A pile of correspondence was awaiting her and, standing by the desk, she
began to open and read it. Suddenly she paused, conscious that someone
had entered the room and, turning, she saw Hilda. She must have left the
door ajar, for she had heard no sound. The child closed the door
noiselessly and came across, holding out a letter.
"Papa told me to give you this the moment you came in," she said. Joan
had not yet taken off her things. The child must have been keeping a
close watch. Save for the signature it contained but one line: "I have
accepted."
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 the
instant.
She forced a laugh. "Oh, I only persuaded him to do what he had made up
his mind to do," she explained. "It was all settled."
"No, it wasn't," answered the child. "Most of them were against it. And
then 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's
the good of pretending," she said. "He's so great. He could be the
Prime Minister of England if he chose. But then he would have to visit
kings and nobles, and receive them at his house, and Mama--" She broke
off 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 this
uncannily 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 risen
and taken a high place in the world were married to kind, good women
unable to share their greatness. There was Shakespeare, you know, who
married 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 been
very fond of her; and was always running down to Stratford to be with
her."
"Yes, but he didn't bring her up to London," answered the child. "Mama
would have wanted to come; and Papa would have let her, and wouldn't have
gone to see Queen Elizabeth unless she had been invited too."
Joan wished she had not mentioned Shakespeare. There had surely been
others; men who had climbed up and carried their impossible wives with
them. But she couldn't think of one, just then.
"We must help her," she answered somewhat lamely. "She's anxious to
learn, I know."
The child shook her head. "She doesn't understand," she said. "And Papa
won't tell her. He says it would only hurt her and do no good." The
small hands were clenched. "I shall hate her if she spoils his life."
The atmosphere was becoming tragic. Joan felt the need of escaping from
it. She sprang up.
"Oh, don't be nonsensical," she said. "Your father isn't the only man
married to a woman not as clever as himself. He isn't going to let that
stop him. And your mother's going to learn to be the wife of a great man
and do the best she can. And if they don't like her they've got to put
up with her. I shall talk to the both of them." A wave of motherliness
towards 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 be
useful 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 should
be wholesome and unobtrusive. It would be a delicate mission, but Joan
felt sure of her own tact. She could see his boyish eyes turned upon her
with wonder and gratitude.
"I was so afraid you would not be back before I went," said the child. "I
ought to have gone this afternoon, but Papa let me stay till the
evening."
"You will help?" she added, fixing on Joan her great, grave eyes.
Joan promised, and the child went out. She looked pretty when she
smiled. She closed the door behind her noiselessly.
It occurred to Joan that she would like to talk matters over with
Greyson. There was "Clorinda's" attitude to be decided upon; and she was
interested to know what view he himself would take. Of course he would
be on P---'s side. The _Evening Gazette_ had always supported the "gas
and water school" of socialism; and to include the people's food was
surely only an extension of the principle. She rang him up and Miss
Greyson answered, asking her to come round to dinner: they would be
alone. And she agreed.
The Greysons lived in a small house squeezed into an angle of the Outer
Circle, overlooking Regent's Park. It was charmingly furnished, chiefly
with old Chippendale. The drawing-room made quite a picture. It was
home-like and restful with its faded colouring, and absence of all show
and overcrowding. They sat there after dinner and discussed Joan's news.
Miss Greyson was repairing a piece of old embroidery she had brought back
with her from Italy; and Greyson sat smoking, with his hands behind his
head, 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 free
trade principles, all well and good."
"What's Carleton got to do with it?" demanded Joan with a note of
indignation.
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 a
third: together with a dozen others scattered about the provinces. Most
politicians 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, if
anybody 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 answered
with 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 they
allow 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 under
the impression that he has made a great success and has roused the
country. He and millions of other readers learn from the next morning's
headlines 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 leapt
upon the benches and roared themselves hoarse, and which he felt had
settled the whole question, he searches for in vain. A few silly
interjections, probably pre-arranged by Carleton's young lions, become
'renewed interruptions.' The report is strictly truthful; but the
impression produced is that Robert Phillips has failed to carry even his
own people with him. And then follow leaders in fourteen
widely-circulated Dailies, stretching from the Clyde to the Severn,
foretelling how Mr. Robert Phillips could regain his waning popularity by
the simple process of adopting Tariff Reform: or whatever the pet panacea
of Carleton and Co. may, at the moment, happen to be."
