She had one other, a greyish-fawn, with sleeves to the elbow, that she had had made expressly for public dinners and political AtHomes. But that would be going to the opposite extreme, and might seemdiscourteous--to her hostess. Besides, "mousey" colours didn't reallysuit her. They gave her a curious sense of being affected. In the endshe decided to risk a black crepe-de-chine, square cut, with a girdle ofgold embroidery. There couldn't be anything quieter than black, and thegold embroidery was of the simplest. She would wear it without anyjewellery whatever: except just a star in her hair. The result, as sheviewed the effect in the long glass, quite satisfied her. Perhaps thejewelled star did scintillate rather. It had belonged to her mother. Buther hair was so full of shadows: it wanted something to relieve it. Alsoshe approved the curved line of her bare arms. It was certainly verybeautiful, a woman's arm. She took her gloves in her hand and went down. 

Mr. Phillips was not yet in the room. Mrs. Phillips, in apple-green withan ostrich feather in her hair, greeted her effusively, and introducedher to her fellow guests. Mr. Airlie was a slight, elegant gentleman ofuncertain age, with sandy hair and beard cut Vandyke fashion. He askedJoan's permission to continue his cigarette. 

"You have chosen the better part, " he informed her, on her granting it. "When I'm not smoking, I'm talking. "

Mr. McKean shook her hand vigorously without looking at her. 

"And this is Hilda, " concluded Mrs. Phillips. "She ought to be in bed ifshe hadn't a naughty Daddy who spoils her. "

A lank, black-haired girl, with a pair of burning eyes looking out of aface that, but for the thin line of the lips, would have been absolutelycolourless, rose suddenly from behind a bowl of artificial flowers. Joancould not suppress a slight start; she had not noticed her on entering. The girl came slowly forward, and Joan felt as if the uncanny eyes wereeating her up. She made an effort and held out her hand with a smile, and the girl's long thin fingers closed on it in a pressure that hurt. She did not speak. 

"She only came back yesterday for the half-term, " explained Mrs. Phillips. "There's no keeping her away from her books. 'Twas her ownwish to be sent to boarding-school. How would you like to go to Girtonand be a B. A. Like Miss Allway?" she asked, turning to the child. 

Phillips's entrance saved the need of a reply. To the evident surpriseof his wife he was in evening clothes. 

"Hulloa. You've got 'em on, " she said. 

He laughed. "I shall have to get used to them sooner or later, " he said. 

Joan felt relieved--she hardly knew why--that he bore the test. It was awell-built, athletic frame, and he had gone to a good tailor. He lookedtaller in them; and the strong, clean-shaven face less rugged. 

Joan sat next to him at the round dinner-table with the child the otherside of him. She noticed that he ate as far as possible with his righthand--his hands were large, but smooth and well shaped--his leftremaining under the cloth, beneath which the child's right hand, whenfree, would likewise disappear. For a while the conversation consistedchiefly of anecdotes by Mr. Airlie. There were few public men and womenabout whom he did not know something to their disadvantage. Joan, listening, found herself repeating the experience of a night or twoprevious, when, during a performance of _Hamlet_, Niel Singleton, who wasplaying the grave-digger, had taken her behind the scenes. Hamlet, theKing of Denmark and the Ghost were sharing a bottle of champagne in theGhost's dressing-room: it happened to be the Ghost's birthday. On herreturn to the front of the house, her interest in the play was gone. Itwas absurd that it should be so; but the fact remained. 

Mr. Airlie had lunched the day before with a leonine old gentleman whoevery Sunday morning thundered forth Social Democracy to enthusiasticmultitudes on Tower Hill. Joan had once listened to him and had almostbeen converted: he was so tremendously in earnest. She now learnt thathe lived in Curzon Street, Mayfair, and filled, in private life, theperfectly legitimate calling of a company promoter in partnership with aDutch Jew. His latest prospectus dwelt upon the profits to be derivedfrom an amalgamation of the leading tanning industries: by means of whichthe price of leather could be enormously increased. 

It was utterly illogical; but her interest in the principles of SocialDemocracy was gone. 

A very little while ago, Mr. Airlie, in his capacity of second cousin toone of the ladies concerned, a charming girl but impulsive, had beencalled upon to attend a family council of a painful nature. Thegentleman's name took Joan's breath away: it was the name of one of herheroes, an eminent writer: one might almost say prophet. She hadhitherto read his books with grateful reverence. They pictured for herthe world made perfect; and explained to her just precisely how it was tobe accomplished. But, as far as his own particular corner of it wasconcerned, he seemed to have made a sad mess of it. Human nature ofquite an old-fashioned pattern had crept in and spoilt all his owntheories. 

Of course it was unreasonable. The sign-post may remain embedded inweeds: it notwithstanding points the way to the fair city. She toldherself this, but it left her still short-tempered. She didn't carewhich way it pointed. She didn't believe there was any fair city. 

There was a famous preacher. He lived the simple life in a small housein Battersea, and consecrated all his energies to the service of thepoor. Almost, by his unselfish zeal, he had persuaded Joan of theusefulness of the church. Mr. Airlie frequently visited him. Theyinterested one another. What struck Mr. Airlie most was theself-sacrificing devotion with which the reverend gentleman's wife andfamily surrounded him. It was beautiful to see. The calls upon hismoderate purse, necessitated by his wide-spread and much paragraphedactivities, left but a narrow margin for domestic expenses: with theresult that often the only fire in the house blazed brightly in the studywhere Mr. Airlie and the reverend gentleman sat talking: while mother andchildren warmed themselves with sense of duty in the cheerless kitchen. And often, as Mr. Airlie, who was of an inquiring turn of mind, hadconvinced himself, the only evening meal that resources would permit wasthe satisfying supper for one brought by the youngest daughter to herfather where he sat alone in the small dining-room. 

Mr. Airlie, picking daintily at his food, continued his stories: ofphilanthropists who paid starvation wages: of feminists who were a holyterror to their women folk: of socialists who travelled first-class andspent their winters in Egypt or Monaco: of stern critics of public moralswho preferred the society of youthful affinities to the continued companyof elderly wives: of poets who wrote divinely about babies' feet andwhose children hated them. 

"Do you think it's all true?" Joan whispered to her host. 

He shrugged his shoulders. "No reason why it shouldn't be, " he said. "I've generally found him right. "

"I've never been able myself, " he continued, "to understand the Lord'senthusiasm for David. I suppose it was the Psalms that did it. "

Joan was about to offer comment, but was struck dumb with astonishment onhearing McKean's voice: it seemed he could talk. He was telling of anold Scotch peasant farmer. A mean, cantankerous old cuss whose curiouspride it was that he had never given anything away. Not a crust, nor asixpence, nor a rag; and never would. Many had been the attempts to makehim break his boast: some for the joke of the thing and some for theneed; but none had ever succeeded. It was his one claim to distinctionand he guarded it. 

One evening it struck him that the milk-pail, standing just inside thewindow, had been tampered with. Next day he marked with a scratch theinside of the pan and, returning later, found the level of the milk hadsunk half an inch. So he hid himself and waited; and at twilight thenext day the window was stealthily pushed open, and two small, terror-haunted eyes peered round the room. They satisfied themselves that noone was about and a tiny hand clutching a cracked jug was thrust swiftlyin and dipped into the pan; and the window softly closed. 

He knew the thief, the grandchild of an old bedridden dame who lived somemiles away on the edge of the moor. The old man stood long, watching thesmall cloaked figure till it was lost in the darkness. It was not tillhe lay upon his dying bed that he confessed it. But each evening, fromthat day, he would steal into the room and see to it himself that thewindow was left ajar. 

After the coffee, Mrs. Phillips proposed their adjourning to the "drawing-room" the other side of the folding doors, which had been left open. Phillips asked her to leave Joan and himself where they were. He wantedto talk to her. He promised not to bore her for more than ten minutes. 

The others rose and moved away. Hilda came and stood before Joan withher hands behind her. 

"I am going to bed now, " she said. "I wanted to see you from what Papatold me. May I kiss you?"

It was spoken so gravely that Joan did not ask her, as in lighter moodshe might have done, what it was that Phillips had said. She raised herface quietly, and the child bent forward and kissed her, and went outwithout looking back at either of them, leaving Joan more serious thanthere seemed any reason for. Phillips filled his pipe and lighted it. 

"I wish I had your pen, " he said, suddenly breaking the silence. "I'mall right at talking; but I want to get at the others: the men and womenwho never come, thinking it has nothing to do with them. I'm shy andawkward when I try to write. There seems a barrier in front of me. Youbreak through it. One hears your voice. Tell me, " he said, "are yougetting your way? Do they answer you?"

"Yes, " said Joan. "Not any great number of them, not yet. But enough toshow that I really am interesting them. It grows every week. "

"Tell them that, " he said. "Let them hear each other. It's the same ata meeting. You wait ten minutes sometimes before one man will summon upcourage to put a question; but once one or two have ventured they springup all round you. I was wondering, " he added, "if you would help me; letme use you, now and again. "

"It is what I should love, " she answered. "Tell me what to do. " She wasnot conscious of the low, vibrating tone in which she spoke. 

"I want to talk to them, " he said, "about their stomachs. I want them tosee the need of concentrating upon the food problem: insisting that itshall be solved. The other things can follow. "

"There was an old Egyptian chap, " he said, "a governor of one of theirprovinces, thousands of years before the Pharaohs were ever heard of. They dug up his tomb a little while ago. It bore this inscription: 'Inmy time no man went hungry. ' I'd rather have that carved upon mygravestone than the boastings of all the robbers and the butchers ofhistory. Think what it must have meant in that land of drought andfamine: only a narrow strip of river bank where a grain of corn wouldgrow; and that only when old Nile was kind. If not, your nearestsupplies five hundred miles away across the desert, your only means oftransport the slow-moving camel. Your convoy must be guarded againstattack, provided with provisions and water for a two months' journey. Yethe never failed his people. Fat year and lean year: 'In my time no manwent hungry. ' And here, to-day, with our steamships and our railways, with the granaries of the world filled to overflowing, one third of ourpopulation lives on the border line of want. In India they die by theroadside. What's the good of it all: your science and your art and yourreligion! How can you help men's souls if their bodies are starving? Ahungry man's a hungry beast. 

"I spent a week at Grimsby, some years ago, organizing a fisherman'sunion. They used to throw the fish back into the sea, tons upon tons ofit, that men had risked their lives to catch, that would have fed halfLondon's poor. There was a 'glut' of it, they said. The 'market' didn'twant it. Funny, isn't it, a 'glut' of food: and the kiddies can't learntheir lessons for want of it. I was talking with a farmer down in Kent. The plums were rotting on his trees. There were too many of them: thatwas the trouble. The railway carriage alone would cost him more than hecould get for them. They were too cheap. So nobody could have them. It's the muddle of the thing that makes me mad--the ghastly muddle-headedway the chief business of the world is managed. There's enough foodcould be grown in this country to feed all the people and then of thefragments each man might gather his ten basketsful. There's no miracleneeded. I went into the matter once with Dalroy of the Board ofAgriculture. He's the best man they've got, if they'd only listen tohim. It's never been organized: that's all. It isn't the fault of theindividual. It ought not to be left to the individual. The man whomakes a corner in wheat in Chicago and condemns millions toprivation--likely enough, he's a decent sort of fellow in himself: a kindhusband and father--would be upset for the day if he saw a child cryingfor bread. My dog's a decent enough little chap, as dogs go, but I don'tlet him run my larder. 

"It could be done with a little good will all round, " he continued, "andnine men out of every ten would be the better off. But they won't evenlet you explain. Their newspapers shout you down. It's such a damnedfine world for the few: never mind the many. My father was a farmlabourer: and all his life he never earned more than thirteen andsixpence a week. I left when I was twelve and went into the mines. Therewere six of us children; and my mother brought us up healthy and decent. She fed us and clothed us and sent us to school; and when she died weburied her with the money she had put by for the purpose; and never apenny of charity had ever soiled her hands. I can see them now. Talk ofyour Chancellors of the Exchequer and their problems! She worked herselfto death, of course. Well, that's all right. One doesn't mind thatwhere one loves. If they would only let you. She had no opposition tocontend with--no thwarting and hampering at every turn--the very peopleyou are working for hounded on against you. The difficulty of a man likemyself, who wants to do something, who could do something, is that forthe best part of his life he is fighting to be allowed to do it. By thetime I've lived down their lies and got my chance, my energy will begone. "

He knocked the ashes from his pipe and relit it. 

"I've no quarrel with the rich, " he said. "I don't care how many richmen there are, so long as there are no poor. Who does? I was riding ona bus the other day, and there was a man beside me with a bandaged head. He'd been hurt in that railway smash at Morpeth. He hadn't claimeddamages from the railway company and wasn't going to. 'Oh, it's only afew scratches, ' he said. 'They'll be hit hard enough as it is. ' If he'dbeen a poor devil on eighteen shillings a week it would have beendifferent. He was an engineer earning good wages; so he wasn't feelingsore and bitter against half the world. Suppose you tried to run an armywith your men half starved while your officers had more than they couldeat. It's been tried and what's been the result? See that your soldiershave their proper rations, and the General can sit down to his six-coursedinner, if he will. They are not begrudging it to him. 

"A nation works on its stomach. Underfeed your rank and file, and whatsort of a fight are you going to put up against your rivals. I want tosee England going ahead. I want to see her workers properly fed. I wantto see the corn upon her unused acres, the cattle grazing on her wastedpastures. I object to the food being thrown into the sea--left to rotupon the ground while men are hungry--side-tracked in Chicago, while thechildren grow up stunted. I want the commissariat properly organized. "

He had been staring through her rather than at her, so it had seemed toJoan. Suddenly their eyes met, and he broke into a smile. 

"I'm so awfully sorry, " he said. "I've been talking to you as if youwere a public meeting. I'm afraid I'm more used to them than I am towomen. Please forgive me. "

The whole man had changed. The eyes had a timid pleading in them. 

Joan laughed. "I've been feeling as if I were the King of Bavaria, " shesaid. 

"How did he feel?" he asked her, leaning forward. 

"He had his own private theatre, " Joan explained, "where Wagner gave hisoperas. And the King was the sole audience. "

"I should have hated that, " he said, "if I had been Wagner. "

He looked at her, and a flush passed over his boyish face. 

"All right, " he said, "if it had been a queen. "

Joan found herself tracing patterns with her spoon upon the tablecloth. "But you have won now, " she said, still absorbed apparently with herdrawing, "you are going to get your chance. "

He gave a short laugh. "A trick, " he said, "to weaken me. They think toshave my locks; show me to the people bound by their red tape. To put itanother way, a rat among the terriers. "

Joan laughed. "You don't somehow suggest the rat, " she said: "ratheranother sort of beast. "

"What do you advise me?" he asked. "I haven't decided yet. "

They were speaking in whispered tones. Through the open doors they couldsee into the other room. Mrs. Phillips, under Airlie's instructions, wasventuring upon a cigarette. 

"To accept, " she answered. "They won't influence you--the terriers, asyou call them. You are too strong. It is you who will sway them. Itisn't as if you were a mere agitator. Take this opportunity of showingthem that you can build, plan, organize; that you were meant to be aruler. You can't succeed without them, as things are. You've got to winthem over. Prove to them that they can trust you. "

He sat for a minute tattooing with his fingers on the table, beforespeaking. 

"It's the frills and flummery part of it that frightens me, " he said. "You wouldn't think that sensitiveness was my weak point. But it is. I've stood up to a Birmingham mob that was waiting to lynch me andenjoyed the experience; but I'd run ten miles rather than face a drawing-room of well-dressed people with their masked faces and ironiccourtesies. It leaves me for days feeling like a lobster that has lostits shell. "

"I wouldn't say it, if I didn't mean it, " answered Joan; "but you haven'tgot to trouble yourself about that . . . You're quite passable. " Shesmiled. It seemed to her that most women would find him more thanpassable. 

He shook his head. "With you, " he said. "There's something about youthat makes one ashamed of worrying about the little things. But theothers: the sneering women and the men who wink over their shoulder whilethey talk to you, I shall never be able to get away from them, and, ofcourse, wherever I go--"

He stopped abruptly with a sudden tightening of the lips. Joan followedhis eyes. Mrs. Phillips had swallowed the smoke and was giggling andspluttering by turns. The yellow ostrich feather had worked itself looseand was rocking to and fro as if in a fit of laughter of its own. 

He pushed back his chair and rose. "Shall we join the others?" he said. 

He moved so that he was between her and the other room, his back to theopen doors. "You think I ought to?" he said. 

"Yes, " she answered firmly, as if she were giving a command. But he readpity also in her eyes. 

"Well, have you two settled the affairs of the kingdom? Is it alldecided?" asked Airlie. 

"Yes, " he answered, laughing. "We are going to say to the people, 'Eat, drink and be wise. '"

He rearranged his wife's feather and smoothed her tumbled hair. Shelooked up at him and smiled. 

Joan set herself to make McKean talk, and after a time succeeded. Theyhad a mutual friend, a raw-boned youth she had met at Cambridge. He wasengaged to McKean's sister. His eyes lighted up when he spoke of hissister Jenny. The Little Mother, he called her. 

"She's the most beautiful body in all the world, " he said. "Thoughmerely seeing her you mightn't know it. "

He saw her "home"; and went on up the stairs to his own floor. 

Joan stood for a while in front of the glass before undressing; but feltless satisfied with herself. She replaced the star in its case, and tookoff the regal-looking dress with the golden girdle and laid it carelesslyaside. She seemed to be growing smaller. 

In her white night dress, with her hair in two long plaits, she looked atherself once more. She seemed to be no one of any importance at all:just a long little girl going to bed. With no one to kiss her goodnight. 

She blew out the candle and climbed into the big bed, feeling verylonesome as she used to when a child. It had not troubled her until to-night. Suddenly she sat up again. She needn't be back in London beforeTuesday evening, and to-day was only Friday. She would run down home andburst in upon her father. He would be so pleased to see her. 

She would make him put his arms around her. 

CHAPTER VIII

She reached home in the evening. She thought to find her father in hisstudy. But they told her that, now, he usually sat alone in the greatdrawing-room. She opened the door softly. The room was dark save for aflicker of firelight; she could see nothing. Nor was there any sound. 

"Dad, " she cried, "are you here?"

He rose slowly from a high-backed chair beside the fire. 

"It is you, " he said. He seemed a little dazed. 

She ran to him and, seizing his listless arms, put them round her. 

"Give me a hug, Dad, " she commanded. "A real hug. "

He held her to him for what seemed a long while. There was strength inhis arms, in spite of the bowed shoulders and white hair. 

"I was afraid you had forgotten how to do it, " she laughed, when at lasthe released her. "Do you know, you haven't hugged me, Dad, since I wasfive years old. That's nineteen years ago. You do love me, don't you?"

"Yes, " he answered. "I have always loved you. "

She would not let him light the gas. "I have dined--in the train, " sheexplained. "Let us talk by the firelight. "

She forced him gently back into his chair, and seated herself upon thefloor between his knees. "What were you thinking of when I came in?" sheasked. "You weren't asleep, were you?"

"No, " he answered. "Not that sort of sleep. " She could not see hisface. But she guessed his meaning. 

"Am I very like her?" she asked. 

"Yes, " he answered. "Marvellously like her as she used to be: except forjust one thing. Perhaps that will come to you later. I thought, for themoment, as you stood there by the door . . . " He did not finish thesentence. 

"Tell me about her, " she said. "I never knew she had been an actress. "

He did not ask her how she had learnt it. "She gave it up when we weremarried, " he said. "The people she would have to live among would havelooked askance at her if they had known. There seemed no reason why theyshould. "

"How did it all happen?" she persisted. "Was it very beautiful, in thebeginning?" She wished she had not added that last. The words hadslipped from her before she knew. 

"Very beautiful, " he answered, "in the beginning. "

"It was my fault, " he went on, "that it was not beautiful all through. Iought to have let her take up her work again, as she wished to, when shefound what giving it up meant to her. The world was narrower then thanit is now; and I listened to the world. I thought it another voice. "

"It's difficult to tell, isn't it?" she said. "I wonder how one can?"

He did not answer; and they sat for a time in silence. 

"Did you ever see her act?" asked Joan. 

"Every evening for about six months, " he answered. A little flame shotup and showed a smile upon his face. 

"I owe to her all the charity and tenderness I know. She taught it to mein those months. I might have learned more if I had let her go onteaching. It was the only way she knew. "

Joan watched her as gradually she shaped herself out of the shadows: thepoor, thin, fretful lady of the ever restless hands, with her bursts ofjealous passion, her long moods of sullen indifference: all her musicturned to waste. 

"How did she come to fall in love with you?" asked Joan. "I don't meanto be uncomplimentary, Dad. " She laughed, taking his hand in hers andstroking it. "You must have been ridiculously handsome, when you wereyoung. And you must always have been strong and brave and clever. I cansee such a lot of women falling in love with you. But not the artisticwoman. "

"It wasn't so incongruous at the time, " he answered. "My father had sentme out to America to superintend a contract. It was the first time I hadever been away from home, though I was nearly thirty; and all my pent-upyouth rushed out of me at once. It was a harum-scarum fellow, mad withthe joy of life, that made love to her; not the man who went out, nor theman who came back. It was at San Francisco that I met her. She wastouring the Western States; and I let everything go to the wind andfollowed her. It seemed to me that Heaven had opened up to me. I foughta duel in Colorado with a man who had insulted her. The law didn't runthere in those days; and three of his hired gunmen, as they called them, held us up that night in the train and gave her the alternative of goingback with them and kissing him or seeing me dead at her feet. I didn'tgive her time to answer, nor for them to finish. It seemed a fine deathanyhow, that. And I'd have faced Hell itself for the chance of fightingfor her. Though she told me afterwards that if I'd died she'd have goneback with them, and killed him. "

Joan did not speak for a time. She could see him grave--a littlepompous, in his Sunday black, his footsteps creaking down thestone-flagged aisle, the silver-edged collecting bag held stiffly in hishand. 

"Couldn't you have saved a bit, Daddy?" she asked, "of all that wealth ofyouth--just enough to live on?"

"I might, " he answered, "if I had known the value of it. I found a cablewaiting for me in New York. My father had been dead a month; and I hadto return immediately. "

"And so you married her and took her drum away from her, " said Joan. "Oh, the thing God gives to some of us, " she explained, "to make a littlenoise with, and set the people marching. "

The little flame died out. She could feel his body trembling. 

"But you still loved her, didn't you, Dad?" she asked. "I was verylittle at the time, but I can just remember. You seemed so happytogether. Till her illness came. "

"It was more than love, " he answered. "It was idolatry. God punished mefor it. He was a hard God, my God. "

She raised herself, putting her hands upon his shoulders so that her facewas very close to his. "What has become of Him, Dad?" she said. Shespoke in a cold voice, as one does of a false friend. 

"I do not know, " he answered her. "I don't seem to care. "

"He must be somewhere, " she said: "the living God of love and hope: theGod that Christ believed in. "

"They were His last words, too, " he answered: "'My God, my God, why hastThou forsaken me?'"

"No, not His last, " said Joan: "'Lo, I am with you always, even unto theend of the world. ' Love was Christ's God. He will help us to find Him. "

Their arms were about one another. Joan felt that a new need had beenborn in her: the need of loving and of being loved. It was good to layher head upon his breast and know that he was glad of her coming. 

He asked her questions about herself. But she could see that he wastired; so she told him it was too important a matter to start upon solate. She would talk about herself to-morrow. It would be Sunday. 

"Do you still go to the chapel?" she asked him a little hesitatingly. 

"Yes, " he answered. "One lives by habit. "

"It is the only Temple I know, " he continued after a moment. "PerhapsGod, one day, will find me there. "

He rose and lit the gas, and a letter on the mantelpiece caught his eye. 

"Have you heard from Arthur?" he asked, suddenly turning to her. 

"No. Not since about a month, " she answered. "Why?"

"He will be pleased to find you here, waiting for him, " he said with asmile, handing her the letter. "He will be here some time to-morrow. "

Arthur Allway was her cousin, the son of a Nonconformist Minister. Herfather had taken him into the works and for the last three years he hadbeen in Egypt, helping in the laying of a tramway line. He was in lovewith her: at least so they all told her; and his letters were certainlysomewhat committal. Joan replied to them--when she did not forget to doso--in a studiously sisterly vein; and always reproved him forunnecessary extravagance whenever he sent her a present. The letterannounced his arrival at Southampton. He would stop at Birmingham, wherehis parents lived, for a couple of days, and be in Liverpool on Sundayevening, so as to be able to get straight to business on Monday morning. Joan handed back the letter. It contained nothing else. 

"It only came an hour or two ago, " her father explained. "If he wrote toyou by the same post, you may have left before it arrived. "

"So long as he doesn't think that I came down specially to see him, Idon't mind, " said Joan. 

They both laughed. "He's a good lad, " said her father. 

They kissed good night, and Joan went up to her own room. She found itjust as she had left it. A bunch of roses stood upon the dressing-table. Her father would never let anyone cut his roses but himself. 

Young Allway arrived just as Joan and her father had sat down to supper. A place had been laid for him. He flushed with pleasure at seeing her;but was not surprised. 

"I called at your diggings, " he said. "I had to go through London. Theytold me you had started. It is good of you. "

"No, it isn't, " said Joan. "I came down to see Dad. I didn't know youwere back. " She spoke with some asperity; and his face fell. 

"How are you?" she added, holding out her hand. "You've grown quite good-looking. I like your moustache. " And he flushed again with pleasure. 

He had a sweet, almost girlish face, with delicate skin that the Egyptiansun had deepened into ruddiness; with soft, dreamy eyes and golden hair. He looked lithe and agile rather than strong. He was shy at first, butonce set going, talked freely, and was interesting. 

His work had taken him into the Desert, far from the beaten tracks. Hedescribed the life of the people, very little different from what it musthave been in Noah's time. For months he had been the only white manthere, and had lived among them. What had struck him was how little hehad missed all the paraphernalia of civilization, once he had got overthe first shock. He had learnt their sports and games; wrestled and swumand hunted with them. Provided one was a little hungry and tired withtoil, a stew of goat's flesh with sweet cakes and fruits, washed downwith wine out of a sheep's skin, made a feast; and after, there was musicand singing and dancing, or the travelling story-teller would gatherround him his rapt audience. Paris had only robbed women of their graceand dignity. He preferred the young girls in their costume of thefourteenth dynasty. Progress, he thought, had tended only to complicatelife and render it less enjoyable. All the essentials of happiness--love, courtship, marriage, the home, children, friendship, social intercourse, and play, were independent of it; had always been there for the asking. 

Joan thought his mistake lay in regarding man's happiness as moreimportant to him than his self-development. It was not what we got outof civilization but what we put into it that was our gain. Its luxuriesand ostentations were, in themselves, perhaps bad for us. But thepursuit of them was good. It called forth thought and effort, sharpenedour wits, strengthened our brains. Primitive man, content with hisnecessities, would never have produced genius. Art, literature, sciencewould have been stillborn. 

He hesitated before replying, glancing at her furtively while crumblinghis bread. When he did, it was in the tone that one of her youngerdisciples might have ventured into a discussion with Hypatia. But hestuck to his guns. 

How did she account for David and Solomon, Moses and the Prophets? Theyhad sprung from a shepherd race. Yet surely there was genius, literature. Greece owed nothing to progress. She had preceded it. Herthinkers, her poets, her scientists had draws their inspiration fromnature, not civilization. Her art had sprung full grown out of the soil. We had never surpassed it. 

"But the Greek ideal could not have been the right one, or Greece wouldnot so utterly have disappeared, " suggested Mr. Allway. "Unless youreject the law of the survival of the fittest. "

He had no qualms about arguing with his uncle. 

"So did Archimedes disappear, " he answered with a smile. "The namelessRoman soldier remained. That was hardly the survival of the fittest. "

He thought it the tragedy of the world that Rome had conquered Greece, imposing her lower ideals upon the race. Rome should have been theservant of Greece: the hands directed by the brain. She would have maderoads and harbours, conducted the traffic, reared the market place. Sheknew of the steam engine, employed it for pumping water in the age of theAntonines. Sooner or later, she would have placed it on rails, and inships. Rome should have been the policeman, keeping the world in order, making it a fit habitation. Her mistake was in regarding these things asan end in themselves, dreaming of nothing beyond. From her we hadinherited the fallacy that man was made for the world, not the world forman. Rome organized only for man's body. Greece would have legislatedfor his soul. 

They went into the drawing-room. Her father asked her to sing and Arthuropened the piano for her and lit the candles. She chose some ballads anda song of Herrick's, playing her own accompaniment while Arthur turnedthe leaves. She had a good voice, a low contralto. The room was highand dimly lighted. It looked larger than it really was. Her father satin his usual chair beside the fire and listened with half-closed eyes. Glancing now and then across at him, she was reminded of Orchardson'spicture. She was feeling sentimental, a novel sensation to her. Sherather enjoyed it. 

She finished with one of Burns's lyrics; and then told Arthur that it wasnow his turn, and that she would play for him. He shook his head, pleading that he was out of practice. 

"I wish it, " she said, speaking low. And it pleased her that he made noanswer but to ask her what he should sing. He had a light tenor voice. It was wobbly at first, but improved as he went on. They ended with aduet. 

The next morning she went into town with them. She never seemed to haveany time in London, and wanted to do some shopping. They joined heragain for lunch and afterwards, at her father's suggestion, she andArthur went for a walk. They took the tram out of the city and struckinto the country. The leaves still lingered brown and red upon thetrees. He carried her cloak and opened gates for her and held backbrambles while she passed. She had always been indifferent to thesesmall gallantries; but to-day she welcomed them. She wished to feel herpower to attract and command. They avoided all subjects on which theycould differ, even in words. They talked of people and places they hadknown together. They remembered their common love of animals and told ofthe comedies and tragedies that had befallen their pets. Joan's regretwas that she had not now even a dog, thinking it cruel to keep them inLondon. She hated the women she met, dragging the poor little depressedbeasts about at the end of a string: savage with them, if they dared tostop for a moment to exchange a passing wag of the tail with some otherlittle lonely sufferer. It was as bad as keeping a lark in a cage. Shehad tried a cat: but so often she did not get home till late and that wasjust the time when the cat wanted to be out; so that they seldom met. Hesuggested a parrot. His experience of them was that they had no regularhours and would willingly sit up all night, if encouraged, and talk allthe time. Joan's objection to running a parrot was that it stamped youas an old maid; and she wasn't that, at least, not yet. She wondered ifshe could make an owl really happy. Minerva had an owl. 

He told her how one spring, walking across a common, after a fire, he hadfound a mother thrush burnt to death upon her nest, her charred wingsspread out in a vain endeavour to protect her brood. He had buried herthere among the blackened thorn and furze, and placed a little cross ofstones above her. 

"I hope nobody saw me, " he said with a laugh. "But I couldn't bear toleave her there, unhonoured. "

"It's one of the things that make me less certain than I want to be of afuture existence, " said Joan: "the thought that animals can have no partin it; that all their courage and love and faithfulness dies with themand is wasted. "

"Are you sure it is?" he answered. "It would be so unreasonable. "

They had tea at an old-fashioned inn beside a stream. It was a favouriteresort in summer time, but now they had it to themselves. The wind hadplayed pranks with her hair and he found a mirror and knelt before her, holding it. 

She stood erect, looking down at him while seeming to be absorbed in therearrangement of her hair, feeling a little ashamed of herself. She was"encouraging" him. There was no other word for it. She seemed to havedeveloped a sudden penchant for this sort of thing. It would end in hisproposing to her; and then she would have to tell him that she cared forhim only in a cousinly sort of way--whatever that might mean--and thatshe could never marry him. She dared not ask herself why. She mustmanoeuvre to put it off as long as possible; and meanwhile some openingmight occur to enlighten him. She would talk to him about her work; andexplain to him how she had determined to devote her life to it to theexclusion of all other distractions. If, then, he chose to go on lovingher--or if he couldn't help it--that would not be her fault. After all, it did him no harm. She could always be gracious and kind to him. Itwas not as if she had tricked him. He had always loved her. Kneelingbefore her, serving her: it was evident it made him supremely happy. Itwould be cruel of her to end it. 

The landlady entered unexpectedly with the tea; but he did not rise tillJoan turned away, nor did he seem disconcerted. Neither did thelandlady. She was an elderly, quiet-eyed woman, and had served more thanone generation of young people with their teas. 

They returned home by train. Joan insisted on travelling third class, and selected a compartment containing a stout woman and two children. Arthur had to be at the works. An important contract had got behindhandand they were working overtime. She and her father dined alone. He madeher fulfil her promise to talk about herself, and she told him all shethought would interest him. She passed lightly over her acquaintanceshipwith Phillips. He would regard it as highly undesirable, she toldherself, and it would trouble him. He was reading her articles in the_Sunday Post_, as also her Letters from Clorinda: and of the twopreferred the latter as being less subversive of law and order. Also hedid not like seeing her photograph each week, displayed across twocolumns with her name beneath in one inch type. He supposed he was old-fashioned. She was getting rather tired of it herself. 

"The Editor insisted upon it, " she explained. "It was worth it for theopportunity it gives me. I preach every Sunday to a congregation of overa million souls. It's better than being a Bishop. Besides, " she added, "the men are just as bad. You see their silly faces everywhere. "

"That's like you women, " he answered with a smile. "You pretend to besuperior; and then you copy us. "

She laughed. But the next moment she was serious. 

"No, we don't, " she said, "not those of us who think. We know we shallnever oust man from his place. He will always be the greater. We wantto help him; that's all. "

"But wasn't that the Lord's idea, " he said; "when He gave Eve to Adam tobe his helpmeet?"

"Yes, that was all right, " she answered. "He fashioned Eve for Adam andsaw that Adam got her. The ideal marriage might have been the idealsolution. If the Lord had intended that, he should have kept the match-making in His own hands: not have left it to man. Somewhere in Athensthere must have been the helpmeet God had made for Socrates. When theymet, it was Xanthippe that she kissed. "

A servant brought the coffee and went out again. Her father lighted acigar and handed her the cigarettes. 

"Will it shock you, Dad?" she asked. 

"Rather late in the day for you to worry yourself about that, isn't it?"he answered with a smile. 

He struck a match and held it for her. Joan sat with her elbows on thetable and smoked in silence. She was thinking. 

Why had he never "brought her up, " never exacted obedience from her, never even tried to influence her? It could not have been mere weakness. She stole a sidelong glance at the tired, lined face with its steel-blueeyes. She had never seen them other than calm, but they must have beenable to flash. Why had he always been so just and kind and patient withher? Why had he never scolded her and bullied her and teased her? Whyhad he let her go away, leaving him lonely in his empty, voiceless house?Why had he never made any claim upon her? The idea came to her as aninspiration. At least, it would ease her conscience. "Why don't you letArthur live here, " she said, "instead of going back to his lodgings? Itwould be company for you. "

He did not answer for some time. She had begun to wonder if he hadheard. 

"What do you think of him?" he said, without looking at her. 

"Oh, he's quite a nice lad, " she answered. 

It was some while again before he spoke. "He will be the last of theAllways, " he said. "I should like to think of the name being continued;and he's a good business man, in spite of his dreaminess. Perhaps hewould get on better with the men. "

She seized at the chance of changing the subject. 

"It was a foolish notion, " she said, "that of the Manchester school: thatmen and women could be treated as mere figures in a sum. "

To her surprise, he agreed with her. "The feudal system had a fine ideain it, " he said, "if it had been honestly carried out. A master shouldbe the friend, the helper of his men. They should be one family. "

She looked at him a little incredulously, remembering the bitter periodsof strikes and lock-outs. 

"Did you ever try, Dad?" she asked. 

"Oh, yes, " he answered. "But I tried the wrong way. " "The right waymight be found, " he added, "by the right man, and woman. "

She felt that he was watching her through his half-closed eyes. "Thereare those cottages, " he continued, "just before you come to the bridge. They might be repaired and a club house added. The idea is catching on, they tell me. Garden villages, they call them now. It gets the men andwomen away from the dirty streets; and gives the children a chance. "

She knew the place. A sad group of dilapidated little houses formingthree sides of a paved quadrangle, with a shattered fountain and witheredtrees in the centre. Ever since she could remember, they had stood thereempty, ghostly, with creaking doors and broken windows, their gardensovergrown with weeds. 

"Are they yours?" she asked. She had never connected them with theworks, some half a mile away. Though had she been curious, she mighthave learnt that they were known as "Allway's Folly. "

"Your mother's, " he answered. "I built them the year I came back fromAmerica and gave them to her. I thought it would interest her. Perhapsit would, if I had left her to her own ways. "

"Why didn't they want them?" she asked. 

"They did, at first, " he answered. "The time-servers and the hypocritesamong them. I made it a condition that they should be teetotallers, andchapel goers, and everything else that I thought good for them. Ithought that I could save their souls by bribing them with cheap rentsand share of profits. And then the Union came, and that of coursefinished it. "

So he, too, had thought to build Jerusalem. 

"Yes, " he said. "I'll sound him about giving up his lodgings. "

Joan lay awake for a long while that night. The moon looked in at thewindow. It seemed to have got itself entangled in the tops of the tallpines. Would it not be her duty to come back--make her father happy, tosay nothing of the other. He was a dear, sweet, lovable lad. Together, they might realize her father's dream: repair the blunders, plant gardenswhere the weeds now grew, drive out the old sad ghosts with livingvoices. It had been a fine thought, a "King's thought. " Others hadfollowed, profiting by his mistakes. But might it not be carried furtherthan even they had gone, shaped into some noble venture that should servethe future. 

Was not her America here? Why seek it further? What was this unknownForce, that, against all sense and reason, seemed driving her out intothe wilderness to preach. Might it not be mere vanity, mere egoism. Almost she had convinced herself. 

And then there flashed remembrance of her mother. She, too, had laidaside herself; had thought that love and duty could teach one to be otherthan one was. The Ego was the all important thing, entrusted to us asthe talents of silver to the faithful servant: to be developed, not forour own purposes, but for the service of the Master. 

