She reached home in the evening. The Phillips's old rooms had been twice
let since Christmas, but were now again empty. The McKean with his
silent ways and his everlasting pipe had gone to America to superintend
the production of one of his plays. The house gave her the feeling of
being haunted. She had her dinner brought up to her and prepared for a
long evening's work; but found herself unable to think--except on the one
subject that she wanted to put off thinking about. To her relief the
last post brought her a letter from Arthur. He had been called to Lisbon
to look after a contract, and would be away for a fortnight. Her father
was not as well as he had been.
It seemed to just fit in. She would run down and spend a few quiet days
at Liverpool. In her old familiar room where the moon peeped in over the
tops of the tall pines she would be able to reason things out. Perhaps
her father would be able to help her. She had lost her childish
conception of him as of someone prim and proper, with cut and dried
formulas for all occasions. That glimpse he had shown her of himself had
established a fellowship between them. He, too, had wrestled with life's
riddles, not sure of his own answers. She found him suffering from his
old heart trouble, but more cheerful than she had known him for years.
Arthur seemed to be doing wonders with the men. They were coming to
trust 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 were
thinking to themselves whenever I have wanted to do anything for them. It
isn'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 one
ear and out at the other. What was the matter with her? Perhaps she was
tired 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 his
advice. It was really quite late. If he talked any more now, it would
give her a headache. She felt it coming on.
She made her "good-night" extra affectionate, hoping to disguise her
impatience. She wanted to get up to her own room.
But even that did not help her. It seemed in some mysterious way to be
no longer her room, but the room of someone she had known and half
forgotten: who would never come back. It gave her the same feeling she
had experienced on returning to the house in London: that the place was
haunted. The high cheval glass from her mother's dressing-room had been
brought there for her use. The picture of an absurdly small child--the
child to whom this room had once belonged--standing before it naked, rose
before her eyes. She had wanted to see herself. She had thought that
only her clothes stood in the way. If we could but see ourselves, as in
some magic mirror? All the garments usage and education has dressed us
up in laid aside. What was she underneath her artificial niceties, her
prim moralities, her laboriously acquired restraints, her unconscious
pretences and hypocrisies? She changed her clothes for a loose robe, and
putting out the light drew back the curtains. The moon peeped in over
the top of the tall pines, but it only stared at her, indifferent. It
seemed to be looking for somebody else.
Suddenly, and intensely to her own surprise, she fell into a passionate
fit of weeping. There was no reason for it, and it was altogether so
unlike her. But for quite a while she was unable to control it.
Gradually, and of their own accord, her sobs lessened, and she was able
to wipe her eyes and take stock of herself in the long glass. She
wondered for the moment whether it was really her own reflection that she
saw there or that of some ghostly image of her mother. She had so often
seen the same look in her mother's eyes. Evidently the likeness between
them was more extensive than she had imagined. For the first time she
became conscious of an emotional, hysterical side to her nature of which
she had been unaware. Perhaps it was just as well that she had
discovered it. She would have to keep a stricter watch upon herself.
This question of her future relationship with Phillips: it would have to
be thought out coldly, dispassionately. Nothing unexpected must be
allowed to enter into it.
It was some time before she fell asleep. The high glass faced her as she
lay in bed. She could not get away from the idea that it was her
mother's face that every now and then she saw reflected there.
She woke late the next morning. Her father had already left for the
works. She was rather glad to have no need of talking. She would take a
long walk into the country, and face the thing squarely with the help of
the 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 spirits
rose as she walked.
It was only the intellectual part of him she wanted--the spirit, not the
man. She would be taking nothing away from the woman, nothing that had
ever belonged to her. All the rest of him: his home life, the benefits
that 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 be
hers. He would still remain to her the kind husband and father. What
more was the woman capable of understanding? What more had she any right
to demand?