"Don't make us out all alike," pleaded his sister with a laugh. "There
are still a few old-fashioned papers that do give their opponents fair
play."
"They are not increasing in numbers," he answered, "and the Carleton
group is. There is no reason why in another ten years he should not
control the entire popular press of the country. He's got the genius and
he's got the means."
"The cleverest thing he has done," he continued, turning to Joan, "is
your _Sunday Post_. Up till then, the working classes had escaped him.
With the _Sunday Post_, he has solved the problem. They open their
mouths; and he gives them their politics wrapped up in pictures and
gossipy 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 like
a horse. I could understand it, if he had any beliefs."
"Oh, we can all persuade ourselves that we are the Heaven-ordained
dictator of the human race," he answered. "Love of power is at the
bottom of it. Why do our Rockefellers and our Carnegies condemn
themselves to the existence of galley slaves, ruining their digestions so
that they never can enjoy a square meal. It isn't the money; it's the
trouble of their lives how to get rid of that. It is the notoriety, the
power that they are out for. In Carleton's case, it is to feel himself
the power behind the throne; to know that he can make and unmake
statesmen; has the keys of peace and war in his pocket; is able to
exclaim: 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. "Every
world's conqueror meant to make it happy after he had finished knocking
it about. We are all born with it, thanks to the devil." He shifted his
position and regarded her with critical eyes. "You've got it badly," he
said. "I can see it in the tilt of your chin and the quivering of your
nostrils. 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, she
would welcome attention being given to the question of the nation's food.
The _Evening Gazette_ would support Phillips in principle, while
reserving to itself the right of criticism when it came to details.
"What's he like in himself?" he asked her. "You've been seeing something
of him, haven't you?"
"Oh, a little," she answered. "He's absolutely sincere; and he means
business. He won't stop at the bottom of the ladder now he's once got
his foot upon it."
"But he's quite common, isn't he?" he asked again. "I've only met him in
public."
"No, that's precisely what he isn't," answered Joan. "You feel that he
belongs to no class, but his own. The class of the Abraham Lincolns, and
the Dantons."
"England's a different proposition," he mused. "Society counts for so
much 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 that
rules in England. We settle everything round a dinner-table."
She was sitting in front of the fire in a high-backed chair. She never
cared to loll, and the shaded light from the electric sconces upon the
mantelpiece 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 an
excellent performance."
"I must talk to Mary," he added, "see if we can't get you off on some
promising young Under Secretary."
"Don't give me ideas above my station," laughed Joan. "I'm a
journalist."
"That's the pity of it," he said. "You're wasting the most important
thing 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 of
reviving the old French Salon," she answered. "They must have been
gloriously interesting." He was leaning forward with clasped hands. "Why
shouldn't she?" he said. "The reason that our drawing-rooms have ceased
to lead is that our beautiful women are generally frivolous and our
clever women unfeminine. What we are waiting for is an English Madame
Roland."
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 there
would be more room in the buses at that point.
"I wish you would come oftener," he said. "Mary has taken such a liking
to you. If you care to meet people, we can always whip up somebody of
interest."
She promised that she would. She always felt curiously at home with the
Greysons.
They were passing the long sweep of Chester Terrace. "I like this
neighbourhood with its early Victorian atmosphere," she said. "It always
makes me feel quiet and good. I don't know why."
"I like the houses, too," he said. "There's a character about them. You
don't often find such fine drawing-rooms in London."
"Don't forget your promise," he reminded her, when they parted. "I shall
tell Mary she may write to you."
She met Carleton by chance a day or two later, as she was entering the
office. "I want to see you," he said; and took her up with him into his
room.
"We must stir the people up about this food business," he said, plunging
at once into his subject. "Phillips is quite right. It overshadows
everything. We must make the country self-supporting. It can be done
and must. If a war were to be sprung upon us we could be starved out in
a month. Our navy, in face of these new submarines, is no longer able to
secure us. France is working day and night upon them. It may be a
bogey, or it may not. If it isn't, she would have us at her mercy; and
it's too big a risk to run. You live in the same house with him, don't
you? Do you often see him?"
"Not often," she answered.
He was reading a letter. "You were dining there on Friday night, weren't
you?" he asked her, without looking up.