One did no good by suppressing one's nature. In the end it proved toostrong. Marriage with Arthur would be only repeating the mistake. To beworshipped, to be served. It would be very pleasant, when one was in themood. But it would not satisfy her. There was something strong andfierce and primitive in her nature--something that had come down to herthrough the generations from some harness-girded ancestress--somethingimpelling her instinctively to choose the fighter; to share with him thejoy of battle, healing his wounds, giving him of her courage, exultingwith him in the victory. 

The moon had risen clear of the entangling pines. It rode serene andfree. 

Her father came to the station with her in the morning. The train wasnot in: and they walked up and down and talked. Suddenly she remembered:it had slipped her mind. 

"Could I, as a child, have known an old clergyman?" she asked him. "Atleast he wouldn't have been old then. I dropped into Chelsea Church oneevening and heard him preach; and on the way home I passed him again inthe street. It seemed to me that I had seen his face before. But notfor many years. I meant to write you about it, but forgot. "

He had to turn aside for a moment to speak to an acquaintance aboutbusiness. 

"Oh, it's possible, " he answered on rejoining her. "What was his name?"

"I do not know, " she answered. "He was not the regular Incumbent. Butit was someone that I seemed to know quite well--that I must have beenfamiliar with. "

"It may have been, " he answered carelessly, "though the gulf was widerthen than it is now. I'll try and think. Perhaps it is only yourfancy. "

The train drew in, and he found her a corner seat, and stood talking bythe window, about common things. 

"What did he preach about?" he asked her unexpectedly. 

She was puzzled for the moment. "Oh, the old clergyman, " she answered, recollecting. "Oh, Calvary. All roads lead to Calvary, he thought. Itwas rather interesting. "

She looked back at the end of the platform. He had not moved. 

CHAPTER IX

A pile of correspondence was awaiting her and, standing by the desk, shebegan to open and read it. Suddenly she paused, conscious that someonehad entered the room and, turning, she saw Hilda. She must have left thedoor ajar, for she had heard no sound. The child closed the doornoiselessly and came across, holding out a letter. 

"Papa told me to give you this the moment you came in, " she said. Joanhad not yet taken off her things. The child must have been keeping aclose watch. Save for the signature it contained but one line: "I haveaccepted. "

Joan replaced the letter in its envelope, and laid it down upon the desk. Unconsciously a smile played about her lips. 

The child was watching her. "I'm glad you persuaded him, " she said. 

Joan felt a flush mount to her face. She had forgotten Hilda for theinstant. 

She forced a laugh. "Oh, I only persuaded him to do what he had made uphis mind to do, " she explained. "It was all settled. "

"No, it wasn't, " answered the child. "Most of them were against it. Andthen there was Mama, " she added in a lower tone. 

"What do you mean, " asked Joan. "Didn't she wish it?"

The child raised her eyes. There was a dull anger in them. "Oh, what'sthe good of pretending, " she said. "He's so great. He could be thePrime Minister of England if he chose. But then he would have to visitkings and nobles, and receive them at his house, and Mama--" She brokeoff with a passionate gesture of the small thin hands. 

Joan was puzzled what to say. She knew exactly what she ought to say:what she would have said to any ordinary child. But to say it to thisuncannily knowing little creature did not promise much good. 

"Who told you I persuaded him?" she asked. 

"Nobody, " answered the child. "I knew. "

Joan seated herself, and drew the child towards her. 

"It isn't as terrible as you think, " she said. "Many men who have risenand taken a high place in the world were married to kind, good womenunable to share their greatness. There was Shakespeare, you know, whomarried Anne Hathaway and had a clever daughter. She was just a nice, homely body a few years older than himself. And he seems to have beenvery fond of her; and was always running down to Stratford to be withher. "

"Yes, but he didn't bring her up to London, " answered the child. "Mamawould have wanted to come; and Papa would have let her, and wouldn't havegone to see Queen Elizabeth unless she had been invited too. "

Joan wished she had not mentioned Shakespeare. There had surely beenothers; men who had climbed up and carried their impossible wives withthem. But she couldn't think of one, just then. 

"We must help her, " she answered somewhat lamely. "She's anxious tolearn, I know. "

The child shook her head. "She doesn't understand, " she said. "And Papawon't tell her. He says it would only hurt her and do no good. " Thesmall hands were clenched. "I shall hate her if she spoils his life. "

The atmosphere was becoming tragic. Joan felt the need of escaping fromit. She sprang up. 

"Oh, don't be nonsensical, " she said. "Your father isn't the only manmarried to a woman not as clever as himself. He isn't going to let thatstop him. And your mother's going to learn to be the wife of a great manand do the best she can. And if they don't like her they've got to putup with her. I shall talk to the both of them. " A wave of motherlinesstowards the entire Phillips family passed over her. It included Hilda. She caught the child to her and gave her a hug. "You go back to school, "she said, "and get on as fast as you can, so that you'll be able to beuseful to him. "

The child flung her arms about her. "You're so beautiful and wonderful, "she said. "You can do anything. I'm so glad you came. "

Joan laughed. It was surprising how easily the problem had been solved. She would take Mrs. Phillips in hand at once. At all events she shouldbe wholesome and unobtrusive. It would be a delicate mission, but Joanfelt sure of her own tact. She could see his boyish eyes turned upon herwith wonder and gratitude. 

"I was so afraid you would not be back before I went, " said the child. "Iought to have gone this afternoon, but Papa let me stay till theevening. "

"You will help?" she added, fixing on Joan her great, grave eyes. 

Joan promised, and the child went out. She looked pretty when shesmiled. She closed the door behind her noiselessly. 

It occurred to Joan that she would like to talk matters over withGreyson. There was "Clorinda's" attitude to be decided upon; and she wasinterested to know what view he himself would take. Of course he wouldbe on P---'s side. The _Evening Gazette_ had always supported the "gasand water school" of socialism; and to include the people's food wassurely only an extension of the principle. She rang him up and MissGreyson answered, asking her to come round to dinner: they would bealone. And she agreed. 

The Greysons lived in a small house squeezed into an angle of the OuterCircle, overlooking Regent's Park. It was charmingly furnished, chieflywith old Chippendale. The drawing-room made quite a picture. It washome-like and restful with its faded colouring, and absence of all showand overcrowding. They sat there after dinner and discussed Joan's news. Miss Greyson was repairing a piece of old embroidery she had brought backwith her from Italy; and Greyson sat smoking, with his hands behind hishead, and his long legs stretched out towards the fire. 

"Carleton will want him to make his food policy include Tariff Reform, "he said. "If he prove pliable, and is willing to throw over his freetrade principles, all well and good. "

"What's Carleton got to do with it?" demanded Joan with a note ofindignation. 

He turned his head towards her with an amused raising of the eyebrows. "Carleton owns two London dailies, " he answered, "and is in treaty for athird: together with a dozen others scattered about the provinces. Mostpoliticians find themselves, sooner or later, convinced by his arguments. Phillips may prove the exception. "

"It would be rather interesting, a fight between them, " said Joan. "Myself I should back Phillips. "

"He might win through, " mused Greyson. "He's the man to do it, ifanybody could. But the odds will be against him. "

"I don't see it, " said Joan, with decision. 

"I'm afraid you haven't yet grasped the power of the Press, " he answeredwith a smile. "Phillips speaks occasionally to five thousand people. Carleton addresses every day a circle of five million readers. "

"Yes, but when Phillips does speak, he speaks to the whole country, "retorted Joan. 

"Through the medium of Carleton and his like; and just so far as theyallow his influence to permeate beyond the platform, " answered Greyson. 

"But they report his speeches. They are bound to, " explained Joan. 

"It doesn't read quite the same, " he answered. "Phillips goes home underthe impression that he has made a great success and has roused thecountry. He and millions of other readers learn from the next morning'sheadlines that it was 'A Tame Speech' that he made. What sounded to him'Loud Cheers' have sunk to mild 'Hear, Hears. ' That five minutes'hurricane of applause, during which wildly excited men and women leaptupon the benches and roared themselves hoarse, and which he felt hadsettled the whole question, he searches for in vain. A few sillyinterjections, probably pre-arranged by Carleton's young lions, become'renewed interruptions. ' The report is strictly truthful; but theimpression produced is that Robert Phillips has failed to carry even hisown people with him. And then follow leaders in fourteenwidely-circulated Dailies, stretching from the Clyde to the Severn, foretelling how Mr. Robert Phillips could regain his waning popularity bythe simple process of adopting Tariff Reform: or whatever the pet panaceaof Carleton and Co. May, at the moment, happen to be. "

"Don't make us out all alike, " pleaded his sister with a laugh. "Thereare still a few old-fashioned papers that do give their opponents fairplay. "

"They are not increasing in numbers, " he answered, "and the Carletongroup is. There is no reason why in another ten years he should notcontrol the entire popular press of the country. He's got the genius andhe's got the means. "

"The cleverest thing he has done, " he continued, turning to Joan, "isyour _Sunday Post_. Up till then, the working classes had escaped him. With the _Sunday Post_, he has solved the problem. They open theirmouths; and he gives them their politics wrapped up in pictures andgossipy pars. "

Miss Greyson rose and put away her embroidery. "But what's his object?"she said. "He must have more money than he can spend; and he works likea horse. I could understand it, if he had any beliefs. "

"Oh, we can all persuade ourselves that we are the Heaven-ordaineddictator of the human race, " he answered. "Love of power is at thebottom of it. Why do our Rockefellers and our Carnegies condemnthemselves to the existence of galley slaves, ruining their digestions sothat they never can enjoy a square meal. It isn't the money; it's thetrouble of their lives how to get rid of that. It is the notoriety, thepower that they are out for. In Carleton's case, it is to feel himselfthe power behind the throne; to know that he can make and unmakestatesmen; has the keys of peace and war in his pocket; is able toexclaim: Public opinion? It is I. "

"It can be a respectable ambition, " suggested Joan. 

"It has been responsible for most of man's miseries, " he answered. "Everyworld's conqueror meant to make it happy after he had finished knockingit about. We are all born with it, thanks to the devil. " He shifted hisposition and regarded her with critical eyes. "You've got it badly, " hesaid. "I can see it in the tilt of your chin and the quivering of yournostrils. You beware of it. "

Miss Greyson left them. She had to finish an article. They debated"Clorinda's" views; and agreed that, as a practical housekeeper, shewould welcome attention being given to the question of the nation's food. The _Evening Gazette_ would support Phillips in principle, whilereserving to itself the right of criticism when it came to details. 

"What's he like in himself?" he asked her. "You've been seeing somethingof him, haven't you?"

"Oh, a little, " she answered. "He's absolutely sincere; and he meansbusiness. He won't stop at the bottom of the ladder now he's once gothis foot upon it. "

"But he's quite common, isn't he?" he asked again. "I've only met him inpublic. "

"No, that's precisely what he isn't, " answered Joan. "You feel that hebelongs to no class, but his own. The class of the Abraham Lincolns, andthe Dantons. "

"England's a different proposition, " he mused. "Society counts for somuch with us. I doubt if we should accept even an Abraham Lincoln:unless in some supreme crisis. His wife rather handicaps him, too, doesn't she?"

"She wasn't born to be the chatelaine of Downing Street, " Joan admitted. "But it's not an official position. "

"I'm not so sure that it isn't, " he laughed. "It's the dinner-table thatrules in England. We settle everything round a dinner-table. "

She was sitting in front of the fire in a high-backed chair. She nevercared to loll, and the shaded light from the electric sconces upon themantelpiece illumined her. 

"If the world were properly stage-managed, that's what you ought to be, "he said, "the wife of a Prime Minister. I can see you giving such anexcellent performance. "

"I must talk to Mary, " he added, "see if we can't get you off on somepromising young Under Secretary. "

"Don't give me ideas above my station, " laughed Joan. "I'm ajournalist. "

"That's the pity of it, " he said. "You're wasting the most importantthing about you, your personality. You would do more good in a drawing-room, influencing the rulers, than you will ever do hiding behind a pen. It was the drawing-room that made the French Revolution. "

The firelight played about her hair. "I suppose every woman dreams ofreviving the old French Salon, " she answered. "They must have beengloriously interesting. " He was leaning forward with clasped hands. "Whyshouldn't she?" he said. "The reason that our drawing-rooms have ceasedto lead is that our beautiful women are generally frivolous and ourclever women unfeminine. What we are waiting for is an English MadameRoland. "

Joan laughed. "Perhaps I shall some day, " she answered. 

He insisted on seeing her as far as the bus. It was a soft, mild night;and they walked round the Circle to Gloucester Gate. He thought therewould be more room in the buses at that point. 

"I wish you would come oftener, " he said. "Mary has taken such a likingto you. If you care to meet people, we can always whip up somebody ofinterest. "

She promised that she would. She always felt curiously at home with theGreysons. 

They were passing the long sweep of Chester Terrace. "I like thisneighbourhood with its early Victorian atmosphere, " she said. "It alwaysmakes me feel quiet and good. I don't know why. "

"I like the houses, too, " he said. "There's a character about them. Youdon't often find such fine drawing-rooms in London. "

"Don't forget your promise, " he reminded her, when they parted. "I shalltell Mary she may write to you. "

She met Carleton by chance a day or two later, as she was entering theoffice. "I want to see you, " he said; and took her up with him into hisroom. 

"We must stir the people up about this food business, " he said, plungingat once into his subject. "Phillips is quite right. It overshadowseverything. We must make the country self-supporting. It can be doneand must. If a war were to be sprung upon us we could be starved out ina month. Our navy, in face of these new submarines, is no longer able tosecure us. France is working day and night upon them. It may be abogey, or it may not. If it isn't, she would have us at her mercy; andit's too big a risk to run. You live in the same house with him, don'tyou? Do you often see him?"

"Not often, " she answered. 

He was reading a letter. "You were dining there on Friday night, weren'tyou?" he asked her, without looking up. 

Joan flushed. What did he mean by cross-examining her in this way? Shewas not at all used to impertinence from the opposite sex. 

"Your information is quite correct, " she answered. 

Her anger betrayed itself in her tone; and he shot a swift glance at her. 

"I didn't mean to offend you, " he said. "A mutual friend, a Mr. Airlie, happened to be of the party, and he mentioned you. "

He threw aside the letter. "I'll tell you what I want you to do, " hesaid. "It's nothing to object to. Tell him that you've seen me and hada talk. I understand his scheme to be that the country should grow moreand more food until it eventually becomes self-supporting; and that theGovernment should control the distribution. Tell him that with that I'mheart and soul in sympathy; and would like to help him. " He pushed asidea pile of papers and, leaning across the desk, spoke with studieddeliberation. "If he can see his way to making his policy dependent uponProtection, we can work together. "

"And if he can't?" suggested Joan. 

He fixed his large, colourless eyes upon her. "That's where you can helphim, " he answered. "If he and I combine forces, we can pull this throughin spite of the furious opposition that it is going to arouse. Without agood Press he is helpless; and where is he going to get his Press backingif he turns me down? From half a dozen Socialist papers whose supportwill do him more harm than good. If he will bring the working class overto Protection I will undertake that the Tariff Reformers and theAgricultural Interest shall accept his Socialism. It will be a victoryfor both of us. 

"If he gain his end, what do the means matter?" he continued, as Joan didnot answer. "Food may be dearer; the Unions can square that by puttingup wages; while the poor devil of a farm labourer will at last get fairtreatment. We can easily insist upon that. What do you think, yourself?"

"About Protection, " she answered. "It's one of the few subjects Ihaven't made up my mind about. "

He laughed. "You will find all your pet reforms depend upon it, when youcome to work them out, " he said. "You can't have a minimum wage withouta minimum price. "

They had risen. 

"I'll give him your message, " said Joan. "But I don't see him exchanginghis principles even for your support. I admit it's important. "

"Talk it over with him, " he said. "And bear this in mind for your ownguidance. " He took a step forward, which brought his face quite close tohers: "If he fails, and all his life's work goes for nothing, I shall besorry; but I shan't break my heart. He will. "

Joan dropped a note into Phillips's letter-box on her return home, sayingbriefly that she wished to see him; and he sent up answer asking her ifshe would come to the gallery that evening, and meet him after hisspeech, which would be immediately following the dinner hour. 

It was the first time he had risen since his appointment, and he wasreceived with general cheers. He stood out curiously youthful againstthe background of grey-haired and bald-headed men behind him; and therewas youth also in his clear, ringing voice that not even the vault-likeatmosphere of that shadowless chamber could altogether rob of itsvitality. He spoke simply and good-humouredly, without any attempt atrhetoric, relying chiefly upon a crescendo of telling facts thatgradually, as he proceeded, roused the House to that tense stillness thatcomes to it when it begins to think. 

"A distinctly dangerous man, " Joan overheard a little old lady behind hercomment to a friend. "If I didn't hate him, I should like him. "

He met her in the corridor, and they walked up and down and talked, tooabsorbed to be aware of the curious eyes that were turned upon them. Joangave him Carleton's message. 

"It was clever of him to make use of you, " he said. "If he'd sent itthrough anybody else, I'd have published it. "

"You don't think it even worth considering?" suggested Joan. 

"Protection?" he flashed out scornfully. "Yes, I've heard of that. I'velistened, as a boy, while the old men told of it to one another, in thin, piping voices, round the fireside; how the labourers were flung eight-and-sixpence a week to die on, and the men starved in the towns; while thefarmers kept their hunters, and got drunk each night on fine old crustedport. Do you know what their toast was in the big hotels on market day, with the windows open to the street: 'To a long war and a bloody one. ' Itwould be their toast to-morrow, if they had their way. Does he think Iam going to be a party to the putting of the people's neck again undertheir pitiless yoke?"

"But the people are more powerful now, " argued Joan. "If the farmerdemanded higher prices, they could demand higher wages. "

"They would never overtake the farmer, " he answered, with a laugh. "Andthe last word would always be with him. I am out to get rid of thelandlords, " he continued, "not to establish them as the permanent rulersof the country, as they are in Germany. The people are morepowerful--just a little, because they are no longer dependent on theland. They can say to the farmer, 'All right, my son, if that's yourfigure, I'm going to the shop next door--to South America, to Canada, toRussia. ' It isn't a satisfactory solution. I want to see England happyand healthy before I bother about the Argentine. It drives our men intothe slums when they might be living fine lives in God's fresh air. Inthe case of war it might be disastrous. There, I agree with him. Wemust be able to shut our door without fear of having to open it ourselvesto ask for bread. How would Protection accomplish that? Did he tellyou?"

"Don't eat me, " laughed Joan. "I haven't been sent to you as amissionary. I'm only a humble messenger. I suppose the argument isthat, good profits assured to him, the farmer would bustle up and producemore. "

"Can you see him bustling up?" he answered with a laugh; "organizinghimself into a body, and working the thing out from the point of view ofthe public weal? I'll tell you what nine-tenths of him would do: growjust as much or little as suited his own purposes; and then go to sleep. And Protection would be his security against ever being awakened. "

"I'm afraid you don't like him, " Joan commented. 

"He will be all right in his proper place, " he answered: "as the servantof the public: told what to do, and turned out of his job if he doesn'tdo it. My scheme does depend upon Protection. You can tell him that. But this time, it's going to be Protection for the people. "

They were at the far end of the corridor; and the few others stillpromenading were some distance away. She had not delivered the whole ofher message. She crossed to a seat, and he followed her. She spoke withher face turned away from him. 

"You have got to consider the cost of refusal, " she said. "His offerwasn't help or neutrality: it was help or opposition by every means inhis power. He left me in no kind of doubt as to that. He's not used tobeing challenged and he won't be squeamish. You will have the whole ofhis Press against you, and every other journalistic and politicalinfluence that he possesses. He's getting a hold upon the workingclasses. The _Sunday Post_ has an enormous sale in the manufacturingtowns; and he's talking of starting another. Are you strong enough tofight him?"

She very much wanted to look at him, but she would not. It seemed to herquite a time before he replied. 

"Yes, " he answered, "I'm strong enough to fight him. Shall rather enjoydoing it. And it's time that somebody did. Whether I'm strong enough towin has got to be seen. "

She turned and looked at him then. She wondered why she had ever thoughthim ugly. 

"You can face it, " she said: "the possibility of all your life's workbeing wasted?"

"It won't be wasted, " he answered. "The land is there. I've seen itfrom afar and it's a good land, a land where no man shall go hungry. Ifnot I, another shall lead the people into it. I shall have prepared theway. "

She liked him for that touch of exaggeration. She was so tired of themen who make out all things little, including themselves and their ownwork. After all, was it exaggeration? Might he not have been chosen tolead the people out of bondage to a land where there should be no morefear. 

"You're not angry with me?" he asked. "I haven't been rude, have I?"

"Abominably rude, " she answered, "you've defied my warnings, and treatedmy embassy with contempt. " She turned to him and their eyes met. "Ishould have despised you, if you hadn't, " she added. 

There was a note of exultation in her voice; and, as if in answer, something leapt into his eyes that seemed to claim her. Perhaps it waswell that just then the bell rang for a division; and the moment passed. 

He rose and held out his hand. "We will fight him, " he said. "And youcan tell him this, if he asks, that I'm going straight for him. Parliament may as well close down if a few men between them are to beallowed to own the entire Press of the country, and stifle every voicethat does not shout their bidding. We haven't dethroned kings to put upa newspaper Boss. He shall have all the fighting he wants. "

They met more often from that day, for Joan was frankly using her twocolumns in the _Sunday Post_ to propagate his aims. Carleton, to hersurprise, made no objection. Nor did he seek to learn the result of hisultimatum. It looked, they thought, as if he had assumed acceptance; andwas willing for Phillips to choose his own occasion. Meanwhile repliesto her articles reached Joan in weekly increasing numbers. There seemedto be a wind arising, blowing towards Protection. Farm labourers, especially, appeared to be enthusiastic for its coming. From their ill-spelt, smeared epistles, one gathered that, after years of doubt andhesitation, they had--however reluctantly--arrived at the conclusion thatwithout it there could be no hope for them. Factory workers, miners, engineers--more fluent, less apologetic--wrote as strong supporters ofPhillips's scheme; but saw clearly how upon Protection its successdepended. Shopmen, clerks--only occasionally ungrammatical--felt surethat Robert Phillips, the tried friend of the poor, would insist upon theboon of Protection being no longer held back from the people. Wives andmothers claimed it as their children's birthright. Similar views gotthemselves at the same time, into the correspondence columns ofCarleton's other numerous papers. Evidently Democracy had been throbbingwith a passion for Protection hitherto unknown, even to itself. 

"He means it kindly, " laughed Phillips. "He is offering me an excuse tosurrender gracefully. We must have a public meeting or two afterChristmas, and clear the ground. " They had got into the habit ofspeaking in the plural. 

Mrs. Phillips's conversion Joan found more difficult than she hadanticipated. She had persuaded Phillips to take a small house and lether furnish it upon the hire system. Joan went with her to the widelyadvertised "Emporium" in the City Road, meaning to advise her. But, inthe end, she gave it up out of sheer pity. Nor would her advice haveserved much purpose, confronted by the "rich and varied choice" providedfor his patrons by Mr. Krebs, the "Furnisher for Connoisseurs. "

"We've never had a home exactly, " explained Mrs. Phillips, during theirjourney in the tram. "It's always been lodgings, up to now. Niceenough, some of them; but you know what I mean; everybody else's tastebut your own. I've always fancied a little house with one's own thingsin it. You know, things that you can get fond of. "

Oh, the things she was going to get fond of! The things that her poor, round foolish eyes gloated upon the moment that she saw them! Joan triedto enlist the shopman on her side, descending even to flirtation. Unfortunately he was a young man with a high sense of duty, convincedthat his employer's interests lay in his support of Mrs. Phillips. Thesight of the furniture that, between them, they selected for the dining-room gave Joan a quite distinct internal pain. They ascended to thefloor above, devoted to the exhibition of "_Recherche_ drawing-roomsuites. " Mrs. Phillips's eye instinctively fastened with passionatedesire upon the most atrocious. Joan grew vehement. It was impossible. 

"I always was a one for cheerful colours, " explained Mrs. Phillips. 

Even the shopman wavered. Joan pressed her advantage; directed Mrs. Phillips's attention to something a little less awful. Mrs. Phillipsyielded. 

"Of course you know best, dear, " she admitted. "Perhaps I am a bit toofond of bright things. "

The victory was won. Mrs. Phillips had turned away. The shopman wasaltering the order. Joan moved towards the door, and accidentally caughtsight of Mrs. Phillips's face. The flabby mouth was trembling. A tearwas running down the painted cheek. 

Joan slipped her hand through the other's arm. 

"I'm not so sure you're not right after all, " she said, fixing a criticaleye upon the rival suites. "It is a bit mousey, that other. "

The order was once more corrected. Joan had the consolation ofwitnessing the childish delight that came again into the foolish face;but felt angry with herself at her own weakness. 

It was the woman's feebleness that irritated her. If only she had showna spark of fight, Joan could have been firm. Poor feckless creature, what could have ever been her attraction for Phillips!

She followed, inwardly fuming, while Mrs. Phillips continued to pilemonstrosity upon monstrosity. What would Phillips think? And what wouldHilda's eyes say when they looked upon that _recherche_ drawing-roomsuite? Hilda, who would have had no sentimental compunctions! The womanwould be sure to tell them both that she, Joan, had accompanied her andhelped in the choosing. The whole ghastly house would be exhibited toevery visitor as the result of their joint taste. She could hear Mr. Airlie's purring voice congratulating her. 

She ought to have insisted on their going to a decent shop. The mereadvertisement ought to have forewarned her. It was the posters that hadcaptured Mrs. Phillips: those dazzling apartments where bejewelledsociety reposed upon the "high-class but inexpensive designs" of Mr. Krebs. Artists ought to have more self-respect than to sell theirtalents for such purposes. 

The contract was concluded in Mr. Krebs' private office: a very stoutgentleman with a very thin voice, whose dream had always been to one daybe of service to the renowned Mr. Robert Phillips. He was clearly underthe impression that he had now accomplished it. Even as Mrs. Phillipstook up the pen to sign, the wild idea occurred to Joan of snatching thepaper away from her, hustling her into a cab, and in some quiet street orsquare making the woman see for herself that she was a useless fool; thatthe glowing dreams and fancies she had cherished in her silly head forfifteen years must all be given up; that she must stand aside, knowingherself of no account. 

It could be done. She felt it. If only one could summon up the needfulbrutality. If only one could stifle that still, small voice of Pity. 

Mrs. Phillips signed amid splutterings and blots. Joan added hersignature as witness. 

She did effect an improvement in the poor lady's dress. On Madge'sadvice she took her to a voluble little woman in the Earl's Court Roadwho was struck at once by Madame Phillips's remarkable resemblance to theBaroness von Stein. Had not Joan noticed it? Whatever suited theBaroness von Stein--allowed by common consent to be one of thebest-dressed women in London--was bound to show up Madame Phillips toequal advantage. By curious coincidence a costume for the Baroness hadbeen put in hand only the day before. It was sent for and pinned uponthe delighted Madame Phillips. Perfection! As the Baroness herselfwould always say: "My frock must be a framework for my personality. Itmust never obtrude. " The supremely well-dressed woman! One nevernotices what she has on: that is the test. It seemed it was what Mrs. Phillips had always felt herself. Joan could have kissed the voluble, emphatic little woman. 

But the dyed hair and the paint put up a fight for themselves. 

"I want you to do something very brave, " said Joan. She had invitedherself to tea with Mrs. Phillips, and they were alone in the small white-panelled room that they were soon to say good-bye to. The new housewould be ready at Christmas. "It will be a little hard at first, "continued Joan, "but afterwards you will be glad that you have done it. It is a duty you owe to your position as the wife of a great leader ofthe people. "

The firelight showed to Joan a comically frightened face, with round, staring eyes and an open mouth. 

"What is it you want me to do?" she faltered

"I want you to be just yourself, " said Joan; "a kind, good woman of thepeople, who will win their respect, and set them an example. " She movedacross and seating herself on the arm of Mrs. Phillips's chair, touchedlightly with her hand the flaxen hair and the rouged cheek. "I want youto get rid of all this, " she whispered. "It isn't worthy of you. Leaveit to the silly dolls and the bad women. "

There was a long silence. Joan felt the tears trickling between herfingers. 

"You haven't seen me, " came at last in a thin, broken voice. 

Joan bent down and kissed her. "Let's try it, " she whispered. 

A little choking sound was the only answer. But the woman rose and, Joanfollowing, they stole upstairs into the bedroom and Mrs. Phillips turnedthe key. 

It took a long time, and Joan, seated on the bed, remembered a night whenshe had taken a trapped mouse (if only he had been a quiet mouse!) intothe bathroom and had waited while it drowned. It was finished at last, and Mrs Phillips stood revealed with her hair down, showing streaks ofdingy brown. 

Joan tried to enthuse; but the words came haltingly. She suggested toJoan a candle that some wind had suddenly blown out. The paint andpowder had been obvious, but at least it had given her the mask of youth. She looked old and withered. The life seemed to have gone out of her. 

"You see, dear, I began when I was young, " she explained; "and he hasalways seen me the same. I don't think I could live like this. "

The painted doll that the child fancied! the paint washed off and thegolden hair all turned to drab? Could one be sure of "getting used toit, " of "liking it better?" And the poor bewildered doll itself! Howcould one expect to make of it a statue: "The Woman of the People. " Onecould only bruise it. 

It ended in Joan's promising to introduce her to discreet theatricalfriends who would tell her of cosmetics less injurious to the skin, andadvise her generally in the ancient and proper art of "making up. "

It was not the end she had looked for. Joan sighed as she closed herdoor behind her. What was the meaning of it? On the one hand thatunimpeachable law, the greatest happiness of the greatest number; thesacred cause of Democracy; the moral Uplift of the people; Sanity, Wisdom, Truth, the higher Justice; all the forces on which she wasrelying for the regeneration of the world--all arrayed in stern demandthat the flabby, useless Mrs. Phillips should be sacrificed for thegeneral good. Only one voice had pleaded for foolish, helpless Mrs. Phillips--and had conquered. The still, small voice of Pity. 

CHAPTER X

Arthur sprang himself upon her a little before Christmas. He was full ofa great project. It was that she and her father should spend Christmaswith his people at Birmingham. Her father thought he would like to seehis brother; they had not often met of late, and Birmingham would benearer for her than Liverpool. 

Joan had no intention of being lured into the Birmingham parlour. Shethought she could see in it a scheme for her gradual entanglement. Besides, she was highly displeased. She had intended asking her fatherto come to Brighton with her. As a matter of fact, she had forgotten allabout Christmas; and the idea only came into her head while explaining toArthur how his impulsiveness had interfered with it. Arthur, crestfallen, suggested telegrams. It would be quite easy to altereverything; and of course her father would rather be with her, whereverit was. But it seemed it was too late. She ought to have beenconsulted. A sudden sense of proprietorship in her father came to herassistance and added pathos to her indignation. Of course, now, shewould have to spend Christmas alone. She was far too busy to think ofBirmingham. She could have managed Brighton. Argument founded on thelength of journey to Birmingham as compared with the journey to Brightonshe refused to be drawn into. Her feelings had been too deeply woundedto permit of descent into detail. 

But the sinner, confessing his fault, is entitled to forgiveness, and, having put him back into his proper place, she let him kiss her hand. Sheeven went further and let him ask her out to dinner. As the result ofher failure to reform Mrs. Phillips she was feeling dissatisfied withherself. It was an unpleasant sensation and somewhat new to herexperience. An evening spent in Arthur's company might do her good. Theexperiment proved successful. He really was quite a dear boy. Eyeinghim thoughtfully through the smoke of her cigarette, it occurred to herhow like he was to Guido's painting of St. Sebastian; those soft, dreamyeyes and that beautiful, almost feminine, face! There always had been asuspicion of the saint about him even as a boy: nothing one could layhold of: just that odd suggestion of a shadow intervening between him andthe world. 

It seemed a favourable opportunity to inform him of that fixeddetermination of hers: never--in all probability--to marry: but to devoteher life to her work. She was feeling very kindly towards him; and wasable to soften her decision with touches of gentle regret. He did notappear in the least upset. But 'thought' that her duty might demand, later on, that she should change her mind: that was if fate should offerher some noble marriage, giving her wider opportunity. 

She was a little piqued at his unexpected attitude of aloofness. Whatdid he mean by a "noble marriage"--to a Duke, or something of that sort?

He did not think the candidature need be confined to Dukes, though he hadno objection to a worthy Duke. He meant any really great man who wouldhelp her and whom she could help. 

She promised, somewhat shortly, to consider the matter, whenever theDuke, or other class of nobleman, should propose to her. At present nosign of him had appeared above the horizon. Her own idea was that, ifshe lived long enough, she would become a spinster. Unless someone tookpity on her when she was old and decrepit and past her work. 

There was a little humorous smile about his mouth. But his eyes wereserious and pleading. 

"When shall I know that you are old and decrepit?" he asked. 

She was not quite sure. She thought it would be when her hair wasgrey--or rather white. She had been informed by experts that herpeculiar shade of hair went white, not grey. 

"I shall ask you to marry me when your hair is white, " he said. "May I?"

It did not suggest any overwhelming impatience. "Yes, " she answered. "Incase you haven't married yourself, and forgotten all about me. "

"I shall keep you to your promise, " he said quite gravely. 

She felt the time had come to speak seriously. "I want you to marry, "she said, "and be happy. I shall be troubled if you don't. "

He was looking at her with those shy, worshipping eyes of his that alwaysmade her marvel at her own wonderfulness. 

"It need not do that, " he answered. "It would be beautiful to be withyou always so that I might serve you. But I am quite happy, loving you. Let me see you now and then: touch you and hear your voice. "

Behind her drawn-down lids, she offered up a little prayer that she mightalways be worthy of his homage. She didn't know it would make nodifference to him. 

She walked with him to Euston and saw him into the train. He had givenup his lodgings and was living with her father at The Pines. They werebusy on a plan for securing the co-operation of the workmen, and shepromised to run down and hear all about it. She would not change hermind about Birmingham, but sent everyone her love. 

She wished she had gone when it came to Christmas Day. This feeling ofloneliness was growing upon her. The Phillips had gone up north; and theGreysons to some relations of theirs: swell country people in Hampshire. Flossie was on a sea voyage with Sam and his mother, and even Madge hadbeen struck homesick. It happened to be a Sunday, too, of all days inthe week, and London in a drizzling rain was just about the limit. Sheworked till late in the afternoon, but, sitting down to her solitary cupof tea, she felt she wanted to howl. From the basement came faint soundsof laughter. Her landlord and lady were entertaining guests. If theyhad not been, she would have found some excuse for running down andtalking to them, if only for a few minutes. 

Suddenly the vision of old Chelsea Church rose up before her with itslittle motherly old pew-opener. She had so often been meaning to go andsee her again, but something had always interfered. She hunted throughher drawers and found a comparatively sober-coloured shawl, and tucked itunder her cloak. The service was just commencing when she reached thechurch. Mary Stopperton showed her into a seat and evidently rememberedher. "I want to see you afterwards, " she whispered; and Mary Stoppertonhad smiled and nodded. The service, with its need for being continuallyupon the move, bored her; she was not in the mood for it. And thesermon, preached by a young curate who had not yet got over his Oxforddrawl, was uninteresting. She had half hoped that the wheezy oldclergyman, who had preached about Calvary on the evening she had firstvisited the church, would be there again. She wondered what had becomeof him, and if it were really a fact that she had known him when she wasa child, or only her fancy. It was strange how vividly her memory of himseemed to pervade the little church. She had the feeling he was watchingher from the shadows. She waited for Mary in the vestibule, and gave herthe shawl, making her swear on the big key of the church door that shewould wear it herself and not give it away. The little old pew-opener'spink and white face flushed with delight as she took it, and the thin, work-worn hands fingered it admiringly. "But I may lend it?" shepleaded. 

They turned up Church Street. Joan confided to Mary what a rottenChristmas she had had, all by herself, without a soul to speak to excepther landlady, who had brought her meals and had been in such haste to getaway. 

"I don't know what made me think of you, " she said. "I'm so glad I did. "She gave the little old lady a hug. Mary laughed. "Where are you goingnow, dearie?" she asked. 

"Oh, I don't mind so much now, " answered Joan. "Now that I've seen afriendly face, I shall go home and go to bed early. "

They walked a little way in silence. Mary slipped her hand into Joan's. "You wouldn't care to come home and have a bit of supper with me, wouldyou, dearie?" she asked. 

"Oh, may I?" answered Joan. 

Mary's hand gave Joan's a little squeeze. "You won't mind if anybodydrops in?" she said. "They do sometimes of a Sunday evening. "

"You don't mean a party?" asked Joan. 

"No, dear, " answered Mary. "It's only one or two who have nowhere elseto go. "

Joan laughed. She thought she would be a fit candidate. 

"You see, it makes company for me, " explained Mary. 

Mary lived in a tiny house behind a strip of garden. It stood in anarrow side street between two public-houses, and was covered with ivy. It had two windows above and a window and a door below. The upstairsrooms belonged to the churchwardens and were used as a storehouse for oldparish registers, deemed of little value. Mary Stopperton and herbedridden husband lived in the two rooms below. Mary unlocked the door, and Joan passed in and waited. Mary lit a candle that was standing on abracket and turned to lead the way. 

"Shall I shut the door?" suggested Joan. 

Mary blushed like a child that has been found out just as it was hopingthat it had not been noticed. 

"It doesn't matter, dearie, " she explained. "They know, if they find itopen, that I'm in. "

The little room looked very cosy when Mary had made up the fire andlighted the lamp. She seated Joan in the worn horsehair easy-chair; outof which one had to be careful one did not slip on to the floor; andspread her handsome shawl over the back of the dilapidated sofa. 

"You won't mind my running away for a minute, " she said. "I shall onlybe in the next room. "

Through the thin partition, Joan heard a constant shrill, complainingvoice. At times, it rose into an angry growl. Mary looked in at thedoor. 

"I'm just running round to the doctor's, " she whispered. "His medicinehasn't come. I shan't be long. "

Joan offered to go in and sit with the invalid. But Mary feared theexertion of talking might be too much for him. "He gets so excited, " sheexplained. She slipped out noiselessly. 

It seemed, in spite of its open door, a very silent little house behindits strip of garden. Joan had the feeling that it was listening. 

