Mrs. Phillips was sitting up in an easy chair near the heavily-curtained
windows when Joan arrived. It was a pleasant little house in the old
part of the town, and looked out upon the harbour. She was startlingly
thin by comparison with what she had been; but her face was still
painted. Phillips would run down by the afternoon train whenever he
could get away. She never knew when he was coming, so she explained; and
she could not bear the idea of his finding her "old and ugly." She had
fought 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 some
knowledge of them as a whole, was inclined to agree with her. She was
quite 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's
wire, so that they could have a cosy chat. She didn't really want much
attendance. It was her heart. It got feeble now and then, and she had
to keep very still; that was all. Joan told how her father had suffered
for years from much the same complaint. So long as you were careful
there was no danger. She must take things easily and not excite herself.
Mrs. Phillips acquiesced. "It's turning me into a lazy-bones," she said
with a smile. "I can sit here by the hour, just watching the bustle. I
was always one for a bit of life."
The landlady entered with Joan's tea. Joan took an instinctive dislike
to her. She was a large, flashy woman, wearing a quantity of cheap
jewellery. 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's
quite a good sort, when you know her." The subject seemed in some way to
trouble 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 to
feel it. He will be able to see you home."
Joan started. She had been thinking about Phillips, wondering what she
should 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. "You
see, I've always been such a go-ahead, as a rule. But I think he's
getting more hopeful. As I tell him, I'll be all right by the autumn. It
was that spell of hot weather that knocked me over."
Joan was still looking out of the window. She didn't quite know what to
say. The woman's altered appearance had shocked her. Suddenly she felt
a touch upon her hand.
"You'll look after him if anything does happen, won't you?" The woman's
eyes were pleading with her. They seemed to have grown larger. "You
know what I mean, dear, don't you?" she continued. "It will be such a
comfort to me to know that it's all right."
In answer the tears sprang to Joan's eyes. She knelt down and put her
arms about the woman.
"Don't be so silly," she cried. "There's nothing going to happen. You're
going 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'll
never 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 her
that 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 at
seeing Joan. He had not thought she could get back so soon. He brought
an evening paper with him. It contained a paragraph to the effect that
Mrs. Phillips, wife of the Rt. Hon. Robert Phillips, M.P., was
progressing favourably and hoped soon to be sufficiently recovered to
return to her London residence. It was the first time she had had a
paragraph all to herself, headed with her name. She flushed with
pleasure; and Joan noticed that, after reading it again, she folded the
paper up small and slipped it into her pocket. The nurse came in from
her walk a little later and took Joan downstairs with her.
"She ought not to talk to more than one person at a time," the nurse
explained, with a shake of the head. She was a quiet, business-like
woman. 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 Joan
suddenly.
"No," answered Joan. "Surely you're not one?"
"I don't know," answered the woman. "I believe that would do her more
good than anything else. If she would listen to it. She seems to have
lost all will-power."
The nurse left her; and the landlady came in to lay the table. She
understood that Joan would be dining with Mr. Phillips. There was no
train till the eight-forty. She kept looking at Joan as she moved about
the room. Joan was afraid she would begin to talk, but she must have
felt Joan's antagonism for she remained silent. Once their eyes met, and
the woman leered at her.
Phillips came down looking more cheerful. He had detected improvement in
Mrs. Phillips. She was more hopeful in herself. They talked in low
tones during the meal, as people do whose thoughts are elsewhere. It
happened quite suddenly, Phillips explained. They had come down a few
days after the rising of Parliament. There had been a spell of hot
weather; but nothing remarkable. The first attack had occurred about
three weeks ago. It was just after Hilda had gone back to school. He
wasn't sure whether he ought to send for Hilda, or not. Her mother
didn't want him to--not just yet. Of course, if she got worse, he would
have 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 be
subject 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 the
future--somewhere in Surrey, where he could easily get up and down. He
could sleep himself at the club on nights when he had to be late.
They talked without looking at one another. They did not speak about
themselves.
Mrs. Phillips was in bed when Joan went up to say good-bye. "You'll come
again 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 support
for his crusade against Carleton than he had expected. He was going to
open the attack at once, thus forestalling Carleton's opposition to his
land 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 people
that it's Carleton and only Carleton--Carleton here, Carleton there,
Carleton everywhere, against them. I'm going to drag him out into the
open 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 quite
deadly.
They grew less and less afraid of looking at one another as they felt
that darkened room further and further behind them.
They parted at Charing Cross. Joan would write. They agreed it would be
better to choose separate days for their visits to Folkestone.
