She could help him. Without her, he would fail. The woman herself saw
that, and wished it. Why should she hesitate? It was not as if she had
only herself to consider. The fate--the happiness of millions was at
stake. He looked to her for aid--for guidance. It must have been
intended. All roads had led to it. Her going to the house. She
remembered now, it was the first door at which she had knocked. Her
footsteps had surely been directed. Her meeting with Mrs. Phillips in
Madge's rooms; and that invitation to dinner, coinciding with that crisis
in his life. It was she who had persuaded him to accept. But for her he
would have doubted, wavered, let his opportunities slip by. He had
confessed it to her.
And she had promised him. He needed her. The words she had spoken to
Madge, not dreaming then of their swift application. They came back to
her. "God has called me. He girded His sword upon me." What right had
she to leave it rusting in its scabbard, turning aside from the pathway
pointed out to her because of one weak, useless life, crouching in her
way. It was not as if she were being asked to do evil herself that good
might come. The decision had been taken out of her hands. All she had
to do was to remain quiescent, not interfering, awaiting her orders. Her
business was with her own part, not with another's. To be willing to
sacrifice oneself: that was at the root of all service. Sometimes it was
one's own duty, sometimes that of another. Must one never go forward
because another steps out of one's way, voluntarily? Besides, she might
have been mistaken. That picture, ever before her, of the woman pausing
with the brush above her tongue--that little stilled gasp! It may have
been but a phantasm, born of her own fevered imagination. She clung to
that, desperately.
It was the task that had been entrusted to her. How could he hope to
succeed without her. With her, he would be all powerful--accomplish the
end for which he had been sent into the world. Society counts for so
much in England. What public man had ever won through without its
assistance. As Greyson had said: it is the dinner-table that rules. She
could win it over to his side. That mission to Paris that she had
undertaken for Mrs. Denton, that had brought her into contact with
diplomatists, politicians, the leaders and the rulers, the bearers of
names known and honoured in history. They had accepted her as one of
themselves. She had influenced them, swayed them. That afternoon at
Folk's studio, where all eyes had followed her, where famous men and
women had waited to attract her notice, had hung upon her words. Even at
school, at college, she had always commanded willing homage. As Greyson
had once told her, it was herself--her personality that was her greatest
asset. Was it to be utterly wasted? There were hundreds of impersonal,
sexless women, equipped for nothing else, with pens as keen if not keener
than hers. That was not the talent with which she had been entrusted--for
which she would have to account. It was her beauty, her power to charm,
to draw after her--to compel by the mere exercise of her will. Hitherto
Beauty had been content to barter itself for mere coin of the realm--for
ease and luxury and pleasure. She only asked to be allowed to spend it
in service. As his wife, she could use it to fine ends. By herself she
was helpless. One must take the world as one finds it. It gives the
unmated woman no opportunity to employ the special gifts with which God
has endowed her--except for evil. As the wife of a rising statesman, she
could be a force for progress. She could become another Madame Roland;
gather round her all that was best of English social life; give back to
it its lost position in the vanguard of thought.
She could strengthen him, give him courage. Without her, he would always
remain the mere fighter, doubtful of himself. The confidence, the
inspiration, necessary for leadership, she alone could bring to him. Each
by themselves was incomplete. Together, they would be the whole. They
would build the city of their dreams.
She seemed to have become a wandering spirit rather than a living being.
She had no sense of time or place. Once she had started, hearing herself
laugh. She was seated at a table, and was talking. And then she had
passed back into forgetfulness. Now, from somewhere, she was gazing
downward. Roofs, domes and towers lay stretched before her, emerging
from a sea of shadows. She held out her arms towards them and the tears
came to her eyes. The poor tired people were calling to her to join with
him to help them. Should she fail them--turn deaf ears to the myriad
because of pity for one useless, feeble life?
She had been fashioned to be his helpmate, as surely as if she had been
made of the same bone. Nature was at one with God. Spirit and body both
yearned for him. It was not position--power for herself that she craved.