Suddenly she heard a light step in the passage, and the room door opened. A girl entered. She was wearing a large black hat and a black boa roundher neck. Between them her face shone unnaturally white. She carried asmall cloth bag. She started, on seeing Joan, and seemed about toretreat. 

"Oh, please don't go, " cried Joan. "Mrs. Stopperton has just gone roundto the doctor's. She won't be long. I'm a friend of hers. "

The girl took stock of her and, apparently reassured, closed the doorbehind her. 

"What's he like to-night?" she asked, with a jerk of her head in thedirection of the next room. She placed her bag carefully upon the sofa, and examined the new shawl as she did so. 

"Well, I gather he's a little fretful, " answered Joan with a smile. 

"That's a bad sign, " said the girl. "Means he's feeling better. " Sheseated herself on the sofa and fingered the shawl. "Did you give ither?" she asked. 

"Yes, " admitted Joan. "I rather fancied her in it. "

"She'll only pawn it, " said the girl, "to buy him grapes and port wine. "

"I felt a bit afraid of her, " laughed Joan, "so I made her promise not topart with it. Is he really very ill, her husband?"

"Oh, yes, there's no make-believe this time, " answered the girl. "A badthing for her if he wasn't. "

"Oh, it's only what's known all over the neighbourhood, " continued thegirl. "She's had a pretty rough time with him. Twice I've found hergetting ready to go to sleep for the night by sitting on the bare floorwith her back against the wall. Had sold every stick in the place andgone off. But she'd always some excuse for him. It was sure to be halfher fault and the other half he couldn't help. Now she's got her'reward' according to her own account. Heard he was dying in adoss-house, and must fetch him home and nurse him back to life. Seemshe's getting fonder of her every day. Now that he can't do anythingelse. "

"It doesn't seem to depress her spirits, " mused Joan. 

"Oh, she! She's all right, " agreed the girl. "Having the time of herlife: someone to look after for twenty-four hours a day that can't helpthemselves. "

She examined Joan awhile in silence. "Are you on the stage?" she asked. 

"No, " answered Joan. "But my mother was. Are you?"

"Thought you looked a bit like it, " said the girl. "I'm in the chorus. It's better than being in service or in a shop: that's all you can sayfor it. "

"But you'll get out of that, " suggested Joan. "You've got the actressface. "

The girl flushed with pleasure. It was a striking face, with intelligenteyes and a mobile, sensitive mouth. "Oh, yes, " she said, "I could actall right. I feel it. But you don't get out of the chorus. Except at aprice. "

Joan looked at her. "I thought that sort of thing was dying out, " shesaid. 

The girl shrugged her shoulders. "Not in my shop, " she answered. "Anyhow, it was the only chance I ever had. Wish sometimes I'd taken it. It was quite a good part. "

"They must have felt sure you could act, " said Joan. "Next time it willbe a clean offer. "

The girl shook her head. "There's no next time, " she said; "once you'reput down as one of the stand-offs. Plenty of others to take your place. "

"Oh, I don't blame them, " she added. "It isn't a thing to be dismissedwith a toss of your head. I thought it all out. Don't know now whatdecided me. Something inside me, I suppose. "

Joan found herself poking the fire. "Have you known Mary Stoppertonlong?" she asked. 

"Oh, yes, " answered the girl. "Ever since I've been on my own. "

"Did you talk it over with her?" asked Joan. 

"No, " answered the girl. "I may have just told her. She isn't the sortthat gives advice. "

"I'm glad you didn't do it, " said Joan: "that you put up a fight for allwomen. "

The girl gave a short laugh. "Afraid I wasn't thinking much about that, "she said. 

"No, " said Joan. "But perhaps that's the way the best fights arefought--without thinking. "

Mary peeped round the door. She had been lucky enough to find the doctorin. She disappeared again, and they talked about themselves. The girlwas a Miss Ensor. She lived by herself in a room in Lawrence Street. 

"I'm not good at getting on with people, " she explained. 

Mary joined them, and went straight to Miss Ensor's bag and opened it. She shook her head at the contents, which consisted of a small, flabby-looking meat pie in a tin dish, and two pale, flat mince tarts. 

"It doesn't nourish you, dearie, " complained Mary. "You could havebought yourself a nice bit of meat with the same money. "

"And you would have had all the trouble of cooking it, " answered thegirl. "That only wants warming up. "

"But I like cooking, you know, dearie, " grumbled Mary. "There's nointerest in warming things up. "

The girl laughed. "You don't have to go far for your fun, " she said. "I'll bring a sole next time; and you shall do it _au gratin_. "

Mary put the indigestible-looking pasties into the oven, and almostbanged the door. Miss Ensor proceeded to lay the table. "How many, doyou think?" she asked. Mary was doubtful. She hoped that, it beingChristmas Day, they would have somewhere better to go. 

"I passed old 'Bubble and Squeak, ' just now, spouting away to three menand a dog outside the World's End. I expect he'll turn up, " thought MissEnsor. She laid for four, leaving space for more if need be. "I call itthe 'Cadger's Arms, '" she explained, turning to Joan. "We bring our ownvictuals, and Mary cooks them for us and waits on us; and the more of usthe merrier. You look forward to your Sunday evening parties, don'tyou?" she asked of Mary. 

Mary laughed. She was busy in a corner with basins and a saucepan. "Ofcourse I do, dearie, " she answered. "I've always been fond of company. "

There came another opening of the door. A little hairy man entered. Hewore spectacles and was dressed in black. He carried a paper parcelwhich he laid upon the table. He looked a little doubtful at Joan. Maryintroduced them. His name was Julius Simson. He shook hands as if underprotest. 

"As friends of Mary Stopperton, " he said, "we meet on neutral ground. Butin all matters of moment I expect we are as far asunder as the poles. Istand for the People. "

"We ought to be comrades, " answered Joan, with a smile. "I, too, amtrying to help the People. "

"You and your class, " said Mr. Simson, "are friends enough to the People, so long as they remember that they are the People, and keep their properplace--at the bottom. I am for putting the People at the top. "

"Then they will be the Upper Classes, " suggested Joan. "And I may stillhave to go on fighting for the rights of the lower orders. "

"In this world, " explained Mr. Simson, "someone has got to be Master. Theonly question is who. "

Mary had unwrapped the paper parcel. It contained half a sheep's head. "How would you like it done?" she whispered. 

Mr. Simson considered. There came a softer look into his eyes. "How didyou do it last time?" he asked. "It came up brown, I remember, withthick gravy. "

"Braised, " suggested Mary. 

"That's the word, " agreed Mr. Simson. "Braised. " He watched while Marytook things needful from the cupboard, and commenced to peel an onion. 

"That's the sort that makes me despair of the People, " said Mr. Simson. Joan could not be sure whether he was addressing her individually orimaginary thousands. "Likes working for nothing. Thinks she was born tobe everybody's servant. " He seated himself beside Miss Ensor on theantiquated sofa. It gave a complaining groan but held out. 

"Did you have a good house?" the girl asked him. "Saw you from thedistance, waving your arms about. Hadn't time to stop. "

"Not many, " admitted Mr. Simson. "A Christmassy lot. You know. Sort ofcrowd that interrupts you and tries to be funny. Dead to their owninterests. It's slow work. "

"Why do you do it?" asked Miss Ensor. 

"Damned if I know, " answered Mr. Simson, with a burst of candour. "Can'thelp it, I suppose. Lost me job again. "

"The old story?" suggested Miss Ensor. 

"The old story, " sighed Mr. Simson. "One of the customers happened to bepassing last Wednesday when I was speaking on the Embankment. Heard myopinion of the middle classes?"

"Well, you can't expect 'em to like it, can you?" submitted Miss Ensor. 

"No, " admitted Mr. Simson with generosity. "It's only natural. It's afight to the finish between me and the Bourgeois. I cover them withridicule and contempt and they hit back at me in the only way they know. "

"Take care they don't get the best of you, " Miss Ensor advised him. 

"Oh, I'm not afraid, " he answered. "I'll get another place all right:give me time. The only thing I'm worried about is my young woman. "

"Doesn't agree with you?" inquired Miss Ensor. 

"Oh, it isn't that, " he answered. "But she's frightened. You know. Sayslife with me is going to be a bit too uncertain for her. Perhaps she'sright. "

"Oh, why don't you chuck it, " advised Miss Ensor, "give the Bourgeois arest. "

Mr. Simson shook his head. "Somebody's got to tackle them, " he said. "Tell them the truth about themselves, to their faces. "

"Yes, but it needn't be you, " suggested Miss Ensor. 

Mary was leaning over the table. Miss Ensor's four-penny veal and hampie was ready. Mary arranged it in front of her. "Eat it while it'shot, dearie, " she counselled. "It won't be so indigestible. "

Miss Ensor turned to her. "Oh, you talk to him, " she urged. "Here, he'slost his job again, and is losing his girl: all because of his sillypolitics. Tell him he's got to have sense and stop it. "

Mary seemed troubled. Evidently, as Miss Ensor had stated, advice wasnot her line. "Perhaps he's got to do it, dearie, " she suggested. 

"What do you mean by got to do it?" exclaimed Miss Ensor. "Who's makinghim do it, except himself?"

Mary flushed. She seemed to want to get back to her cooking. "It'ssomething inside us, dearie, " she thought: "that nobody hears butourselves. "

"That tells him to talk all that twaddle?" demanded Miss Ensor. "Haveyou heard him?"

"No, dearie, " Mary admitted. "But I expect it's got its purpose. Or hewouldn't have to do it. "

Miss Ensor gave a gesture of despair and applied herself to her pie. Thehirsute face of Mr. Simson had lost the foolish aggressiveness that hadirritated Joan. He seemed to be pondering matters. 

Mary hoped that Joan was hungry. Joan laughed and admitted that she was. "It's the smell of all the nice things, " she explained. Mary promised itshould soon be ready, and went back to her corner. 

A short, dark, thick-set man entered and stood looking round the room. The frame must once have been powerful, but now it was shrunken andemaciated. The shabby, threadbare clothes hung loosely from the stoopingshoulders. Only the head seemed to have retained its vigour. The face, from which the long black hair was brushed straight back, was ghastlywhite. Out of it, deep set beneath great shaggy, overhanging brows, blazed the fierce, restless eyes of a fanatic. The huge, thin-lippedmouth seemed to have petrified itself into a savage snarl. He gave Joanthe idea, as he stood there glaring round him, of a hunted beast at bay. 

Miss Ensor, whose bump of reverence was undeveloped, greeted himcheerfully as Boanerges. Mr. Simson, more respectful, rose and offeredhis small, grimy hand. Mary took his hat and cloak away from him andclosed the door behind him. She felt his hands, and put him into a chairclose to the fire. And then she introduced him to Joan. 

Joan started on hearing his name. It was one well known. 

"The Cyril Baptiste?" she asked. She had often wondered what he might belike. 

"The Cyril Baptiste, " he answered, in a low, even, passionate voice, thathe flung at her almost like a blow. "The atheist, the gaol bird, thepariah, the blasphemer, the anti-Christ. I've hoofs instead of feet. Shall I take off my boots and show them to you? I tuck my tail inside mycoat. You can't see my horns. I've cut them off close to my head. That's why I wear my hair long: to hide the stumps. "

Mary had been searching in the pockets of his cloak. She had found apaper bag. "You mustn't get excited, " she said, laying her little work-worn hand upon his shoulder; "or you'll bring on the bleeding. "

"Aye, " he answered, "I must be careful I don't die on Christmas Day. Itwould make a fine text, that, for their sermons. "

He lapsed into silence: his almost transparent hands stretched outtowards the fire. 

Mr. Simson fidgeted. The quiet of the room, broken only by Mary'sministering activities, evidently oppressed him. 

"Paper going well, sir?" he asked. "I often read it myself. "

"It still sells, " answered the proprietor, and editor and publisher, andentire staff of _The Rationalist_. 

"I like the articles you are writing on the History of Superstition. Quite illuminating, " remarked Mr. Simson. 

"It's many a year, I am afraid, to the final chapter, " thought theirauthor. 

"They afford much food for reflection, " thought Mr. Simson, "though Icannot myself go as far as you do in including Christianity under thatheading. "

Mary frowned at him; but Mr. Simson, eager for argument or not noticing, blundered on:--

"Whether we accept the miraculous explanation of Christ's birth, "continued Mr. Simson, in his best street-corner voice, "or whether, withthe great French writer whose name for the moment escapes me, we regardHim merely as a man inspired, we must, I think, admit that His teachinghas been of help: especially to the poor. "

The fanatic turned upon him so fiercely that Mr. Simson's arminvoluntarily assumed the posture of defence. 

"To the poor?" the old man almost shrieked. "To the poor that he hasrobbed of all power of resistance to oppression by his vile, submissivecreed! that he has drugged into passive acceptance of every evil done tothem by his false promises that their sufferings here shall win for themsome wonderful reward when they are dead. What has been his teaching tothe poor? Bow your backs to the lash, kiss the rod that scars yourflesh. Be ye humble, oh, my people. Be ye poor in spirit. Let Wrongrule triumphant through the world. Raise no hand against it, lest yesuffer my eternal punishments. Learn from me to be meek and lowly. Learnto be good slaves and give no trouble to your taskmasters. Let them turnthe world into a hell for you. The grave--the grave shall be your gateto happiness. 

"Helpful to the poor? Helpful to their rulers, to their owners. Theytake good care that Christ shall be well taught. Their fat priests shallbear his message to the poor. The rod may be broken, the prison door beforced. It is Christ that shall bind the people in eternal fetters. Christ, the lackey, the jackal of the rich. "

Mr. Simson was visibly shocked. Evidently he was less familiar with theopinions of _The Rationalist_ than he had thought. 

"I really must protest, " exclaimed Mr. Simson. "To whatever wrong usesHis words may have been twisted, Christ Himself I regard as divine, andentitled to be spoken of with reverence. His whole life, Hissufferings--"

But the old fanatic's vigour had not yet exhausted itself. 

"His sufferings!" he interrupted. "Does suffering entitle a man to beregarded as divine? If so, so also am I a God. Look at me!" Hestretched out his long, thin arms with their claw-like hands, thrustingforward his great savage head that the bony, wizened throat seemed hardlystrong enough to bear. "Wealth, honour, happiness: I had them once. Ihad wife, children and a home. Now I creep an outcast, keeping to theshadows, and the children in the street throw stones at me. Thirty yearsI have starved that I might preach. They shut me in their prisons, theyhound me into garrets. They jibe at me and mock me, but they cannotsilence me. What of my life? Am I divine?"

Miss Ensor, having finished her supper, sat smoking. 

"Why must you preach?" she asked. "It doesn't seem to pay you. " Therewas a curious smile about the girl's lips as she caught Joan's eye. 

He turned to her with his last flicker of passion. 

"Because to this end was I born, and for this cause came I into theworld, that I should bear witness unto the truth, " he answered. 

He sank back a huddled heap upon the chair. There was foam about hismouth, great beads of sweat upon his forehead. Mary wiped them away witha corner of her apron, and felt again his trembling hands. "Oh, pleasedon't talk to him any more, " she pleaded, "not till he's had his supper. "She fetched her fine shawl, and pinned it round him. His eyes followedher as she hovered about him. For the first time, since he had enteredthe room, they looked human. 

They gathered round the table. Mr. Baptiste was still pinned up inMary's bright shawl. It lent him a curious dignity. He might have beensome ancient prophet stepped from the pages of the Talmud. Miss Ensorcompleted her supper with a cup of tea and some little cakes: "just tokeep us all company, " as Mary had insisted. 

The old fanatic's eyes passed from face to face. There was almost thesuggestion of a smile about the savage mouth. 

"A strange supper-party, " he said. "Cyril the Apostate; and Julius whostrove against the High Priests and the Pharisees; and Inez a dancerbefore the people; and Joanna a daughter of the rulers, gathered togetherin the house of one Mary a servant of the Lord. "

"Are you, too, a Christian?" he asked of Joan. 

"Not yet, " answered Joan. "But I hope to be, one day. " She spokewithout thinking, not quite knowing what she meant. But it came back toher in after years. 

The talk grew lighter under the influence of Mary's cooking. Mr. Baptiste could be interesting when he got away from his fanaticism; andeven the apostolic Mr. Simson had sometimes noticed humour when it hadchanced his way. 

A message came for Mary about ten o'clock, brought by a scared littlegirl, who whispered it to her at the door. Mary apologized. She had togo out. The party broke up. Mary disappeared into the next room andreturned in a shawl and bonnet, carrying a small brown paper parcel. Joanwalked with her as far as the King's Road. 

"A little child is coming, " she confided to Joan. She was quite excitedabout it. 

Joan thought. "It's curious, " she said, "one so seldom hears of anybodybeing born on Christmas Day. "

They were passing a lamp. Joan had never seen a face look quite so happyas Mary's looked, just then. 

"It always seems to me Christ's birthday, " she said, "whenever a child isborn. "

They had reached the corner. Joan could see her bus in the distance. 

She stooped and kissed the little withered face. 

"Don't stop, " she whispered. 

Mary gave her a hug, and almost ran away. Joan watched the little child-like figure growing smaller. It glided in and out among the people. 

CHAPTER XI

In the spring, Joan, at Mrs. Denton's request, undertook a mission. Itwas to go to Paris. Mrs. Denton had meant to go herself, but was laid upwith sciatica; and the matter, she considered, would not brook of anydelay. 

"It's rather a delicate business, " she told Joan. She was lying on acouch in her great library, and Joan was seated by her side. "I wantsomeone who can go into private houses and mix with educated people ontheir own level; and especially I want you to see one or two women: theycount in France. You know French pretty well, don't you?"

"Oh, sufficiently, " Joan answered. The one thing her mother had done forher had been to talk French with her when she was a child; and at Girtonshe had chummed on with a French girl, and made herself tolerablyperfect. 

"You will not go as a journalist, " continued Mrs. Denton; "but as apersonal friend of mine, whose discretion I shall vouch for. I want youto find out what the people I am sending you among are thinkingthemselves, and what they consider ought to be done. If we are not verycareful on both sides we shall have the newspapers whipping us into war. "

The perpetual Egyptian trouble had cropped up again and the Carletonpapers, in particular, were already sounding the tocsin. Carleton'sargument was that we ought to fall upon France and crush her, before shecould develop her supposed submarine menace. His flaming posters were atevery corner. Every obscure French newspaper was being ransacked for"Insults and Pinpricks. "

"A section of the Paris Press is doing all it can to help him, ofcourse, " explained Mrs. Denton. "It doesn't seem to matter to them thatGermany is only waiting her opportunity, and that, if Russia comes in, itis bound to bring Austria. Europe will pay dearly one day for the luxuryof a free Press. "

"But you're surely not suggesting any other kind of Press, at this periodof the world's history?" exclaimed Joan. 

"Oh, but I am, " answered the old lady with a grim tightening of the lips. "Not even Carleton would be allowed to incite to murder or arson. Iwould have him prosecuted for inciting a nation to war. "

"Why is the Press always so eager for war?" mused Joan. "According totheir own account, war doesn't pay them. "

"I don't suppose it does: not directly, " answered Mrs. Denton. "But ithelps them to establish their position and get a tighter hold upon thepublic. War does pay the newspaper in the long run. The daily newspaperlives on commotion, crime, lawlessness in general. If people no longerenjoyed reading about violence and bloodshed half their occupation, andthat the most profitable half would be gone. It is the interest of thenewspaper to keep alive the savage in human nature; and war affords thereadiest means of doing this. You can't do much to increase the numberof gruesome murders and loathsome assaults, beyond giving all possibleadvertisement to them when they do occur. But you can preach war, andcover yourself with glory, as a patriot, at the same time. "

"I wonder how many of my ideals will be left to me, " sighed Joan. "Ialways used to regard the Press as the modern pulpit. "

"The old pulpit became an evil, the moment it obtained unlimited power, "answered Mrs. Denton. "It originated persecution and inflamed men'spassions against one another. It, too, preached war for its own ends, taught superstition, and punished thought as a crime. The Press of to-day is stepping into the shoes of the medieval priest. It aims atestablishing the worst kind of tyranny: the tyranny over men's minds. They pretend to fight among themselves, but it's rapidly becoming a closecorporation. The Institute of Journalists will soon be followed by theUnion of Newspaper Proprietors and the few independent journals will besqueezed out. Already we have German shareholders on English papers; andEnglish capital is interested in the St. Petersburg Press. It will oneday have its International Pope and its school of cosmopolitancardinals. "

Joan laughed. "I can see Carleton rather fancying himself in a tiara, "she said. "I must tell Phillips what you say. He's out for a fight withhim. Government by Parliament or Government by Press is going to be hiswar cry. "

"Good man, " said Mrs. Denton. "I'm quite serious. You tell him from methat the next revolution has got to be against the Press. And it will bethe stiffest fight Democracy has ever had. "

The old lady had tired herself. Joan undertook the mission. She thoughtshe would rather enjoy it, and Mrs. Denton promised to let her have fullinstructions. She would write to her friends in Paris and prepare themfor Joan's coming. 

Joan remembered Folk, the artist she had met at Flossie's party, who hadpromised to walk with her on the terrace at St. Germain, and tell hermore about her mother. She looked up his address on her return home, andwrote to him, giving him the name of the hotel in the Rue de Grenellewhere Mrs. Denton had arranged that she should stay. She found a notefrom him awaiting her when she arrived there. He thought she would liketo be quiet after her journey. He would call round in the morning. Hehad presumed on the privilege of age to send her some lilies. They hadbeen her mother's favourite flower. "Monsieur Folk, the great artist, "had brought them himself, and placed them in her dressing-room, so Madameinformed her. 

It was one of the half-dozen old hotels still left in Paris, and wasbuilt round a garden famous for its mighty mulberry tree. Shebreakfasted underneath it, and was reading there when Folk appearedbefore her, smiling and with his hat in his hand. He excused himself forintruding upon her so soon, thinking from what she had written him thather first morning might be his only chance. He evidently considered herremembrance of him a feather in his cap. 

"We old fellows feel a little sadly, at times, how unimportant we are, "he explained. "We are grateful when Youth throws us a smile. "

"You told me my coming would take you back thirty-three years, " Joanreminded him. "It makes us about the same age. I shall treat you asjust a young man. "

He laughed. "Don't be surprised, " he said, "if I make a mistakeoccasionally and call you Lena. "

Joan had no appointment till the afternoon. They drove out to St. Germain, and had _dejeuner_ at a small restaurant opposite the Chateau;and afterwards they strolled on to the terrace. 

"What was my mother doing in Paris?" asked Joan, "She was studying for the stage, " he answered. "Paris was the onlyschool in those days. I was at Julien's studio. We acted together forsome charity. I had always been fond of it. An American manager who waspresent offered us both an engagement, and I thought it would be a changeand that I could combine the two arts. "

"And it was here that you proposed to her, " said Joan. 

"Just by that tree that leans forward, " he answered, pointing with hiscane a little way ahead. "I thought that in America I'd get anotherchance. I might have if your father hadn't come along. I wonder if heremembers me. "

"Did you ever see her again, after her marriage?" asked Joan. 

"No, " he answered. "We used to write to one another until she gave itup. She had got into the habit of looking upon me as a harmless sort ofthing to confide in and ask advice of--which she never took. "

"Forgive me, " he said. "You must remember that I am still her lover. "They had reached the tree that leant a little forward beyond its fellows, and he had halted and turned so that he was facing her. "Did she andyour father get on together. Was she happy?"

"I don't think she was happy, " answered Joan. "She was at first. As achild, I can remember her singing and laughing about the house, and sheliked always to have people about her. Until her illness came. Itchanged her very much. But my father was gentleness itself, to the end. "

They had resumed their stroll. It seemed to her that he looked at heronce or twice a little oddly without speaking. "What caused yourmother's illness?" he asked, abruptly. 

The question troubled her. It struck her with a pang of self-reproachthat she had always been indifferent to her mother's illness, regardingit as more or less imaginary. "It was mental rather than physical, Ithink, " she answered. "I never knew what brought it about. "

Again he looked at her with that odd, inquisitive expression. "She nevergot over it?" he asked. 

"Oh, there were times, " answered Joan, "when she was more like her oldself again. But I don't think she ever quite got over it. Unless it wastowards the end, " she added. "They told me she seemed much better for alittle while before she died. I was away at Cambridge at the time. "

"Poor dear lady, " he said, "all those years! And poor Jack Allway. " Heseemed to be talking to himself. Suddenly he turned to her. "How is thedear fellow?" he asked. 

Again the question troubled her. She had not seen her father since thatweek-end, nearly six months ago, when she had ran down to see him becauseshe wanted something from him. "He felt my mother's death very deeply, "she answered. "But he's well enough in health. "

"Remember me to him, " he said. "And tell him I thank him for all thoseyears of love and gentleness. I don't think he will be offended. "

He drove her back to Paris, and she promised to come and see him in hisstudio and let him introduce her to his artist friends. 

"I shall try to win you over, I warn you, " he said. "Politics will neverreform the world. They appeal only to men's passions and hatreds. Theydivide us. It is Art that is going to civilize mankind; broaden hissympathies. Art speaks to him the common language of his loves, hisdreams, reveals to him the universal kinship. "

Mrs. Denton's friends called upon her, and most of them invited her totheir houses. A few were politicians, senators or ministers. Otherswere bankers, heads of business houses, literary men and women. Therewere also a few quiet folk with names that were historical. They allthought that war between France and England would be a world disaster, but were not very hopeful of averting it. She learnt that Carleton wasin Berlin trying to secure possession of a well-known German daily thathappened at the moment to be in low water. He was working for analliance between Germany and England. In France, the Royalists had cometo an understanding with the Clericals, and both were evidently makingready to throw in their lot with the war-mongers, hoping that out of thetroubled waters the fish would come their way. Of course everythingdepended on the people. If the people only knew it! But they didn't. They stood about in puzzled flocks, like sheep, wondering which way thenewspaper dog was going to hound them. They took her to the great musichalls. Every allusion to war was greeted with rapturous applause. TheMarseillaise was demanded and encored till the orchestra rebelled fromsheer exhaustion. Joan's patience was sorely tested. She had to listenwith impassive face to coarse jests and brutal gibes directed againstEngland and everything English; to sit unmoved while the vast audiencerocked with laughter at senseless caricatures of supposed Englishsoldiers whose knees always gave way at the sight of a French uniform. Even in the eyes of her courteous hosts, Joan's quick glance wouldoccasionally detect a curious glint. The fools! Had they never heard ofWaterloo and Trafalgar? Even if their memories might be excused forforgetting Crecy and Poictiers and the campaigns of Marlborough. Oneevening--it had been a particularly trying one for Joan--there steppedupon the stage a wooden-looking man in a kilt with bagpipes under hisarm. How he had got himself into the programme Joan could notunderstand. Managerial watchfulness must have gone to sleep for once. Heplayed Scotch melodies, and the Parisians liked them, and when he hadfinished they called him back. Joan and her friends occupied a box closeto the stage. The wooden-looking Scot glanced up at her, and their eyesmet. And as the applause died down there rose the first low warningstrains of the Pibroch. Joan sat up in her chair and her lips parted. The savage music quickened. It shrilled and skrealed. The blood camesurging through her veins. 

And suddenly something lying hidden there leaped to life within herbrain. A mad desire surged hold of her to rise and shout defiance atthose three thousand pairs of hostile eyes confronting her. She clutchedat the arms of her chair and so kept her seat. The pibroch ended withits wild sad notes of wailing, and slowly the mist cleared from her eyes, and the stage was empty. A strange hush had fallen on the house. 

She was not aware that her hostess had been watching her. She was asweet-faced, white-haired lady. She touched Joan lightly on the hand. "That's the trouble, " she whispered. "It's in our blood. "

Could we ever hope to eradicate it? Was not the survival of thisfighting instinct proof that war was still needful to us? In thesculpture-room of an exhibition she came upon a painted statue ofBellona. Its grotesqueness shocked her at first sight, the red streaminghair, the wild eyes filled with fury, the wide open mouth--one couldalmost hear it screaming--the white uplifted arms with outstretchedhands! Appalling! Terrible! And yet, as she gazed at it, gradually thething grew curiously real to her. She seemed to hear the gathering ofthe chariots, the neighing of the horses, the hurrying of many feet, thesound of an armouring multitude, the shouting, and the braying of thetrumpets. 

These cold, thin-lipped calculators, arguing that "War doesn't pay";those lank-haired cosmopolitans, preaching their "International, " as ifthe only business of mankind were wages! War still was the stern schoolwhere men learnt virtue, duty, forgetfulness of self, faithfulness untodeath. 

This particular war, of course, must be stopped: if it were not alreadytoo late. It would be a war for markets; for spheres of commercialinfluence; a sordid war that would degrade the people. War, the supremetest of a nation's worth, must be reserved for great ideals. Besides, she wanted to down Carleton. 

One of the women on her list, and the one to whom Mrs. Denton appeared toattach chief importance, a Madame de Barante, disappointed Joan. Sheseemed to have so few opinions of her own. She had buried her younghusband during the Franco-Prussian war. He had been a soldier. And shehad remained unmarried. She was still beautiful. 

"I do not think we women have the right to discuss war, " she confided toJoan in her gentle, high-bred voice. "I suppose you think that out ofdate. I should have thought so myself forty years ago. We talk of'giving' our sons and lovers, as if they were ours to give. It makes mea little angry when I hear pampered women speak like that. It is the menwho have to suffer and die. It is for them to decide. "

"But perhaps I can arrange a meeting for you with a friend, " she added, "who will be better able to help you, if he is in Paris. I will let youknow. "

She told Joan what she remembered herself of 1870. She had turned hercountry house into a hospital and had seen a good deal of the fighting. 

"It would not do to tell the truth, or we should have our childrengrowing up to hate war, " she concluded. 

She was as good as her word, and sent Joan round a message the nextmorning to come and see her in the afternoon. Joan was introduced to aMonsieur de Chaumont. He was a soldierly-looking gentleman, with a greymoustache, and a deep scar across his face. 

"Hanged if I can see how we are going to get out of it, " he answered Joancheerfully. "The moment there is any threat of war, it becomes a pointof honour with every nation to do nothing to avoid it. I remember my oldduelling days. The quarrel may have been about the silliest trifleimaginable. A single word would have explained the whole thing away. Butto utter it would have stamped one as a coward. This Egyptian Tra-la-la!It isn't worth the bones of a single grenadier, as our friends across theRhine would say. But I expect, before it's settled, there will be men'sbones sufficient, bleaching on the desert, to build another Pyramid. It'sso easily started: that's the devil of it. A mischievous boy can throw alighted match into a powder magazine, and then it becomes every patriot'sbusiness to see that it isn't put out. I hate war. It accomplishesnothing, and leaves everything in a greater muddle than it was before. But if the idea ever catches fire, I shall have to do all I can to fanthe conflagration. Unless I am prepared to be branded as a poltroon. Every professional soldier is supposed to welcome war. Most of us do:it's our opportunity. There's some excuse for us. But thesemen--Carleton and their lot: I regard them as nothing better than theMenades of the Commune. They care nothing if the whole of Europe blazes. They cannot personally get harmed whatever happens. It's fun to them. "

"But the people who can get harmed, " argued Joan. "The men who will bedragged away from their work, from their business, used as 'cannonfodder. '"

He shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, they are always eager enough for it, atfirst, " he answered. "There is the excitement. The curiosity. You mustremember that life is a monotonous affair to the great mass of thepeople. There's the natural craving to escape from it; to courtadventure. They are not so enthusiastic about it after they have tastedit. Modern warfare, they soon find, is about as dull a business asscience ever invented. "

There was only one hope that he could see: and that was to switch thepeople's mind on to some other excitement. His advices from London toldhim that a parliamentary crisis was pending. Could not Mrs. Denton andher party do something to hasten it? He, on his side, would consult withthe Socialist leaders, who might have something to suggest. 

He met Joan, radiant, a morning or two later. The English Government hadresigned and preparations for a general election were already on foot. 

"And God has been good to us, also, " he explained. 

A well-known artist had been found murdered in his bed and gravesuspicion attached to his beautiful young wife. 

"She deserves the Croix de Guerre, if it is proved that she did it, " hethought. "She will have saved many thousands of lives--for the present. "

Folk had fixed up a party at his studio to meet her. She had been thereonce or twice; but this was a final affair. She had finished herbusiness in Paris and would be leaving the next morning. To hersurprise, she found Phillips there. He had come over hurriedly to attenda Socialist conference, and Leblanc, the editor of _Le Nouveau Monde_, had brought him along. 

"I took Smedley's place at the last moment, " he whispered to her. "I'venever been abroad before. You don't mind, do you?"

It didn't strike her as at all odd that a leader of a political partyshould ask her "if she minded" his being in Paris to attend a politicalconference. He was wearing a light grey suit and a blue tie. There wasnothing about him, at that moment, suggesting that he was a leader of anysort. He might have been just any man, but for his eyes. 

"No, " she whispered. "Of course not. I don't like your tie. " It seemedto depress him, that. 

She felt elated at the thought that he would see her for the first timeamid surroundings where she would shine. Folk came forward to meet herwith that charming air of protective deference that he had adoptedtowards her. He might have been some favoured minister of state kissingthe hand of a youthful Queen. She glanced down the long studio, endingin its fine window overlooking the park. Some of the most distinguishedmen in Paris were there, and the immediate stir of admiration that herentrance had created was unmistakable. Even the women turned pleasedglances at her; as if willing to recognize in her their representative. Asense of power came to her that made her feel kind to all the world. There was no need for her to be clever: to make any effort to attract. Her presence, her sympathy, her approval seemed to be all that was neededof her. She had the consciousness that by the mere exercise of her willshe could sway the thoughts and actions of these men: that sovereigntyhad been given to her. It reflected itself in her slightly heightenedcolour, in the increased brilliance of her eyes, in the confident case ofall her movements. It added a compelling softness to her voice. 

She never quite remembered what the talk was about. Men were brought upand presented to her, and hung about her words, and sought to please her. She had spoken her own thoughts, indifferent whether they expressedagreement or not; and the argument had invariably taken another plane. Itseemed so important that she should be convinced. Some had succeeded, and had been strengthened. Others had failed, and had departedsorrowful, conscious of the necessity of "thinking it out again. "

Guests with other engagements were taking their leave. A piquante littlewoman, outrageously but effectively dressed--she looked like a drawing byBeardsley--drew her aside. "I've always wished I were a man, " she said. "It seemed to me that they had all the power. From this afternoon, Ishall be proud of belonging to the governing sex. "

She laughed and slipped away. 

Phillips was waiting for her in the vestibule. She had forgotten him;but now she felt glad of his humble request to be allowed to see herhome. It would have been such a big drop from her crowded hour oftriumph to the long lonely cab ride and the solitude of the hotel. Sheresolved to be gracious, feeling a little sorry for her neglect ofhim--but reflecting with satisfaction that he had probably been watchingher the whole time. 

"What's the matter with my tie?" he asked. "Wrong colour?"

She laughed. "Yes, " she answered. "It ought to be grey to match yoursuit. And so ought your socks. "

"I didn't know it was going to be such a swell affair, or I shouldn'thave come, " he said. 

She touched his hand lightly. 

"I want you to get used to it, " she said. "It's part of your work. Putyour brain into it, and don't be afraid. "

"I'll try, " he said. 

He was sitting on the front seat, facing her. "I'm glad I went, " he saidwith sudden vehemence. "I loved watching you, moving about among allthose people. I never knew before how beautiful you are. "

Something in his eyes sent a slight thrill of fear through her. It wasnot an unpleasant sensation--rather exhilarating. She watched thepassing street till she felt that his eyes were no longer devouring her. 

"You're not offended?" he asked. "At my thinking you beautiful?" headded, in case she hadn't understood. 

She laughed. Her confidence had returned to her. "It doesn't generallyoffend a woman, " she answered. 

He seemed relieved. "That's what's so wonderful about you, " he said. "I've met plenty of clever, brilliant women, but one could forget thatthey were women. You're everything. "

He pleaded, standing below her on the steps of the hotel, that she woulddine with him. But she shook her head. She had her packing to do. Shecould have managed it; but something prudent and absurd had suddenly gothold of her; and he went away with much the same look in his eyes thatcomes to a dog when he finds that his master cannot be persuaded into anexcursion. 

She went up to her room. There really was not much to do. She couldquite well finish her packing in the morning. She sat down at the deskand set to work to arrange her papers. It was a warm spring evening, andthe window was open. A crowd of noisy sparrows seemed to be delightedabout something. From somewhere, unseen, a blackbird was singing. Sheread over her report for Mrs. Denton. The blackbird seemed never to haveheard of war. He sang as if the whole world were a garden of languor andlove. Joan looked at her watch. The first gong would sound in a fewminutes. She pictured the dreary, silent dining-room with its fewscattered occupants, and her heart sank at the prospect. To her reliefcame remembrance of a cheerful but entirely respectable restaurant nearto the Louvre to which she had been taken a few nights before. She hadnoticed quite a number of women dining there alone. She closed herdispatch case with a snap and gave a glance at herself in the greatmirror. The blackbird was still singing. 

She walked up the Rue des Sts. Peres, enjoying the delicious air. Halfway across the bridge she overtook a man, strolling listlessly in frontof her. There was something familiar about him. He was wearing a greysuit and had his hands in his pockets. Suddenly the truth flashed uponher. She stopped. If he strolled on, she would be able to slip back. Instead of which he abruptly turned to look down at a passing steamer, and they were face to face. 

It made her mad, the look of delight that came into his eyes. She couldhave boxed his ears. Hadn't he anything else to do but hang about thestreets. 

He explained that he had been listening to the band in the gardens, returning by the Quai d'Orsay. 

"Do let me come with you, " he said. "I kept myself free this evening, hoping. And I'm feeling so lonesome. "

Poor fellow! She had come to understand that feeling. After all, itwasn't altogether his fault that they had met. And she had been so crossto him!

He was reading every expression on her face. 

"It's such a lovely evening, " he said. "Couldn't we go somewhere anddine under a tree?"

It would be rather pleasant. There was a little place at Meudon, sheremembered. The plane trees would just be in full leaf. 