She ran against Madge in the morning, and invited herself to tea. Her
father had returned to Liverpool, and her own rooms, for some reason,
depressed her. Flossie was there with young Halliday. They were both
off the next morning to his people's place in Devonshire, from where they
were going to get married, and had come to say good-bye. Flossie put Sam
in 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 get
over it all right, if she's careful."
"I shall hope for the best," answered Flossie. "Poor old soul, she's had
a good time. Don't send me a present; and then I needn't send you
one--when your time comes. It's a silly custom. Besides, I've nowhere
to put it. Shall be in a ship for the next six months. Will let you
know when we're back."
She gave Joan a hug and a kiss, and was gone. Joan joined Madge in the
kitchen, 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 worst
rotters the world has ever been cursed with have been brainy enough--men
and women. We make too much fuss about brains; just as once upon a time
we did about mere brute strength, thinking that was all that was needed
to 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 your
head?"
Madge laughed. "Mixing with so many brainy people, perhaps," she
suggested; "and wondering what's become of their souls."
"Be good, sweet child. And let who can be clever," Joan quoted. "Would
that be your text?"
Madge finished buttering her buns. "Kant, wasn't it," she answered, "who
marvelled chiefly at two things: the starry firmament above him and the
moral law within him. And they're one and the same, if he'd only thought
it 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 of
those 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 settling
down for the night in the elm trees just beyond the window. There seemed
to be much need of coming and going, of much cawing.
"I met her pretty often during those months that Helen Lavery was running
her round," she said at length. "It always seemed to me to have a touch
of the heroic, that absurd effort she was making to 'qualify' herself, so
that she might be of use to him. I can see her doing something quite
big, if she thought it would help him."
The cawing of the rooks grew fainter. One by one they folded their
wings.
Neither spoke for a while. Later on, they talked about the coming
election. If the Party got back, Phillips would go to the Board of
Trade. It would afford him a better platform for the introduction of his
land scheme.
"What do you gather is the general opinion?" Joan asked. "That he will
succeed?"
"The general opinion seems to be that his star is in the ascendant,"
Madge answered with a smile; "that all things are working together for
his good. It's rather a useful atmosphere to have about one, that. It
breeds friendship and support!"
Joan looked at her watch. She had an article to finish. Madge stood on
tiptoe and kissed her.
"Don't think me unsympathetic," she said. "No one will rejoice more than
I shall if God sees fit to call you to good work. But I can't help
letting 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 Inn
Garden. It was a hard law, that of the world: knowing only winners and
losers. Of course, the woman was to be pitied. No one could feel more
sorry for her than Joan herself. But what had Madge exactly meant by
those words: that she could "see her doing something really big," if she
thought it would help him? There was no doubt about her affection for
him. It was almost dog-like. And the child, also! There must be
something quite exceptional about him to have won the devotion of two
such opposite beings. Especially Hilda. It would be hard to imagine any
lengths to which Hilda's blind idolatry would not lead her.
She ran down twice to Folkestone during the following week. Her visits
made 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 of
the coming fight with Carleton. Greyson thought Phillips would find
plenty of journalistic backing. The concentration of the Press into the
hands of a few conscienceless schemers was threatening to reduce the
journalist to a mere hireling, and the better-class men were becoming
seriously alarmed. He found in his desk the report of a speech made by a
well-known leader writer at a recent dinner of the Press Club. The man
had risen to respond to the toast of his own health and had taken the
opportunity to unpack his heart.
"I am paid a thousand a year," so Greyson read to them, "for keeping my
own opinions out of my paper. Some of you, perhaps, earn more, and
others less; but you're getting it for writing what you're told. If I
were to be so foolish as to express my honest opinion, I'd be on the
street, the next morning, looking for another job."
"The business of the journalist," the man had continued, "is to destroy
the 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 of
rich men behind the scenes. We are the jumping-jacks. They pull the
strings and we dance. Our talents, our possibilities, our lives are the
property of other men."
"We tried to pretend it was only one of Jack's little jokes," explained
Greyson as he folded up the cutting; "but it wouldn't work. It was too
near the truth."
"I don't see what you are going to do," commented Mary. "So long as men
are not afraid to sell their souls, there will always be a Devil's market
for them."
Greyson did not so much mind there being a Devil's market, provided he
could be assured of an honest market alongside, so that a man could take
his choice. What he feared was the Devil's steady encroachment, that
could only end by the closing of the independent market altogether. His
remedy was the introduction of the American trust law, forbidding any one
man being interested in more than a limited number of journals.