The marriage market--if that had been her desire: it had always been open
to her. She had the gold that buys these things. Wealth, ambition: they
had been offered to her--spread out temptingly before her eyes. They
were always within her means, if ever she chose to purchase them. It was
this man alone to whom she had ever felt drawn--this man of the people,
with that suggestion about him of something primitive, untamed, causing
her always in his presence that faint, compelling thrill of fear, who
stirred her blood as none of the polished men of her own class had ever
done. His kind, strong, ugly face: it moved beside her: its fearless,
tender eyes now pleading, now commanding.
He needed her. She heard his passionate, low voice, as she had heard it
in the little garden above Meudon: "Because you won't be there; and
without you I can do nothing." What right had this poor, worn-out shadow
to stand between them, to the end? Had love and life no claims, but only
weakness? She had taken all, had given nothing. It was but reparation
she was making. Why stop her?
She was alone in a maze of narrow, silent streets that ended always in a
high blank wall. It seemed impossible to get away from this blank wall.
Whatever way she turned she was always coming back to it.
What was she to do? Drag the woman back to life against her will--lead
her back to him to be a chain about his feet until the end? Then leave
him to fight the battle alone?
And herself? All her world had been watching and would know. She had
counted her chickens before they were dead. She had set her cap at the
man, reckoning him already widowed; and his wife had come to life and
snatched it from her head. She could hear the laughter--the half amused,
half contemptuous pity for her "rotten bad luck." She would be their
standing jest, till she was forgotten.
What would life leave to her? A lonely lodging and a pot of ink that she
would come to hate the smell of. She could never marry. It would be but
her body that she could give to any other man. Not even for the sake of
her dreams could she bring herself to that. It might have been possible
before, but not now. She could have won the victory over herself, but
for hope, that had kindled the smouldering embers of her passion into
flame. What cunning devil had flung open this door, showing her all her
heart's desire, merely that she should be called upon to slam it to in
her own face?
A fierce anger blazed up in her brain. Why should she listen? Why had
reason been given to us if we were not to use it--weigh good and evil in
the balance and decide for ourselves where lay the nobler gain? Were we
to be led hither and thither like blind children? What was right--what
wrong, but what our own God-given judgment told us? Was it wrong of the
woman to perform this act of self-renunciation, yielding up all things to
love? No, it was great--heroic of her. It would be her cross of
victory, her crown.
If the gift were noble, so also it could not be ignoble to accept it.
To reject it would be to dishonour it.
She would accept it. The wonder of it should cast out her doubts and
fears. She would seek to make herself worthy of it. Consecrate it with
her steadfastness, her devotion.
She thought it ended. But yet she sat there motionless.
What was plucking at her sleeve--still holding her?
Unknowing, she had entered a small garden. It formed a passage between
two streets, and was left open day and night. It was but a narrow strip
of rank grass and withered shrubs with an asphalte pathway widening to a
circle in the centre, where stood a gas lamp and two seats, facing one
another.
And suddenly it came to her that this was her Garden of Gethsemane; and a
dull laugh broke from her that she could not help. It was such a
ridiculous apology for Gethsemane. There was not a corner in which one
could possibly pray. Only these two iron seats, one each side of the
gaunt gas lamp that glared down upon them. Even the withered shrubs were
fenced off behind a railing. A ragged figure sprawled upon the bench
opposite to her. It snored gently, and its breath came laden with the
odour of cheap whisky.
But it was her Gethsemane: the best that Fate had been able to do for
her. It was here that her choice would be made. She felt that.
And there rose before her the vision of that other Garden of Gethsemane
with, below it, the soft lights of the city shining through the trees;
and above, clear against the starlit sky, the cold, dark cross.
It was only a little cross, hers, by comparison. She could see that.