A passing cab had drawn up close to them. The chauffeur was lighting hispipe. 

Even Mrs. Grundy herself couldn't object to a journalist dining with apolitician!

The stars came out before they had ended dinner. She had made him talkabout himself. It was marvellous what he had accomplished with hisopportunities. Ten hours a day in the mines had earned for him hisliving, and the night had given him his leisure. An attic, lighted by atallow candle, with a shelf of books that left him hardly enough forbread, had been his Alma Mater. History was his chief study. There washardly an authority Joan could think of with which he was not familiar. _Julius Caesar_ was his favourite play. He seemed to know it by heart. At twenty-three he had been elected a delegate, and had enteredParliament at twenty-eight. It had been a life of hardship, ofprivation, of constant strain; but she found herself unable to pity him. It was a tale of strength, of struggle, of victory, that he told her. 

Strength! The shaded lamplight fell upon his fearless kindly face withits flashing eyes and its humorous mouth. He ought to have been drinkingout of a horn, not a wine glass that his well-shaped hand could havecrushed by a careless pressure. In a winged helmet and a coat of mail hewould have looked so much more fitly dressed than in that soft felt hatand ridiculous blue tie. 

She led him to talk on about the future. She loved to hear his clear, confident voice with its touch of boyish boastfulness. What was there tostop him? Why should he not climb from power to power till he hadreached the end!

And as he talked and dreamed there grew up in her heart a fierce anger. What would her own future be? She would marry probably some man of herown class, settle down to the average woman's "life"; be allowed, like aspoilt child, to still "take an interest" in public affairs: hold"drawing-rooms" attended by cranks and political nonentities: bePresident, perhaps, of the local Woman's Liberal League. Thealternative: to spend her days glued to a desk, penning exhortations tothe people that Carleton and his like might or might not allow them toread; while youth and beauty slipped away from her, leaving her one ofthe ten thousand other lonely, faded women, forcing themselves unwelcomeinto men's jobs. There came to her a sense of having been robbed of whatwas hers by primitive eternal law. Greyson had been right. She did lovepower--power to serve and shape the world. She would have earned it andused it well. She could have helped him, inspired him. They would haveworked together: he the force and she the guidance. She would havesupplied the things he lacked. It was to her he came for counsel, as itwas. But for her he would never have taken the first step. What righthad this poor brainless lump of painted flesh to share his wounds, histriumphs? What help could she give him when the time should come that heshould need it?

Suddenly he broke off. "What a fool I'm making of myself, " he said. "Ialways was a dreamer. "

She forced a laugh. "Why shouldn't it come true?" she asked. 

They had the little garden to themselves. The million lights of Parisshone below them. 

"Because you won't be there, " he answered, "and without you I can't doit. You think I'm always like I am to-night, bragging, confident. So Iam when you are with me. You give me back my strength. The plans andhopes and dreams that were slipping from me come crowding round me, laughing and holding out their hands. They are like the children. Theyneed two to care for them. I want to talk about them to someone whounderstands them and loves them, as I do. I want to feel they are dearto someone else, as well as to myself: that I must work for them for hersake, as well as for my own. I want someone to help me to bring themup. "

There were tears in his eyes. He brushed them angrily away. "Oh, I knowI ought to be ashamed of myself, " he said. "It wasn't her fault. Shewasn't to know that a hot-blooded young chap of twenty hasn't all hiswits about him, any more than I was. If I had never met you, it wouldn'thave mattered. I'd have done my bit of good, and have stopped there, content. With you beside me"--he looked away from her to where thesilent city peeped through its veil of night--"I might have left theworld better than I found it. "

The blood had mounted to her face. She drew back into the shadow, beyondthe tiny sphere of light made by the little lamp. 

"Men have accomplished great things without a woman's help, " she said. 

"Some men, " he answered. "Artists and poets. They have the woman withinthem. Men like myself--the mere fighter: we are incomplete in ourselves. Male and female created He them. We are lost without our mate. "

He was thinking only of himself. Had he no pity for her. So was she, also, useless without her mate. Neither was she of those, here andthere, who can stand alone. Her task was that of the eternal woman: tomake a home: to cleanse the world of sin and sorrow, make it a kinderdwelling-place for the children that should come. This man was her truehelpmeet. He would have been her weapon, her dear servant; and she couldhave rewarded him as none other ever could. The lamplight fell upon hisruddy face, his strong white hands resting on the flimsy table. Hebelonged to an older order than her own. That suggestion about him ofsomething primitive, of something not yet altogether tamed. She feltagain that slight thrill of fear that so strangely excited her. A mistseemed to be obscuring all things. He seemed to be coming towards her. Only by keeping her eyes fixed on his moveless hands, still resting onthe table, could she convince herself that his arms were not closingabout her, that she was not being drawn nearer and nearer to him, powerless to resist. 

Suddenly, out of the mist, she heard voices. The waiter was standingbeside him with the bill. She reached out her hand and took it. Theusual few mistakes had occurred. She explained them, good temperedly, and the waiter, with profuse apologies, went back to have it corrected. 

He turned to her as the man went. "Try and forgive me, " he said in a lowvoice. "It all came tumbling out before I thought what I was saying. "

The blood was flowing back into her veins. "Oh, it wasn't your fault, "she answered. "We must make the best we can of it. "

He bent forward so that he could see into her eyes. 

"Tell me, " he said. There was a note of fierce exultation in his voice. "I'll promise never to speak of it again. If I had been a free man, could I have won you?"

She had risen while he was speaking. She moved to him and laid her handsupon his shoulders. 

"Will you serve me and fight for me against all my enemies?" she asked. 

"So long as I live, " he answered. 

She glanced round. There was no sign of the returning waiter. She bentover him and kissed him. 

"Don't come with me, " she said. "There's a cab stand in the Avenue. Ishall walk to Sevres and take the train. "

She did not look back. 

CHAPTER XII

She reached home in the evening. The Phillips's old rooms had been twicelet since Christmas, but were now again empty. The McKean with hissilent ways and his everlasting pipe had gone to America to superintendthe production of one of his plays. The house gave her the feeling ofbeing haunted. She had her dinner brought up to her and prepared for along evening's work; but found herself unable to think--except on the onesubject that she wanted to put off thinking about. To her relief thelast post brought her a letter from Arthur. He had been called to Lisbonto look after a contract, and would be away for a fortnight. Her fatherwas not as well as he had been. 

It seemed to just fit in. She would run down and spend a few quiet daysat Liverpool. In her old familiar room where the moon peeped in over thetops of the tall pines she would be able to reason things out. Perhapsher father would be able to help her. She had lost her childishconception of him as of someone prim and proper, with cut and driedformulas for all occasions. That glimpse he had shown her of himself hadestablished a fellowship between them. He, too, had wrestled with life'sriddles, not sure of his own answers. She found him suffering from hisold heart trouble, but more cheerful than she had known him for years. Arthur seemed to be doing wonders with the men. They were coming totrust him. 

"The difficulty I have always been up against, " explained her father, "has been their suspicion. 'What's the cunning old rascal up to now?What's his little game?' That is always what I have felt they werethinking to themselves whenever I have wanted to do anything for them. Itisn't anything he says to them. It seems to be just he, himself. "

He sketched out their plans to her. It seemed to be all going in at oneear and out at the other. What was the matter with her? Perhaps she wastired without knowing it. She would get him to tell her all about it to-morrow. Also, to-morrow, she would tell him about Phillips, and ask hisadvice. It was really quite late. If he talked any more now, it wouldgive her a headache. She felt it coming on. 

She made her "good-night" extra affectionate, hoping to disguise herimpatience. She wanted to get up to her own room. 

But even that did not help her. It seemed in some mysterious way to beno longer her room, but the room of someone she had known and halfforgotten: who would never come back. It gave her the same feeling shehad experienced on returning to the house in London: that the place washaunted. The high cheval glass from her mother's dressing-room had beenbrought there for her use. The picture of an absurdly small child--thechild to whom this room had once belonged--standing before it naked, rosebefore her eyes. She had wanted to see herself. She had thought thatonly her clothes stood in the way. If we could but see ourselves, as insome magic mirror? All the garments usage and education has dressed usup in laid aside. What was she underneath her artificial niceties, herprim moralities, her laboriously acquired restraints, her unconsciouspretences and hypocrisies? She changed her clothes for a loose robe, andputting out the light drew back the curtains. The moon peeped in overthe top of the tall pines, but it only stared at her, indifferent. Itseemed to be looking for somebody else. 

Suddenly, and intensely to her own surprise, she fell into a passionatefit of weeping. There was no reason for it, and it was altogether sounlike her. But for quite a while she was unable to control it. Gradually, and of their own accord, her sobs lessened, and she was ableto wipe her eyes and take stock of herself in the long glass. Shewondered for the moment whether it was really her own reflection that shesaw there or that of some ghostly image of her mother. She had so oftenseen the same look in her mother's eyes. Evidently the likeness betweenthem was more extensive than she had imagined. For the first time shebecame conscious of an emotional, hysterical side to her nature of whichshe had been unaware. Perhaps it was just as well that she haddiscovered it. She would have to keep a stricter watch upon herself. This question of her future relationship with Phillips: it would have tobe thought out coldly, dispassionately. Nothing unexpected must beallowed to enter into it. 

It was some time before she fell asleep. The high glass faced her as shelay in bed. She could not get away from the idea that it was hermother's face that every now and then she saw reflected there. 

She woke late the next morning. Her father had already left for theworks. She was rather glad to have no need of talking. She would take along walk into the country, and face the thing squarely with the help ofthe cheerful sun and the free west wind that was blowing from the sea. She took the train up north and struck across the hills. Her spiritsrose as she walked. 

It was only the intellectual part of him she wanted--the spirit, not theman. She would be taking nothing away from the woman, nothing that hadever belonged to her. All the rest of him: his home life, the benefitsthat would come to her from his improved means, from his social position:all that the woman had ever known or cared for in him would still behers. He would still remain to her the kind husband and father. Whatmore was the woman capable of understanding? What more had she any rightto demand?

It was not of herself she was thinking. It was for his work's sake thatshe wanted to be near to him always: that she might counsel him, encourage him. For this she was prepared to sacrifice herself, give upher woman's claim on life. They would be friends, comrades--nothingmore. That little lurking curiosity of hers, concerning what it would belike to feel his strong arms round her, pressing her closer and closer tohim: it was only a foolish fancy. She could easily laugh that out ofherself. Only bad women had need to be afraid of themselves. She wouldkeep guard for both of them. Their purity of motive, their high purpose, would save them from the danger of anything vulgar or ridiculous. 

Of course they would have to be careful. There must be no breath ofgossip, no food for evil tongues. About that she was determined evenmore for his sake than her own. It would be fatal to his career. Shewas quite in agreement with the popular demand, supposed to be peculiarlyEnglish, that a public man's life should be above reproach. Of what usethese prophets without self-control; these social reformers who could notshake the ape out of themselves? Only the brave could give courage toothers. Only through the pure could God's light shine upon men. 

It was vexing his having moved round the corner, into North Street. Whycouldn't the silly woman have been content where she was. Living underone roof, they could have seen one another as often as was needfulwithout attracting attention. Now, she supposed, she would have to bemore than ever the bosom friend of Mrs. Phillips--spend hours amid thathideous furniture, surrounded by those bilious wallpapers. Of course hecould not come to her. She hoped he would appreciate the sacrifice shewould be making for him. Fortunately Mrs. Phillips would give notrouble. She would not even understand. 

What about Hilda? No hope of hiding their secret from those sharp eyes. But Hilda would approve. They could trust Hilda. The child might provehelpful. 

It cast a passing shadow upon her spirits, this necessary descent intodetails. It brought with it the suggestion of intrigue, of deceit:robbing the thing, to a certain extent, of its fineness. Still, what wasto be done? If women were coming into public life these sort ofrelationships with men would have to be faced and worked out. Sex mustno longer be allowed to interfere with the working together of men andwomen for common ends. It was that had kept the world back. They wouldbe the pioneers of the new order. Casting aside their earthly passions, humbly with pure hearts they would kneel before God's altar. He shouldbless their union. 

A lark was singing. She stood listening. Higher and higher he rose, pouring out his song of worship; till the tiny, fragile body disappearedas if fallen from him, leaving his sweet soul still singing. The happytears came to her eyes, and she passed on. She did not hear that littlelast faint sob with which he sank exhausted back to earth beside a hiddennest among the furrows. 

She had forgotten the time. It was already late afternoon. Her longwalk and the keen air had made her hungry. She had a couple of eggs withher tea at a village inn, and was fortunate enough to catch a train thatbrought her back in time for dinner. A little ashamed of herunresponsiveness the night before, she laid herself out to be sympatheticto her father's talk. She insisted on hearing again all that he andArthur were doing, opposing him here and there with criticism justsufficient to stimulate him; careful in the end to let him convince her. 

These small hypocrisies were new to her. She hoped she was not damagingher character. But it was good, watching him slyly from under drawn-downlids, to see the flash of triumph that would come into his tired eyes inanswer to her half-protesting: "Yes, I see your point, I hadn't thoughtof that, " her half reluctant admission that "perhaps" he was right, there; that "perhaps" she was wrong. It was delightful to see him youngagain, eager, boyishly pleased with himself. It seemed there was a joyshe had not dreamed of in yielding victory as well as in gaining it. Anew tenderness was growing up in her. How considerate, how patient, howself-forgetful he had always been. She wanted to mother him. To takehim in her arms and croon over him, hushing away remembrance of the oldsad days. 

Folk's words came back to her: "And poor Jack Allway. Tell him I thankhim for all those years of love and gentleness. " She gave him themessage. 

Folk had been right. He was not offended. "Dear old chap, " he said. "That was kind of him. He was always generous. "

He was silent for a while, with a quiet look on his face. 

"Give him our love, " he said. "Tell him we came together, at the end. "

It was on her tongue to ask him, as so often she had meant to do of late, what had been the cause of her mother's illness--if illness it was: whatit was that had happened to change both their lives. But alwayssomething had stopped her--something ever present, ever watchful, thatseemed to shape itself out of the air, bending towards her with itsfinger on its lips. 

She stayed over the week-end; and on the Saturday, at her suggestion, they took a long excursion into the country. It was the first time shehad ever asked him to take her out. He came down to breakfast in a newsuit, and was quite excited. In the car his hand had sought hers shyly, and, feeling her responsive pressure, he had continued to hold it; andthey had sat for a long time in silence. She decided not to tell himabout Phillips, just yet. He knew of him only from the Tory newspapersand would form a wrong idea. She would bring them together and leavePhillips to make his own way. He would like Phillips when he knew him, she felt sure. He, too, was a people's man. The torch passed down tohim from his old Ironside ancestors, it still glowed. More than once shehad seen it leap to flame. In congenial atmosphere, it would burn clearand steadfast. It occurred to her what a delightful solution of herproblem, if later on her father could be persuaded to leave Arthur incharge of the works, and come to live with her in London. There was afine block of flats near Chelsea Church with long views up and down theriver. How happy they could be there; the drawing-room in the Adamsstyle with wine-coloured curtains! He was a father any young woman couldbe proud to take about. Unconsciously she gave his hand an impulsivesqueeze. They lunched at an old inn upon the moors; and the landlady, judging from his shy, attentive ways, had begun by addressing her asMadame. 

"You grow wonderfully like your mother, " he told her that evening atdinner. "There used to be something missing. But I don't feel that, now. "

She wrote to Phillips to meet her, if possible, at Euston. There werethings she wanted to talk to him about. There was the question whethershe should go on writing for Carleton, or break with him at once. Alsoone or two points that were worrying her in connection with tariffreform. He was waiting for her on the platform. It appeared he, too, had much to say. He wanted her advice concerning his next speech. Hehad not dined and suggested supper. They could not walk about thestreets. Likely enough, it was only her imagination, but it seemed toher that people in the restaurant had recognized him, and were whisperingto one another: he was bound to be well known. Likewise her ownappearance, she felt, was against them as regarded their desire to avoidobservation. She would have to take to those mousey colours that did notsuit her, and wear a veil. She hated the idea of a veil. It came fromthe East and belonged there. Besides, what would be the use? Unless hewore one too. "Who is the veiled woman that Phillips goes about with?"That is what they would ask. It was going to be very awkward, the wholething. Viewed from the distance, it had looked quite fine. "Dedicatingherself to the service of Humanity" was how it had presented itself toher in the garden at Meudon, the twinkling labyrinth of Paris at herfeet, its sordid by-ways hidden beneath its myriad lights. She had notbargained for the dedication involving the loss of her self-respect. 

They did not talk as much as they had thought they would. He was notvery helpful on the Carleton question. There was so much to be said bothfor and against. It might be better to wait and see how circumstancesshaped themselves. She thought his speech excellent. It was difficultto discover any argument against it. 

He seemed to be more interested in looking at her when he thought she wasnot noticing. That little faint vague fear came back to her and stayedwith her, but brought no quickening of her pulse. It was a fear ofsomething ugly. She had the feeling they were both acting, thateverything depended upon their not forgetting their parts. In handingthings to one another, they were both of them so careful that their handsshould not meet and touch. 

They walked together back to Westminster and wished each other a shortgood-night upon what once had been their common doorstep. With herlatchkey in her hand, she turned and watched his retreating figure, andsuddenly a wave of longing seized her to run after him and call himback--to see his eyes light up and feel the pressure of his hands. Itwas only by clinging to the railings and counting till she was sure hehad entered his own house round the corner and closed the door behindhim, that she restrained herself. 

It was a frightened face that looked at her out of the glass, as shestood before it taking off her hat. 

She decided that their future meetings should be at his own house. Mrs. Phillips's only complaint was that she knocked at the door too seldom. 

"I don't know what I should do without you, I really don't, " confessedthe grateful lady. "If ever I become a Prime Minister's wife, it's you Ishall have to thank. You've got so much courage yourself, you can putthe heart into him. I never had any pluck to spare myself. "

She concluded by giving Joan a hug, accompanied by a sloppy but heartfeltkiss. 

She would stand behind Phillips's chair with her fat arms round his neck, nodding her approval and encouragement; while Joan, seated opposite, would strain every nerve to keep her brain fixed upon the argument, neverdaring to look at poor Phillips's wretched face, with its pleading, apologetic eyes, lest she should burst into hysterical laughter. Shehoped she was being helpful and inspiring! Mrs. Phillips would assureher afterwards that she had been wonderful. As for herself, there wereperiods when she hadn't the faintest idea about what she was talking. 

Sometimes Mrs. Phillips, called away by domestic duty, would leave them;returning full of excuses just as they had succeeded in forgetting her. It was evident she was under the impression that her presence was usefulto them, making it easier for them to open up their minds to one another. 

"Don't you be put off by his seeming a bit unresponsive, " Mrs. Phillipswould explain. "He's shy with women. What I'm trying to do is to makehim feel you are one of the family. "

"And don't you take any notice of me, " further explained the good woman, "when I seem to be in opposition, like. I chip in now and then onpurpose, just to keep the ball rolling. It stirs him up, a bit ofcontradictoriness. You have to live with a man before you understandhim. "

One morning Joan received a letter from Phillips, marked immediate. Heinformed her that his brain was becoming addled. He intended thatafternoon to give it a draught of fresh air. He would be at the RobinHood gate in Richmond Park at three o'clock. Perhaps the gods would begood to him. He would wait there for half an hour to give them a chance, anyway. 

She slipped the letter unconsciously into the bosom of her dress, and satlooking out of the window. It promised to be a glorious day, and Londonwas stifling and gritty. Surely no one but an unwholesome-minded prudecould jib at a walk across a park. Mrs. Phillips would be delighted tohear that she had gone. For the matter of that, she would tell her--whennext they met. 

Phillips must have seen her getting off the bus, for he came forward atonce from the other side of the gate, his face radiant with boyishdelight. A young man and woman, entering the park at the same time, looked at them and smiled sympathetically. 

Joan had no idea the park contained such pleasant by-ways. But for anoccasional perambulator they might have been in the heart of the country. The fallow deer stole near to them with noiseless feet, regarding themout of their large gentle eyes with looks of comradeship. They pausedand listened while a missal thrush from a branch close to them poured outhis song of hope and courage. From quite a long way off they could stillhear his clear voice singing, telling to the young and brave his gallantmessage. It seemed too beautiful a day for politics. After all, politics--one has them always with one; but the spring passes. 

He saw her on to a bus at Kingston, and himself went back by train. Theyagreed they would not mention it to Mrs. Phillips. Not that she wouldhave minded. The danger was that she would want to come, too; honestlythinking thereby to complete their happiness. It seemed to be tacitlyunderstood there would be other such excursions. 

The summer was propitious. Phillips knew his London well, and how to getaway from it. There were winding lanes in Hertfordshire, Surrey hillsand commons, deep, cool, bird-haunted woods in Buckingham. Each weekthere was something to look forward to, something to plan for andmanoeuvre. The sense of adventure, a spice of danger, added zest. Shestill knocked frequently, as before, at the door of thehideously-furnished little house in North Street; but Mrs. Phillips nolonger oppressed her as some old man of the sea she could never hope toshake off from her shoulders. The flabby, foolish face, robbed of itsterrors, became merely pitiful. She found herself able to be quitegentle and patient with Mrs. Phillips. Even the sloppy kisses she cameto bear without a shudder down her spine. 

"I know you are only doing it because you sympathize with his aims andwant him to win, " acknowledged the good lady. "But I can't help feelinggrateful to you. I don't feel how useless I am while I've got you to runto. "

They still discussed their various plans for the amelioration andimprovement of humanity; but there seemed less need for haste than theyhad thought. The world, Joan discovered, was not so sad a place as shehad judged it. There were chubby, rogue-eyed children; whistling ladsand smiling maidens; kindly men with ruddy faces; happy mothers crooningover gurgling babies. There was no call to be fretful and vehement. Theywould work together in patience and in confidence. God's sun waseverywhere. It needed only that dark places should be opened up and itwould enter. 

Sometimes, seated on a lichened log, or on the short grass of somesloping hillside, looking down upon some quiet valley, they would findthey had been holding hands while talking. It was but as two happy, thoughtless children might have done. They would look at one anotherwith frank, clear eyes and smile. 

Once, when their pathway led through a littered farm-yard, he had takenher up in his arms and carried her and she had felt a glad pride in himthat he had borne her lightly as if she had been a child, looking up ather and laughing. 

An old bent man paused from his work and watched them. "Lean more overhim, missie, " he advised her. "That's the way. Many a mile I've carriedmy lass like that, in flood time; and never felt her weight. "

Often on returning home, not knowing why, she would look into the glass. It seemed to her that the girlhood she had somehow missed was awakeningin her, taking possession of her, changing her. The lips she had alwaysseen pressed close and firm were growing curved, leaving a littleparting, as though they were not quite so satisfied with one another. Thelevel brows were becoming slightly raised. It gave her a questioninglook that was new to her. The eyes beneath were less confident. Theyseemed to be seeking something. 

One evening, on her way home from a theatre, she met Flossie. "Can'tstop now, " said Flossie, who was hurrying. "But I want to see you: mostparticular. Was going to look you up. Will you be at home to-morrowafternoon at tea-time?"

There was a distinct challenge in Flossie's eye as she asked thequestion. Joan felt herself flush, and thought a moment. 

"Yes, " she answered. "Will you be coming alone?"

"That's the idea, " answered Flossie; "a heart to heart talk between youand me, and nobody else. Half-past four. Don't forget. "

Joan walked on slowly. She had the worried feeling with which, once ortwice, when a schoolgirl, she had crawled up the stairs to bed after thehead mistress had informed her that she would see her in her private roomat eleven o'clock the next morning, leaving her to guess what about. Itoccurred to her, in Trafalgar Square, that she had promised to take teawith the Greysons the next afternoon, to meet some big pot from America. She would have to get out of that. She felt it wouldn't do to put offFlossie. 

She went to bed wakeful. It was marvellously like being at school again. What could Flossie want to see her about that was so important? Shetried to pretend to herself that she didn't know. After all, perhaps itwasn't that. 

But she knew that it was the instant Flossie put up her hands in order totake off her hat. Flossie always took off her hat when she meant to beunpleasant. It was her way of pulling up her sleeves. They had theirtea first. They seemed both agreed that that would be best. And thenFlossie pushed back her chair and sat up. 

She had just the head mistress expression. Joan wasn't quite sure sheoughtn't to stand. But, controlling the instinct, leant back in herchair, and tried to look defiant without feeling it. 

"How far are you going?" demanded Flossie. 

Joan was not in a comprehending mood. 

"If you're going the whole hog, that's something I can understand, "continued Flossie. "If not, you'd better pull up. "

"What do you mean by the whole hog?" requested Joan, assuming dignity. 

"Oh, don't come the kid, " advised Flossie. "If you don't mind beingtalked about yourself, you might think of him. If Carleton gets hold ofit, he's done for. "

"'A little bird whispers to me that Robert Phillips was seen walkingacross Richmond Park the other afternoon in company with Miss JoanAllway, formerly one of our contributors. ' Is that going to end hispolitical career?" retorted Joan with fine sarcasm. 

Flossie fixed a relentless eye upon her. "He'll wait till the bird hasgot a bit more than that to whisper to him, " she suggested. 

"There'll be nothing more, " explained Joan. "So long as my friendship isof any assistance to Robert Phillips in his work, he's going to have it. What use are we going to be in politics--what's all the fuss about, ifmen and women mustn't work together for their common aims and help oneanother?"

"Why can't you help him in his own house, instead of wandering all aboutthe country?" Flossie wanted to know. 

"So I do, " Joan defended herself. "I'm in and out there till I'm sick ofthe hideous place. You haven't seen the inside. And his wife knows allabout it, and is only too glad. "

"Does she know about Richmond Park--and the other places?" asked Flossie. 

"She wouldn't mind if she did, " explained Joan. "And you know what she'slike! How can one think what one's saying with that silly, goggle-eyedface in front of one always. "

Flossie, since she had become engaged, had acquired quite a matronlytrain of thought. She spoke kindly, with a little grave shake of herhead. "My dear, " she said, "the wife is always in the way. You'd feeljust the same whatever her face was like. "

Joan grew angry. "If you choose to suspect evil, of course you can, " sheanswered with hauteur. "But you might have known me better. I admirethe man and sympathize with him. All the things I dream of are thethings he is working for. I can do more good by helping and inspiringhim"--she wished she had not let slip that word "inspire. " She knew thatFlossie would fasten upon it--"than I can ever accomplish by myself. AndI mean to do it. " She really did feel defiant, now. 

"I know, dear, " agreed Flossie, "you've both of you made up your minds itshall always remain a beautiful union of twin spirits. Unfortunatelyyou've both got bodies--rather attractive bodies. "

"We'll keep it off that plane, if you don't mind, " answered Joan with atouch of severity. 

"I'm willing enough, " answered Flossie. "But what about Old MotherNature? She's going to be in this, you know. "

"Take off your glasses, and look at it straight, " she went on, withoutgiving Joan time to reply. "What is it in us that 'inspires' men? Ifit's only advice and sympathy he's after, what's wrong with dear old Mrs. Denton? She's a good walker, except now and then, when she's got thelumbago. Why doesn't he get her to 'inspire' him?"

"It isn't only that, " explained Joan. "I give him courage. I always didhave more of that than is any use to a woman. He wants to be worthy ofmy belief in him. What is the harm if he does admire me--if a smile fromme or a touch of the hand can urge him to fresh effort? Suppose he doeslove me--"

Flossie interrupted. "How about being quite frank?" she suggested. "Suppose we do love one another. How about putting it that way?"

"And suppose we do?" agreed Joan, her courage rising. "Why should weshun one another, as if we were both of us incapable of decency or self-control? Why must love be always assumed to make us weak andcontemptible, as if it were some subtle poison? Why shouldn't itstrengthen and ennoble us?"

"Why did the apple fall?" answered Flossie. "Why, when it escapes fromits bonds, doesn't it soar upward? If it wasn't for the irritating lawof gravity, we could skip about on the brink of precipices withoutdanger. Things being what they are, sensible people keep as far awayfrom the edge as possible. "

"I'm sorry, " she continued; "awfully sorry, old girl. It's a bit ofrotten bad luck for both of you. You were just made for one another. AndFate, knowing what was coming, bustles round and gets hold of poor, sillyMrs. Phillips so as to be able to say 'Yah. '"

"Unless it all comes right in the end, " she added musingly; "and the poorold soul pegs out. I wouldn't give much for her liver. "

"That's not bringing me up well, " suggested Joan: "putting those ideasinto my head. "

"Oh, well, one can't help one's thoughts, " explained Flossie. "It wouldbe a blessing all round. "

They had risen. Joan folded her hands. "Thank you for your scolding, ma'am, " she said. "Shall I write out a hundred lines of Greek? Or doyou think it will be sufficient if I promise never to do it again?"

"You mean it?" said Flossie. "Of course you will go on seeinghim--visiting them, and all that. But you won't go gadding about, sothat people can talk?"

"Only through the bars, in future, " she promised. "With the gaolerbetween us. " She put her arms round Flossie and bent her head, so thather face was hidden. 

Flossie still seemed troubled. She held on to Joan. 

"You are sure of yourself?" she asked. "We're only the female of thespecies. We get hungry and thirsty, too. You know that, kiddy, don'tyou?"

Joan laughed without raising her face. "Yes, ma'am, I know that, " sheanswered. "I'll be good. "

She sat in the dusk after Flossie had gone; and the laboured breathing ofthe tired city came to her through the open window. She had ratherfancied that martyr's crown. It had not looked so very heavy, the thornsnot so very alarming--as seen through the window. She would wear itbravely. It would rather become her. 

Facing the mirror of the days to come, she tried it on. It was going tohurt. There was no doubt of that. She saw the fatuous, approving faceof the eternal Mrs. Phillips, thrust ever between them, against thebackground of that hideous furniture, of those bilious wall papers--theloneliness that would ever walk with her, sit down beside her in thecrowded restaurant, steal up the staircase with her, creep step by stepwith her from room to room--the ever unsatisfied yearning for a tenderword, a kindly touch. Yes, it was going to hurt. 

Poor Robert! It would be hard on him, too. She could not help feelingconsolation in the thought that he also would be wearing that invisiblecrown. 

She must write to him. The sooner it was done, the better. Half a dozencontradictory moods passed over her during the composing of that letter;but to her they seemed but the unfolding of a single thought. On onepage it might have been his mother writing to him; an experienced, sagacious lady; quite aware, in spite of her affection for him, of hisfaults and weaknesses; solicitous that he should avoid the dangers of anembarrassing entanglement; his happiness being the only consideration ofimportance. On others it might have been a queen laying her immutablecommands upon some loyal subject, sworn to her service. Part of it mighthave been written by a laughing philosopher who had learnt the folly oftaking life too seriously, knowing that all things pass: that the tearsof to-day will be remembered with a smile. And a part of it was theunconsidered language of a loving woman. And those were the pages thathe kissed. 

His letter in answer was much shorter. Of course he would obey herwishes. He had been selfish, thinking only of himself. As for hispolitical career, he did not see how that was going to suffer by hisbeing occasionally seen in company with one of the most brilliantlyintellectual women in London, known to share his views. And he didn'tcare if it did. But inasmuch as she valued it, all things should besacrificed to it. It was hers to do what she would with. It was theonly thing he had to offer her. 

Their meetings became confined, as before, to the little house in NorthStreet. But it really seemed as if the gods, appeased by theirsubmission, had decided to be kind. Hilda was home for the holidays; andher piercing eyes took in the situation at a flash. She appeared to havereturned with a new-born and exacting affection for her mother, thatastonished almost as much as it delighted the poor lady. Feeling suddendesire for a walk or a bus ride, or to be taken to an entertainment, noone was of any use to Hilda but her mother. Daddy had his silly politicsto think and talk about. He must worry them out alone; or with theassistance of Miss Allway. That was what she was there for. Mrs. Phillips, torn between her sense of duty and fear of losing this newhappiness, would yield to the child's coaxing. Often they would be leftalone to discuss the nation's needs uninterrupted. Conscientiously theywould apply themselves to the task. Always to find that, sooner orlater, they were looking at one another, in silence. 

One day Phillips burst into a curious laugh. They had been discussingthe problem of the smallholder. Joan had put a question to him, and witha slight start he had asked her to repeat it. But it seemed she hadforgotten it. 

"I had to see our solicitor one morning, " he explained, "when I wassecretary to a miners' union up north. A point had arisen concerning thelegality of certain payments. It was a matter of vast importance to us;but he didn't seem to be taking any interest, and suddenly he jumped up. 'I'm sorry, Phillips, ' he said, 'but I've got a big trouble of my own onat home--I guess you know what--and I don't seem to care a damn aboutyours. You'd better see Delauny, if you're in a hurry. ' And I did. "

He turned and leant over his desk. "I guess they'll have to find anotherleader if they're in a hurry, " he added. "I don't seem able to thinkabout turnips and cows. "

"Don't make me feel I've interfered with your work only to spoil it, "said Joan. 

"I guess I'm spoiling yours, too, " he answered. "I'm not worth it. Imight have done something to win you and keep you. I'm not going to domuch without you. "

"You mean my friendship is going to be of no use to you?" asked Joan. 

He raised his eyes and fixed them on her with a pleading, dog-like look. 

"For God's sake don't take even that away from me, " he said. "Unless youwant me to go to pieces altogether. A crust does just keep one alive. One can't help thinking what a fine, strong chap one might be if onewasn't always hungry. "

She felt so sorry for him. He looked such a boy, with the angry tears inhis clear blue eyes, and that little childish quivering of the kind, strong, sulky mouth. 

She rose and took his head between her hands and turned his face towardsher. She had meant to scold him, but changed her mind and laid his headagainst her breast and held it there. 

He clung to her, as a troubled child might, with his arms clasped roundher, and his head against her breast. And a mist rose up before her, andstrange, commanding voices seemed calling to her. 

He could not see her face. She watched it herself with dim halfconsciousness as it changed before her in the tawdry mirror above themantelpiece, half longing that he might look up and see it, halfterrified lest he should. 

With an effort that seemed to turn her into stone, she regained commandover herself. 

"I must go now, " she said in a harsh voice, and he released her. 

"I'm afraid I'm an awful nuisance to you, " he said. "I get these moodsat times. You're not angry with me?"

"No, " she answered with a smile. "But it will hurt me if you fail. Remember that. "

She turned down the Embankment after leaving the house. She always foundthe river strong and restful. So it was not only bad women that neededto be afraid of themselves--even to the most high-class young woman, withletters after her name, and altruistic interests: even to her, also, thelonging for the lover's clasp. Flossie had been right. Mother Naturewas not to be flouted of her children--not even of her new daughters; tothem, likewise, the family trait. 

She would have run away if she could, leaving him to guess at her realreason--if he were smart enough. But that would have meant excuses andexplanations all round. She was writing a daily column of notes forGreyson now, in addition to the weekly letter from Clorinda; and Mrs. Denton, having compromised with her first dreams, was delegating to Joanmore and more of her work. She wrote to Mrs. Phillips that she wasfeeling unwell and would be unable to lunch with them on the Sunday, ashad been arranged. Mrs. Phillips, much disappointed, suggestedWednesday; but it seemed on Wednesday she was no better. And so itdrifted on for about a fortnight, without her finding the courage to cometo any decision; and then one morning, turning the corner into AbingdonStreet, she felt a slight pull at her sleeve; and Hilda was beside her. The child had shown an uncanny intuition in not knocking at the door. Joan had been fearing that, and would have sent down word that she wasout. But it had to be faced. 

"Are you never coming again?" asked the child. 

"Of course, " answered Joan, "when I'm better. I'm not very well justnow. It's the weather, I suppose. "

The child turned her head as they walked and looked at her. Joan feltherself smarting under that look, but persisted. 

"I'm very much run down, " she said. "I may have to go away. "

"You promised to help him, " said the child. 

"I can't if I'm ill, " retorted Joan. "Besides, I am helping him. Thereare other ways of helping people than by wasting their time talking tothem. "

"He wants you, " said the child. "It's your being there that helps him. "

Joan stopped and turned. "Did he send you?" she asked. 

"No, " the child answered. "Mama had a headache this morning, and Islipped out. You're not keeping your promise. "

Palace Yard, save for a statuesque policeman, was empty. 

"How do you know that my being with him helps him?" asked Joan. 

"You know things when you love anybody, " explained the child. "You feelthem. You will come again, soon?"

Joan did not answer. 

"You're frightened, " the child continued in a passionate, low voice. "Youthink that people will talk about you and look down upon you. Yououghtn't to think about yourself. You ought to think only about him andhis work. Nothing else matters. "

"I am thinking about him and his work, " Joan answered. Her hand soughtHilda's and held it. "There are things you don't understand. Men andwomen can't help each other in the way you think. They may try to, andmean no harm in the beginning, but the harm comes, and then not only thewoman but the man also suffers, and his work is spoilt and his liferuined. "

The small, hot hand clasped Joan's convulsively. 

"But he won't be able to do his work if you keep away and never come backto him, " she persisted. "Oh, I know it. It all depends upon you. Hewants you. "

"And I want him, if that's any consolation to you, " Joan answered with ashort laugh. It wasn't much of a confession. The child was cute enoughto have found that out for herself. "Only you see I can't have him. Andthere's an end of it. "

They had reached the Abbey. Joan turned and they retraced their stepsslowly. 

"I shall be going away soon, for a little while, " she said. The talk hadhelped her to decision. "When I come back I will come and see you all. And you must all come and see me, now and then. I expect I shall have aflat of my own. My father may be coming to live with me. Good-bye. Doall you can to help him. "

She stooped and kissed the child, straining her to her almost fiercely. But the child's lips were cold. She did not look back. 

Miss Greyson was sympathetic towards her desire for a longish holiday andwonderfully helpful; and Mrs. Denton also approved, and, to Joan'ssurprise, kissed her; Mrs. Denton was not given to kissing. She wired toher father, and got his reply the same evening. He would be at her roomson the day she had fixed with his travelling bag, and at her Ladyship'sorders. "With love and many thanks, " he had added. She waited till theday before starting to run round and say good-bye to the Phillipses. Shefelt it would be unwise to try and get out of doing that. Both Phillipsand Hilda, she was thankful, were out; and she and Mrs. Phillips had teaalone together. The talk was difficult, so far as Joan was concerned. Ifthe woman had been possessed of ordinary intuition, she might havearrived at the truth. Joan almost wished she would. It would make herown future task the easier. But Mrs. Phillips, it was clear, was goingto be no help to her. 