Joan flushed. What did he mean by cross-examining her in this way? She
was 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," he
said. "It's nothing to object to. Tell him that you've seen me and had
a talk. I understand his scheme to be that the country should grow more
and more food until it eventually becomes self-supporting; and that the
Government should control the distribution. Tell him that with that I'm
heart and soul in sympathy; and would like to help him." He pushed aside
a pile of papers and, leaning across the desk, spoke with studied
deliberation. "If he can see his way to making his policy dependent upon
Protection, we can work together."
"And if he can't?" suggested Joan.
He fixed his large, colourless eyes upon her. "That's where you can help
him," he answered. "If he and I combine forces, we can pull this through
in spite of the furious opposition that it is going to arouse. Without a
good Press he is helpless; and where is he going to get his Press backing
if he turns me down? From half a dozen Socialist papers whose support
will do him more harm than good. If he will bring the working class over
to Protection I will undertake that the Tariff Reformers and the
Agricultural Interest shall accept his Socialism. It will be a victory
for both of us.
"If he gain his end, what do the means matter?" he continued, as Joan did
not answer. "Food may be dearer; the Unions can square that by putting
up wages; while the poor devil of a farm labourer will at last get fair
treatment. We can easily insist upon that. What do you think,
yourself?"
"About Protection," she answered. "It's one of the few subjects I
haven't made up my mind about."
He laughed. "You will find all your pet reforms depend upon it, when you
come to work them out," he said. "You can't have a minimum wage without
a minimum price."
They had risen.
"I'll give him your message," said Joan. "But I don't see him exchanging
his principles even for your support. I admit it's important."
"Talk it over with him," he said. "And bear this in mind for your own
guidance." He took a step forward, which brought his face quite close to
hers: "If he fails, and all his life's work goes for nothing, I shall be
sorry; but I shan't break my heart. He will."
Joan dropped a note into Phillips's letter-box on her return home, saying
briefly that she wished to see him; and he sent up answer asking her if
she would come to the gallery that evening, and meet him after his
speech, which would be immediately following the dinner hour.
It was the first time he had risen since his appointment, and he was
received with general cheers. He stood out curiously youthful against
the background of grey-haired and bald-headed men behind him; and there
was youth also in his clear, ringing voice that not even the vault-like
atmosphere of that shadowless chamber could altogether rob of its
vitality. He spoke simply and good-humouredly, without any attempt at
rhetoric, relying chiefly upon a crescendo of telling facts that
gradually, as he proceeded, roused the House to that tense stillness that
comes to it when it begins to think.
"A distinctly dangerous man," Joan overheard a little old lady behind her
comment 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, too
absorbed to be aware of the curious eyes that were turned upon them. Joan
gave him Carleton's message.
"It was clever of him to make use of you," he said. "If he'd sent it
through 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've
listened, 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 the
farmers kept their hunters, and got drunk each night on fine old crusted
port. 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.' It
would be their toast to-morrow, if they had their way. Does he think I
am going to be a party to the putting of the people's neck again under
their pitiless yoke?"
"But the people are more powerful now," argued Joan. "If the farmer
demanded higher prices, they could demand higher wages."
"They would never overtake the farmer," he answered, with a laugh. "And
the last word would always be with him. I am out to get rid of the
landlords," he continued, "not to establish them as the permanent rulers
of the country, as they are in Germany. The people are more
powerful--just a little, because they are no longer dependent on the
land. They can say to the farmer, 'All right, my son, if that's your
figure, I'm going to the shop next door--to South America, to Canada, to
Russia.' It isn't a satisfactory solution. I want to see England happy
and healthy before I bother about the Argentine. It drives our men into
the slums when they might be living fine lives in God's fresh air. In
the case of war it might be disastrous. There, I agree with him. We
must be able to shut our door without fear of having to open it ourselves
to ask for bread. How would Protection accomplish that? Did he tell
you?"
"Don't eat me," laughed Joan. "I haven't been sent to you as a
missionary. I'm only a humble messenger. I suppose the argument is
that, good profits assured to him, the farmer would bustle up and produce
more."