They seemed to be standing side by side. But then she was only a
woman--little more than a girl. And her courage was so small. She
thought He ought to know that. For her, it was quite a big cross. She
wondered if He had been listening to all her arguments. There was really
a good deal of sense in some of them. Perhaps He would understand. Not
all His prayer had come down to us. He, too, had put up a fight for
life. He, too, was young. For Him, also, life must have seemed but just
beginning. Perhaps He, too, had felt that His duty still lay among the
people--teaching, guiding, healing them. To Him, too, life must have
been sweet with its noble work, its loving comradeship. Even from Him
the words had to be wrung: "Thy will, not Mine, be done."
She whispered them at last. Not bravely, at all. Feebly, haltingly,
with a little sob: her forehead pressed against the cold iron seat, as if
that could help her.
She thought that even then God might reconsider it--see her point of
view. Perhaps He would send her a sign.
The ragged figure on the bench opposite opened its eyes, stared at her;
then went to sleep again. A prowling cat paused to rub itself against
her foot, but meeting no response, passed on. Through an open window,
somewhere near, filtered the sound of a child's low whimpering.
It was daylight when she awoke. She was cold and her limbs ached. Slowly
her senses came back to her. The seat opposite was vacant. The gas lamp
showed but a faint blue point of flame. Her dress was torn, her boots
soiled and muddy. Strands of her hair had escaped from underneath her
hat.
She looked at her watch. Fortunately it was still early. She would be
able to let herself in before anyone was up. It was but a little way.
She wondered, while rearranging her hair, what day it was. She would
find out, when she got home, from the newspaper.
In the street she paused a moment and looked back through the railings.
It seemed even still more sordid in the daylight: the sooty grass and the
withered shrubs and the asphalte pathway strewn with dirty paper. And
again a laugh she could not help broke from her. Her Garden of
Gethsemane!
She sent a brief letter round to Phillips, and a telegram to the nurse,
preparing them for what she meant to do. She had just time to pack a
small trunk and catch the morning train. At Folkestone, she drove first
to a house where she herself had once lodged and fixed things to her
satisfaction. The nurse was waiting for her in the downstairs room, and
opened the door to her. She was opposed to Joan's interference. But
Joan had come prepared for that. "Let me have a talk with her," she
said. "I think I've found out what it is that is causing all the
trouble."
The nurse shot her a swift glance. "I'm glad of that," she said dryly.
She let Joan go upstairs.
Mrs. Phillips was asleep. Joan seated herself beside the bed and waited.
She had not yet made herself up for the day and the dyed hair was hidden
beneath a white, close-fitting cap. The pale, thin face with its closed
eyes looked strangely young. Suddenly the thin hands clasped, and her
lips moved, as if she were praying in her sleep. Perhaps she also was
dreaming of Gethsemane. It must be quite a crowded garden, if only we
could see it.
After a while, her eyes opened. Joan drew her chair nearer and slipped
her arm in under her, and their eyes met.
"You're not playing the game," whispered Joan, shaking her head. "I only
promised on condition that you would try to get well."
The woman made no attempt to deny. Something told her that Joan had
learned her secret. She glanced towards the door. Joan had closed it.
"Don't drag me back," she whispered. "It's all finished." She raised
herself up and put her arms about Joan's neck. "It was hard at first,
and I hated you. And then it came to me that this was what I had been
wanting to do, all my life--something to help him, that nobody else could
do. Don't take it from me."
"I know," whispered Joan. "I've been there, too. I knew you were doing
it, though I didn't quite know how--till the other day. I wouldn't
think. I wanted to pretend that I didn't. I know all you can say. I've
been listening to it. It was right of you to want to give it all up to
me for his sake. But it would be wrong of me to take it. I don't quite
see why. I can't explain it. But I mustn't. So you see it would be no
good."
"But I'm so useless," pleaded the woman.
"I said that," answered Joan. "I wanted to do it and I talked and
talked, so hard. I said everything I could think of. But that was the
only answer: I mustn't do it."