For her father's sake, she made pretence of eagerness, but as the seawidened between her and the harbour lights it seemed as if a part ofherself were being torn away from her. 

They travelled leisurely through Holland and the Rhine land, and thathelped a little: the new scenes and interests; and in Switzerland theydiscovered a delightful little village in an upland valley with just onesmall hotel, and decided to stay there for a while, so as to givethemselves time to get their letters. They took long walks and climbs, returning tired and hungry, looking forward to their dinner and theevening talk with the few other guests on the veranda. The days passedrestfully in that hidden valley. The great white mountains closed herin. They seemed so strong and clean. 

It was on the morning they were leaving that a telegram was put into herhands. Mrs. Phillips was ill at lodgings in Folkestone. She hoped thatJoan, on her way back, would come to see her. 

She showed the telegram to her father. "Do you mind, Dad, if we gostraight back?" she asked. 

"No, dear, " he answered, "if you wish it. "

"I would like to go back, " she said. 

CHAPTER XIII

Mrs. Phillips was sitting up in an easy chair near the heavily-curtainedwindows when Joan arrived. It was a pleasant little house in the oldpart of the town, and looked out upon the harbour. She was startlinglythin by comparison with what she had been; but her face was stillpainted. Phillips would run down by the afternoon train whenever hecould get away. She never knew when he was coming, so she explained; andshe could not bear the idea of his finding her "old and ugly. " She hadfought against his wish that she should go into a nursing home; and Joan, who in the course of her work upon the _Nursing Times_ had acquired someknowledge of them as a whole, was inclined to agree with her. She wasquite comfortable where she was. The landlady, according to her account, was a dear. She had sent the nurse out for a walk on getting Joan'swire, so that they could have a cosy chat. She didn't really want muchattendance. It was her heart. It got feeble now and then, and she hadto keep very still; that was all. Joan told how her father had sufferedfor years from much the same complaint. So long as you were carefulthere was no danger. She must take things easily and not excite herself. 

Mrs. Phillips acquiesced. "It's turning me into a lazy-bones, " she saidwith a smile. "I can sit here by the hour, just watching the bustle. Iwas always one for a bit of life. "

The landlady entered with Joan's tea. Joan took an instinctive disliketo her. She was a large, flashy woman, wearing a quantity of cheapjewellery. Her familiarity had about it something almost threatening. Joan waited till she heard the woman's heavy tread descending the stairs, before she expressed her opinion. 

"I think she only means to be cheerful, " explained Mrs. Phillips. "She'squite a good sort, when you know her. " The subject seemed in some way totrouble her, and Joan dropped it. 

They watched the loading of a steamer while Joan drank her tea. 

"He will come this afternoon, I fancy, " said Mrs. Phillips. "I seem tofeel it. He will be able to see you home. "

Joan started. She had been thinking about Phillips, wondering what sheshould say to him when they met. 

"What does he think, " she asked, "about your illness?"

"Oh, it worries him, of course, poor dear, " Mrs. Phillips answered. "Yousee, I've always been such a go-ahead, as a rule. But I think he'sgetting more hopeful. As I tell him, I'll be all right by the autumn. Itwas that spell of hot weather that knocked me over. "

Joan was still looking out of the window. She didn't quite know what tosay. The woman's altered appearance had shocked her. Suddenly she felta touch upon her hand. 

"You'll look after him if anything does happen, won't you?" The woman'seyes were pleading with her. They seemed to have grown larger. "Youknow what I mean, dear, don't you?" she continued. "It will be such acomfort to me to know that it's all right. "

In answer the tears sprang to Joan's eyes. She knelt down and put herarms about the woman. 

"Don't be so silly, " she cried. "There's nothing going to happen. You'regoing to get fat and well again; and live to see him Prime Minister. "

"I am getting thin, ain't I?" she said. "I always wanted to be thin. "They both laughed. 

"But I shan't see him that, even if I do live, " she went on. "He'llnever be that, without you. And I'd be so proud to think that he would. I shouldn't mind going then, " she added. 

Joan did not answer. There seemed no words that would come. 

"You will promise, won't you?" she persisted, in a whisper. "It's only'in case'--just that I needn't worry myself. "

Joan looked up. There was something in the eyes looking down upon herthat seemed to be compelling her. 

"If you'll promise to try and get better, " she answered. 

Mrs. Phillips stooped and kissed her. "Of course, dear, " she said. "Perhaps I shall, now that my mind is easier. "

Phillips came, as Mrs. Phillips had predicted. He was surprised atseeing Joan. He had not thought she could get back so soon. He broughtan evening paper with him. It contained a paragraph to the effect thatMrs. Phillips, wife of the Rt. Hon. Robert Phillips, M. P. , wasprogressing favourably and hoped soon to be sufficiently recovered toreturn to her London residence. It was the first time she had had aparagraph all to herself, headed with her name. She flushed withpleasure; and Joan noticed that, after reading it again, she folded thepaper up small and slipped it into her pocket. The nurse came in fromher walk a little later and took Joan downstairs with her. 

"She ought not to talk to more than one person at a time, " the nurseexplained, with a shake of the head. She was a quiet, business-likewoman. She would not express a definite opinion. 

"It's her mental state that is the trouble, " was all that she would say. "She ought to be getting better. But she doesn't. "

"You're not a Christian Scientist, by any chance?" she asked Joansuddenly. 

"No, " answered Joan. "Surely you're not one?"

"I don't know, " answered the woman. "I believe that would do her moregood than anything else. If she would listen to it. She seems to havelost all will-power. "

The nurse left her; and the landlady came in to lay the table. Sheunderstood that Joan would be dining with Mr. Phillips. There was notrain till the eight-forty. She kept looking at Joan as she moved aboutthe room. Joan was afraid she would begin to talk, but she must havefelt Joan's antagonism for she remained silent. Once their eyes met, andthe woman leered at her. 

Phillips came down looking more cheerful. He had detected improvement inMrs. Phillips. She was more hopeful in herself. They talked in lowtones during the meal, as people do whose thoughts are elsewhere. Ithappened quite suddenly, Phillips explained. They had come down a fewdays after the rising of Parliament. There had been a spell of hotweather; but nothing remarkable. The first attack had occurred aboutthree weeks ago. It was just after Hilda had gone back to school. Hewasn't sure whether he ought to send for Hilda, or not. Her motherdidn't want him to--not just yet. Of course, if she got worse, he wouldhave to. What did Joan think?--did she think there was any real danger?

Joan could not say. So much depended upon the general state of health. There was the case of her own father. Of course she would always besubject to attacks. But this one would have warned her to be careful. 

Phillips thought that living out of town might be better for her, in thefuture--somewhere in Surrey, where he could easily get up and down. Hecould sleep himself at the club on nights when he had to be late. 

They talked without looking at one another. They did not speak aboutthemselves. 

Mrs. Phillips was in bed when Joan went up to say good-bye. "You'll comeagain soon?" she asked, and Joan promised. "You've made me so happy, "she whispered. The nurse was in the room. 

They discussed politics in the train. Phillips had found more supportfor his crusade against Carleton than he had expected. He was going toopen the attack at once, thus forestalling Carleton's opposition to hisland scheme. 

"It isn't going to be the _Daily This_ and the _Daily That_ and the_Weekly the Other_ all combined to down me. I'm going to tell the peoplethat it's Carleton and only Carleton--Carleton here, Carleton there, Carleton everywhere, against them. I'm going to drag him out into theopen and make him put up his own fists. "

Joan undertook to sound Greyson. She was sure Greyson would support him, in his balanced, gentlemanly way, that could nevertheless be quitedeadly. 

They grew less and less afraid of looking at one another as they feltthat darkened room further and further behind them. 

They parted at Charing Cross. Joan would write. They agreed it would bebetter to choose separate days for their visits to Folkestone. 

She ran against Madge in the morning, and invited herself to tea. Herfather had returned to Liverpool, and her own rooms, for some reason, depressed her. Flossie was there with young Halliday. They were bothoff the next morning to his people's place in Devonshire, from where theywere going to get married, and had come to say good-bye. Flossie put Samin the passage and drew-to the door. 

"Have you seen her?" she asked. "How is she?"

"Oh, she's changed a good deal, " answered Joan. "But I think she'll getover it all right, if she's careful. "

"I shall hope for the best, " answered Flossie. "Poor old soul, she's hada good time. Don't send me a present; and then I needn't send youone--when your time comes. It's a silly custom. Besides, I've nowhereto put it. Shall be in a ship for the next six months. Will let youknow when we're back. "

She gave Joan a hug and a kiss, and was gone. Joan joined Madge in thekitchen, where she was toasting buns. 

"I suppose she's satisfied herself that he's brainy, " she laughed. 

"Oh, brains aren't everything, " answered Madge. "Some of the worstrotters the world has ever been cursed with have been brainy enough--menand women. We make too much fuss about brains; just as once upon a timewe did about mere brute strength, thinking that was all that was neededto make a man great. Brain is only muscle translated into civilization. That's not going to save us. "

"You've been thinking, " Joan accused her. "What's put all that into yourhead?"

Madge laughed. "Mixing with so many brainy people, perhaps, " shesuggested; "and wondering what's become of their souls. "

"Be good, sweet child. And let who can be clever, " Joan quoted. "Wouldthat be your text?"

Madge finished buttering her buns. "Kant, wasn't it, " she answered, "whomarvelled chiefly at two things: the starry firmament above him and themoral law within him. And they're one and the same, if he'd only thoughtit out. It's rather big to be good. "

They carried their tea into the sitting-room. 

"Do you really think she'll get over it?" asked Madge. "Or is it one ofthose things one has to say?"

"I think she could, " answered Joan, "if she would pull herself together. It's her lack of will-power that's the trouble. "

Madge did not reply immediately. She was watching the rooks settlingdown for the night in the elm trees just beyond the window. There seemedto be much need of coming and going, of much cawing. 

"I met her pretty often during those months that Helen Lavery was runningher round, " she said at length. "It always seemed to me to have a touchof the heroic, that absurd effort she was making to 'qualify' herself, sothat she might be of use to him. I can see her doing something quitebig, if she thought it would help him. "

The cawing of the rooks grew fainter. One by one they folded theirwings. 

Neither spoke for a while. Later on, they talked about the comingelection. If the Party got back, Phillips would go to the Board ofTrade. It would afford him a better platform for the introduction of hisland scheme. 

"What do you gather is the general opinion?" Joan asked. "That he willsucceed?"

"The general opinion seems to be that his star is in the ascendant, "Madge answered with a smile; "that all things are working together forhis good. It's rather a useful atmosphere to have about one, that. Itbreeds friendship and support!"

Joan looked at her watch. She had an article to finish. Madge stood ontiptoe and kissed her. 

"Don't think me unsympathetic, " she said. "No one will rejoice more thanI shall if God sees fit to call you to good work. But I can't helpletting fall my little tear of fellowship with the weeping. "

"And mind your p's and q's, " she added. "You're in a difficult position. And not all the eyes watching you are friendly. "

Joan bore the germ of worry in her breast as she crossed the Gray's InnGarden. It was a hard law, that of the world: knowing only winners andlosers. Of course, the woman was to be pitied. No one could feel moresorry for her than Joan herself. But what had Madge exactly meant bythose words: that she could "see her doing something really big, " if shethought it would help him? There was no doubt about her affection forhim. It was almost dog-like. And the child, also! There must besomething quite exceptional about him to have won the devotion of twosuch opposite beings. Especially Hilda. It would be hard to imagine anylengths to which Hilda's blind idolatry would not lead her. 

She ran down twice to Folkestone during the following week. Her visitsmade her mind easier. Mrs. Phillips seemed so placid, so contented. There was no suggestion of suffering, either mental or physical. 

She dined with the Greysons the Sunday after, and mooted the question ofthe coming fight with Carleton. Greyson thought Phillips would findplenty of journalistic backing. The concentration of the Press into thehands of a few conscienceless schemers was threatening to reduce thejournalist to a mere hireling, and the better-class men were becomingseriously alarmed. He found in his desk the report of a speech made by awell-known leader writer at a recent dinner of the Press Club. The manhad risen to respond to the toast of his own health and had taken theopportunity to unpack his heart. 

"I am paid a thousand a year, " so Greyson read to them, "for keeping myown opinions out of my paper. Some of you, perhaps, earn more, andothers less; but you're getting it for writing what you're told. If Iwere to be so foolish as to express my honest opinion, I'd be on thestreet, the next morning, looking for another job. "

"The business of the journalist, " the man had continued, "is to destroythe truth, to lie, to pervert, to vilify, to fawn at the feet of Mammon, to sell his soul for his daily bread. We are the tools and vassals ofrich men behind the scenes. We are the jumping-jacks. They pull thestrings and we dance. Our talents, our possibilities, our lives are theproperty of other men. "

"We tried to pretend it was only one of Jack's little jokes, " explainedGreyson as he folded up the cutting; "but it wouldn't work. It was toonear the truth. "

"I don't see what you are going to do, " commented Mary. "So long as menare not afraid to sell their souls, there will always be a Devil's marketfor them. "

Greyson did not so much mind there being a Devil's market, provided hecould be assured of an honest market alongside, so that a man could takehis choice. What he feared was the Devil's steady encroachment, thatcould only end by the closing of the independent market altogether. Hisremedy was the introduction of the American trust law, forbidding any oneman being interested in more than a limited number of journals. 

"But what's the difference, " demanded Joan, "between a man owning onepaper with a circulation of, say, six millions; or owning six with acirculation of a million apiece? By concentrating all his energies onone, a man with Carleton's organizing genius might easily establish asingle journal that would cover the whole field. "

"Just all the difference, " answered Greyson, "between Pooh Bah asChancellor of the Exchequer, or Lord High Admiral, or Chief Executioner, whichever he preferred to be, and Pooh Bah as all the Officers of Staterolled into one. Pooh Bah may be a very able statesman, entitled toexert his legitimate influence. But, after all, his opinion is only theopinion of one old gentleman, with possible prejudices and preconceivedconvictions. The Mikado--or the people, according to locality--wouldlike to hear the views of others of his ministers. He finds that theLord Chancellor and the Lord Chief Justice and the Groom of theBedchamber and the Attorney-General--the whole entire Cabinet, in short, are unanimously of the same opinion as Pooh Bah. He doesn't know it'sonly Pooh Bah speaking from different corners of the stage. Theconsensus of opinion convinces him. One statesman, however eminent, might err in judgment. But half a score of statesmen, all of one mind!One must accept their verdict. "

Mary smiled. "But why shouldn't the good newspaper proprietor hurry upand become a multi-proprietor?" she suggested. "Why don't you persuadeLord Sutcliffe to buy up three or four papers, before they're all gone?"

"Because I don't want the Devil to get hold of him, " answered Greyson. 

"You've got to face this unalterable law, " he continued. "That powerderived from worldly sources can only be employed for worldly purposes. The power conferred by popularity, by wealth, by that ability to make useof other men that we term organization--sooner or later the man whowields that power becomes the Devil's servant. So long as Kingship wasmerely a force struggling against anarchy, it was a holy weapon. As itgrew in power so it degenerated into an instrument of tyranny. TheChurch, so long as it remained a scattered body of meek, lowly men, didthe Lord's work. Enthroned at Rome, it thundered its edicts againsthuman thought. The Press is in danger of following precisely the samehistory. When it wrote in fear of the pillory and of the jail, it foughtfor Liberty. Now it has become the Fourth Estate, it fawns--as JackSwinton said of it--at the feet of Mammon. My Proprietor, good fellow, allows me to cultivate my plot amid the wilderness for other purposesthan those of quick returns. If he were to become a competitor with theCarletons and the Bloomfields, he would have to look upon it as abusiness proposition. The Devil would take him up on to the highmountain, and point out to him the kingdom of huge circulations and vastprofits, whispering to him: 'All this will I give thee, if thou wilt falldown and worship me. ' I don't want the dear good fellow to be tempted. "

"Is it impossible, then, to combine duty and success?" questioned Joan. 

"The combination sometimes happens, by chance, " admitted Greyson. "Butit's dangerous to seek it. It is so easy to persuade ourselves that it'sour duty to succeed. "

"But we must succeed to be of use, " urged Mary. "Must God's servantsalways remain powerless?"

"Powerless to rule. Powerful only to serve, " he answered. "Powerful asChrist was powerful; not as Caesar was powerful--powerful as those whohave suffered and have failed, leaders of forlorn hopes--powerful asthose who have struggled on, despised and vilified; not as those of whomall men speak well--powerful as those who have fought lone battles andhave died, not knowing their own victory. It is those that serve, notthose that rule, shall conquer. "

Joan had never known him quite so serious. Generally there was a touchof irony in his talk, a suggestion of aloofness that had often irritatedher. 

"I wish you would always be yourself, as you are now, " she said, "andnever pose. "

"Do I pose?" he asked, raising his eyebrows. 

"That shows how far it has gone, " she told him, "that you don't even knowit. You pretend to be a philosopher. But you're really a man. "

He laughed. "It isn't always a pose, " he explained. "It's some men'sway of saying: Thy will be done. "

"Ask Phillips to come and see me, " he said. "I can be of more help, if Iknow exactly his views. "

He walked with her to the bus. They passed a corner house that he hadmore than once pointed out to her. It had belonged, years ago, to a well-known artist, who had worked out a wonderful scheme of decoration in thedrawing-room. A board was up, announcing that the house was for sale. Agas lamp, exactly opposite, threw a flood of light upon the huge whitelettering. 

Joan stopped. "Why, it's the house you are always talking about, " shesaid. "Are you thinking of taking it?"

"I did go over it, " he answered. "But it would be rather absurd for justMary and me. "

She looked up Phillips at the House, and gave him Greyson's message. Hehad just returned from Folkestone, and was worried. 

"She was so much better last week, " he explained. "But it never lasts. "

"Poor old girl!" he added. "I believe she'd have been happier if I'dalways remained plain Bob Phillips. "

Joan had promised to go down on the Friday; but finding, on the Thursdaymorning, that it would be difficult, decided to run down that afternooninstead. She thought at first of sending a wire. But in Mrs. Phillips'sstate of health, telegrams were perhaps to be avoided. It could make nodifference. The front door of the little house was standing half open. She called down the kitchen stairs to the landlady, but received noanswer. The woman had probably run out on some short errand. She wentup the stairs softly. The bedroom door, she knew, would be open. Mrs. Phillips had a feeling against being "shut off, " as she called it. Shemeant to tap lightly and walk straight in, as usual. But what she sawthrough the opening caused her to pause. Mrs. Phillips was sitting up inbed with her box of cosmetics in front of her. She was sensitive ofanyone seeing her make-up; and Joan, knowing this, drew back a step. Butfor some reason, she couldn't help watching. Mrs. Phillips dipped abrush into one of the compartments and then remained with it in her hand, as if hesitating. Suddenly she stuck out her tongue and passed the brushover it. At least, so it seemed to Joan. It was only a side view ofMrs. Phillips's face that she was obtaining, and she may have beenmistaken. It might have been the lips. The woman gave a little gasp andsat still for a moment. Then, putting away the brush, she closed the boxand slipped it under the pillow. 

Joan felt her knees trembling. A cold, creeping fear was takingpossession of her. Why, she could not understand. She must have beenmistaken. People don't make-up their tongues. It must have been thelips. And even if not--if the woman had licked the brush! It was asilly trick people do. Perhaps she liked the taste. She pulled herselftogether and tapped at the door. 

Mrs. Phillips gave a little start at seeing her; but was glad that shehad come. Phillips had not been down for two days and she had beenfeeling lonesome. She persisted in talking more than Joan felt was goodfor her. She was feeling so much better, she explained. Joan wasrelieved when the nurse came back from her walk and insisted on her lyingdown. She dropped to sleep while Joan and the nurse were having theirtea. 

Joan went back by the early train. She met some people at the stationthat she knew and travelled up with them. That picture of Mrs. Phillips's tongue just showing beyond the line of Mrs. Phillips's cheekremained at the back of her mind; but it was not until she was alone inher own rooms that she dared let her thoughts return to it. 

The suggestion that was forcing itself into her brain wasmonstrous--unthinkable. That, never possessed of any surplus vitality, and suffering from the added lassitude of illness, the woman should havebecome indifferent--willing to let a life that to her was full of fearsand difficulties slip peacefully away from her, that was possible. Butthat she should exercise thought and ingenuity--that she should havereasoned the thing out and deliberately laid her plans, calculating atevery point on their success; it was inconceivable. 

Besides, what could have put the idea into her head? It was laughable, the presumption that she was a finished actress, capable of deceivingeveryone about her. If she had had an inkling of the truth, Joan, withevery nerve on the alert, almost hoping for it, would have detected it. She had talked with her alone the day before she had left England, andthe woman had been full of hopes and projects for the future. 

That picture of Mrs. Phillips, propped up against the pillows, with hermake-up box upon her knees was still before her when she went to bed. Allnight long it haunted her: whether thinking or dreaming of it, she couldnot tell. 

Suddenly, she sat up with a stifled cry. It seemed as if a flash oflight had been turned upon her, almost blinding her. 

Hilda! Why had she never thought of it? The whole thing was so obvious. "You ought not to think about yourself. You ought to think only of himand of his work. Nothing else matters. " If she could say that to Joan, what might she not have said to her mother who, so clearly, she divinedto be the incubus--the drag upon her father's career? She could hear thechild's dry, passionate tones--could see Mrs. Phillips's flabby cheeksgrow white--the frightened, staring eyes. Where her father was concernedthe child had neither conscience nor compassion. She had waited hertime. It was a few days after Hilda's return to school that Mrs. Phillips had been first taken ill. 

She flung herself from the bed and drew the blind. A chill, grey lightpenetrated the room. It was a little before five. She would go round toPhillips, wake him up. He must be told. 

With her hat in her hands, she paused. No. That would not do. Phillipsmust never know. They must keep the secret to themselves. She would godown and see the woman; reason with her, insist. She went into the otherroom. It was lighter there. The "A. B. C. " was standing in its usualplace upon her desk. There was a train to Folkestone at six-fifteen. Shehad plenty of time. It would be wise to have a cup of tea and somethingto eat. There would be no sense in arriving there with a headache. Shewould want her brain clear. 

It was half-past five when she sat down with her tea in front of her. Itwas only ten minutes' walk to Charing Cross--say a quarter of an hour. She might pick up a cab. She grew calmer as she ate and drank. Herreason seemed to be returning to her. There was no such violent hurry. Hadn't she better think things over, in the clear daylight? The womanhad been ill now for nearly six weeks: a few hours--a day or two--couldmake no difference. It might alarm the poor creature, her unexpectedappearance at such an unusual hour--cause a relapse. Suppose she hadbeen mistaken? Hadn't she better make a few inquiries first--feel herway? One did harm more often than good, acting on impulse. After all, had she the right to interfere? Oughtn't the thing to be thought over asa whole? Mightn't there be arguments, worth considering, against herinterference? Her brain was too much in a whirl. Hadn't she better waittill she could collect and arrange her thoughts?

The silver clock upon her desk struck six. It had been a gift from herfather when she was at Girton. It never obtruded. Its voice was a faintmusical chime that she need not hear unless she cared to listen. Sheturned and looked at it. It seemed to be a little face looking back ather out of its two round, blinkless eyes. For the first time during allthe years that it had watched beside her, she heard its quick, impatienttick. 

She sat motionless, staring at it. The problem, in some way, hadsimplified itself into a contest between herself, demanding time tothink, and the little insistent clock, shouting to her to act upon blindimpulse. If she could remain motionless for another five minutes, shewould have won. 

The ticking of the little clock was filling the room. The thing seemedto have become alive--to be threatening to burst its heart. But thethin, delicate indicator moved on. 

Suddenly its ticking ceased. It had become again a piece of lifelessmechanism. The hands pointed to six minutes past. Joan took off her hatand laid it aside. 

She must think the whole thing over quietly. 

CHAPTER XIV

She could help him. Without her, he would fail. The woman herself sawthat, and wished it. Why should she hesitate? It was not as if she hadonly herself to consider. The fate--the happiness of millions was atstake. He looked to her for aid--for guidance. It must have beenintended. All roads had led to it. Her going to the house. Sheremembered now, it was the first door at which she had knocked. Herfootsteps had surely been directed. Her meeting with Mrs. Phillips inMadge's rooms; and that invitation to dinner, coinciding with that crisisin his life. It was she who had persuaded him to accept. But for her hewould have doubted, wavered, let his opportunities slip by. He hadconfessed it to her. 

And she had promised him. He needed her. The words she had spoken toMadge, not dreaming then of their swift application. They came back toher. "God has called me. He girded His sword upon me. " What right hadshe to leave it rusting in its scabbard, turning aside from the pathwaypointed out to her because of one weak, useless life, crouching in herway. It was not as if she were being asked to do evil herself that goodmight come. The decision had been taken out of her hands. All she hadto do was to remain quiescent, not interfering, awaiting her orders. Herbusiness was with her own part, not with another's. To be willing tosacrifice oneself: that was at the root of all service. Sometimes it wasone's own duty, sometimes that of another. Must one never go forwardbecause another steps out of one's way, voluntarily? Besides, she mighthave been mistaken. That picture, ever before her, of the woman pausingwith the brush above her tongue--that little stilled gasp! It may havebeen but a phantasm, born of her own fevered imagination. She clung tothat, desperately. 

It was the task that had been entrusted to her. How could he hope tosucceed without her. With her, he would be all powerful--accomplish theend for which he had been sent into the world. Society counts for somuch in England. What public man had ever won through without itsassistance. As Greyson had said: it is the dinner-table that rules. Shecould win it over to his side. That mission to Paris that she hadundertaken for Mrs. Denton, that had brought her into contact withdiplomatists, politicians, the leaders and the rulers, the bearers ofnames known and honoured in history. They had accepted her as one ofthemselves. She had influenced them, swayed them. That afternoon atFolk's studio, where all eyes had followed her, where famous men andwomen had waited to attract her notice, had hung upon her words. Even atschool, at college, she had always commanded willing homage. As Greysonhad once told her, it was herself--her personality that was her greatestasset. Was it to be utterly wasted? There were hundreds of impersonal, sexless women, equipped for nothing else, with pens as keen if not keenerthan hers. That was not the talent with which she had been entrusted--forwhich she would have to account. It was her beauty, her power to charm, to draw after her--to compel by the mere exercise of her will. HithertoBeauty had been content to barter itself for mere coin of the realm--forease and luxury and pleasure. She only asked to be allowed to spend itin service. As his wife, she could use it to fine ends. By herself shewas helpless. One must take the world as one finds it. It gives theunmated woman no opportunity to employ the special gifts with which Godhas endowed her--except for evil. As the wife of a rising statesman, shecould be a force for progress. She could become another Madame Roland;gather round her all that was best of English social life; give back toit its lost position in the vanguard of thought. 

She could strengthen him, give him courage. Without her, he would alwaysremain the mere fighter, doubtful of himself. The confidence, theinspiration, necessary for leadership, she alone could bring to him. Eachby themselves was incomplete. Together, they would be the whole. Theywould build the city of their dreams. 

She seemed to have become a wandering spirit rather than a living being. She had no sense of time or place. Once she had started, hearing herselflaugh. She was seated at a table, and was talking. And then she hadpassed back into forgetfulness. Now, from somewhere, she was gazingdownward. Roofs, domes and towers lay stretched before her, emergingfrom a sea of shadows. She held out her arms towards them and the tearscame to her eyes. The poor tired people were calling to her to join withhim to help them. Should she fail them--turn deaf ears to the myriadbecause of pity for one useless, feeble life?

She had been fashioned to be his helpmate, as surely as if she had beenmade of the same bone. Nature was at one with God. Spirit and body bothyearned for him. It was not position--power for herself that she craved. The marriage market--if that had been her desire: it had always been opento her. She had the gold that buys these things. Wealth, ambition: theyhad been offered to her--spread out temptingly before her eyes. Theywere always within her means, if ever she chose to purchase them. It wasthis man alone to whom she had ever felt drawn--this man of the people, with that suggestion about him of something primitive, untamed, causingher always in his presence that faint, compelling thrill of fear, whostirred her blood as none of the polished men of her own class had everdone. His kind, strong, ugly face: it moved beside her: its fearless, tender eyes now pleading, now commanding. 

He needed her. She heard his passionate, low voice, as she had heard itin the little garden above Meudon: "Because you won't be there; andwithout you I can do nothing. " What right had this poor, worn-out shadowto stand between them, to the end? Had love and life no claims, but onlyweakness? She had taken all, had given nothing. It was but reparationshe was making. Why stop her?

She was alone in a maze of narrow, silent streets that ended always in ahigh blank wall. It seemed impossible to get away from this blank wall. Whatever way she turned she was always coming back to it. 

What was she to do? Drag the woman back to life against her will--leadher back to him to be a chain about his feet until the end? Then leavehim to fight the battle alone?

And herself? All her world had been watching and would know. She hadcounted her chickens before they were dead. She had set her cap at theman, reckoning him already widowed; and his wife had come to life andsnatched it from her head. She could hear the laughter--the half amused, half contemptuous pity for her "rotten bad luck. " She would be theirstanding jest, till she was forgotten. 

What would life leave to her? A lonely lodging and a pot of ink that shewould come to hate the smell of. She could never marry. It would be buther body that she could give to any other man. Not even for the sake ofher dreams could she bring herself to that. It might have been possiblebefore, but not now. She could have won the victory over herself, butfor hope, that had kindled the smouldering embers of her passion intoflame. What cunning devil had flung open this door, showing her all herheart's desire, merely that she should be called upon to slam it to inher own face?

A fierce anger blazed up in her brain. Why should she listen? Why hadreason been given to us if we were not to use it--weigh good and evil inthe balance and decide for ourselves where lay the nobler gain? Were weto be led hither and thither like blind children? What was right--whatwrong, but what our own God-given judgment told us? Was it wrong of thewoman to perform this act of self-renunciation, yielding up all things tolove? No, it was great--heroic of her. It would be her cross ofvictory, her crown. 

If the gift were noble, so also it could not be ignoble to accept it. 

To reject it would be to dishonour it. 

She would accept it. The wonder of it should cast out her doubts andfears. She would seek to make herself worthy of it. Consecrate it withher steadfastness, her devotion. 

She thought it ended. But yet she sat there motionless. 

What was plucking at her sleeve--still holding her?

Unknowing, she had entered a small garden. It formed a passage betweentwo streets, and was left open day and night. It was but a narrow stripof rank grass and withered shrubs with an asphalte pathway widening to acircle in the centre, where stood a gas lamp and two seats, facing oneanother. 

And suddenly it came to her that this was her Garden of Gethsemane; and adull laugh broke from her that she could not help. It was such aridiculous apology for Gethsemane. There was not a corner in which onecould possibly pray. Only these two iron seats, one each side of thegaunt gas lamp that glared down upon them. Even the withered shrubs werefenced off behind a railing. A ragged figure sprawled upon the benchopposite to her. It snored gently, and its breath came laden with theodour of cheap whisky. 

But it was her Gethsemane: the best that Fate had been able to do forher. It was here that her choice would be made. She felt that. 

And there rose before her the vision of that other Garden of Gethsemanewith, below it, the soft lights of the city shining through the trees;and above, clear against the starlit sky, the cold, dark cross. 

It was only a little cross, hers, by comparison. She could see that. They seemed to be standing side by side. But then she was only awoman--little more than a girl. And her courage was so small. Shethought He ought to know that. For her, it was quite a big cross. Shewondered if He had been listening to all her arguments. There was reallya good deal of sense in some of them. Perhaps He would understand. Notall His prayer had come down to us. He, too, had put up a fight forlife. He, too, was young. For Him, also, life must have seemed but justbeginning. Perhaps He, too, had felt that His duty still lay among thepeople--teaching, guiding, healing them. To Him, too, life must havebeen sweet with its noble work, its loving comradeship. Even from Himthe words had to be wrung: "Thy will, not Mine, be done. "

She whispered them at last. Not bravely, at all. Feebly, haltingly, with a little sob: her forehead pressed against the cold iron seat, as ifthat could help her. 

She thought that even then God might reconsider it--see her point ofview. Perhaps He would send her a sign. 

The ragged figure on the bench opposite opened its eyes, stared at her;then went to sleep again. A prowling cat paused to rub itself againsther foot, but meeting no response, passed on. Through an open window, somewhere near, filtered the sound of a child's low whimpering. 

It was daylight when she awoke. She was cold and her limbs ached. Slowlyher senses came back to her. The seat opposite was vacant. The gas lampshowed but a faint blue point of flame. Her dress was torn, her bootssoiled and muddy. Strands of her hair had escaped from underneath herhat. 

She looked at her watch. Fortunately it was still early. She would beable to let herself in before anyone was up. It was but a little way. She wondered, while rearranging her hair, what day it was. She wouldfind out, when she got home, from the newspaper. 

In the street she paused a moment and looked back through the railings. It seemed even still more sordid in the daylight: the sooty grass and thewithered shrubs and the asphalte pathway strewn with dirty paper. Andagain a laugh she could not help broke from her. Her Garden ofGethsemane!

She sent a brief letter round to Phillips, and a telegram to the nurse, preparing them for what she meant to do. She had just time to pack asmall trunk and catch the morning train. At Folkestone, she drove firstto a house where she herself had once lodged and fixed things to hersatisfaction. The nurse was waiting for her in the downstairs room, andopened the door to her. She was opposed to Joan's interference. ButJoan had come prepared for that. "Let me have a talk with her, " shesaid. "I think I've found out what it is that is causing all thetrouble. "

The nurse shot her a swift glance. "I'm glad of that, " she said dryly. She let Joan go upstairs. 

Mrs. Phillips was asleep. Joan seated herself beside the bed and waited. She had not yet made herself up for the day and the dyed hair was hiddenbeneath a white, close-fitting cap. The pale, thin face with its closedeyes looked strangely young. Suddenly the thin hands clasped, and herlips moved, as if she were praying in her sleep. Perhaps she also wasdreaming of Gethsemane. It must be quite a crowded garden, if only wecould see it. 

After a while, her eyes opened. Joan drew her chair nearer and slippedher arm in under her, and their eyes met. 

"You're not playing the game, " whispered Joan, shaking her head. "I onlypromised on condition that you would try to get well. "

The woman made no attempt to deny. Something told her that Joan hadlearned her secret. She glanced towards the door. Joan had closed it. 

"Don't drag me back, " she whispered. "It's all finished. " She raisedherself up and put her arms about Joan's neck. "It was hard at first, and I hated you. And then it came to me that this was what I had beenwanting to do, all my life--something to help him, that nobody else coulddo. Don't take it from me. "

"I know, " whispered Joan. "I've been there, too. I knew you were doingit, though I didn't quite know how--till the other day. I wouldn'tthink. I wanted to pretend that I didn't. I know all you can say. I'vebeen listening to it. It was right of you to want to give it all up tome for his sake. But it would be wrong of me to take it. I don't quitesee why. I can't explain it. But I mustn't. So you see it would be nogood. "

"But I'm so useless, " pleaded the woman. 

"I said that, " answered Joan. "I wanted to do it and I talked andtalked, so hard. I said everything I could think of. But that was theonly answer: I mustn't do it. "

They remained for a while with their arms round one another. It struckJoan as curious, even at the time, that all feeling of superiority hadgone out of her. They might have been two puzzled children that had metone another on a path that neither knew. But Joan was the strongercharacter. 

"I want you to give me up that box, " she said, "and to come away with mewhere I can be with you and take care of you until you are well. "

Mrs. Phillips made yet another effort. "Have you thought about him?" sheasked. 

Joan answered with a faint smile. "Oh, yes, " she said. "I didn't forgetthat argument in case it hadn't occurred to the Lord. "

"Perhaps, " she added, "the helpmate theory was intended to apply only toour bodies. There was nothing said about our souls. Perhaps God doesn'thave to work in pairs. Perhaps we were meant to stand alone. "

Mrs. Phillips's thin hands were playing nervously with the bed clothes. There still seemed something that she had to say. As if Joan hadn'tthought of everything. Her eyes were fixed upon the narrow strip oflight between the window curtains. 

"You don't think you could, dear, " she whispered, "if I didn't doanything wicked any more. But just let things take their course. "

"You see, dear, " she went on, her face still turned away, "I thought itall finished. It will be hard for me to go back to him, knowing as I donow that he doesn't want me. I shall always feel that I am in his way. And Hilda, " she added after a pause, "she will hate me. "

Joan looked at the white patient face and was silent. What would be theuse of senseless contradiction. The woman knew. It would only seem anadded stab of mockery. She knelt beside the bed, and took the thin handsin hers. 

"I think God must want you very badly, " she said, "or He wouldn't havelaid so heavy a cross upon you. You will come?"

The woman did not answer in words. The big tears were rolling down hercheeks. There was no paint to mingle with and mar them. She drew thelittle metal box from under the pillow and gave it into Joan's hands. 

Joan crept out softly from the room. 

The nurse was standing by the window. She turned sharply on Joan'sentrance. Joan slipped the box into her hands. 

The nurse raised the lid. "What a fool I've been, " she said. "I neverthought of that. "

She held out a large strong hand and gave Joan a longish grip. "You'reright, " she said, "we must get her out of this house at once. Forgiveme. "

Phillips had been called up north and wired that he would not be able toget down till the Wednesday evening. Joan met him at the station. 

"She won't be expecting you, just yet, " she explained. "We might have alittle walk. "

She waited till they had reached a quiet road leading to the hills. 

"You will find her changed, " she said. "Mentally, I mean. Though shewill try not to show it. She was dying for your sake--to set you free. Hilda seems to have had a talk with her and to have spared her no part ofthe truth. Her great love for you made the sacrifice possible and evenwelcome. It was the one gift she had in her hands. She was giving itgladly, proudly. So far as she was concerned, it would have been kinderto let her make an end of it. But during the last few days I have cometo the conclusion there is a law within us that we may not argue with. She is coming back to life, knowing you no longer want her, that she isonly in the way. Perhaps you may be able to think of something to say ordo that will lessen her martyrdom. I can't. "

They had paused where a group of trees threw a blot of shadow across themoonlit road. 