It was not of herself she was thinking. It was for his work's sake that
she wanted to be near to him always: that she might counsel him,
encourage him. For this she was prepared to sacrifice herself, give up
her woman's claim on life. They would be friends, comrades--nothing
more. That little lurking curiosity of hers, concerning what it would be
like to feel his strong arms round her, pressing her closer and closer to
him: it was only a foolish fancy. She could easily laugh that out of
herself. Only bad women had need to be afraid of themselves. She would
keep 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 of
gossip, no food for evil tongues. About that she was determined even
more for his sake than her own. It would be fatal to his career. She
was quite in agreement with the popular demand, supposed to be peculiarly
English, that a public man's life should be above reproach. Of what use
these prophets without self-control; these social reformers who could not
shake the ape out of themselves? Only the brave could give courage to
others. Only through the pure could God's light shine upon men.
It was vexing his having moved round the corner, into North Street. Why
couldn't the silly woman have been content where she was. Living under
one roof, they could have seen one another as often as was needful
without attracting attention. Now, she supposed, she would have to be
more than ever the bosom friend of Mrs. Phillips--spend hours amid that
hideous furniture, surrounded by those bilious wallpapers. Of course he
could not come to her. She hoped he would appreciate the sacrifice she
would be making for him. Fortunately Mrs. Phillips would give no
trouble. 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 prove
helpful.
It cast a passing shadow upon her spirits, this necessary descent into
details. It brought with it the suggestion of intrigue, of deceit:
robbing the thing, to a certain extent, of its fineness. Still, what was
to be done? If women were coming into public life these sort of
relationships with men would have to be faced and worked out. Sex must
no longer be allowed to interfere with the working together of men and
women for common ends. It was that had kept the world back. They would
be the pioneers of the new order. Casting aside their earthly passions,
humbly with pure hearts they would kneel before God's altar. He should
bless 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 disappeared
as if fallen from him, leaving his sweet soul still singing. The happy
tears came to her eyes, and she passed on. She did not hear that little
last faint sob with which he sank exhausted back to earth beside a hidden
nest among the furrows.
She had forgotten the time. It was already late afternoon. Her long
walk and the keen air had made her hungry. She had a couple of eggs with
her tea at a village inn, and was fortunate enough to catch a train that
brought her back in time for dinner. A little ashamed of her
unresponsiveness the night before, she laid herself out to be sympathetic
to her father's talk. She insisted on hearing again all that he and
Arthur were doing, opposing him here and there with criticism just
sufficient to stimulate him; careful in the end to let him convince her.
These small hypocrisies were new to her. She hoped she was not damaging
her character. But it was good, watching him slyly from under drawn-down
lids, to see the flash of triumph that would come into his tired eyes in
answer to her half-protesting: "Yes, I see your point, I hadn't thought
of that," her half reluctant admission that "perhaps" he was right,
there; that "perhaps" she was wrong. It was delightful to see him young
again, eager, boyishly pleased with himself. It seemed there was a joy
she had not dreamed of in yielding victory as well as in gaining it. A
new tenderness was growing up in her. How considerate, how patient, how
self-forgetful he had always been. She wanted to mother him. To take
him in her arms and croon over him, hushing away remembrance of the old
sad days.
Folk's words came back to her: "And poor Jack Allway. Tell him I thank
him for all those years of love and gentleness." She gave him the
message.
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: what
it was that had happened to change both their lives. But always
something had stopped her--something ever present, ever watchful, that
seemed to shape itself out of the air, bending towards her with its
finger 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 she
had ever asked him to take her out. He came down to breakfast in a new
suit, and was quite excited. In the car his hand had sought hers shyly,
and, feeling her responsive pressure, he had continued to hold it; and
they had sat for a long time in silence. She decided not to tell him
about Phillips, just yet. He knew of him only from the Tory newspapers
and would form a wrong idea. She would bring them together and leave
Phillips 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 to
him from his old Ironside ancestors, it still glowed. More than once she
had seen it leap to flame. In congenial atmosphere, it would burn clear
and steadfast. It occurred to her what a delightful solution of her
problem, if later on her father could be persuaded to leave Arthur in
charge of the works, and come to live with her in London. There was a
fine block of flats near Chelsea Church with long views up and down the
river. How happy they could be there; the drawing-room in the Adams
style with wine-coloured curtains! He was a father any young woman could
be proud to take about. Unconsciously she gave his hand an impulsive
squeeze. They lunched at an old inn upon the moors; and the landlady,
judging from his shy, attentive ways, had begun by addressing her as
Madame.