They remained for a while with their arms round one another. It struck
Joan as curious, even at the time, that all feeling of superiority had
gone out of her. They might have been two puzzled children that had met
one another on a path that neither knew. But Joan was the stronger
character.
"I want you to give me up that box," she said, "and to come away with me
where I can be with you and take care of you until you are well."
Mrs. Phillips made yet another effort. "Have you thought about him?" she
asked.
Joan answered with a faint smile. "Oh, yes," she said. "I didn't forget
that argument in case it hadn't occurred to the Lord."
"Perhaps," she added, "the helpmate theory was intended to apply only to
our bodies. There was nothing said about our souls. Perhaps God doesn't
have to work in pairs. Perhaps we were meant to stand alone."
Mrs. Phillips's thin hands were playing nervously with the bed clothes.
There still seemed something that she had to say. As if Joan hadn't
thought of everything. Her eyes were fixed upon the narrow strip of
light between the window curtains.
"You don't think you could, dear," she whispered, "if I didn't do
anything wicked any more. But just let things take their course."
"You see, dear," she went on, her face still turned away, "I thought it
all finished. It will be hard for me to go back to him, knowing as I do
now that he doesn't want me. I shall always feel that I am in his way.
And Hilda," she added after a pause, "she will hate me."
Joan looked at the white patient face and was silent. What would be the
use of senseless contradiction. The woman knew. It would only seem an
added stab of mockery. She knelt beside the bed, and took the thin hands
in hers.
"I think God must want you very badly," she said, "or He wouldn't have
laid so heavy a cross upon you. You will come?"
The woman did not answer in words. The big tears were rolling down her
cheeks. There was no paint to mingle with and mar them. She drew the
little metal box from under the pillow and gave it into Joan's hands.
Joan crept out softly from the room.
The nurse was standing by the window. She turned sharply on Joan's
entrance. Joan slipped the box into her hands.
The nurse raised the lid. "What a fool I've been," she said. "I never
thought of that."
She held out a large strong hand and gave Joan a longish grip. "You're
right," she said, "we must get her out of this house at once. Forgive
me."
Phillips had been called up north and wired that he would not be able to
get down till the Wednesday evening. Joan met him at the station.
"She won't be expecting you, just yet," she explained. "We might have a
little walk."
She waited till they had reached a quiet road leading to the hills.
"You will find her changed," she said. "Mentally, I mean. Though she
will try not to show it. She was dying for your sake--to set you free.
Hilda seems to have had a talk with her and to have spared her no part of
the truth. Her great love for you made the sacrifice possible and even
welcome. It was the one gift she had in her hands. She was giving it
gladly, proudly. So far as she was concerned, it would have been kinder
to let her make an end of it. But during the last few days I have come
to the conclusion there is a law within us that we may not argue with.
She is coming back to life, knowing you no longer want her, that she is
only in the way. Perhaps you may be able to think of something to say or
do that will lessen her martyrdom. I can't."
They had paused where a group of trees threw a blot of shadow across the
moonlit road.
"You mean she was killing herself?" he asked.
"Quite cleverly. So as to avoid all danger of after discovery: that
might have hurt us," she answered.
They walked in silence, and coming to a road that led back into the town,
he turned down it. She had the feeling she was following him without his
knowing it. A cab was standing outside the gate of a house, having just
discharged its fare. He seemed to have suddenly recollected her.
"Do you mind?" he said. "We shall get there so much quicker."
"You go," she said. "I'll stroll on quietly."
"You're sure?" he said.
"I would rather," she answered.
It struck her that he was relieved. He gave the man the address,
speaking hurriedly, and jumped in.
She had gone on. She heard the closing of the door behind her, and the
next moment the cab passed her.
She did not see him again that night. They met in the morning at
breakfast. A curious strangeness to each other seemed to have grown up
between them, as if they had known one another long ago, and had half
forgotten. When they had finished she rose to leave; but he asked her to
stop, and, after the table had been cleared, he walked up and down the
room, while she sat sideways on the window seat from where she could
watch the little ships moving to and fro across the horizon, like painted
figures in a show.