"Can you see him bustling up?" he answered with a laugh; "organizing
himself into a body, and working the thing out from the point of view of
the public weal? I'll tell you what nine-tenths of him would do: grow
just 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 servant
of the public: told what to do, and turned out of his job if he doesn't
do 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 still
promenading were some distance away. She had not delivered the whole of
her message. She crossed to a seat, and he followed her. She spoke with
her face turned away from him.
"You have got to consider the cost of refusal," she said. "His offer
wasn't help or neutrality: it was help or opposition by every means in
his power. He left me in no kind of doubt as to that. He's not used to
being challenged and he won't be squeamish. You will have the whole of
his Press against you, and every other journalistic and political
influence that he possesses. He's getting a hold upon the working
classes. The _Sunday Post_ has an enormous sale in the manufacturing
towns; and he's talking of starting another. Are you strong enough to
fight him?"
She very much wanted to look at him, but she would not. It seemed to her
quite a time before he replied.
"Yes," he answered, "I'm strong enough to fight him. Shall rather enjoy
doing it. And it's time that somebody did. Whether I'm strong enough to
win has got to be seen."
She turned and looked at him then. She wondered why she had ever thought
him ugly.
"You can face it," she said: "the possibility of all your life's work
being wasted?"
"It won't be wasted," he answered. "The land is there. I've seen it
from afar and it's a good land, a land where no man shall go hungry. If
not I, another shall lead the people into it. I shall have prepared the
way."
She liked him for that touch of exaggeration. She was so tired of the
men who make out all things little, including themselves and their own
work. After all, was it exaggeration? Might he not have been chosen to
lead the people out of bondage to a land where there should be no more
fear.
"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 treated
my embassy with contempt." She turned to him and their eyes met. "I
should 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 was
well 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 you
can 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 be
allowed to own the entire Press of the country, and stifle every voice
that does not shout their bidding. We haven't dethroned kings to put up
a newspaper Boss. He shall have all the fighting he wants."
They met more often from that day, for Joan was frankly using her two
columns in the _Sunday Post_ to propagate his aims. Carleton, to her
surprise, made no objection. Nor did he seek to learn the result of his
ultimatum. It looked, they thought, as if he had assumed acceptance; and
was willing for Phillips to choose his own occasion. Meanwhile replies
to her articles reached Joan in weekly increasing numbers. There seemed
to 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 and
hesitation, they had--however reluctantly--arrived at the conclusion that
without it there could be no hope for them. Factory workers, miners,
engineers--more fluent, less apologetic--wrote as strong supporters of
Phillips's scheme; but saw clearly how upon Protection its success
depended. Shopmen, clerks--only occasionally ungrammatical--felt sure
that Robert Phillips, the tried friend of the poor, would insist upon the
boon of Protection being no longer held back from the people. Wives and
mothers claimed it as their children's birthright. Similar views got
themselves at the same time, into the correspondence columns of
Carleton's other numerous papers. Evidently Democracy had been throbbing
with a passion for Protection hitherto unknown, even to itself.
"He means it kindly," laughed Phillips. "He is offering me an excuse to
surrender gracefully. We must have a public meeting or two after
Christmas, and clear the ground." They had got into the habit of
speaking in the plural.
Mrs. Phillips's conversion Joan found more difficult than she had
anticipated. She had persuaded Phillips to take a small house and let
her furnish it upon the hire system. Joan went with her to the widely
advertised "Emporium" in the City Road, meaning to advise her. But, in
the end, she gave it up out of sheer pity. Nor would her advice have
served much purpose, confronted by the "rich and varied choice" provided
for his patrons by Mr. Krebs, the "Furnisher for Connoisseurs."
"We've never had a home exactly," explained Mrs. Phillips, during their
journey in the tram. "It's always been lodgings, up to now. Nice
enough, some of them; but you know what I mean; everybody else's taste
but your own. I've always fancied a little house with one's own things
in 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 tried
to enlist the shopman on her side, descending even to flirtation.
Unfortunately he was a young man with a high sense of duty, convinced
that his employer's interests lay in his support of Mrs. Phillips. The
sight of the furniture that, between them, they selected for the dining-
room gave Joan a quite distinct internal pain. They ascended to the
floor above, devoted to the exhibition of "_Recherche_ drawing-room
suites." Mrs. Phillips's eye instinctively fastened with passionate
desire 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. Phillips
yielded.