"You mean she was killing herself?" he asked. 

"Quite cleverly. So as to avoid all danger of after discovery: thatmight have hurt us, " she answered. 

They walked in silence, and coming to a road that led back into the town, he turned down it. She had the feeling she was following him without hisknowing it. A cab was standing outside the gate of a house, having justdischarged its fare. He seemed to have suddenly recollected her. 

"Do you mind?" he said. "We shall get there so much quicker. "

"You go, " she said. "I'll stroll on quietly. "

"You're sure?" he said. 

"I would rather, " she answered. 

It struck her that he was relieved. He gave the man the address, speaking hurriedly, and jumped in. 

She had gone on. She heard the closing of the door behind her, and thenext moment the cab passed her. 

She did not see him again that night. They met in the morning atbreakfast. A curious strangeness to each other seemed to have grown upbetween them, as if they had known one another long ago, and had halfforgotten. When they had finished she rose to leave; but he asked her tostop, and, after the table had been cleared, he walked up and down theroom, while she sat sideways on the window seat from where she couldwatch the little ships moving to and fro across the horizon, like paintedfigures in a show. 

"I had a long talk with Nan last night, " he said. "And, trying toexplain it to her, I came a little nearer to understanding it myself. Mylove for you would have been strong enough to ruin both of us. I seethat now. It would have dominated every other thought in me. It wouldhave swallowed up my dreams. It would have been blind, unscrupulous. Married to you, I should have aimed only at success. It would not havebeen your fault. You would not have known. About mere birth I shouldnever have troubled myself. I've met daughters of a hundred earls--moreor less: clever, jolly little women I could have chucked under the chinand have been chummy with. Nature creates her own ranks, and puts herban upon misalliances. Every time I took you in my arms I should havefelt that you had stepped down from your proper order to mate yourselfwith me and that it was up to me to make the sacrifice good to you bygiving you power--position. Already within the last few weeks, when itlooked as if this thing was going to be possible, I have been thinkingagainst my will of a compromise with Carleton that would give me hissupport. This coming election was beginning to have terrors for me thatI have never before felt. The thought of defeat--having to go back tocomparative poverty, to comparative obscurity, with you as my wife, wasgrowing into a nightmare. I should have wanted wealth, fame, victory, for your sake--to see you honoured, courted, envied, finely dressed andfinely housed--grateful to me for having won for you these things. Itwasn't honest, healthy love--the love that unites, that makes a manwilling to take as well as to give, that I felt for you; it was worshipthat separates a man from a woman, that puts fear between them. It isn'tgood that man should worship a woman. He can't serve God and woman. Their interests are liable to clash. Nan's my helpmate--just a lovingwoman that the Lord brought to me and gave me when I was alone--that Istill love. I didn't know it till last night. She will never stand inmy way. I haven't to put her against my duty. She will leave me free toobey the voice that calls to me. And no man can hear that voice buthimself. "

He had been speaking in a clear, self-confident tone, as if at last hesaw his road before him to the end; and felt that nothing else matteredbut that he should go forward hopefully, unfalteringly. Now he paused, and his eyes wandered. But the lines about his strong mouth deepened. 

"Perhaps, I am not of the stuff that conquerors are made, " he went on. "Perhaps, if I were, I should be thinking differently. It comes to mesometimes that I may be one of those intended only to prepare theway--that for me there may be only the endless struggle. I may have toface unpopularity, abuse, failure. She won't mind. "

"Nor would you, " he added, turning to her suddenly for the first time, "Iknow that. But I should be afraid--for you. "

She had listened to him without interrupting, and even now she did notspeak for a while. 

It was hard not to. She wanted to tell him that he was all wrong--atleast, so far as she was concerned. It. Was not the conqueror she lovedin him; it was the fighter. Not in the hour of triumph but in the hourof despair she would have yearned to put her arms about him. "Unpopularity, abuse, failure, " it was against the fear of such that shewould have guarded him. Yes, she had dreamed of leadership, influence, command. But it was the leadership of the valiant few against the hostsof the oppressors that she claimed. Wealth, honours! Would she havegiven up a life of ease, shut herself off from society, if these had beenher standards? "_Mesalliance_!" Had the male animal no instinct, telling it when it was loved with all a woman's being, so that any otherunion would be her degradation. 

It was better for him he should think as he did. She rose and held outher hand. 

"I will stay with her for a little while, " she said. "Till I feel thereis no more need. Then I must get back to work. "

He looked into her eyes, holding her hand, and she felt his bodytrembling. She knew he was about to speak, and held up a warning hand. 

"That's all, my lad, " she said with a smile. "My love to you, and Godspeed you. "

Mrs. Phillips progressed slowly but steadily. Life was returning to her, but it was not the same. Out of those days there had come to her agentle dignity, a strengthening and refining. The face, now pale anddrawn, had lost its foolishness. Under the thin, white hair, and inspite of its deep lines, it had grown younger. A great patience, a child-like thoughtfulness had come into the quiet eyes. 

She was sitting by the window, her hands folded. Joan had been readingto her, and the chapter finished, she had closed the book and herthoughts had been wandering. Mrs. Phillips's voice recalled them. 

"Do you remember that day, my dear, " she said, "when we went furnishingtogether. And I would have all the wrong things. And you let me. "

"Yes, " answered Joan with a laugh. "They were pretty awful, some ofthem. "

"I was just wondering, " she went on. "It was a pity, wasn't it? I wassilly and began to cry. "

"I expect that was it, " Joan confessed. "It interferes with our reasonat times. "

"It was only a little thing, of course, that, " she answered. "But I'vebeen thinking it must be that that's at the bottom of it all; and that iswhy God lets there be weak things--children and little animals and menand women in pain, that we feel sorry for, so that people like you andRobert and so many others are willing to give up all your lives tohelping them. And that is what He wants. "

"Perhaps God cannot help there being weak things, " answered Joan. "Perhaps He, too, is sorry for them. "

"It comes to the same thing, doesn't it, dear?" she answered. "They arethere, anyhow. And that is how He knows those who are willing to serveHim: by their being pitiful. "

They fell into a silence. Joan found herself dreaming. 

Yes, it was true. It must have been the beginning of all things. Man, pitiless, deaf, blind, groping in the darkness, knowing not even himself. And to her vision, far off, out of the mist, he shaped himself beforeher: that dim, first standard-bearer of the Lord, the man who first feltpity. Savage, brutish, dumb--lonely there amid the desolation, staringdown at some hurt creature, man or beast it mattered not, his dull eyestroubled with a strange new pain he understood not. 

And suddenly, as he stooped, there must have come a great light into hiseyes. 

Man had heard God's voice across the deep, and had made answer. 

CHAPTER XV

The years that followed--till, like some shipwrecked swimmer to whomreturning light reveals the land, she felt new life and hopes come backto her--always remained in her memory vague, confused; a jumble ofevents, thoughts, feelings, without sequence or connection. 

She had gone down to Liverpool, intending to persuade her father to leavethe control of the works to Arthur, and to come and live with her inLondon; but had left without broaching the subject. There were nightswhen she would trapse the streets till she would almost fall exhausted, rather than face the solitude awaiting her in her own rooms. But so alsothere were moods when, like some stricken animal, her instinct was toshun all living things. At such times his presence, for all his lovingpatience, would have been as a knife in her wound. Besides, he wouldalways be there, when escape from herself for a while became an absolutenecessity. More and more she had come to regard him as her comforter. Not from anything he ever said or did. Rather, it seemed to her, becausethat with him she felt no need of words. 

The works, since Arthur had shared the management, had gradually beenregaining their position; and he had urged her to let him increase herallowance. 

"It will give you greater freedom, " he had suggested with fine assumptionof propounding a mere business proposition; "enabling you to choose yourwork entirely for its own sake. I have always wanted to take a hand inhelping things on. It will come to just the same, your doing it for me. "

She had suppressed a smile, and had accepted. "Thanks, Dad, " she hadanswered. "It will be nice, having you as my backer. "

Her admiration of the independent woman had undergone some modificationsince she had come in contact with her. Woman was intended to bedependent upon man. It was the part appointed to him in the socialscheme. Woman had hers, no less important. Earning her own living didnot improve her. It was one of the drawbacks of civilization that somany had to do it of necessity. It developed her on the wronglines--against her nature. This cry of the unsexed: that woman mustalways be the paid servant instead of the helper of man--paid for beingmother, paid for being wife! Why not carry it to its logical conclusion, and insist that she should be paid for her embraces? That she shouldshare in man's labour, in his hopes, that was the true comradeship. Whatmattered it, who held the purse-strings!

Her room was always kept ready for her. Often she would lie there, watching the moonlight creep across the floor; and a curious feelingwould come to her of being something wandering, incomplete. She wouldsee as through a mist the passionate, restless child with the rebelliouseyes to whom the room had once belonged; and later the strangely self-possessed girl with that impalpable veil of mystery around her who wouldstand with folded hands, there by the window, seeming always to belistening. And she, too, had passed away. The tears would come into hereyes, and she would stretch out yearning arms towards their shadowyforms. But they would only turn upon her eyes that saw not, and wouldfade away. 

In the day-time, when Arthur and her father were at the works, she wouldmove through the high, square, stiffly-furnished rooms, or about thegreat formal garden, with its ordered walks and level lawns. And as withknowledge we come to love some old, stern face our childish eyes hadthought forbidding, and would not have it changed, there came to her withthe years a growing fondness for the old, plain brick-built house. Generations of Allways had lived and died there: men and women somewhatnarrow, unsympathetic, a little hard of understanding; but at leastearnest, sincere, seeking to do their duty in their solid, unimaginativeway. Perhaps there were other ways besides those of speech and pen. Perhaps one did better, keeping to one's own people; the very qualitiesthat separated us from them being intended for their need. What matteredthe colours, so that one followed the flag? Somewhere, all roads wouldmeet. 

Arthur had to be in London generally once or twice a month, and it cameto be accepted that he should always call upon her and "take her out. "She had lost the self-sufficiency that had made roaming about London byherself a pleasurable adventure; and a newly-born fear of what peoplewere saying and thinking about her made her shy even of the few friendsshe still clung to, so that his visits grew to be of the nature ofchildish treats to which she found herself looking forward--counting thedays. Also, she came to be dependent upon him for the keeping alightwithin her of that little kindly fire of self-conceit at which we warmour hands in wintry days. It is not good that a young woman shouldremain for long a stranger to her mirror--above her frocks, indifferentto the angle of her hat. She had met the women superior to femininevanities. Handsome enough, some of them must once have been; now sunk inslovenliness, uncleanliness, in disrespect to womanhood. It would not befair to him. The worshipper has his rights. The goddess must rememberalways that she is a goddess--must pull herself together and behave assuch, appearing upon her pedestal becomingly attired; seeing to it thatin all things she is at her best; not allowing private grief to renderher neglectful of this duty. 

She had not told him of the Phillips episode. But she felt instinctivelythat he knew. It was always a little mysterious to her, his perceptionin matters pertaining to herself. 

"I want your love, " she said to him one day. "It helps me. I used tothink it was selfish of me to take it, knowing I could never returnit--not that love. But I no longer feel that now. Your love seems to mea fountain from which I can drink without hurting you. "

"I should love to be with you always, " he answered, "if you wished it. You won't forget your promise?"

She remembered it then. "No, " she answered with a smile. "I shall keepwatch. Perhaps I shall be worthy of it by that time. "

She had lost her faith in journalism as a drum for the rousing of thepeople against wrong. Its beat had led too often to the trickster'sbooth, to the cheap-jack's rostrum. It had lost its rallying power. Thepopular Press had made the newspaper a byword for falsehood. Even itssupporters, while reading it because it pandered to their passions, tickled their vices, and flattered their ignorance, despised anddisbelieved it. Here and there, an honest journal advocated a reform, pleaded for the sweeping away of an injustice. The public shrugged itsshoulders. Another newspaper stunt! A bid for popularity, fornotoriety: with its consequent financial kudos. 

She still continued to write for Greyson, but felt she was labouring forthe doomed. Lord Sutcliffe had died suddenly and his holding in the_Evening Gazette_ had passed to his nephew, a gentleman more interestedin big game shooting than in politics. Greyson's support of Phillips hadbrought him within the net of Carleton's operations, and negotiations forpurchase had already been commenced. She knew that, sooner or later, Greyson would be offered the alternative of either changing his opinionsor of going. And she knew that he would go. Her work for Mrs. Dentonwas less likely to be interfered with. It appealed only to the few, andaimed at informing and explaining rather than directly converting. Usefulenough work in its way, no doubt; but to put heart into it seemed torequire longer views than is given to the eyes of youth. 

Besides, her pen was no longer able to absorb her attention, to keep hermind from wandering. The solitude of her desk gave her the feeling of aprison. Her body made perpetual claims upon her, as though it were somerestless, fretful child, dragging her out into the streets withoutknowing where it wanted to go, discontented with everything it did: thenhurrying her back to fling itself upon a chair, weary, but stilldissatisfied. 

If only she could do something. She was sick of thinking. 

These physical activities into which women were throwing themselves!Where one used one's body as well as one's brain--hastened toappointments; gathered round noisy tables; met fellow human beings, argued with them, walked with them, laughing and talking; forced one'sway through crowds; cheered, shouted; stood up on platforms before a seaof faces; roused applause, filling and emptying one's lungs; metinterruptions with swift flash of wit or anger, faced opposition, danger--felt one's blood surging through one's veins, felt one's nervesquivering with excitement; felt the delirious thrill of passion; felt themad joy of the loosened animal. 

She threw herself into the suffrage movement. It satisfied her for awhile. She had the rare gift of public speaking, and enjoyed hertriumphs. She was temperate, reasonable; persuasive rather thanaggressive; feeling her audience as she went, never losing touch withthem. She had the magnetism that comes of sympathy. Medical studentswho came intending to tell her to go home and mind the baby, remained towonder if man really was the undoubted sovereign of the world, born tolook upon woman as his willing subject; to wonder whether under someunwritten whispered law it might not be the other way about. Perhaps shehad the right--with or without the baby--to move about the kingdom, express her wishes for its care and management. Possibly his doubts maynot have been brought about solely by the force and logic of herarguments. Possibly the voice of Nature is not altogether out of placein discussions upon Humanity's affairs. 

She wanted votes for women. But she wanted them clean--won withoutdishonour. These "monkey tricks"--this apish fury and impatience!Suppose it did hasten by a few months, more or less, the coming of theinevitable. Suppose, by unlawful methods, one could succeed in dragginga reform a little prematurely from the womb of time, did not one endangerthe child's health? Of what value was woman's influence on publicaffairs going to be, if she was to boast that she had won the right toexercise it by unscrupulousness and brutality?

They were to be found at every corner: the reformers who could not reformthemselves. The believers in universal brotherhood who hated half thepeople. The denouncers of tyranny demanding lamp-posts for theiropponents. The bloodthirsty preachers of peace. The moralists who hadpersuaded themselves that every wrong was justified provided one werefighting for the right. The deaf shouters for justice. The excellentintentioned men and women labouring for reforms that could only be hopedfor when greed and prejudice had yielded place to reason, and who soughtto bring about their ends by appeals to passion and self-interest. 

And the insincere, the self-seekers, the self-advertisers! Those whowere in the business for even coarser profit! The lime-light lovers whowould always say and do the clever, the unexpected thing rather than theuseful and the helpful thing: to whom paradox was more than principle. 

Ought there not to be a school for reformers, a training college wherecould be inculcated self-examination, patience, temperance, subordinationto duty; with lectures on the fundamental laws, within which all progressmust be accomplished, outside which lay confusion and explosions; withlectures on history, showing how improvements had been brought about andhow failure had been invited, thus avoiding much waste of reforming zeal;with lectures on the properties and tendencies of human nature, forbidding the attempt to treat it as a sum in rule of three?

There were the others. The men and women not in the lime-light. Thelone, scattered men and women who saw no flag but Pity's ragged skirt;who heard no drum but the world's low cry of pain; who fought with feeblehands against the wrong around them; who with aching heart and troubledeyes laboured to make kinder the little space about them. The great armyof the nameless reformers uncheered, unparagraphed, unhonoured. Theunknown sowers of the seed. Would the reapers of the harvest rememberthem?

Beyond giving up her visits to the house, she had made no attempt toavoid meeting Phillips; and at public functions and at mutual friendsthey sometimes found themselves near to one another. It surprised herthat she could see him, talk to him, and even be alone with him withoutits troubling her. He seemed to belong to a part of her that lay deadand buried--something belonging to her that she had thrust away with herown hands: that she knew would never come back to her. 

She was still interested in his work and keen to help him. It was goingto be a stiff fight. He himself, in spite of Carleton's opposition, hadbeen returned with an increased majority; but the Party as a whole hadsuffered loss, especially in the counties. The struggle centred roundthe agricultural labourer. If he could be won over the Government wouldgo ahead with Phillips's scheme. Otherwise there was danger of its beingshelved. The difficulty was the old problem of how to get at the men ofthe scattered villages, the lonely cottages. The only papers that theyever saw were those, chiefly of the Carleton group, that the farmers andthe gentry took care should come within their reach; that were handed tothem at the end of their day's work as a kindly gift; given to the schoolchildren to take home with them; supplied in ample numbers to all thelittle inns and public-houses. In all these, Phillips was held up astheir arch enemy, his proposal explained as a device to lower theirwages, decrease their chances of employment, and rob them of the produceof their gardens and allotments. No arguments were used. A daily streamof abuse, misrepresentation and deliberate lies, set forth under flamingheadlines, served their simple purpose. The one weekly paper that hadgot itself established among them, that their fathers had always taken, that dimly they had come to look upon as their one friend, Carleton hadat last succeeded in purchasing. When that, too, pictured Phillips'splan as a diabolical intent to take from them even the little that theyhad, and give it to the loafing socialist and the bloated foreigner, noroom for doubt was left to them. 

He had organized volunteer cycle companies of speakers from the towns, young working-men and women and students, to go out on summer eveningsand hold meetings on the village greens. They were winning their way. But it was slow work. And Carleton was countering their efforts by ahired opposition that followed them from place to place, and whoseinterruptions were made use of to represent the whole campaign as afiasco. 

"He's clever, " laughed Phillips. "I'd enjoy the fight, if I'd onlymyself to think of, and life wasn't so short. "

The laugh died away and a shadow fell upon his face. 

"If I could get a few of the big landlords to come in on my side, " hecontinued, "it would make all the difference in the world. They'resensible men, some of them; and the whole thing could be carried outwithout injury to any legitimate interest. I could make them see that, if I could only get them quietly into a corner. "

"But they're frightened of me, " he added, with a shrug of his broadshoulders, "and I don't seem to know how to tackle them. "

Those drawing-rooms? Might not something of the sort be possible? Not, perhaps, the sumptuous salon of her imagination, thronged with the fairand famous, suitably attired. Something, perhaps, more homely, moreimmediately attainable. Some of the women dressed, perhaps, a littledowdily; not all of them young and beautiful. The men wise, perhaps, rather than persistently witty; a few of them prosy, maybe a trifleponderous; but solid and influential. Mrs. Denton's great empty house inGower Street? A central situation and near to the tube. Lords andladies had once ruffled there; trod a measure on its spacious floors;filled its echoing stone hall with their greetings and their partings. The gaping sconces, where their link-boys had extinguished their torches, still capped its grim iron railings. 

Seated in the great, sombre library, Joan hazarded the suggestion. Mrs. Denton might almost have been waiting for it. It would be quite easy. Alittle opening of long fastened windows; a lighting of chill grates; alittle mending of moth-eaten curtains, a sweeping away of long-gathereddust and cobwebs. 

Mrs. Denton knew just the right people. They might be induced to bringtheir sons and daughters--it might be their grandchildren, youth beingthere to welcome them. For Joan, of course, would play her part. 

The lonely woman touched her lightly on the hand. There shot a pleadinglook from the old stern eyes. 

"You will have to imagine yourself my daughter, " she said. "You aretaller, but the colouring was the same. You won't mind, will you?"

The right people did come: Mrs. Denton being a personage that a landedgentry, rendered jumpy by the perpetual explosion of new ideas undertheir very feet, and casting about eagerly for friends, could not affordto snub. A kindly, simple folk, quite intelligent, some of them, asPhillips had surmised. Mrs. Denton made no mystery of why she hadinvited them. Why should all questions be left to the politicians andthe journalists? Why should not the people interested take a hand; meetand talk over these little matters with quiet voices and attentive ears, amid surroundings where the unwritten law would restrain ladies andgentlemen from addressing other ladies and gentlemen as blood-suckers oranarchists, as grinders of the faces of the poor or as oily-tonguedrogues; arguments not really conducive to mutual understanding and thebridging over of differences. The latest Russian dancer, the last newmusical revue, the marvellous things that can happen at golf, the curioushands that one picks up at bridge, the eternal fox, the sacred bird!Excellent material for nine-tenths of our conversation. But theremaining tenth? Would it be such excruciatingly bad form for us to beintelligent, occasionally; say, on one or two Fridays during the season?Mrs. Denton wrapped it up tactfully; but that was her daring suggestion. 

It took them aback at first. There were people who did this sort ofthing. People of no class, who called themselves names and took upthings. But for people of social standing to talk about serioussubjects--except, perhaps, in bed to one's wife! It sounded soun-English. 

With the elders it was sense of duty that prevailed. That, at allevents, was English. The country must be saved. To their sons anddaughters it was the originality, the novelty that gradually appealed. Mrs. Denton's Fridays became a new sensation. It came to be the chic andproper thing to appear at them in shades of mauve or purple. A pushinglittle woman in Hanover Street designed the "Denton" bodice, with hangingsleeves and square-cut neck. The younger men inclined towards a coatshaped to the waist with a roll collar. 

Joan sighed. It looked as if the word had been passed round to treat thewhole thing as a joke. Mrs. Denton took a different view. 

"Nothing better could have happened, " she was of opinion. "It means thattheir hearts are in it. "

The stone hall was still vibrating to the voices of the last departedguests. Joan was seated on a footstool before the fire in front of Mrs. Denton's chair. 

"It's the thing that gives me greatest hope, " she continued. "Thechildishness of men and women. It means that the world is still young, still teachable. "

"But they're so slow at their lessons, " grumbled Joan. "One repeats itand repeats it; and then, when one feels that surely now at least one hasdrummed it into their heads, one finds they have forgotten all that onehas ever said. "

"Not always forgotten, " answered Mrs. Denton; "mislaid, it may be, forthe moment. An Indian student, the son of an old Rajah, called on me alittle while ago. He was going back to organize a system of educationamong his people. 'My father heard you speak when you were over inIndia, ' he told me. 'He has always been thinking about it. ' Thirtyyears ago it must have been, that I undertook that mission to India. Ihad always looked back upon it as one of my many failures. "

"But why leave it to his son, " argued Joan. "Why couldn't the old manhave set about it himself, instead of wasting thirty precious years?"

"I should have preferred it, myself, " agreed Mrs. Denton. "I rememberwhen I was a very little girl my mother longing for a tree upon the lawnunderneath which she could sit. I found an acorn and planted it just inthe right spot. I thought I would surprise her. I happened to be in theneighbourhood last summer, and I walked over. There was such a nice oldlady sitting under it, knitting stockings. So you see it wasn't wasted. "

"I wouldn't mind the waiting, " answered Joan, "if it were not for thesorrow and the suffering that I see all round me. I want to get rid ofit right away, now. I could be patient for myself, but not for others. "

The little old lady straightened herself. There came a hardening of thethin, firm mouth. 

"And those that have gone before?" she demanded. "Those that have wonthe ground from where we are fighting. Had they no need of patience? Wasthe cry never wrung from their lips: 'How long, oh Lord, how long?' Isit for us to lay aside the sword that they bequeath us because we cannothope any more than they to see the far-off victory? Fifty years I havefought, and what, a few years hence, will my closing eyes still see butthe banners of the foe still waving, fresh armies pouring to hisstandard?"

She flung back her head and the grim mouth broke into a smile. 

"But I've won, " she said. "I'm dying further forward. I've helpedadvance the line. "

She put out her hands and drew Joan to her. 

"Let me think of you, " she said, "as taking my place, pushing theoutposts a little further on. "

Joan did not meet Hilda again till the child had grown into awoman--practically speaking. She had always been years older than herage. It was at a reception given in the Foreign Office. Joan's dresshad been trodden on and torn. She had struggled out of the crowd into anempty room, and was examining the damage somewhat ruefully, when sheheard a voice behind her, proffering help. It was a hard, cold voice, that yet sounded familiar, and she turned. 

There was no forgetting those deep, burning eyes, though the face hadchanged. The thin red lips still remained its one touch of colour; butthe unhealthy whiteness of the skin had given place to a delicate pallor;and the features that had been indistinct had shaped themselves in fine, firm lines. It was a beautiful, arresting face, marred only by thesullen callousness of the dark, clouded eyes. 

Joan was glad of the assistance. Hilda produced pins. 

"I always come prepared to these scrimmages, " she explained. "I've gotsome Hazeline in my bag. They haven't kicked you, have they?"

"No, " laughed Joan. "At least, I don't think so. "

"They do sometimes, " answered Hilda, "if you happen to be in the way, near the feeding troughs. If they'd only put all the refreshments intoone room, one could avoid it. But they will scatter them about so thatone never knows for certain whether one is in the danger zone or not. Ihate a mob. "

"Why do you come?" asked Joan. 

"Oh, I!" answered the girl. "I go everywhere where there's a chance ofpicking up a swell husband. They've got to come to these shows, theycan't help themselves. One never knows what incident may give one one'sopportunity. "

Joan shot a glance. The girl was evidently serious. 

"You think it would prove a useful alliance?" she suggested. 

"It would help, undoubtedly, " the girl answered. "I don't see any otherway of getting hold of them. "

Joan seated herself on one of the chairs ranged round the walls, and drewthe girl down beside her. Through the closed door, the mingled voices ofthe Foreign Secretary's guests sounded curiously like the buzzing offlies. 

"It's quite easy, " said Joan, "with your beauty. Especially if you'renot going to be particular. But isn't there danger of your devotion toyour father leading you too far? A marriage founded on a lie--no matterfor what purpose!--mustn't it degrade a woman--smirch her soul for alltime? We have a right to give up the things that belong to ourselves, but not the things that belong to God: our truth, our sincerity, ourcleanliness of mind and body; the things that He may one day want of us. It led you into evil once before. Don't think I'm judging you. I was nobetter than you. I argued just as you must have done. Something stoppedme just in time. That was the only difference between us. "

The girl turned her dark eyes full upon Joan. "What did stop you?" shedemanded. 

"Does it matter what we call it?" answered Joan. "It was a voice. "

"It told me to do it, " answered the girl. 

"Did no other voice speak to you?" asked Joan. 

"Yes, " answered the girl. "The voice of weakness. "

There came a fierce anger into the dark eyes. "Why did you listen toit?" she demanded. "All would have been easy if you hadn't. "

"You mean, " answered Joan quietly, "that if I had let your mother die andhad married your father, that he and I would have loved each other to theend; that I should have helped him and encouraged him in all things, sothat his success would have been certain. Is that the argument?"

"Didn't you love him?" asked the girl, staring. "Wouldn't you havehelped him?"

"I can't tell, " answered Joan. "I should have meant to. Many men andwomen have loved, and have meant to help each other all their lives; andwith the years have drifted asunder; coming even to be against oneanother. We change and our thoughts change; slight differences oftemperament grow into barriers between us; unguessed antagonisms wideninto gulfs. Accidents come into our lives. A friend was telling me theother day of a woman who practically proposed to and married a musicalgenius, purely and solely to be of use to him. She earned quite a bigincome, drawing fashions; and her idea was to relieve him of thenecessity of doing pot-boilers for a living, so that he might devote hiswhole time to his real work. And a few weeks after they were married sheran the point of a lead pencil through her eye and it set up inflammationof her brain. And now all the poor fellow has to think of is how to makeenough to pay for her keep at a private lunatic asylum. I don't mean tobe flippant. It's the very absurdity of it all that makes the mystery oflife--that renders it so hopeless for us to attempt to find our waythrough it by our own judgment. It is like the ants making all theirclever, laborious plans, knowing nothing of chickens and the gardener'sspade. That is why we have to cling to the life we can order forourselves--the life within us. Truth, Justice, Pity. They are thestrong things, the eternal things, the things we've got to sacrificeourselves for--serve with our bodies and our souls. 

"Don't think me a prig, " she pleaded. "I'm talking as if I knew allabout it. I don't really. I grope in the dark; and now and then--atleast so it seems to me--I catch a glint of light. We are powerless inourselves. It is only God working through us that enables us to be ofany use. All we can do is to keep ourselves kind and clean and free fromself, waiting for Him to come to us. "

The girl rose. "I must be getting back, " she said. "Dad will bewondering where I've got to. "

She paused with the door in her hand, and a faint smile played round thethin red lips. 

"Tell me, " she said. "What is God?"

"A Labourer, together with man, according to Saint Paul, " Joan answered. 

The girl turned and went. Joan watched her as she descended the greatstaircase. She moved with a curious, gliding motion, pausing at timesfor the people to make way for her. 

CHAPTER XVI

It was a summer's evening; Joan had dropped in at the Greysons and hadfound Mary alone, Francis not having yet returned from a bachelor dinnerat his uncle's, who was some big pot in the Navy. They sat in thetwilight, facing the open French windows, through which one caught aglimpse of the park. A great stillness seemed to be around them. 

The sale and purchase of the _Evening Gazette_ had been completed a fewdays before. Greyson had been offered the alternative of gradually andgracefully changing his opinions, or getting out; and had, of course, chosen dismissal. He was taking a holiday, as Mary explained with ashort laugh. 

"He had some shares in it himself, hadn't he?" Joan asked. 

"Oh, just enough to be of no use, " Mary answered. "Carleton was ratherdecent, so far as that part of it was concerned, and insisted on payinghim a fair price. The market value would have been much less; and hewanted to be out of it. "

Joan remained silent. It made her mad, that a man could be suddenlyrobbed of fifteen years' labour: the weapon that his heart and brain hadmade keen wrested from his hand by a legal process, and turned againstthe very principles for which all his life he had been fighting. 

"I'm almost more sorry for myself than for him, " said Mary, making awhimsical grimace. "He will start something else, so soon as he's gotover his first soreness; but I'm too old to dream of another child. "

He came in a little later and, seating himself between them, filled andlighted his pipe. Looking back, Joan remembered that curiously none ofthem had spoken. Mary had turned at the sound of his key in the door. She seemed to be watching him intently; but it was too dark to notice herexpression. He pulled at his pipe till it was well alight and thenremoved it. 

"It's war, " he said. 

The words made no immediate impression upon Joan. There had beenrumours, threatenings and alarms, newspaper talk. But so there had beenbefore. It would come one day: the world war that one felt was gatheringin the air; that would burst like a second deluge on the nations. But itwould not be in our time: it was too big. A way out would be found. 

"Is there no hope?" asked Mary. 

"Yes, " he answered. "The hope that a miracle may happen. The Navy's gotits orders. "

And suddenly--as years before in a Paris music hall--there leapt to lifewithin Joan's brain a little impish creature that took possession of her. She hoped the miracle would not happen. The little impish creaturewithin her brain was marching up and down beating a drum. She wished hewould stop a minute. Someone was trying to talk to her, telling her sheought to be tremendously shocked and grieved. He--or she, or whatever itwas that was trying to talk to her, appeared concerned about Reason andPity and Universal Brotherhood and Civilization's clock--things likethat. But the little impish drummer was making such a din, she couldn'tproperly hear. Later on, perhaps, he would get tired; and then she wouldbe able to listen to this humane and sensible person, whoever it mightbe. 

Mary argued that England could and should keep out of it; but Greyson wasconvinced it would be impossible, not to say dishonourable: a sentimentthat won the enthusiastic approval of the little drummer in Joan's brain. He played "Rule Britannia" and "God Save the King, " the "Marseillaise"and the Russian National hymn, all at the same time. He would haveincluded "Deutschland uber Alles, " if Joan hadn't made a supreme effortand stopped him. Evidently a sporting little devil. He took himself offinto a corner after a time, where he played quietly to himself; and Joanwas able to join in the conversation. 

Greyson spoke with an enthusiasm that was unusual to him. So many of ourwars had been mean wars--wars for the wrong; sordid wars for territory, for gold mines; wars against the weak at the bidding of our traders, ourfinanciers. "Shouldering the white man's burden, " we called it. Warsfor the right of selling opium; wars to perpetuate the vile rule of theTurk because it happened to serve our commercial interests. This time, we were out to play the knight; to save the smaller peoples; to rescueour once "sweet enemy, " fair France. Russia was the disturbing thought. It somewhat discounted the knight-errant idea, riding stirrup to stirrupbeside that barbarian horseman. But there were possibilities aboutRussia. Idealism lay hid within that sleeping brain. It would be a holywar for the Kingdom of the Peoples. With Germany freed from the monsterof blood and iron that was crushing out her soul, with Russia awakened tolife, we would build the United States of Europe. Even his voice waschanged. Joan could almost fancy it was some excited schoolboy that wastalking. 

Mary had been clasping and unclasping her hands, a habit of hers whentroubled. Could good ever come out of evil? That was her doubt. Didwar ever do anything but sow the seeds of future violence; substitute oneinjustice for another; change wrong for wrong. Did it ever do anythingbut add to the world's sum of evil, making God's task the heavier?

Suddenly, while speaking, she fell into a passionate fit of weeping. Shewent on through her tears:

"It will be terrible, " she said. "It will last longer than you say. Every nation will be drawn into it. There will be no voice left to speakfor reason. Every day we shall grow more brutalized, more pitiless. Itwill degrade us, crush the soul out of us. Blood and iron! It willbecome our God too: the God of all the world. You say we are going intoit with clean hands, this time. How long will they keep clean? Thepeople who only live for making money: how long do you think they willremain silent? What has been all the talk of the last ten years but ofcapturing German trade. We shall be told that we owe it to our dead tomake a profit out of them; that otherwise they will have died in vain. Who will care for the people but to use them for killing one another--tohound them on like dogs. In every country nothing but greed and hatredwill be preached. Horrible men and women will write to the papers cryingout for more blood, more cruelty. Everything that can make for anger andrevenge will be screamed from every newspaper. Every plea for humanitywill be jeered at as 'sickly sentimentality. ' Every man and woman whoremembers the ideals with which we started will be shrieked at as atraitor. The people who are doing well out of it, they will get hold ofthe Press, appeal to the passions of the mob. Nobody else will beallowed to speak. It always has been so in war. It always will be. Thiswill be no exception merely because it's bigger. Every country will begiven over to savagery. There will be no appeal against it. The wholeworld will sink back into the beast. "

She ended by rising abruptly and wishing them good-night. Her outbursthad silenced Joan's impish drummer, for the time. He appeared to benervous and depressed, but bucked up again on the way to the bus. Greysonwalked with her as usual. They took the long way round by the outercircle. 

"Poor Mary!" he said. "I should not have talked before her if I hadthought. Her horror of war is almost physical. She will not even readabout them. It has the same effect upon her as stories of cruelty. "

"But there's truth in a good deal that she says, " he added. "War canbring out all that is best in a people; but also it brings out the worst. We shall have to take care that the ideals are not lost sight of. "

"I wish this wretched business of the paper hadn't come just at thistime, " said Joan: "just when your voice is most needed. 

"Couldn't you get enough money together to start something quickly, " shecontinued, the idea suddenly coming to her. "I think I could help you. It wouldn't matter its being something small to begin with. So long asit was entirely your own, and couldn't be taken away from you. You'dsoon work it up. "

"Thanks, " he answered. "I may ask you to later on. But just now--" Hepaused. 

Of course. For war you wanted men, to fight. She had been thinking ofthem in the lump: hurrying masses such as one sees on cinema screens, blurred but picturesque. Of course, when you came to think of it, theywould have to be made up of individuals--gallant-hearted, boyish sort ofmen who would pass through doors, one at a time, into little rooms; givetheir name and address to a soldier man seated at a big deal table. Lateron, one would say good-bye to them on crowded platforms, wave ahandkerchief. Not all of them would come back. "You can't makeomelettes without breaking eggs, " she told herself. 

It annoyed her, that silly saying having come into her mind. She couldsee them lying there, with their white faces to the night. Surely shemight have thought of some remark less idiotic to make to herself, atsuch a time. 

He was explaining to her things about the air service. It seemed he hadhad experience in flying--some relation of his with whom he had spent aholiday last summer. 

It would mean his getting out quickly. He seemed quite eager to be gone. 

"Isn't it rather dangerous work?" she asked. She felt it was a footlingquestion even as she asked it. Her brain had become stodgy. 

"Nothing like as dangerous as being in the Infantry, " he answered. "Andthat would be my only other alternative. Besides I get out of thedrilling. " He laughed. "I should hate being shouted at and orderedabout by a husky old sergeant. "

They neither spoke again till they came to the bridge, from the otherside of which the busses started. 

"I may not see you again before I go, " he said. "Look after Mary. Ishall try to persuade her to go down to her aunt in Hampshire. It'srather a bit of luck, as it turns out, the paper being finished with. Ishouldn't have quite known what to do. "

He had stopped at the corner. They were still beneath the shadow of thetrees. Quite unconsciously she put her face up; and as if it had alwaysbeen the custom at their partings, he drew her to him and kissed her;though it really was for the first time. 

She walked home instead of taking the bus. She wanted to think. A dayor two would decide the question. She determined that if the miracle didnot happen, she would go down to Liverpool. Her father was on thecommittee of one of the great hospitals; and she knew one or two of thematrons. She would want to be doing something--to get out to the front, if possible. Maybe, her desire to serve was not altogether free fromcuriosity--from the craving for adventure. There's a spice of the maneven in the best of women. 

Her conscience plagued her when she thought of Mrs. Denton. For sometime now, they had been very close together; and the old lady had come todepend upon her. She waited till all doubt was ended before calling tosay good-bye. Mrs. Denton was seated before an old bureau that had longstood locked in a corner of the library. The drawers were open and booksand papers were scattered about. 