"You grow wonderfully like your mother," he told her that evening at
dinner. "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 were
things she wanted to talk to him about. There was the question whether
she should go on writing for Carleton, or break with him at once. Also
one or two points that were worrying her in connection with tariff
reform. He was waiting for her on the platform. It appeared he, too,
had much to say. He wanted her advice concerning his next speech. He
had not dined and suggested supper. They could not walk about the
streets. Likely enough, it was only her imagination, but it seemed to
her that people in the restaurant had recognized him, and were whispering
to one another: he was bound to be well known. Likewise her own
appearance, she felt, was against them as regarded their desire to avoid
observation. She would have to take to those mousey colours that did not
suit her, and wear a veil. She hated the idea of a veil. It came from
the East and belonged there. Besides, what would be the use? Unless he
wore 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 whole
thing. Viewed from the distance, it had looked quite fine. "Dedicating
herself to the service of Humanity" was how it had presented itself to
her in the garden at Meudon, the twinkling labyrinth of Paris at her
feet, its sordid by-ways hidden beneath its myriad lights. She had not
bargained for the dedication involving the loss of her self-respect.
They did not talk as much as they had thought they would. He was not
very helpful on the Carleton question. There was so much to be said both
for and against. It might be better to wait and see how circumstances
shaped themselves. She thought his speech excellent. It was difficult
to discover any argument against it.
He seemed to be more interested in looking at her when he thought she was
not noticing. That little faint vague fear came back to her and stayed
with her, but brought no quickening of her pulse. It was a fear of
something ugly. She had the feeling they were both acting, that
everything depended upon their not forgetting their parts. In handing
things to one another, they were both of them so careful that their hands
should not meet and touch.
They walked together back to Westminster and wished each other a short
good-night upon what once had been their common doorstep. With her
latchkey in her hand, she turned and watched his retreating figure, and
suddenly a wave of longing seized her to run after him and call him
back--to see his eyes light up and feel the pressure of his hands. It
was only by clinging to the railings and counting till she was sure he
had entered his own house round the corner and closed the door behind
him, that she restrained herself.
It was a frightened face that looked at her out of the glass, as she
stood 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," confessed
the grateful lady. "If ever I become a Prime Minister's wife, it's you I
shall have to thank. You've got so much courage yourself, you can put
the heart into him. I never had any pluck to spare myself."
She concluded by giving Joan a hug, accompanied by a sloppy but heartfelt
kiss.
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, never
daring to look at poor Phillips's wretched face, with its pleading,
apologetic eyes, lest she should burst into hysterical laughter. She
hoped she was being helpful and inspiring! Mrs. Phillips would assure
her afterwards that she had been wonderful. As for herself, there were
periods 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 useful
to 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. Phillips
would explain. "He's shy with women. What I'm trying to do is to make
him 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 on
purpose, just to keep the ball rolling. It stirs him up, a bit of
contradictoriness. You have to live with a man before you understand
him."
One morning Joan received a letter from Phillips, marked immediate. He
informed her that his brain was becoming addled. He intended that
afternoon to give it a draught of fresh air. He would be at the Robin
Hood gate in Richmond Park at three o'clock. Perhaps the gods would be
good 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 sat
looking out of the window. It promised to be a glorious day, and London
was stifling and gritty. Surely no one but an unwholesome-minded prude
could jib at a walk across a park. Mrs. Phillips would be delighted to
hear that she had gone. For the matter of that, she would tell her--when
next they met.