"But what's the difference," demanded Joan, "between a man owning one
paper with a circulation of, say, six millions; or owning six with a
circulation of a million apiece? By concentrating all his energies on
one, a man with Carleton's organizing genius might easily establish a
single journal that would cover the whole field."
"Just all the difference," answered Greyson, "between Pooh Bah as
Chancellor of the Exchequer, or Lord High Admiral, or Chief Executioner,
whichever he preferred to be, and Pooh Bah as all the Officers of State
rolled into one. Pooh Bah may be a very able statesman, entitled to
exert his legitimate influence. But, after all, his opinion is only the
opinion of one old gentleman, with possible prejudices and preconceived
convictions. The Mikado--or the people, according to locality--would
like to hear the views of others of his ministers. He finds that the
Lord Chancellor and the Lord Chief Justice and the Groom of the
Bedchamber and the Attorney-General--the whole entire Cabinet, in short,
are unanimously of the same opinion as Pooh Bah. He doesn't know it's
only Pooh Bah speaking from different corners of the stage. The
consensus 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 up
and become a multi-proprietor?" she suggested. "Why don't you persuade
Lord 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 power
derived from worldly sources can only be employed for worldly purposes.
The power conferred by popularity, by wealth, by that ability to make use
of other men that we term organization--sooner or later the man who
wields that power becomes the Devil's servant. So long as Kingship was
merely a force struggling against anarchy, it was a holy weapon. As it
grew in power so it degenerated into an instrument of tyranny. The
Church, so long as it remained a scattered body of meek, lowly men, did
the Lord's work. Enthroned at Rome, it thundered its edicts against
human thought. The Press is in danger of following precisely the same
history. When it wrote in fear of the pillory and of the jail, it fought
for Liberty. Now it has become the Fourth Estate, it fawns--as Jack
Swinton said of it--at the feet of Mammon. My Proprietor, good fellow,
allows me to cultivate my plot amid the wilderness for other purposes
than those of quick returns. If he were to become a competitor with the
Carletons and the Bloomfields, he would have to look upon it as a
business proposition. The Devil would take him up on to the high
mountain, and point out to him the kingdom of huge circulations and vast
profits, whispering to him: 'All this will I give thee, if thou wilt fall
down 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. "But
it's dangerous to seek it. It is so easy to persuade ourselves that it's
our duty to succeed."
"But we must succeed to be of use," urged Mary. "Must God's servants
always remain powerless?"
"Powerless to rule. Powerful only to serve," he answered. "Powerful as
Christ was powerful; not as Caesar was powerful--powerful as those who
have suffered and have failed, leaders of forlorn hopes--powerful as
those who have struggled on, despised and vilified; not as those of whom
all men speak well--powerful as those who have fought lone battles and
have died, not knowing their own victory. It is those that serve, not
those that rule, shall conquer."
Joan had never known him quite so serious. Generally there was a touch
of irony in his talk, a suggestion of aloofness that had often irritated
her.
"I wish you would always be yourself, as you are now," she said, "and
never pose."
"Do I pose?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.
"That shows how far it has gone," she told him, "that you don't even know
it. 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's
way of saying: Thy will be done."
"Ask Phillips to come and see me," he said. "I can be of more help, if I
know exactly his views."
He walked with her to the bus. They passed a corner house that he had
more 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 the
drawing-room. A board was up, announcing that the house was for sale. A
gas lamp, exactly opposite, threw a flood of light upon the huge white
lettering.
Joan stopped. "Why, it's the house you are always talking about," she
said. "Are you thinking of taking it?"
"I did go over it," he answered. "But it would be rather absurd for just
Mary and me."
She looked up Phillips at the House, and gave him Greyson's message. He
had 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'd
always remained plain Bob Phillips."
Joan had promised to go down on the Friday; but finding, on the Thursday
morning, that it would be difficult, decided to run down that afternoon
instead. She thought at first of sending a wire. But in Mrs. Phillips's
state of health, telegrams were perhaps to be avoided. It could make no
difference. The front door of the little house was standing half open.
She called down the kitchen stairs to the landlady, but received no
answer. The woman had probably run out on some short errand. She went
up the stairs softly. The bedroom door, she knew, would be open. Mrs.