Joan told her plans. "You'll be able to get along without me for alittle while?" she asked doubtfully. 

Mrs. Denton laughed. "I haven't much more to do, " she answered. "Justtidying up, as you see; and two or three half-finished things I shall tryto complete. After that, I'll perhaps take a rest. "

She took from among the litter a faded photograph and handed it to Joan. "Odd, " she said. "I've just turned it out. "

It represented a long, thin line of eminently respectable ladies andgentlemen in early Victorian costume. The men in peg-top trousers andsilk stocks, the women in crinolines and poke bonnets. Among them, holding the hand of a benevolent-looking, stoutish gentleman, was a meregirl. The terminating frills of a white unmentionable garment showedbeneath her skirts. She wore a porkpie hat with a feather in it. 

"My first public appearance, " explained Mrs. Denton. "I teased my fatherinto taking me with him. We represented Great Britain and Ireland. Isuppose I'm the only one left. "

"I shouldn't have recognized you, " laughed Joan. "What was theoccasion?"

"The great International Peace Congress at Paris, " explained Mrs. Denton;"just after the Crimean war. It made quite a stir at the time. TheEmperor opened our proceedings in person, and the Pope and the Archbishopof Canterbury both sent us their blessing. We had a copy of the speechespresented to us on leaving, in every known language in Europe, bound invellum. I'm hoping to find it. And the Press was enthusiastic. Therewere to be Acts of Parliament, Courts of Arbitration, International Laws, Diplomatic Treaties. A Sub-Committee was appointed to prepare a specialset of prayers and a Palace of Peace was to be erected. There was onlyone thing we forgot, and that was the foundation. "

"I may not be here, " she continued, "when the new plans are submitted. Tell them not to forget the foundation this time. Tell them to teach thechildren. "

Joan dined at a popular restaurant that evening. She fancied it mightcheer her up. But the noisy patriotism of the over-fed crowd onlyirritated her. These elderly, flabby men, these fleshy women, who wouldform the spectators, who would loll on their cushioned seats protectedfrom the sun, munching contentedly from their well-provided baskets whilelistening to the dying groans rising upwards from the drenched arena. Sheglanced from one podgy thumb to another and a feeling of nausea creptover her. 

Suddenly the band struck up "God Save the King. " Three commonplaceenough young men, seated at a table near to her, laid down their napkinsand stood up. Yes, there was something to be said for war, she felt, asshe looked at their boyish faces, transfigured. Not for them Business asusual, the Capture of German Trade. Other visions those young eyes wereseeing. The little imp within her brain had seized his drum again. "Follow me"--so he seemed to beat--"I teach men courage, duty, the layingdown of self. I open the gates of honour. I make heroes out of dust. Isn't it worth my price?"

A figure was loitering the other side of the street when she reachedhome. She thought she somehow recognized it, and crossed over. It wasMcKean, smoking his everlasting pipe. Success having demanded some suchchange, he had migrated to "The Albany, " and she had not seen him forsome time. He had come to have a last look at the house--in case itmight happen to be the last. He was off to Scotland the next morning, where he intended to "join up. "

"But are you sure it's your particular duty?" suggested Joan. "I'm toldyou've become a household word both in Germany and France. If we reallyare out to end war and establish the brotherhood of nations, the work youare doing is of more importance than even the killing of Germans. Itisn't as if there wouldn't be enough without you. "

"To tell the truth, " he answered, "that's exactly what I've been sayingto myself. I shan't be any good. I don't see myself sticking a bayonetinto even a German. Unless he happened to be abnormally clumsy. I triedto shoot a rabbit once. I might have done it if the little beggar, instead of running away, hadn't turned and looked at me. "

"I should keep out of it if I were you, " laughed Joan. 

"I can't, " he answered. "I'm too great a coward. "

"An odd reason for enlisting, " thought Joan. 

"I couldn't face it, " he went on; "the way people would be looking at mein trains and omnibuses; the things people would say of me, the things Ishould imagine they were saying; what my valet would be thinking of me. Oh, I'm ashamed enough of myself. It's the artistic temperament, Isuppose. We must always be admired, praised. We're not the stuff thatmartyrs are made of. We must for ever be kow-towing to the cacklinggeese around us. We're so terrified lest they should hiss us. "

The street was empty. They were pacing it slowly, up and down. 

"I've always been a coward, " he continued. "I fell in love with you thefirst day I met you on the stairs. But I dared not tell you. "

"You didn't give me that impression, " answered Joan. 

She had always found it difficult to know when to take him seriously andwhen not. 

"I was so afraid you would find it out, " he explained. 

"You thought I would take advantage of it, " she suggested. 

"One can never be sure of a woman, " he answered. "And it would have beenso difficult. There was a girl down in Scotland, one of the villagegirls. It wasn't anything really. We had just been children together. But they all thought I had gone away to make my fortune so as to comeback and marry her--even my mother. It would have looked so mean ifafter getting on I had married a fine London lady. I could never havegone home again. "

"But you haven't married her--or have you?" asked Joan. 

"No, " he answered. "She wrote me a beautiful letter that I shall alwayskeep, begging me to forgive her, and hoping I might be happy. She hadmarried a young farmer, and was going out to Canada. My mother willnever allow her name to be mentioned in our house. "

They had reached the end of the street again. Joan held out her handwith a laugh. 

"Thanks for the compliment, " she said. "Though I notice you wait tillyou're going away before telling me. "

"But quite seriously, " she added, "give it a little more thought--theenlisting, I mean. The world isn't too rich in kind influences. Itneeds men like you. Come, pull yourself together and show a littlepluck. " She laughed. 

"I'll try, " he promised, "but it won't be any use; I shall drift aboutthe streets, seeking to put heart into myself, but all the while myfootsteps will be bearing me nearer and nearer to the recruiting office;and outside the door some girl in the crowd will smile approval or someold fool will pat me on the shoulder and I shall sneak in and it willclose behind me. It must be fine to have courage. "

He wrote her two days later from Ayr, giving her the name of hisregiment, and again some six months later from Flanders. But there wouldhave been no sense in her replying to that last. 

She lingered in the street by herself, a little time, after he had turnedthe corner. It had been a house of sorrow and disappointment to her; butso also she had dreamed her dreams there, seen her visions. She hadnever made much headway with her landlord and her landlady: a worthycouple, who had proved most excellent servants, but who pridedthemselves, to use their own expression, on knowing their place andkeeping themselves to themselves. Joan had given them notice thatmorning, and had been surprised at the woman's bursting into tears. 

"I felt it just the same when young Mr. McKean left us, " she explainedwith apologies. "He had been with us five years. He was like you, miss, so unpracticable. I'd got used to looking after him. "

Mary Greyson called on her in the morning, while she was still atbreakfast. She had come from seeing Francis off by an early train fromEuston. He had sent Joan a ring. 

"He is so afraid you may not be able to wear it--that it will not fityou, " said Mary, "but I told him I was sure it would. "

Joan held our her hand for the letter. "I was afraid he had forgottenit, " she answered, with a smile. 

She placed the ring on her finger and held out her hand. "I might havebeen measured for it, " she said. "I wonder how he knew. "

"You left a glove behind you, the first day you ever came to our house, "Mary explained. "And I kept it. "

She was following his wishes and going down into the country. They didnot meet again until after the war. 

Madge dropped in on her during the week and brought Flossie with her. Flossie's husband, Sam, had departed for the Navy; and Niel Singleton, who had offered and been rejected for the Army, had joined a Red Crossunit. Madge herself was taking up canteen work. Joan rather expectedFlossie to be in favour of the war, and Madge against it. Instead ofwhich, it turned out the other way round. It seemed difficult toforecast opinion in this matter. 

Madge thought that England, in particular, had been too much given up toluxury and pleasure. There had been too much idleness and emptylaughter: Hitchicoo dances and women undressing themselves upon thestage. Even the working classes seemed to think of nothing else butcinemas and beer. She dreamed of a United Kingdom purified by suffering, cleansed by tears; its people drawn together by memory of commonsacrifice; class antagonism buried in the grave where Duke's son andcook's son would lie side by side: of a new-born Europe rising from theashes of the old. With Germany beaten, her lust of war burnt out, herhideous doctrine of Force proved to be false, the world would breathe afreer air. Passion and hatred would fall from man's eyes. The peoplewould see one another and join hands. 

Flossie was sceptical. "Why hasn't it done it before?" she wanted toknow. "Good Lord! There's been enough of it. "

"Why didn't we all kiss and be friends after the Napoleonic wars?" shedemanded, "instead of getting up Peterloo massacres, and anti-Corn Lawriots, and breaking the Duke of Wellington's windows?"

"All this talk of downing Militarism, " she continued. "It's like tryingto do away with the other sort of disorderly house. You don't stamp outa vice by chivying it round the corner. When men and women have becomedecent there will be no more disorderly houses. But it won't comebefore. Suppose we do knock Militarism out of Germany, like we did outof France, not so very long ago? It will only slip round the corner intoRussia or Japan. Come and settle over here, as likely as not, especiallyif we have a few victories and get to fancy ourselves. "

Madge was of opinion that the world would have had enough of war. Notarmies but whole peoples would be involved this time. The lesson wouldbe driven home. 

"Oh, yes, we shall have had enough of it, " agreed Flossie, "by the timewe've paid up. There's no doubt of that. What about our children? I'vejust left young Frank strutting all over the house and flourishing apaper knife. And the servants have had to bar the kitchen door toprevent his bursting in every five minutes and attacking them. What's hegoing to say when I tell him, later on, that his father and myself havehad all the war we want, and have decided there shall be no more? Theold folks have had their fun. Why shouldn't I have mine? That will behis argument. "

"You can't do it, " she concluded, "unless you are prepared to keep halfthe world's literature away from the children, scrap half your music, edit your museums and your picture galleries; bowdlerize your OldTestament and rewrite your histories. And then you'll have to be carefulfor twenty-four hours a day that they never see a dog-fight. "

Madge still held to her hope. God would make a wind of reason to passover the earth. He would not smite again his people. 

"I wish poor dear Sam could have been kept out of it, " said Flossie. Shewiped her eyes and finished her tea. 

Joan had arranged to leave on the Monday. She ran down to see MaryStopperton on the Saturday afternoon. Mr. Stopperton had died the yearbefore, and Mary had been a little hurt, divining insincerity in thecondolences offered to her by most of her friends. 

"You didn't know him, dear, " she had said to Joan. "All his faults wereon the outside. "

She did not want to talk about the war. 

"Perhaps it's wrong of me, " she said. "But it makes me so sad. And Ican do nothing. "

She had been busy at her machine when Joan had entered; and a pile ofdelicate white work lay folded on a chair beside her. 

"What are you making?" asked Joan. 

The little withered face lighted up. "Guess, " she said, as she unfoldedand displayed a tiny garment. 

"I so love making them, " she said. "I say to myself, 'It will all comeright. God will send more and more of His Christ babies; till at lastthere will be thousands and thousands of them everywhere; and their lovewill change the world!'"

Her bright eyes had caught sight of the ring upon Joan's hand. Shetouched it with her little fragile fingers. 

"You will let me make one for you, dearie, won't you?" she said. "I feelsure it will be a little Christ baby. "

Arthur was still away when she arrived home. He had gone to Norway onbusiness. Her father was afraid he would find it difficult to get back. Telegraphic communication had been stopped, and they had had no news ofhim. Her father was worried. A big Government contract had come in, while many of his best men had left to enlist. 

"I've fixed you up all right at the hospital, " he said. "It was good ofyou to think of coming home. Don't go away, for a bit. " It was thefirst time he had asked anything of her. 

Another fortnight passed before they heard from Arthur, and then he wrotethem both from Hull. He would be somewhere in the North Sea, minesweeping, when they read his letters. He had hoped to get a day or twoto run across and say good-bye; but the need for men was pressing and hehad not liked to plead excuses. The boat by which he had managed toleave Bergen had gone down. He and a few others had been picked up, butthe sights that he had seen were haunting him. He felt sure his unclewould agree that he ought to be helping, and this was work for England hecould do with all his heart. He hoped he was not leaving his uncle inthe lurch; but he did not think the war would last long, and he wouldsoon be back. 

"Dear lad, " said her father, "he would take the most dangerous work thathe could find. But I wish he hadn't been quite so impulsive. He couldhave been of more use helping me with this War Office contract. Isuppose he never got my letter, telling him about it. "

In his letter to Joan he went further. He had received his uncle'sletter, so he confided to her. Perhaps she would think him a crank, buthe couldn't help it. He hated this killing business, this making ofmachinery for slaughtering men in bulk, like they killed pigs in Chicago. Out on the free, sweet sea, helping to keep it clean from man'sabominations, he would be away from it all. 

She saw the vision of him that night, as, leaning from her window, shelooked out beyond the pines: the little lonely ship amid the waste ofwaters; his beautiful, almost womanish, face, and the gentle dreamy eyeswith their haunting suggestion of a shadow. 

Her little drummer played less and less frequently to her as the monthspassed by. It didn't seem to be the war he had looked forward to. Theillustrated papers continued to picture it as a sort of glorified picnicwhere smiling young men lolled luxuriously in cosy dug-outs, readingtheir favourite paper. By curious coincidence, it generally happened tobe the journal publishing the photograph. Occasionally, it appeared, they came across the enemy, who then put up both hands and shouted"Kamerad. " But the weary, wounded men she talked to told another story. 

She grew impatient of the fighters with their mouths; the savage oldbaldheads heroically prepared to sacrifice the last young man; the sleek, purring women who talked childish nonsense about killing every man, womanand child in Germany, but quite meant it; the shrieking journalists whohad decided that their place was the home front; the press-spurred mobs, the spy hunters, chasing terrified old men and sobbing children throughthe streets. It was a relief to enter the quiet ward and close the doorbehind her. The camp-followers: the traders and pedlars, theballadmongers, and the mountebanks, the ghoulish sightseers! War broughtout all that was worst in them. But the givers of their blood, the ladswho suffered, who had made the sacrifice: war had taught them chivalry, manhood. She heard no revilings of hatred and revenge from those drawnlips. Patience, humour, forgiveness, they had learnt from war. Theytold her kindly stories even of Hans and Fritz. 

The little drummer in her brain would creep out of his corner, play toher softly while she moved about among them. 

One day she received a letter from Folk. He had come to London at therequest of the French Government to consult with English artists on amatter he must not mention. He would not have the time, he told her, torun down to Liverpool. Could she get a couple of days' leave and dinewith him in London. 

She found him in the uniform of a French Colonel. He had quite amilitary bearing and seemed pleased with himself. He kissed her hand, and then held her out at arms' length. 

"It's wonderful how like you are to your mother, " he said, "I wish I wereas young as I feel. "

She had written him at the beginning of the war, telling him of her wishto get out to the front, and he thought that now he might be able to helpher. 

"But perhaps you've changed your mind, " he said. "It isn't quite aspretty as it's painted. "

"I want to, " she answered. "It isn't all curiosity. I think it's timefor women to insist on seeing war with their own eyes, not trust anylonger to the pictures you men paint. " She smiled. 

"But I've got to give it up, " she added. "I can't leave Dad. "

They were sitting in the hall of the hotel. It was the dressing hour andthe place was almost empty. He shot a swift glance at her. 

"Arthur is still away, " she explained, "and I feel that he wants me. Ishould be worrying myself, thinking of him all alone with no one to lookafter him. It's the mother instinct I suppose. It always has hamperedwoman. " She laughed. 

"Dear old boy, " he said. He was watching her with a little smile. "I'mglad he's got some luck at last. "

They dined in the great restaurant belonging to the hotel. He was stillvastly pleased with himself as he marched up the crowded room with Joanupon his arm. He held himself upright and talked and laughed perhapslouder than an elderly gentleman should. "Swaggering old beggar, " hemust have overheard a young sub. Mutter as they passed. But he did notseem to mind it. 

They lingered over the meal. Folk was a brilliant talker. Most of themen whose names were filling the newspapers had sat to him at one time oranother. He made them seem quite human. Joan was surprised at the time. 

"Come up to my rooms, will you?" he asked. "There's something I want tosay to you. And then I'll walk back with you. " She was staying at asmall hotel off Jermyn Street. 

He sat her down by the fire and went into the next room. He had a letterin his hand when he returned. Joan noticed that the envelope was writtenupon across the corner, but she was not near enough to distinguish thehandwriting. He placed it on the mantelpiece and sat down opposite her. 

"So you have come to love the dear old chap, " he said. 

"I have always loved him, " Joan answered. "It was he didn't love me, fora time, as I thought. But I know now that he does. "

He was silent for a few moments, and then he leant across and took herhands in his. 

"I am going, " he said, "where there is just the possibility of anaccident: one never knows. I wanted to be sure that all was well withyou. "

He was looking at the ring upon her hand. 

"A soldier boy?" he asked. 

"Yes, " she answered. "If he comes back. " There was a little catch inher voice. 

"I know he'll come back, " he said. "I won't tell you why I am so sure. Perhaps you wouldn't believe. " He was still holding her hands, lookinginto her eyes. 

"Tell me, " he said, "did you see your mother before she died. Did shespeak to you?"

"No, " Joan answered. "I was too late. She had died the night before. Ihardly recognized her when I saw her. She looked so sweet and young. "

"She loved you very dearly, " he said. "Better than herself. All thoseyears of sorrow: they came to her because of that. I thought it foolishof her at the time, but now I know she was wise. I want you always tolove and honour her. I wouldn't ask you if it wasn't right. "

She looked at him and smiled. "It's quite easy, " she answered. "Ialways see her as she lay there with all the sorrow gone from her. Shelooked so beautiful and kind. "

He rose and took the letter from where he had placed it on themantelpiece. He stooped and held it out above the fire and a littleflame leaped up and seemed to take it from his hand. 

They neither spoke during the short walk between the two hotels. But atthe door she turned and held out her hands to him. 

"Thank you, " she said, "for being so kind--and wise. I shall always loveand honour her. "

He kissed her, promising to take care of himself. 

She ran against Phillips, the next day, at one of the big stores whereshe was shopping. He had obtained a commission early in the war and wasnow a captain. He had just come back from the front on leave. Thealternative had not appealed to him, of being one of those responsiblefor sending other men to death while remaining himself in security andcomfort. 

"It's a matter of temperament, " he said. "Somebody's got to stop behindand do the patriotic speechifying. I'm glad I didn't. Especially afterwhat I've seen. "

He had lost interest in politics. 

"There's something bigger coming, " he said. "Here everything seems to begoing on much the same, but over there you feel it. Something growingsilently out of all this blood and mud. I find myself wondering what themen are staring at, but when I look there's nothing as far as my field-glasses will reach but waste and desolation. And it isn't only on thefaces of our own men. It's in the eyes of the prisoners too. As if theysaw something. A funny ending to the war, if the people began to think. "

Mrs. Phillips was running a Convalescent Home in Folkestone, he told her;and had even made a speech. Hilda was doing relief work among the ruinedvillages of France. 

"It's a new world we shall be called upon to build, " he said. "We mustpay more heed to the foundation this time. "

She seldom discussed the war with her father. At the beginning, he haddreamed with Greyson of a short and glorious campaign that should weldall classes together, and after which we should forgive our enemies andshape with them a better world. But as the months went by, he appearedto grow indifferent; and Joan, who got about twelve hours a day of itoutside, welcomed other subjects. 

It surprised her when one evening after dinner he introduced it himself. 

"What are you going to do when it's over?" he asked her. "You won't giveup the fight, will you, whatever happens?" She had not known till thenthat he had been taking any interest in her work. 

"No, " she answered with a laugh, "no matter what happens, I shall alwayswant to be in it. "

"Good lad, " he said, patting her on the shoulder. "It will be an uglyworld that will come out of all this hate and anger. The Lord will wantall the help that He can get. "

"And you don't forget our compact, do you?" he continued, "that I am tobe your backer. I want to be in it too. "

She shot a glance at him. He was looking at the portrait of that oldIronside Allway who had fought and died to make a nobler England, as hehad dreamed. A grim, unprepossessing gentleman, unless the artist haddone him much injustice, with high, narrow forehead, and puzzled, staringeyes. 

She took the cigarette from her lips and her voice trembled a little. 

"I want you to be something more to me than that, sir, " she said. "Iwant to feel that I'm an Allway, fighting for the things we've always hadat heart. I'll try and be worthy of the name. "

Her hand stole out to him across the table, but she kept her face awayfrom him. Until she felt his grasp grow tight, and then she turned andtheir eyes met. 

"You'll be the last of the name, " he said. "Something tells me that. I'mglad you're a fighter. I always prayed my child might be a fighter. "

Arthur had not been home since the beginning of the war. Twice he hadwritten them to expect him, but the little fleet of mine sweepers hadbeen hard pressed, and on both occasions his leave had been stopped atthe last moment. One afternoon he turned up unexpectedly at thehospital. It was a few weeks after the Conscription Act had been passed. 

Joan took him into her room at the end of the ward, from where, throughthe open door, she could still keep watch. They spoke in low tones. 

"It's done you good, " said Joan. "You look every inch the jolly JackTar. " He was hard and tanned, and his eyes were marvellously bright. 

"Yes, " he said, "I love the sea. It's clean and strong. "

A fear was creeping over her. "Why have you come back?" she asked. 

He hesitated, keeping his eyes upon the ground. 

"I don't suppose you will agree with me, " he said. "Somehow I felt I hadto. "

A Conscientious Objector. She might have guessed it. A "Conchy, " asthey would call him in the Press: all the spiteful screamers who hadnever risked a scratch, themselves, denouncing him as a coward. Thelocal Dogberrys of the tribunals would fire off their little stock ofgibes and platitudes upon him, propound with owlish solemnity the newChristianity, abuse him and condemn him, without listening to him. Jeering mobs would follow him through the streets. More than once, oflate, she had encountered such crowds made up of shrieking girls and foul-mouthed men, surging round some white-faced youngster while thewell-dressed passers-by looked on and grinned. 

She came to him and stood over him with her hands upon his shoulders. 

"Must you, dear?" she said. "Can't you reconcile it to yourself--to goon with your work of mercy, of saving poor folks' lives?"

He raised his eyes to hers. The shadow that, to her fancy, had alwaysrested there seemed to have departed. A light had come to them. 

"There are more important things than saving men's bodies. You thinkthat, don't you?" he asked. 

"Yes, " she answered. "I won't try to hold you back, dear, if you thinkyou can do that. "

He caught her hands and held them. 

"I wanted to be a coward, " he said, "to keep out of the fight. I thoughtof the shame, of the petty persecutions--that even you might despise me. But I couldn't. I was always seeing His face before me with Hisbeautiful tender eyes, and the blood drops on His brow. It is He alonecan save the world. It is perishing for want of love; and by a littlesuffering I might be able to help Him. And then one night--I suppose itwas a piece of driftwood--there rose up out of the sea a little crossthat seemed to call to me to stretch out my hand and grasp it, and girdit to my side. "

He had risen. "Don't you see, " he said. "It is only by suffering thatone can help Him. It is the sword that He has chosen--by which one dayHe will conquer the world. And this is such a splendid opportunity tofight for Him. It would be like deserting Him on the eve of a greatbattle. "

She looked into his eager, hopeful eyes. Yes, it had always been so--italways would be, to the end. Not priests and prophets, but ever thatlittle scattered band of glad sufferers for His sake would be His army. His weapon still the cross, till the victory should be won. 

She glanced through the open door to where the poor, broken fellows shealways thought of as "her boys" lay so patient, and then held out herhand to him with a smile, though the tears were in her eyes. 

"So you're like all the rest of them, lad, " she said. "It's for King andcountry. Good luck to you. "

After the war was over and the men, released from their long terms ofsolitary confinement, came back to life injured in mind and body, she wasalmost glad he had escaped. But at the time it filled her soul withdarkness. 

It was one noonday. He had been down to the tribunal and his case hadbeen again adjourned. She was returning from a lecture, and, crossing astreet in the neighbourhood of the docks, found herself suddenly faced byan oncoming crowd. It was yelping and snarling, curiously suggestive ofa pack of hungry wolves. A couple of young soldiers were standing backagainst a wall. 

"Better not go on, nurse, " said one of them. "It's some poor devil of aConchy, I expect. Must have a damned sight more pluck than I should. "

It was the fear that had been haunting her. She did not know how whiteshe had turned. 

"I think it is someone I know, " she said. "Won't you help me?"

The crowd gave way to them, and they had all but reached him. He washatless and bespattered, but his tender eyes had neither fear nor angerin them. She reached out her arms and called to him. Another step andshe would have been beside him, but at the moment a slim, laughing girldarted in front of him and slipped her foot between his legs and he wentdown. 

She heard the joyous yell and the shrill laughter as she struggled wildlyto force her way to him. And then for a moment there was a space and aman with bent body and clenched hands was rushing forward as if upon afootball field, and there came a little sickening thud and then the crowdclosed in again. 

Her strength was gone and she could only wait. More soldiers had come upand were using their fists freely, and gradually the crowd retired, stillsnarling; and they lifted him up and brought him to her. 

"There's a chemist's shop in the next street. We'd better take himthere, " suggested the one who had first spoken to her. And she thankedthem and followed them. 

They made a bed for him with their coats upon the floor, and some of themkept guard outside the shop, while one, putting aside the frightened, useless little chemist, waited upon her, bringing things needful, whileshe cleansed the foulness from his smooth young face, and washed thematted blood from his fair hair, and closed the lids upon his tendereyes, and, stooping, kissed the cold, quiet lips. 

There had been whispered talk among the men, and when she rose the onewho had first spoken to her came forward. He was nervous and stoodstiffly. 

"Beg pardon, nurse, " he said, "but we've sent for a stretcher, as thepolice don't seem in any hurry. Would you like us to take him. Or wouldit upset him, do you think, if he knew?"

"Thank you, " she answered. "He would think it kind of you, I know. "

She had the feeling that he was being borne by comrades. 

CHAPTER XVII

It was from a small operating hospital in a village of the Argonne thatshe first saw the war with her own eyes. 

Her father had wished her to go. Arthur's death had stirred in him theold Puritan blood with its record of long battle for liberty ofconscience. If war claimed to be master of a man's soul, then the newwarfare must be against war. He remembered the saying of a Frenchwomanwho had been through the Franco-Prussian war. Joan, on her return fromParis some years before, had told him of her, repeating her words: "But, of course, it would not do to tell the truth, " the old lady had said, "orwe should have our children growing up to hate war. "

"I'll be lonely and anxious till you come back, " he said. "But that willhave to be my part of the fight. "

She had written to Folk. No female nurses were supposed to be allowedwithin the battle zone; but under pressure of shortage the French staffwere relaxing the rule, and Folk had pledged himself to her discretion. "I am not doing you any kindness, " he had written. "You will have toshare the common hardships and privations, and the danger is real. If Ididn't feel instinctively that underneath your mask of sweetreasonableness you are one of the most obstinate young women God evermade, and that without me you would probably get yourself into a stillworse hole, I'd have refused. " And then followed a list of the thingsshe was to be sure to take with her, including a pound or two ofKeating's insect powder, and a hint that it might save her trouble, ifshe had her hair cut short. 

There was but one other woman at the hospital. It had been a farmhouse. The man and both sons had been killed during the first year of the war, and the woman had asked to be allowed to stay on. Her name was MadameLelanne. She was useful by reason of her great physical strength. Shecould take up a man as he lay and carry him on her outstretched arms. Itwas an expressionless face, with dull, slow-moving eyes that neverchanged. She and Joan shared a small _grenier_ in one of the barns. Joanhad brought with her a camp bedstead; but the woman, wrapping a blanketround her, would creep into a hole she had made for herself among thehay. She never took off her clothes, except the great wooden-soledboots, so far as Joan could discover. 

The medical staff consisted of a Dr. Poujoulet and two assistants. Theauthorities were always promising to send him more help, but it neverarrived. One of the assistants, a Monsieur Dubos, a little man with aremarkably big beard, was a chemist, who, at the outbreak of the war, hadbeen on the verge, as he made sure, of an important discovery inconnection with colour photography. Almost the first question he askedJoan was could she speak German. Finding that she could, he had hurriedher across the yard into a small hut where patients who had borne theiroperation successfully awaited their turn to be moved down to one of theconvalescent hospitals at the base. Among them was a German prisoner, anelderly man, belonging to the Landwehr; in private life a photographer. He also had been making experiments in the direction of colourphotography. Chance had revealed to the two men their common interest, and they had been exchanging notes. The German talked a little French, but not sufficient; and on the day of Joan's arrival they had reached animpasse that was maddening to both of them. Joan found herself upagainst technical terms that rendered her task difficult, but fortunatelyhad brought a dictionary with her, and was able to make them understandone another. But she had to be firm with both of them, allowing themonly ten minutes together at a time. The little Frenchman would kneel bythe bedside, holding the German at an angle where he could talk withleast danger to his wound. It seemed that each was the very man theother had been waiting all his life to meet. They shed tears on oneanother's neck when they parted, making all arrangements to write to oneanother. 

"And you will come and stay with me, " persisted the little Frenchman, "when this affair is finished"--he made an impatient gesture with hishands. "My wife takes much interest. She will be delighted. "

And the big German, again embracing the little Frenchman, had promised, and had sent his compliments to Madame. 

The other was a young priest. He wore the regulation Red Cross uniform, but kept his cassock hanging on a peg behind his bed. He had prettyfrequent occasion to take it down. These small emergency hospitals, within range of the guns, were reserved for only dangerous cases: menwhose wounds would not permit of their being carried further; and therenever was much more than a sporting chance of saving them. They werealways glad to find there was a priest among the staff. Often it was thefirst question they would ask on being lifted out of the ambulance. Eventhose who professed to no religion seemed comforted by the idea. He wentby the title of "Monsieur le Pretre:" Joan never learned his name. Itwas he who had laid out the little cemetery on the opposite side of thevillage street. It had once been an orchard, and some of the trees werestill standing. In the centre, rising out of a pile of rockwork, he hadplaced a crucifix that had been found upon the roadside and hadsurrounded it with flowers. It formed the one bright spot of colour inthe village; and at night time, when all other sounds were hushed, theiron wreaths upon its little crosses, swaying against one another in thewind, would make a low, clear, tinkling music. Joan would sometimes lieawake listening to it. In some way she could not explain it alwaysbrought the thought of children to her mind. 

The doctor himself was a broad-shouldered, bullet-headed man, cleanshaven, with close-cropped, bristly hair. He had curiously square hands, with short, squat fingers. He had been head surgeon in one of the Parishospitals, and had been assigned his present post because of hismarvellous quickness with the knife. The hospital was the nearest to ahill of great strategical importance, and the fighting in theneighbourhood was almost continuous. Often a single ambulance wouldbring in three or four cases, each one demanding instant attention. Dr. Poujoulet, with his hairy arms bare to the shoulder, would polish themoff one after another, with hardly a moment's rest between, not allowingtime even for the washing of the table. Joan would have to summon allher nerve to keep herself from collapsing. At times the need for hastewas such that it was impossible to wait for the anaesthetic to takeeffect. The one redeeming feature was the extraordinary heroism of themen, though occasionally there was nothing for it but to call in theorderlies to hold some poor fellow down, and to deafen one's ears. 

One day, after a successful operation, she was tending a young sergeant. He was a well-built, handsome man, with skin as white as a woman's. Hewatched her with curious indifference in his eyes as she busied herself, trying to make him comfortable, and did nothing to help her. 

"Has Mam'selle ever seen a bull fight?" he asked her. 

"No, " she answered. "I've seen all the horror and cruelty I want to forthe rest of my life. "

"Ah, " he said, "you would understand if you had. When one of the horsesgoes down gored, his entrails lying out upon the sand, you know what theydo, don't you? They put a rope round him, and drag him, groaning, intothe shambles behind. And once there, kind people like you and Monsieurle Medecin tend him and wash him, and put his entrails back, and sew himup again. He thinks it so kind of them--the first time. But the second!He understands. He will be sent back into the arena to be ripped upagain, and again after that. This is the third time I have been wounded, and as soon as you've all patched me up and I've got my breath again, they'll send me back into it. Mam'selle will forgive my not feelinggrateful to her. " He gave a short laugh that brought the blood into hismouth. 

The village consisted of one long straggling street, following the courseof a small stream between two lines of hills. It was on one of the greatlines of communication: and troops and war material passed through it, going and coming, in almost endless procession. It served also as a campof rest. Companies from the trenches would arrive there, generallytowards the evening, weary, listless, dull-eyed, many of them staggeringlike over-driven cattle beneath their mass of burdens. They would flingtheir accoutrements from them and stand in silent groups till thesergeants and corporals returned to lead them to the barns and out-housesthat had been assigned to them, the houses still habitable being mostlyreserved for the officers. Like those of most French villages, they weredrab, plaster-covered buildings without gardens; but some of them werecovered with vines, hiding their ugliness; and the village as a whole, with its groups, here and there, of fine sycamore trees and its greatstone fountain in the centre, was picturesque enough. It had twicechanged hands, and a part of it was in ruins. From one or two of themore solidly built houses merely the front had fallen, leaving the roomsjust as they had always been: the furniture in its accustomed place, thepictures on the walls. They suggested doll's houses standing open. Onewondered when the giant child would come along and close them up. Theiron spire of the little church had been hit twice. It stood above thevillage, twisted into the form of a note of interrogation. In thechurchyard many of the graves had been ripped open. Bones and skulls layscattered about among the shattered tombstones. But, save for a coupleof holes in the roof, the body was still intact, and every afternoon afaint, timid-sounding bell called a few villagers and a sprinkling ofsoldiers to Mass. Most of the inhabitants had fled, but the farmers andshopkeepers had remained. At intervals, the German batteries, searchinground with apparent aimlessness, would drop a score or so of shells aboutthe neighbourhood; but the peasant, with an indifference that was almostanimal, would still follow his ox-drawn plough; the old, bent crone, muttering curses, still ply the hoe. The proprietors of the tiny_epiceries_ must have been rapidly making their fortunes, considering theprices that they charged the unfortunate _poilu_, dreaming of some smallluxury out of his five sous a day. But as one of them, a stout, smilinglady, explained to Joan, with a gesture: "It is not often that one has awar. "

Joan had gone out in September, and for a while the weather was pleasant. The men, wrapped up in their great-coats, would sleep for preferenceunder the great sycamore trees. Through open doorways she would catchglimpses of picturesque groups of eager card-players, crowded round aflickering candle. From the darkness there would steal the sound offlute or zither, of voices singing. Occasionally it would be somestrident ditty of the Paris music-halls, but more often it was sad andplaintive. But early in October the rains commenced and the streambecame a roaring torrent, and a clammy mist lay like a white riverbetween the wooded hills. 

Mud! that seemed to be the one word with which to describe modern war. Mud everywhere! Mud ankle-deep upon the roads; mud into which you sankup to your knees the moment you stepped off it; tents and huts to whichyou waded through the mud, avoiding the slimy gangways on which youslipped and fell; mud-bespattered men, mud-bespattered horses, littledonkeys, looking as if they had been sculptured out of mud, struggling upand down the light railways that every now and then would disappear andbe lost beneath the mud; guns and wagons groaning through the mud;lorries and ambulances, that in the darkness had swerved from thestraight course, overturned and lying abandoned in the mud, motor-cyclists ploughing swift furrows through the mud, rolling it backin liquid streams each side of them; staff cars rushing screaming throughthe mud, followed by a rushing fountain of mud; serried ranks of muddymen stamping through the mud with steady rhythm, moving through a rain ofmud, rising upward from the ground; long lines of motor-buses filled witha mass of muddy humanity packed shoulder to shoulder, rumbling everthrough the endless mud. 

Men sitting by the roadside in the mud, gnawing at unsavoury food; mensquatting by the ditches, examining their sores, washing their bleedingfeet in the muddy water, replacing the muddy rags about their wounds. 

A world without colour. No other colour to be seen beneath the sky butmud. The very buttons on the men's coats painted to make them look likemud. 

Mud and dirt! Dirty faces, dirty hands, dirty clothes, dirty food, dirtybeds; dirty interiors, from which there was never time to wash the mud;dirty linen hanging up to dry, beneath which dirty children played, whiledirty women scolded. Filth and desolation all around. Shatteredfarmsteads half buried in the mud; shattered gardens trampled into mud. Aweary land of foulness, breeding foulness; tangled wire the only harvestof the fields; mile after mile of gaping holes, filled with muddy water;stinking carcases of dead horses; birds of prey clinging to brokenfences, flapping their great wings. 

A land where man died, and vermin increased and multiplied. Vermin onyour body, vermin in your head, vermin in your food, vermin waiting foryou in your bed; vermin the only thing that throve, the only thing thatlooked at you with bright eyes; vermin the only thing to which the joy oflife had still been left. 

Joan had found a liking gradually growing up in her for the quick-moving, curt-tongued doctor. She had dismissed him at first as a mere butcher:his brutal haste, his indifference apparently to the suffering he wascausing, his great, strong, hairy hands, with their squat fingers, hiscold grey eyes. But she learnt as time went by, that his callousness wasa thing that he put on at the same time that he tied his white apronround his waist, and rolled up his sleeves. 

She was resting, after a morning of grim work, on a bench outside thehospital, struggling with clenched, quivering hands against a craving tofling herself upon the ground and sob. And he had found her there; andhad sat down beside her. 

"So you wanted to see it with your own eyes, " he said. He laid his handupon her shoulder, and she had some difficulty in not catching hold ofhim and clinging to him. She was feeling absurdly womanish just at thatmoment. 

"Yes, " she answered. "And I'm glad that I did it, " she added, defiantly. 