Phillips must have seen her getting off the bus, for he came forward at
once from the other side of the gate, his face radiant with boyish
delight. 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 an
occasional perambulator they might have been in the heart of the country.
The fallow deer stole near to them with noiseless feet, regarding them
out of their large gentle eyes with looks of comradeship. They paused
and listened while a missal thrush from a branch close to them poured out
his song of hope and courage. From quite a long way off they could still
hear his clear voice singing, telling to the young and brave his gallant
message. 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. They
agreed they would not mention it to Mrs. Phillips. Not that she would
have minded. The danger was that she would want to come, too; honestly
thinking thereby to complete their happiness. It seemed to be tacitly
understood there would be other such excursions.
The summer was propitious. Phillips knew his London well, and how to get
away from it. There were winding lanes in Hertfordshire, Surrey hills
and commons, deep, cool, bird-haunted woods in Buckingham. Each week
there was something to look forward to, something to plan for and
manoeuvre. The sense of adventure, a spice of danger, added zest. She
still knocked frequently, as before, at the door of the
hideously-furnished little house in North Street; but Mrs. Phillips no
longer oppressed her as some old man of the sea she could never hope to
shake off from her shoulders. The flabby, foolish face, robbed of its
terrors, became merely pitiful. She found herself able to be quite
gentle and patient with Mrs. Phillips. Even the sloppy kisses she came
to bear without a shudder down her spine.
"I know you are only doing it because you sympathize with his aims and
want him to win," acknowledged the good lady. "But I can't help feeling
grateful to you. I don't feel how useless I am while I've got you to run
to."
They still discussed their various plans for the amelioration and
improvement of humanity; but there seemed less need for haste than they
had thought. The world, Joan discovered, was not so sad a place as she
had judged it. There were chubby, rogue-eyed children; whistling lads
and smiling maidens; kindly men with ruddy faces; happy mothers crooning
over gurgling babies. There was no call to be fretful and vehement. They
would work together in patience and in confidence. God's sun was
everywhere. It needed only that dark places should be opened up and it
would enter.
Sometimes, seated on a lichened log, or on the short grass of some
sloping hillside, looking down upon some quiet valley, they would find
they had been holding hands while talking. It was but as two happy,
thoughtless children might have done. They would look at one another
with frank, clear eyes and smile.
Once, when their pathway led through a littered farm-yard, he had taken
her up in his arms and carried her and she had felt a glad pride in him
that he had borne her lightly as if she had been a child, looking up at
her and laughing.
An old bent man paused from his work and watched them. "Lean more over
him, missie," he advised her. "That's the way. Many a mile I've carried
my 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 awakening
in her, taking possession of her, changing her. The lips she had always
seen pressed close and firm were growing curved, leaving a little
parting, as though they were not quite so satisfied with one another. The
level brows were becoming slightly raised. It gave her a questioning
look that was new to her. The eyes beneath were less confident. They
seemed to be seeking something.
One evening, on her way home from a theatre, she met Flossie. "Can't
stop now," said Flossie, who was hurrying. "But I want to see you: most
particular. Was going to look you up. Will you be at home to-morrow
afternoon at tea-time?"
There was a distinct challenge in Flossie's eye as she asked the
question. 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 you
and me, and nobody else. Half-past four. Don't forget."
Joan walked on slowly. She had the worried feeling with which, once or
twice, when a schoolgirl, she had crawled up the stairs to bed after the
head mistress had informed her that she would see her in her private room
at eleven o'clock the next morning, leaving her to guess what about. It
occurred to her, in Trafalgar Square, that she had promised to take tea
with 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 off
Flossie.
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? She
tried to pretend to herself that she didn't know. After all, perhaps it
wasn't that.
But she knew that it was the instant Flossie put up her hands in order to
take off her hat. Flossie always took off her hat when she meant to be
unpleasant. It was her way of pulling up her sleeves. They had their
tea first. They seemed both agreed that that would be best. And then
Flossie pushed back her chair and sat up.