"Of course you know best, dear," she admitted. "Perhaps I am a bit too
fond of bright things."
The victory was won. Mrs. Phillips had turned away. The shopman was
altering the order. Joan moved towards the door, and accidentally caught
sight of Mrs. Phillips's face. The flabby mouth was trembling. A tear
was 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 critical
eye upon the rival suites. "It is a bit mousey, that other."
The order was once more corrected. Joan had the consolation of
witnessing 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 shown
a 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 pile
monstrosity upon monstrosity. What would Phillips think? And what would
Hilda's eyes say when they looked upon that _recherche_ drawing-room
suite? Hilda, who would have had no sentimental compunctions! The woman
would be sure to tell them both that she, Joan, had accompanied her and
helped in the choosing. The whole ghastly house would be exhibited to
every 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 mere
advertisement ought to have forewarned her. It was the posters that had
captured Mrs. Phillips: those dazzling apartments where bejewelled
society reposed upon the "high-class but inexpensive designs" of Mr.
Krebs. Artists ought to have more self-respect than to sell their
talents for such purposes.
The contract was concluded in Mr. Krebs' private office: a very stout
gentleman with a very thin voice, whose dream had always been to one day
be of service to the renowned Mr. Robert Phillips. He was clearly under
the impression that he had now accomplished it. Even as Mrs. Phillips
took up the pen to sign, the wild idea occurred to Joan of snatching the
paper away from her, hustling her into a cab, and in some quiet street or
square making the woman see for herself that she was a useless fool; that
the glowing dreams and fancies she had cherished in her silly head for
fifteen years must all be given up; that she must stand aside, knowing
herself of no account.
It could be done. She felt it. If only one could summon up the needful
brutality. If only one could stifle that still, small voice of Pity.
Mrs. Phillips signed amid splutterings and blots. Joan added her
signature as witness.
She did effect an improvement in the poor lady's dress. On Madge's
advice she took her to a voluble little woman in the Earl's Court Road
who was struck at once by Madame Phillips's remarkable resemblance to the
Baroness von Stein. Had not Joan noticed it? Whatever suited the
Baroness von Stein--allowed by common consent to be one of the
best-dressed women in London--was bound to show up Madame Phillips to
equal advantage. By curious coincidence a costume for the Baroness had
been put in hand only the day before. It was sent for and pinned upon
the delighted Madame Phillips. Perfection! As the Baroness herself
would always say: "My frock must be a framework for my personality. It
must never obtrude." The supremely well-dressed woman! One never
notices 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 invited
herself 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 house
would 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 of
the 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 the
people, who will win their respect, and set them an example." She moved
across and seating herself on the arm of Mrs. Phillips's chair, touched
lightly with her hand the flaxen hair and the rouged cheek. "I want you
to get rid of all this," she whispered. "It isn't worthy of you. Leave
it to the silly dolls and the bad women."
There was a long silence. Joan felt the tears trickling between her
fingers.
"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, Joan
following, they stole upstairs into the bedroom and Mrs. Phillips turned
the key.
It took a long time, and Joan, seated on the bed, remembered a night when
she had taken a trapped mouse (if only he had been a quiet mouse!) into
the bathroom and had waited while it drowned. It was finished at last,
and Mrs Phillips stood revealed with her hair down, showing streaks of
dingy brown.
Joan tried to enthuse; but the words came haltingly. She suggested to
Joan a candle that some wind had suddenly blown out. The paint and
powder 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 has
always 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 the
golden hair all turned to drab? Could one be sure of "getting used to
it," of "liking it better?" And the poor bewildered doll itself! How
could one expect to make of it a statue: "The Woman of the People." One
could only bruise it.
It ended in Joan's promising to introduce her to discreet theatrical
friends who would tell her of cosmetics less injurious to the skin, and
advise 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 her
door behind her. What was the meaning of it? On the one hand that
unimpeachable law, the greatest happiness of the greatest number; the
sacred cause of Democracy; the moral Uplift of the people; Sanity,
Wisdom, Truth, the higher Justice; all the forces on which she was
relying for the regeneration of the world--all arrayed in stern demand
that the flabby, useless Mrs. Phillips should be sacrificed for the
general good. Only one voice had pleaded for foolish, helpless Mrs.
Phillips--and had conquered. The still, small voice of Pity.