"So am I, " he said. "Tell your children what you have seen. Tell otherwomen. "

"It's you women that make war, " he continued. "Oh, I don't mean that youdo it on purpose, but it's in your blood. It comes from the days when tolive it was needful to kill. When a man who was swift and strong to killwas the only thing that could save a woman and her brood. Every otherman that crept towards them through the grass was an enemy, and her onlyhope was that her man might kill him, while she watched and waited. Andlater came the tribe; and instead of the one man creeping through thegrass, the everlasting warfare was against all other tribes. So youloved only the men ever ready and willing to fight, lest you and yourchildren should be carried into slavery: then it was the only way. Youbrought up your boys to be fighters. You told them stories of theirgallant sires. You sang to them the songs of battle: the glory ofkilling and of conquering. You have never unlearnt the lesson. Man haslearnt comradeship--would have travelled further but for you. But womanis still primitive. She would still have her man the hater and thekiller. To the woman the world has never changed. "

"Tell the other women, " he said. "Open their eyes. Tell them of theirsons that you have seen dead and dying in the foolish quarrel for whichthere was no need. Tell them of the foulness, of the cruelty, of thesenselessness of it all. Set the women against War. That is the onlyway to end it. "

It was a morning or two later that, knocking at the door of her loft, heasked her if she would care to come with him to the trenches. He hadbrought an outfit for her which he handed to her with a grin. She hadfollowed Folk's advice and had cut her hair; and when she appeared beforehim for inspection in trousers and overcoat, the collar turned up abouther neck, and reaching to her helmet, he had laughingly pronounced theexperiment safe. 

A motor carried them to where the road ended, and from there, a littleone-horse ambulance took them on to almost the last trees of the forest. There was no life to be seen anywhere. During the last mile, they hadpassed through a continuous double line of graves; here and there a groupof tiny crosses keeping one another company; others standing singly, looking strangely lonesome amid the torn-up earth and shattered trees. But even these had ceased. Death itself seemed to have been frightenedaway from this terror-haunted desert. 

Looking down, she could see thin wreaths of smoke, rising from theground. From underneath her feet there came a low, faint, ceaselessmurmur. 

"Quick, " said the doctor. He pushed her in front of him, and she almostfell down a flight of mud-covered steps that led into the earth. Shefound herself in a long, low gallery, lighted by a dim oil lamp, suspended from the blackened roof. A shelf ran along one side of it, covered with straw. Three men lay there. The straw was soaked withtheir blood. They had been brought in the night before by the stretcher-bearers. A young surgeon was rearranging their splints and bandages, andredressing their wounds. They would lie there for another hour or so, and then start for their twenty kilometre drive over shell-ridden roadsto one or another of the great hospitals at the base. While she wasthere, two more cases were brought in. The doctor gave but a glance atthe first one and then made a sign; and the bearers passed on with him tothe further end of the gallery. He seemed to understand, for he gave alow, despairing cry and the tears sprang to his eyes. He was but a boy. The other had a foot torn off. One of the orderlies gave him two roundpieces of wood to hold in his hands while the young surgeon cut away thehanging flesh and bound up the stump. 

The doctor had been whispering to one of the bearers. He had the face ofan old man, but his shoulders were broad and he looked sturdy. Henodded, and beckoned Joan to follow him up the slippery steps. 

"It is breakfast time, " he explained, as they emerged into the air. "Weleave each other alone for half an hour--even the snipers. But we mustbe careful. " She followed in his footsteps, stooping so low that herhands could have touched the ground. They had to be sure that they didnot step off the narrow track marked with white stones, lest they shouldbe drowned in the mud. They passed the head of a dead horse. It lookedas if it had been cut off and laid there; the body was below it in themud. 

They spoke in whispers, and Joan at first had made an effort to disguiseher voice. But her conductor had smiled. "They shall be called thebrothers and the sisters of the Lord, " he had said. "Mademoiselle isbrave for her Brothers' sake. " He was a priest. There were many priestsamong the stretcher-bearers. 

Crouching close to the ground, behind the spreading roots of a giant oak, she raised her eyes. Before her lay a sea of smooth, soft mud nearly amile wide. From the centre rose a solitary tree, from which all had beenshot away but two bare branches like outstretched arms above the silence. Beyond, the hills rose again. There was something unearthly in thesilence that seemed to brood above that sea of mud. The old priest toldher of the living men, French and German, who had stood there day andnight sunk in it up to their waists, screaming hour after hour, andwaving their arms, sinking into it lower and lower, none able to helpthem: until at last only their screaming heads were left, and after atime these, too, would disappear: and the silence come again. 

She saw the ditches, like long graves dug for the living, where theweary, listless men stood knee-deep in mud, hoping for wounds that wouldrelieve them from the ghastly monotony of their existence; the holes ofmuddy water where the dead things lay, to which they crept out in thenight to wash a little of the filth from their clammy bodies and theirstinking clothes; the holes dug out of the mud in which they ate andslept and lived year after year: till brain and heart and soul seemed tohave died out of them, and they remembered with an effort that they oncewere men. 

* * * * *

After a time, the care of the convalescents passed almost entirely intoJoan's hands, Madame Lelanne being told off to assist her. By dint ofmuch persistence she had succeeded in getting the leaky roof repaired, and in place of the smoky stove that had long been her despair she hadone night procured a fine calorifere by the simple process of stealingit. Madame Lelanne had heard about it from the gossips. It had beenbrought to a lonely house at the end of the village by a major ofengineers. He had returned to the trenches the day before, and the placefor the time being was empty. The thieves were never discovered. Thesentry was positive that no one had passed him but two women, one of themcarrying a baby. Madame Lelanne had dressed it up in a child's cloak andhood, and had carried it in her arms. As it must have weighed nearly acouple of hundred-weight suspicion had not attached to them. 

Space did not allow of any separation; broken Frenchmen and brokenGermans would often lie side by side. Joan would wonder, with a grimsmile to herself, what the patriotic Press of the different countrieswould have thought had they been there to have overheard theconversations. Neither France nor Germany appeared to be the enemy, buta thing called "They, " a mysterious power that worked its will upon themboth from a place they always spoke of as "Back there. " One day the talkfell on courage. A young French soldier was holding forth when Joanentered the hut. 

"It makes me laugh, " he was saying, "all this newspaper talk. Everynation, properly led, fights bravely. It is the male instinct. Women gointo hysterics about it, because it has not been given them. I have theCroix de Guerre with all three leaves, and I haven't half the courage ofmy dog, who weighs twelve kilos, and would face a regiment by himself. Why, a game cock has got more than the best of us. It's the man whodoesn't think, who can't think, who has the most courage--who imaginesnothing, but just goes forward with his head down, like a bull. Thereis, of course, a real courage. When you are by yourself, and have to dosomething in cold blood. But the courage required for rushing forward, shouting and yelling with a lot of other fellows--why, it would take ahundred times more pluck to turn back. "

"They know that, " chimed in the man lying next to him; "or they would notdrug us. Why, when we stormed La Haye I knew nothing until anugly-looking German spat a pint of blood into my face and woke me up. "

A middle-aged sergeant, who had a wound in the stomach and was sitting upin his bed, looked across. "There was a line of Germans came upon us, "he said, "at Bras. I thought I must be suffering from a nightmare when Isaw them. They had thrown away their rifles and had all joined hands. They came dancing towards us just like a row of ballet girls. They wereshrieking and laughing, and they never attempted to do anything. We justwaited until they were close up and then shot them down. It was likekilling a lot of kids who had come to have a game with us. The one Ipotted got his arms round me before he coughed himself out, calling mehis 'liebe Elsa, ' and wanting to kiss me. Lord! You can guess how theBoche ink-slingers spread themselves over that business: 'Sonderbar!Colossal! Unvergessliche Helden. ' Poor devils!"

"They'll give us ginger before it is over, " said another. He had hadboth his lips torn away, and appeared to be always laughing. "Stuff itinto us as if we were horses at a fair. That will make us run forward, right enough. "

"Oh, come, " struck in a youngster who was lying perfectly flat, facedownwards on his bed: it was the position in which he could breatheeasiest. He raised his head a couple of inches and twisted it round soas to get his mouth free. "It isn't as bad as all that. Why, the Thirty-third swarmed into Fort Malmaison of their own accord, though 'twas likejumping into a boiling furnace, and held it for three days against prettynearly a division. There weren't a dozen of them left when we relievedthem. They had no ammunition left. They'd just been filling up the gapswith their bodies. And they wouldn't go back even then. We had to dragthem away. 'They shan't pass, ' 'They shan't pass!'--that's all they keptsaying. " His voice had sunk to a thin whisper. 

A young officer was lying in a corner behind a screen. He leant forwardand pushed it aside. 

"Oh, give the devil his due, you fellows, " he said. "War isn't a prettygame, but it does make for courage. We all know that. And things evenfiner than mere fighting pluck. There was a man in my company, a JacquesDecrusy. He was just a stupid peasant lad. We were crowded into one endof the trench, about a score of us. The rest of it had fallen in, and wecouldn't move. And a bomb dropped into the middle of us; and the sameinstant that it touched the ground Decrusy threw himself flat down uponit and took the whole of it into his body. There was nothing left of himbut scraps. But the rest of us got off. Nobody had drugged him to dothat. There isn't one of us who was in that trench that will not be abetter man to the end of his days, remembering how Jacques Decrusy gavehis life for ours. "

"I'll grant you all that, sir, " answered the young soldier who had firstspoken. He had long, delicate hands and eager, restless eyes. "War doesbring out heroism. So does pestilence and famine. Read Defoe's accountof the Plague of London. How men and women left their safe homes, toserve in the pest-houses, knowing that sooner or later they were doomed. Read of the mothers in India who die of slow starvation, never allowing amorsel of food to pass their lips so that they may save up their ownsmall daily portion to add it to their children's. Why don't we pray toGod not to withhold from us His precious medicine of pestilence andfamine? So is shipwreck a fine school for courage. Look at the chanceit gives the captain to set a fine example. And the engineers who stickto their post with the water pouring in upon them. We don't reconcileourselves to shipwrecks as a necessary school for sailors. We do ourbest to lessen them. So did persecution bring out heroism. It madesaints and martyrs. Why have we done away with it? If this game ofkilling and being killed is the fine school for virtue it is made out tobe, then all our efforts towards law and order have been a mistake. Wenever ought to have emerged from the jungle. "

He took a note-book from under his pillow and commenced to scribble. 

An old-looking man spoke. He lay with his arms folded across his breast, addressing apparently the smoky rafters. He was a Russian, a teacher oflanguages in Paris at the outbreak of the war, and had joined the FrenchArmy. 

"It is not only courage, " he said, "that War brings out. It brings outvile things too. Oh, I'm not thinking merely of the Boches. That's thecant of every nation: that all the heroism is on one side and all thebrutality on the other. Take men from anywhere and some of them will bedevils. War gives them their opportunity, brings out the beast. Can youwonder at it? You teach a man to plunge a bayonet into the writhingflesh of a fellow human being, and twist it round and round and jamb itfurther in, while the blood is spurting from him like a fountain. Whatare you making of him but a beast? A man's got to be a beast before hecan bring himself to do it. I have seen things done by our own men incold blood, the horror of which will haunt my memory until I die. But ofcourse, we hush it up when it happens to be our own people. "

He ceased speaking. No one seemed inclined to break the silence. 

They remained confused in her memory, these talks among the wounded menin the low, dimly lighted hut that had become her world. At times it wasbut two men speaking to one another in whispers, at others every creakingbed would be drawn into the argument. 

One topic that never lost its interest was: Who made wars? Who houndedthe people into them, and kept them there, tearing at one another'sthroats? They never settled it. 

"God knows I didn't want it, speaking personally, " said a German prisonerone day, with a laugh. "I had been working at a printing businesssixteen hours a day for seven years. It was just beginning to pay me, and now my wife writes me that she has had to shut the place up and sellthe machinery to keep them all from starving. "

"But couldn't you have done anything to stop it?" demanded a Frenchman, lying next to him. "All your millions of Socialists, what were they upto? What went wrong with the Internationale, the Universal Brotherhoodof Labour, and all that Tra-la-la?"

The German laughed again. "Oh, they know their business, " he answered. "You have your glass of beer and go to bed, and when you wake up in themorning you find that war has been declared; and you keep your mouthshut--unless you want to be shot for a traitor. Not that it would havemade much difference, " he added. "I admit that. The ground had been toowell prepared. England was envious of our trade. King Edward had beenplotting our destruction. Our papers were full of translations fromyours, talking about '_La Revanche_!' We were told that you had beenlending money to Russia to enable her to build railways, and that whenthey were complete France and Russia would fall upon us suddenly. 'TheFatherland in danger!' It may be lies or it may not; what is one to do?What would you have done--even if you could have done anything?"

"He's right, " said a dreamy-eyed looking man, laying down the book he hadbeen reading. "We should have done just the same. 'My country, right orwrong. ' After all, it is an ideal. "

A dark, black-bearded man raised himself painfully upon his elbow. Hewas a tailor in the Rue Parnesse, and prided himself on a decidedresemblance to Victor Hugo. 

"It's a noble ideal, " he said. "_La Patrie_! The great Mother. Rightor wrong, who shall dare to harm her? Yes, if it was she who rose up inher majesty and called to us. " He laughed. "What does it mean inreality: Germania, Italia, La France, Britannia? Half a score of pompousold muddlers with their fat wives egging them on: sons of the foolsbefore them; talkers who have wormed themselves into power by makingfrothy speeches and fine promises. My Country!" he laughed again. "Lookat them. Can't you see their swelling paunches and their flabby faces?Half a score of ambitious politicians, gouty old financiers, bald-headedold toffs, with their waxed moustaches and false teeth. That's what wemean when we talk about 'My Country': a pack of selfish, soulless, muddle-headed old men. And whether they're right or whether they're wrong, ourduty is to fight at their bidding--to bleed for them, to die for them, that they may grow more sleek and prosperous. " He sank back on hispillow with another laugh. 

Sometimes they agreed it was the newspapers that made war--that fannedevery trivial difference into a vital question of national honour--that, whenever there was any fear of peace, re-stoked the fires of hatred withtheir never-failing stories of atrocities. At other times they decidedit was the capitalists, the traders, scenting profit for themselves. Someheld it was the politicians, dreaming of going down to history asRichelieus or as Bismarcks. A popular theory was that cause for war wasalways discovered by the ruling classes whenever there seemed danger thatthe workers were getting out of hand. In war, you put the common peopleback in their place, revived in them the habits of submission andobedience. Napoleon the Little, it was argued, had started the war of1870 with that idea. Russia had welcomed the present war as an answer tothe Revolution that was threatening Czardom. Others contended it was thegreat munition industries, aided by the military party, the officersimpatient for opportunities of advancement, the strategists eager to puttheir theories to the test. A few of the more philosophical shruggedtheir shoulders. It was the thing itself that sooner or later was boundto go off of its own accord. Half every country's energy, half everycountry's time and money was spent in piling up explosives. In everycountry envy and hatred of every other country was preached as areligion. They called it patriotism. Sooner or later the spark fell. 

A wizened little man had been listening to it all one day. He had acuriously rat-like face, with round, red, twinkling eyes, and a long, pointed nose that twitched as he talked. 

"I'll tell you who makes all the wars, " he said. "It's you and me, mydears: we make the wars. We love them. That's why we open our mouthsand swallow all the twaddle that the papers give us; and cheer the fine, black-coated gentlemen when they tell us it's our sacred duty to killGermans, or Italians, or Russians, or anybody else. We are just crazy tokill something: it doesn't matter what. If it's to be Germans, we shout'_A Berlin_!'; and if it's to be Russians we cheer for Liberty. I was inParis at the time of the Fashoda trouble. How we hissed the English inthe cafes! And how they glared back at us! They were just as eager tokill us. Who makes a dog fight? Why, the dog. Anybody can do it. Whocould make us fight each other, if we didn't want to? Not all the king'shorses and all the King's men. No, my dears, it's we make the wars. Youand me, my dears. "

There came a day in early spring. All night long the guns had neverceased. It sounded like the tireless barking of ten thousand giant dogs. Behind the hills, the whole horizon, like a fiery circle, was ringed withflashing light. Shapeless forms, bent beneath burdens, passed in endlessprocession through the village. Masses of rushing men swept like shadowyphantoms through the fitfully-illumined darkness. Beneath thateverlasting barking, Joan would hear, now the piercing wail of a child;now a clap of thunder that for the moment would drown all other sounds, followed by a faint, low, rumbling crash, like the shooting of coals intoa cellar. The wounded on their beds lay with wide-open, terrified eyes, moving feverishly from side to side. 

At dawn the order came that the hospital was to be evacuated. Theambulances were already waiting in the street. Joan flew up the ladderto her loft, the other side of the yard. Madame Lelanne was alreadythere. She had thrown a few things into a bundle, and her foot was againupon the ladder, when it seemed to her that someone struck her, hurlingher back upon the floor, and the house the other side of the yard rose upinto the air, and then fell quite slowly, and a cloud of dust hid it fromher sight. 

Madame Lelanne must have carried her down the ladder. She was standingin the yard, and the dust was choking her. Across the street, beyond theruins of the hospital, swarms of men were running about like ants whentheir nest has been disturbed. Some were running this way, and somethat. And then they would turn and run back again, making dancingmovements round one another and jostling one another. The guns hadceased; and instead, it sounded as if all the babies in the world wereplaying with their rattles. Suddenly Madame Lelanne reappeared out ofthe dust, and seizing Joan, dragged her through a dark opening and down aflight of steps, and then left her. She was in a great vaulted cellar. Afaint light crept in through a grated window at the other end. There wasa long table against the wall, and in front of it a bench. She staggeredto it and sat down, leaning against the damp wall. The place was verysilent. Suddenly she began to laugh. She tried to stop herself, butcouldn't. And then she heard footsteps descending, and her memory cameback to her with a rush. They were German footsteps, she felt sure bythe sound: they were so slow and heavy. They should not find her inhysterics, anyhow. She fixed her teeth into the wooden table in front ofher and held on to it with clenched hands. She had recovered herselfbefore the footsteps had finished their descent. With a relief that madeit difficult for her not to begin laughing again, she found it was MadameLelanne and Monsieur Dubos. They were carrying something between them. She hardly recognized Dubos at first. His beard was gone, and a line offlaming scars had taken its place. They laid their burden on the table. It was one of the wounded men from the hut. They told her they werebringing down two more. The hut itself had not been hit, but the roofhad been torn off by the force of the explosion, and the others had beenkilled by the falling beams. Joan wanted to return with them, but MadameLelanne had assumed an air of authority, and told her she would be moreuseful where she was. From the top of the steps they threw down bundlesof straw, on which they laid the wounded men, and Joan tended them, whileMadame Lelanne and the little chemist went up and down continuously. Before evening the place, considering all things, was fairly habitable. Madame Lelanne brought down the great stove from the hut; and breaking apane of glass in the barred window, they fixed it up with its chimney andlighted it. From time to time the turmoil above them would break outagain: the rattling, and sometimes a dull rumbling as of rushing water. But only a faint murmur of it penetrated into the cellar. Towards nightit became quiet again. 

How long Joan remained there she was never quite sure. There was littledifference between day and night. After it had been quiet for an hour orso, Madame Lelanne would go out, to return a little later with a woundedman upon her back; and when one died, she would throw him across hershoulder and disappear again up the steps. Sometimes it was a Frenchmanand sometimes a German she brought in. One gathered that the fight forthe village still continued. There was but little they could do for thembeyond dressing their wounds and easing their pain. Joan and the littlechemist took it in turns to relieve one another. If Madame Lelanne everslept, it was when she would sit in the shadow behind the stove, herhands upon her knees. Dubos had been in the house when it had fallen. Madame Lelanne had discovered him pinned against a wall underneath agreat oak beam that had withstood the falling debris. His beard had beenburnt off, but otherwise he had been unharmed. 

She seemed to be living in a dream. She could not shake from her thefeeling that it was not bodies but souls that she was tending. The menthemselves gave colour to this fancy of hers. Stripped of their poor, stained, tattered uniforms, they were neither French nor Germans. Friendor foe! it was already but a memory. Often, awakening out of a sleep, they would look across at one another and smile as to a comrade. A greatpeace seemed to have entered there. Faint murmurs as from some distanttroubled world would steal at times into the silence. It brought a pangof pity, but it did not drive away the quiet that dwelt there. 

Once, someone who must have known the place and had descended the stepssoftly, sat there among them and talked with them. Joan could notremember seeing him enter. Perhaps unknowing, she had fallen to sleepfor a few minutes. Madame Lelanne was seated by the stove, her greatcoarse hands upon her knees, her patient, dull, slow-moving eyes fixedupon the speaker's face. Dubos was half standing, half resting againstthe table, his arms folded upon his breast. The wounded men had raisedthemselves upon the straw and were listening. Some leant upon theirelbows, some sat with their hands clasped round their knees, and one, with head bent down, remained with his face hidden in his hands. 

The speaker sat a little way apart. The light from the oil lamp, suspended from the ceiling, fell upon his face. He wore a peasant'sblouse. It seemed to her a face she knew. Possibly she had passed himin the village street and had looked at him without remembering. It washis eyes that for long years afterwards still haunted her. She did notnotice at the time what language he was speaking. But there were nonewho did not understand him. 

"You think of God as of a great King, " he said, "a Ruler who orders allthings: who could change all things in the twinkling of an eye. You seethe cruelty and the wrong around you. And you say to yourselves: 'He hasordered it. If He would, He could have willed it differently. ' So thatin your hearts you are angry with Him. How could it be otherwise? Whatfather, loving his children, would see them suffer wrong, when bystretching out a hand he could protect them: turn their tears togladness? What father would see his children doing evil to one anotherand not check them: would see them following ways leading to theirdestruction, and not pluck them back? If God has ordered all things, whyhas He created evil, making His creatures weak and sinful? Does a fatherlay snares for his children: leading them into temptation: deliveringthem unto evil?"

"There is no God, apart from Man. "

"God is a spirit. His dwelling-place is in man's heart. We are Hisfellow-labourers. It is through man that He shall one day rule theworld. "

"God is knocking at your heart, but you will not open to Him. You havefilled your hearts with love of self. There is no room for Him to enterin. "

"God whispers to you: 'Be pitiful. Be merciful. Be just. ' But youanswer Him: 'If I am pitiful, I lose my time and money. If I ammerciful, I forego advantage to myself. If I am just, I lessen my ownprofit, and another passes me in the race. '"

"And yet in your inmost thoughts you know that you are wrong: that loveof self brings you no peace. Who is happier than the lover, thinkingonly how to serve? Who is the more joyous: he who sits alone at thetable, or he who shares his meal with a friend? It is more blessed togive than to receive. How can you doubt it? For what do you toil andstrive but that you may give to your children, to your loved ones, reaping the harvest of their good?"

"Who among you is the more honoured? The miser or the giver: he whoheaps up riches for himself or he who labours for others?"

"Who is the true soldier? He who has put away self. His own ease andcomfort, even his own needs, his own safety: they are but as a feather inthe balance when weighed against his love for his comrades, for hiscountry. The true soldier is not afraid to love. He gives his life forhis friend. Do you jeer at him? Do you say he is a fool for his pains?No, it is his honour, his glory. "

"God is love. Why are you afraid to let Him in? Hate knocks also atyour door and to him you open wide. Why are you afraid of love? Allthings are created by love. Hate can but destroy. Why choose you deathinstead of life? God pleads to you. He is waiting for your help. "

And one answered him. 

"We are but poor men, " he said. "What can we do? Of what use are suchas we?"

The young man looked at him and smiled. 

"You can ask that, " he said: "you, a soldier? Does the soldier say: 'Iam of no use. I am but a poor man of no account. Who has need of suchas I?' God has need of all. There is none that shall not help to winthe victory. It is with his life the soldier serves. Who were theywhose teaching moved the world more than it has ever yet been moved bythe teaching of the wisest? They were men of little knowledge, of butlittle learning, poor and lowly. It was with their lives they taught. "

"Cast out self, and God shall enter in, and you shall be One with God. For there is none so lowly that he may not become the Temple of God:there is none so great that he shall be greater than this. "

The speaker ceased. There came a faint sound at which she turned herhead; and when she looked again he was gone. 

The wounded men had heard it also. Dubos had moved forward. MadameLelanne had risen. It came again, the thin, faint shrill of a distantbugle. Footsteps were descending the stairs. French soldiers, laughing, shouting, were crowding round them. 

CHAPTER XVIII

Her father met her at Waterloo. He had business in London, and theystayed on for a few days. Reading between the lines of his laterletters, she had felt that all was not well with him. His old hearttrouble had come back; and she noticed that he walked to meet her veryslowly. It would be all right, now that she had returned, he explained:he had been worrying himself about her. 

Mrs. Denton had died. She had left Joan her library, together with herwonderful collection of note books. She had brought them all up-to-dateand indexed them. They would be invaluable to Francis when he startedthe new paper upon which they had determined. He was still in thehospital at Breganze, near to where his machine had been shot down. Shehad tried to get to him; but it would have meant endless delays; and shehad been anxious about her father. The Italian surgeons were very proudof him, he wrote. They had had him X-rayed before and after; and beyonda slight lameness which gave him, he thought, a touch of distinction, there was no flaw that the most careful scrutiny would be likely todetect. Any day, now, he expected to be discharged. Mary had married anold sweetheart. She had grown restless in the country with nothing todo, and, at the suggestion of some friends, had gone to Bristol to helpin a children's hospital; and there they had met once more. 

Neil Singleton, after serving two years in a cholera hospital at Baghdad, had died of the flu in Dover twenty-fours hours after landing. Madge wasin Palestine. She had been appointed secretary to a committee for theestablishment of native schools. She expected to be there for someyears, she wrote. The work was interesting, and appealed to her. 

Flossie 'phoned her from Paddington Station, the second day, and by luckshe happened to be in. Flossie had just come up from Devonshire. Samhad "got through, " and she was on her way to meet him at Hull. She hadheard of Joan's arrival in London from one of Carleton's illustrateddailies. She brought the paper with her. They had used the oldphotograph that once had adorned each week the _Sunday Post_. Joanhardly recognized herself in the serene, self-confident young woman whoseemed to be looking down upon a world at her feet. The world was strongand cruel, she had discovered; and Joans but small and weak. One had topretend that one was not afraid of it. 

Flossie had joined every society she could hear of that was working forthe League of Nations. Her hope was that it would get itself establishedbefore young Frank grew up. 

"Not that I really believe it will, " she confessed. "A draw might havedisgusted us all with fighting. As it is, half the world is dancing atVictory balls, exhibiting captured guns on every village green, andhanging father's helmet above the mantelpiece; while the other half isnursing its revenge. Young Frank only cares for life because he islooking forward to one day driving a tank. I've made up my mind to burnSam's uniform; but I expect it will end in my wrapping it up in lavenderand hiding it away in a drawer. And then there will be all the books andplays. No self-respecting heroine, for the next ten years will dream ofmarrying anyone but a soldier. "

Joan laughed. "Difficult to get anything else, just at present, " shesaid. "It's the soldiers I'm looking to for help. I don't think the menwho have been there will want their sons to go. It's the women I'mafraid of. "

Flossie caught sight of the clock and jumped up. "Who was it said thatwoman would be the last thing man would civilize?" she asked. 

"It sounds like Meredith, " suggested Joan. "I am not quite sure. "

"Well, he's wrong, anyhow, " retorted Flossie. "It's no good our waitingfor man. He is too much afraid of us to be of any real help to us. Weshall have to do it ourselves. " She gave Joan a hug and was gone. 

Phillips was still abroad with the Army of Occupation. He had tried toget out of it, but had not succeeded. He held it to be gaoler's work;and the sight of the starving populace was stirring in him a fierceanger. 

He would not put up again for Parliament. He was thinking of going backto his old work upon the Union. "Parliament is played out, " he hadwritten her. "Kings and Aristocracies have served their purpose and havegone, and now the Ruling Classes, as they call themselves, must becontent to hear the bell toll for them also. Parliament was neveranything more than an instrument in their hands, and never can be. Whathappens? Once in every five years you wake the people up: tell them thetime has come for them to exercise their Heaven-ordained privilege ofputting a cross against the names of some seven hundred gentlemen whohave kindly expressed their willingness to rule over them. After that, you send the people back to sleep; and for the next five years theseseven hundred gentlemen, consulting no one but themselves, rule over thecountry as absolutely as ever a Caesar ruled over Rome. What sort ofDemocracy is that? Even a Labour Government--supposing that in spite ofthe Press it did win through--what would be its fate? Separated from itsbase, imprisoned within those tradition-haunted walls, it would losetouch with the people, would become in its turn a mere oligarchy. If thepeople are ever to govern they must keep their hand firmly upon themachine; not remain content with pulling a lever and then being shown thedoor. "

She had sent a note by messenger to Mary Stopperton to say she wascoming. Mary had looked very fragile the last time she had seen her, just before leaving for France; and she had felt a fear. Mary hadanswered in her neat, thin, quavering writing, asking her to come earlyin the morning. Sometimes she was a little tired and had to lie downagain. She had been waiting for Joan. She had a present for her. 

The morning promised to be fair, and she decided to walk by way of theEmbankment. The great river with its deep, strong patience had alwaysbeen a friend to her. It was Sunday and the city was still sleeping. Thepale December sun rose above the mist as she reached the corner ofWestminster Bridge, turning the river into silver and flooding the silentstreets with a soft, white, tender light. 

The tower of Chelsea Church brought back to her remembrance of the wheezyold clergyman who had preached there that Sunday evening, that now seemedso long ago, when her footsteps had first taken her that way by chance. Always she had intended making inquiries and discovering his name. Whyhad she never done so? It would surely have been easy. He was someoneshe had known as a child. She had become quite convinced of that. Shecould see his face close to hers as if he had lifted her up in his armsand was smiling at her. But pride and power had looked out of his eyesthen. 

It was earlier than the time she had fixed in her own mind and, pausingwith her elbows resting on the granite parapet, she watched the ceaselesswaters returning to the sea, bearing their burden of impurities. 

"All roads lead to Calvary. " It was curious how the words had dwelt withher, till gradually they had become a part of her creed. She rememberedhow at first they had seemed to her a threat chilling her with fear. Theyhad grown to be a promise, a hope held out to all. The road to Calvary!It was the road to life. By the giving up of self we gained God. 

And suddenly a great peace came to her. One was not alone in the fight, God was with us: the great Comrade. The evil and the cruelty all roundher: she was no longer afraid of it. God was coming. Beyond the menaceof the passing day, black with the war's foul aftermath of evil dreamsand hatreds, she saw the breaking of the distant dawn. The devil shouldnot always triumph. God was gathering His labourers. 

God was conquering. Unceasing through the ages, God's voice had creptround man, seeking entry. Through the long darkness of that dimbeginning, when man knew no law but self, unceasing God had striven:until at last one here and there, emerging from the brute, had heard--hadlistened to the voice of love and pity, and in that hour, unknowing, hadbuilt to God a temple in the wilderness. 

Labourers together with God. The mighty host of those who through theages had heard the voice of God and had made answer. The men and womenin all lands who had made room in their hearts for God. Still nameless, scattered, unknown to one another: still powerless as yet against theworld's foul law of hate, they should continue to increase and multiply, until one day they should speak with God's voice and should be heard. Anda new world should be created. 

God. The tireless Spirit of eternal creation, the Spirit of Love. Whatelse was it that out of formlessness had shaped the spheres, had plannedthe orbits of the suns. The law of gravity we named it. What was it butanother name for Love, the yearning of like for like, the calling to oneanother of the stars. What else but Love had made the worlds, hadgathered together the waters, had fashioned the dry land. The cohesionof elements, so we explained it. The clinging of like to like. Thebrotherhood of the atoms. 

God. The Eternal Creator. Out of matter, lifeless void, he had mouldedHis worlds, had ordered His endless firmament. It was finished. Thegreater task remained: the Universe of mind, of soul. Out of man itshould be created. God in man and man in God: made in like image: fellowlabourers together with one another: together they should build it. Outof the senseless strife and discord, above the chaos and the tumultshould be heard the new command: "Let there be Love. "

The striking of the old church clock recalled her to herself. But shehad only a few minutes' walk before her. Mary had given up her Churchwork. It included the cleaning, and she had found it beyond her failingstrength. But she still lived in the tiny cottage behind its long stripof garden. The door yielded to Joan's touch: it was seldom fast closed. And knowing Mary's ways, she entered without knocking and pushed it tobehind her, leaving it still ajar. 

And as she did so, it seemed to her that someone passing breathed uponher lips a little kiss: and for a while she did not move. Then, treadingsoftly, she looked into the room. 

It welcomed her, as always, with its smile of cosy neatness. Thespotless curtains that were Mary's pride: the gay flowers in the window, to which she had given children's names: the few poor pieces offurniture, polished with much loving labour: the shining grate: thefoolish china dogs and the little china house between them on themantelpiece. The fire was burning brightly, and the kettle was singingon the hob. 

Mary's work was finished. She sat upright in her straight-backed chairbefore the table, her eyes half closed. It seemed so odd to see thoselittle work-worn hands idle upon her lap. 

Joan's present lay on the table near to her, as if she had just folded itand placed it there: the little cap and the fine robe of lawn: as if fora king's child. 

Joan had never thought that Death could be so beautiful. It was as ifsome friend had looked in at the door, and, seeing her so tired, hadtaken the work gently from her hands, and had folded them upon her lap. And she had yielded with a smile. 

Joan heard a faint rustle and looked up. A woman had entered. It wasthe girl she had met there on a Christmas Day, a Miss Ensor. Joan hadmet her once or twice since then. She was still in the chorus. Neitherof them spoke for a few minutes. 

"I have been expecting every morning to find her gone, " said the girl. "Ithink she only waited to finish this. " She gently unfolded the fine lawnrobe, and they saw the delicate insertion and the wonderful, embroidery. 

"I asked her once, " said the girl, "why she wasted so much work on them. They were mostly only for poor people. 'One never knows, dearie, ' sheanswered, with that childish smile of hers. 'It may be for a littleChrist. '"

They would not let less loving hands come near her. 

* * * * *

Her father had completed his business, and both were glad to leaveLondon. She had a sense of something sinister, foreboding, casting itsshadow on the sordid, unclean streets, the neglected buildings fallinginto disrepair. A lurking savagery, a half-veiled enmity seemed to bestealing among the people. The town's mad lust for pleasure: its fierce, unjoyous laughter: its desire ever to be in crowds as if afraid ofitself: its orgies of eating and drinking: its animal-like indifferenceto the misery and death that lay but a little way beyond its own horizon!She dared not remember history. Perhaps it would pass. 

The long, slow journey tried her father's strength, and assuming anauthority to which he yielded obedience tempered by grumbling, Joan senthim to bed, and would not let him come down till Christmas Day. The big, square house was on the outskirts of the town where it was quiet, and inthe afternoon they walked in the garden sheltered behind its high brickwall. 

He told her of what had been done at the works. Arthur's plan hadsucceeded. It might not be the last word, but at least it was on theroad to the right end. The men had been brought into it and shared themanagement. And the disasters predicted had proved groundless. 

"You won't be able to indulge in all your mad schemes, " he laughed, "butthere'll be enough to help on a few. And you will be among friends. Arthur told me he had explained it to you and that you had agreed. "

"Yes, " she answered. "It was the last time he came to see me in London. And I could not help feeling a bit jealous. He was doing things while Iwas writing and talking. But I was glad he was an Allway. It will beknown as the Allway scheme. New ways will date from it. "

She had thought it time for him to return indoors, but he pleaded for avisit to his beloved roses. He prided himself on being always able topick roses on Christmas Day. 

"This young man of yours, " he asked, "what is he like?"

"Oh, just a Christian gentleman, " she answered. "You will love him whenyou know him. "

He laughed. "And this new journal of his?" he asked. "It's got to bepublished in London, hasn't it?"

She gave a slight start, for in their letters to one another they hadbeen discussing this very point. 

"No, " she answered, "it could be circulated just as well from, say, Birmingham or Manchester. "

He was choosing his roses. They held their petals wrapped tight roundthem, trying to keep the cold from their brave hearts. In the warmththey would open out and be gay, until the end. 

"Not Liverpool?" he suggested. 

"Or even Liverpool, " she laughed. 

They looked at one another, and then beyond the sheltering evergreens andthe wide lawns to where the great square house seemed to be listening. 

"It's an ugly old thing, " he said. 

"No, it isn't, " she contradicted. "It's simple and big and kind. Ialways used to feel it disapproved of me. I believe it has come to loveme, in its solemn old brick way. "

"It was built by Kent in seventeen-forty for your great-greatgrandfather, " he explained. He was regarding it more affectionately. "Solid respectability was the dream, then. "

"I think that's why I love it, " she said: "for it's dear, old-fashionedways. We will teach it the new dreams, too. It will be so shocked, atfirst. "

They dined in state in the great dining-room. 

"I was going to buy you a present, " he grumbled. "But you wouldn't letme get up. "

"I want to give you something quite expensive, Dad, " she said. "I've hadmy eye on it for years. "

She slipped her hand in his. "I want you to give me that Dream of yours;that you built for my mother, and that all went wrong. They call itAllway's Folly; and it makes me so mad. I want to make it all come true. May I try?"

* * * * *

It was there that he came to her. 

She stood beneath the withered trees, beside the shattered fountain. Thesad-faced ghosts peeped out at her from the broken windows of the littlesilent houses. 

She wondered later why she had not been surprised to see him. But at thetime it seemed to be in the order of things that she should look up andfind him there. 

She went to him with outstretched arms. 

"I'm so glad you've come, " she said. "I was just wanting you. "

They sat on the stone step of the fountain, where they were shelteredfrom the wind; and she buttoned his long coat about him. 

"Do you think you will go on doing it?" he asked, with a laugh. 

"I'm so afraid, " she answered gravely. "That I shall come to love youtoo much: the home, the children and you. I shall have none left over. "

"There is an old Hindoo proverb, " he said: "That when a man and womanlove they dig a fountain down to God. "

"This poor, little choked-up thing, " he said, "against which we aresitting; it's for want of men and women drawing water, of childrendabbling their hands in it and making themselves all wet, that it has rundry. "

She took his hands in hers to keep them warm. The nursing habit seemedto have taken root in her. 

"I see your argument, " she said. "The more I love you, the deeper willbe the fountain. So that the more Love I want to come to me, the more Imust love you. "

"Don't you see it for yourself?" he demanded. 

She broke into a little laugh. 

"Perhaps you are right, " she admitted. "Perhaps that is why He made usmale and female: to teach us to love. "

A robin broke into a song of triumph. He had seen the sad-faced ghostssteal silently away.