She had just the head mistress expression. Joan wasn't quite sure she
oughtn't to stand. But, controlling the instinct, leant back in her
chair, 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 being
talked about yourself, you might think of him. If Carleton gets hold of
it, he's done for."
"'A little bird whispers to me that Robert Phillips was seen walking
across Richmond Park the other afternoon in company with Miss Joan
Allway, formerly one of our contributors.' Is that going to end his
political career?" retorted Joan with fine sarcasm.
Flossie fixed a relentless eye upon her. "He'll wait till the bird has
got a bit more than that to whisper to him," she suggested.
"There'll be nothing more," explained Joan. "So long as my friendship is
of 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, if
men and women mustn't work together for their common aims and help one
another?"
"Why can't you help him in his own house, instead of wandering all about
the country?" Flossie wanted to know.
"So I do," Joan defended herself. "I'm in and out there till I'm sick of
the hideous place. You haven't seen the inside. And his wife knows all
about 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's
like! How can one think what one's saying with that silly, goggle-eyed
face in front of one always."
Flossie, since she had become engaged, had acquired quite a matronly
train of thought. She spoke kindly, with a little grave shake of her
head. "My dear," she said, "the wife is always in the way. You'd feel
just the same whatever her face was like."
Joan grew angry. "If you choose to suspect evil, of course you can," she
answered with hauteur. "But you might have known me better. I admire
the man and sympathize with him. All the things I dream of are the
things he is working for. I can do more good by helping and inspiring
him"--she wished she had not let slip that word "inspire." She knew that
Flossie would fasten upon it--"than I can ever accomplish by myself. And
I mean to do it." She really did feel defiant, now.
"I know, dear," agreed Flossie, "you've both of you made up your minds it
shall always remain a beautiful union of twin spirits. Unfortunately
you've both got bodies--rather attractive bodies."
"We'll keep it off that plane, if you don't mind," answered Joan with a
touch of severity.
"I'm willing enough," answered Flossie. "But what about Old Mother
Nature? She's going to be in this, you know."
"Take off your glasses, and look at it straight," she went on, without
giving Joan time to reply. "What is it in us that 'inspires' men? If
it'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 the
lumbago. Why doesn't he get her to 'inspire' him?"
"It isn't only that," explained Joan. "I give him courage. I always did
have more of that than is any use to a woman. He wants to be worthy of
my belief in him. What is the harm if he does admire me--if a smile from
me or a touch of the hand can urge him to fresh effort? Suppose he does
love 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 we
shun 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 and
contemptible, as if it were some subtle poison? Why shouldn't it
strengthen and ennoble us?"
"Why did the apple fall?" answered Flossie. "Why, when it escapes from
its bonds, doesn't it soar upward? If it wasn't for the irritating law
of gravity, we could skip about on the brink of precipices without
danger. Things being what they are, sensible people keep as far away
from the edge as possible."
"I'm sorry," she continued; "awfully sorry, old girl. It's a bit of
rotten bad luck for both of you. You were just made for one another. And
Fate, knowing what was coming, bustles round and gets hold of poor, silly
Mrs. Phillips so as to be able to say 'Yah.'"
"Unless it all comes right in the end," she added musingly; "and the poor
old soul pegs out. I wouldn't give much for her liver."
"That's not bringing me up well," suggested Joan: "putting those ideas
into my head."
"Oh, well, one can't help one's thoughts," explained Flossie. "It would
be 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 do
you think it will be sufficient if I promise never to do it again?"
"You mean it?" said Flossie. "Of course you will go on seeing
him--visiting them, and all that. But you won't go gadding about, so
that people can talk?"
"Only through the bars, in future," she promised. "With the gaoler
between us." She put her arms round Flossie and bent her head, so that
her 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 the
species. We get hungry and thirsty, too. You know that, kiddy, don't
you?"
Joan laughed without raising her face. "Yes, ma'am, I know that," she
answered. "I'll be good."