Phillips had a feeling against being "shut off," as she called it. She
meant to tap lightly and walk straight in, as usual. But what she saw
through the opening caused her to pause. Mrs. Phillips was sitting up in
bed with her box of cosmetics in front of her. She was sensitive of
anyone seeing her make-up; and Joan, knowing this, drew back a step. But
for some reason, she couldn't help watching. Mrs. Phillips dipped a
brush 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 brush
over it. At least, so it seemed to Joan. It was only a side view of
Mrs. Phillips's face that she was obtaining, and she may have been
mistaken. It might have been the lips. The woman gave a little gasp and
sat still for a moment. Then, putting away the brush, she closed the box
and slipped it under the pillow.
Joan felt her knees trembling. A cold, creeping fear was taking
possession of her. Why, she could not understand. She must have been
mistaken. People don't make-up their tongues. It must have been the
lips. And even if not--if the woman had licked the brush! It was a
silly trick people do. Perhaps she liked the taste. She pulled herself
together and tapped at the door.
Mrs. Phillips gave a little start at seeing her; but was glad that she
had come. Phillips had not been down for two days and she had been
feeling lonesome. She persisted in talking more than Joan felt was good
for her. She was feeling so much better, she explained. Joan was
relieved when the nurse came back from her walk and insisted on her lying
down. She dropped to sleep while Joan and the nurse were having their
tea.
Joan went back by the early train. She met some people at the station
that she knew and travelled up with them. That picture of Mrs.
Phillips's tongue just showing beyond the line of Mrs. Phillips's cheek
remained at the back of her mind; but it was not until she was alone in
her own rooms that she dared let her thoughts return to it.
The suggestion that was forcing itself into her brain was
monstrous--unthinkable. That, never possessed of any surplus vitality,
and suffering from the added lassitude of illness, the woman should have
become indifferent--willing to let a life that to her was full of fears
and difficulties slip peacefully away from her, that was possible. But
that she should exercise thought and ingenuity--that she should have
reasoned the thing out and deliberately laid her plans, calculating at
every 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 deceiving
everyone about her. If she had had an inkling of the truth, Joan, with
every 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, and
the woman had been full of hopes and projects for the future.
That picture of Mrs. Phillips, propped up against the pillows, with her
make-up box upon her knees was still before her when she went to bed. All
night long it haunted her: whether thinking or dreaming of it, she could
not tell.
Suddenly, she sat up with a stifled cry. It seemed as if a flash of
light 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 him
and 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 divined
to be the incubus--the drag upon her father's career? She could hear the
child's dry, passionate tones--could see Mrs. Phillips's flabby cheeks
grow white--the frightened, staring eyes. Where her father was concerned
the child had neither conscience nor compassion. She had waited her
time. 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 light
penetrated the room. It was a little before five. She would go round to
Phillips, wake him up. He must be told.
With her hat in her hands, she paused. No. That would not do. Phillips
must never know. They must keep the secret to themselves. She would go
down and see the woman; reason with her, insist. She went into the other
room. It was lighter there. The "A.B.C." was standing in its usual
place upon her desk. There was a train to Folkestone at six-fifteen. She
had plenty of time. It would be wise to have a cup of tea and something
to eat. There would be no sense in arriving there with a headache. She
would want her brain clear.
It was half-past five when she sat down with her tea in front of her. It
was 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. Her
reason seemed to be returning to her. There was no such violent hurry.
Hadn't she better think things over, in the clear daylight? The woman
had been ill now for nearly six weeks: a few hours--a day or two--could
make no difference. It might alarm the poor creature, her unexpected
appearance at such an unusual hour--cause a relapse. Suppose she had
been mistaken? Hadn't she better make a few inquiries first--feel her
way? 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 as
a whole? Mightn't there be arguments, worth considering, against her
interference? Her brain was too much in a whirl. Hadn't she better wait
till she could collect and arrange her thoughts?
The silver clock upon her desk struck six. It had been a gift from her
father when she was at Girton. It never obtruded. Its voice was a faint
musical chime that she need not hear unless she cared to listen. She
turned and looked at it. It seemed to be a little face looking back at
her out of its two round, blinkless eyes. For the first time during all
the years that it had watched beside her, she heard its quick, impatient
tick.
She sat motionless, staring at it. The problem, in some way, had
simplified itself into a contest between herself, demanding time to
think, and the little insistent clock, shouting to her to act upon blind
impulse. If she could remain motionless for another five minutes, she
would have won.
The ticking of the little clock was filling the room. The thing seemed
to have become alive--to be threatening to burst its heart. But the
thin, delicate indicator moved on.
Suddenly its ticking ceased. It had become again a piece of lifeless
mechanism. The hands pointed to six minutes past. Joan took off her hat
and laid it aside.
She must think the whole thing over quietly.