She sat in the dusk after Flossie had gone; and the laboured breathing of
the tired city came to her through the open window. She had rather
fancied that martyr's crown. It had not looked so very heavy, the thorns
not so very alarming--as seen through the window. She would wear it
bravely. It would rather become her.
Facing the mirror of the days to come, she tried it on. It was going to
hurt. There was no doubt of that. She saw the fatuous, approving face
of the eternal Mrs. Phillips, thrust ever between them, against the
background of that hideous furniture, of those bilious wall papers--the
loneliness that would ever walk with her, sit down beside her in the
crowded restaurant, steal up the staircase with her, creep step by step
with her from room to room--the ever unsatisfied yearning for a tender
word, a kindly touch. Yes, it was going to hurt.
Poor Robert! It would be hard on him, too. She could not help feeling
consolation in the thought that he also would be wearing that invisible
crown.
She must write to him. The sooner it was done, the better. Half a dozen
contradictory moods passed over her during the composing of that letter;
but to her they seemed but the unfolding of a single thought. On one
page it might have been his mother writing to him; an experienced,
sagacious lady; quite aware, in spite of her affection for him, of his
faults and weaknesses; solicitous that he should avoid the dangers of an
embarrassing entanglement; his happiness being the only consideration of
importance. On others it might have been a queen laying her immutable
commands upon some loyal subject, sworn to her service. Part of it might
have been written by a laughing philosopher who had learnt the folly of
taking life too seriously, knowing that all things pass: that the tears
of to-day will be remembered with a smile. And a part of it was the
unconsidered language of a loving woman. And those were the pages that
he kissed.
His letter in answer was much shorter. Of course he would obey her
wishes. He had been selfish, thinking only of himself. As for his
political career, he did not see how that was going to suffer by his
being occasionally seen in company with one of the most brilliantly
intellectual women in London, known to share his views. And he didn't
care if it did. But inasmuch as she valued it, all things should be
sacrificed to it. It was hers to do what she would with. It was the
only thing he had to offer her.
Their meetings became confined, as before, to the little house in North
Street. But it really seemed as if the gods, appeased by their
submission, had decided to be kind. Hilda was home for the holidays; and
her piercing eyes took in the situation at a flash. She appeared to have
returned with a new-born and exacting affection for her mother, that
astonished almost as much as it delighted the poor lady. Feeling sudden
desire for a walk or a bus ride, or to be taken to an entertainment, no
one was of any use to Hilda but her mother. Daddy had his silly politics
to think and talk about. He must worry them out alone; or with the
assistance of Miss Allway. That was what she was there for. Mrs.
Phillips, torn between her sense of duty and fear of losing this new
happiness, would yield to the child's coaxing. Often they would be left
alone to discuss the nation's needs uninterrupted. Conscientiously they
would apply themselves to the task. Always to find that, sooner or
later, they were looking at one another, in silence.
One day Phillips burst into a curious laugh. They had been discussing
the problem of the smallholder. Joan had put a question to him, and with
a slight start he had asked her to repeat it. But it seemed she had
forgotten it.
"I had to see our solicitor one morning," he explained, "when I was
secretary to a miners' union up north. A point had arisen concerning the
legality 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 on
at home--I guess you know what--and I don't seem to care a damn about
yours. 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 another
leader if they're in a hurry," he added. "I don't seem able to think
about 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. I
might have done something to win you and keep you. I'm not going to do
much 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 you
want 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 one
wasn't always hungry."
She felt so sorry for him. He looked such a boy, with the angry tears in
his 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 towards
her. She had meant to scold him, but changed her mind and laid his head
against her breast and held it there.
He clung to her, as a troubled child might, with his arms clasped round
her, and his head against her breast. And a mist rose up before her, and
strange, commanding voices seemed calling to her.
He could not see her face. She watched it herself with dim half
consciousness as it changed before her in the tawdry mirror above the
mantelpiece, half longing that he might look up and see it, half
terrified lest he should.
With an effort that seemed to turn her into stone, she regained command
over 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 moods
at 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 found
the river strong and restful. So it was not only bad women that needed
to be afraid of themselves--even to the most high-class young woman, with
letters after her name, and altruistic interests: even to her, also, the
longing for the lover's clasp. Flossie had been right. Mother Nature
was not to be flouted of her children--not even of her new daughters; to
them, likewise, the family trait.
She would have run away if she could, leaving him to guess at her real
reason--if he were smart enough. But that would have meant excuses and
explanations all round. She was writing a daily column of notes for
Greyson now, in addition to the weekly letter from Clorinda; and Mrs.
Denton, having compromised with her first dreams, was delegating to Joan
more and more of her work. She wrote to Mrs. Phillips that she was
feeling unwell and would be unable to lunch with them on the Sunday, as
had been arranged. Mrs. Phillips, much disappointed, suggested
Wednesday; but it seemed on Wednesday she was no better. And so it
drifted on for about a fortnight, without her finding the courage to come
to any decision; and then one morning, turning the corner into Abingdon
Street, 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 was
out. 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 just
now. It's the weather, I suppose."
The child turned her head as they walked and looked at her. Joan felt
herself 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. There
are other ways of helping people than by wasting their time talking to
them."
"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 I
slipped 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 feel
them. You will come again, soon?"
Joan did not answer.
"You're frightened," the child continued in a passionate, low voice. "You
think that people will talk about you and look down upon you. You
oughtn't to think about yourself. You ought to think only about him and
his work. Nothing else matters."
"I am thinking about him and his work," Joan answered. Her hand sought
Hilda's and held it. "There are things you don't understand. Men and
women can't help each other in the way you think. They may try to, and
mean no harm in the beginning, but the harm comes, and then not only the
woman but the man also suffers, and his work is spoilt and his life
ruined."
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 back
to him," she persisted. "Oh, I know it. It all depends upon you. He
wants you."
"And I want him, if that's any consolation to you," Joan answered with a
short laugh. It wasn't much of a confession. The child was cute enough
to have found that out for herself. "Only you see I can't have him. And
there's an end of it."
They had reached the Abbey. Joan turned and they retraced their steps
slowly.
"I shall be going away soon, for a little while," she said. The talk had
helped 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 a
flat of my own. My father may be coming to live with me. Good-bye. Do
all 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 and
wonderfully helpful; and Mrs. Denton also approved, and, to Joan's
surprise, kissed her; Mrs. Denton was not given to kissing. She wired to
her father, and got his reply the same evening. He would be at her rooms
on the day she had fixed with his travelling bag, and at her Ladyship's
orders. "With love and many thanks," he had added. She waited till the
day before starting to run round and say good-bye to the Phillipses. She
felt it would be unwise to try and get out of doing that. Both Phillips
and Hilda, she was thankful, were out; and she and Mrs. Phillips had tea
alone together. The talk was difficult, so far as Joan was concerned. If
the woman had been possessed of ordinary intuition, she might have
arrived at the truth. Joan almost wished she would. It would make her
own future task the easier. But Mrs. Phillips, it was clear, was going
to be no help to her.
For her father's sake, she made pretence of eagerness, but as the sea
widened between her and the harbour lights it seemed as if a part of
herself were being torn away from her.
They travelled leisurely through Holland and the Rhine land, and that
helped a little: the new scenes and interests; and in Switzerland they
discovered a delightful little village in an upland valley with just one
small hotel, and decided to stay there for a while, so as to give
themselves time to get their letters. They took long walks and climbs,
returning tired and hungry, looking forward to their dinner and the
evening talk with the few other guests on the veranda. The days passed
restfully in that hidden valley. The great white mountains closed her
in. They seemed so strong and clean.
It was on the morning they were leaving that a telegram was put into her
hands. Mrs. Phillips was ill at lodgings in Folkestone. She hoped that
Joan, on her way back, would come to see her.
She showed the telegram to her father. "Do you mind, Dad, if we go
straight back?" she asked.
"No, dear," he answered, "if you wish it."
"I would like to go back," she said.