"I had a long talk with Nan last night," he said. "And, trying to
explain it to her, I came a little nearer to understanding it myself. My
love for you would have been strong enough to ruin both of us. I see
that now. It would have dominated every other thought in me. It would
have swallowed up my dreams. It would have been blind, unscrupulous.
Married to you, I should have aimed only at success. It would not have
been your fault. You would not have known. About mere birth I should
never have troubled myself. I've met daughters of a hundred earls--more
or less: clever, jolly little women I could have chucked under the chin
and have been chummy with. Nature creates her own ranks, and puts her
ban upon misalliances. Every time I took you in my arms I should have
felt that you had stepped down from your proper order to mate yourself
with me and that it was up to me to make the sacrifice good to you by
giving you power--position. Already within the last few weeks, when it
looked as if this thing was going to be possible, I have been thinking
against my will of a compromise with Carleton that would give me his
support. This coming election was beginning to have terrors for me that
I have never before felt. The thought of defeat--having to go back to
comparative poverty, to comparative obscurity, with you as my wife, was
growing into a nightmare. I should have wanted wealth, fame, victory,
for your sake--to see you honoured, courted, envied, finely dressed and
finely housed--grateful to me for having won for you these things. It
wasn't honest, healthy love--the love that unites, that makes a man
willing to take as well as to give, that I felt for you; it was worship
that separates a man from a woman, that puts fear between them. It isn't
good that man should worship a woman. He can't serve God and woman.
Their interests are liable to clash. Nan's my helpmate--just a loving
woman that the Lord brought to me and gave me when I was alone--that I
still love. I didn't know it till last night. She will never stand in
my way. I haven't to put her against my duty. She will leave me free to
obey the voice that calls to me. And no man can hear that voice but
himself."
He had been speaking in a clear, self-confident tone, as if at last he
saw his road before him to the end; and felt that nothing else mattered
but that he should go forward hopefully, unfalteringly. Now he paused,
and his eyes wandered. But the lines about his strong mouth deepened.
"Perhaps, I am not of the stuff that conquerors are made," he went on.
"Perhaps, if I were, I should be thinking differently. It comes to me
sometimes that I may be one of those intended only to prepare the
way--that for me there may be only the endless struggle. I may have to
face unpopularity, abuse, failure. She won't mind."
"Nor would you," he added, turning to her suddenly for the first time, "I
know that. But I should be afraid--for you."
She had listened to him without interrupting, and even now she did not
speak for a while.
It was hard not to. She wanted to tell him that he was all wrong--at
least, so far as she was concerned. It. was not the conqueror she loved
in him; it was the fighter. Not in the hour of triumph but in the hour
of despair she would have yearned to put her arms about him.
"Unpopularity, abuse, failure," it was against the fear of such that she
would have guarded him. Yes, she had dreamed of leadership, influence,
command. But it was the leadership of the valiant few against the hosts
of the oppressors that she claimed. Wealth, honours! Would she have
given up a life of ease, shut herself off from society, if these had been
her standards? "_Mesalliance_!" Had the male animal no instinct,
telling it when it was loved with all a woman's being, so that any other
union would be her degradation.
It was better for him he should think as he did. She rose and held out
her hand.
"I will stay with her for a little while," she said. "Till I feel there
is no more need. Then I must get back to work."
He looked into her eyes, holding her hand, and she felt his body
trembling. She knew he was about to speak, and held up a warning hand.
"That's all, my lad," she said with a smile. "My love to you, and God
speed you."
Mrs. Phillips progressed slowly but steadily. Life was returning to her,
but it was not the same. Out of those days there had come to her a
gentle dignity, a strengthening and refining. The face, now pale and
drawn, had lost its foolishness. Under the thin, white hair, and in
spite of its deep lines, it had grown younger. A great patience, a child-
like thoughtfulness had come into the quiet eyes.
She was sitting by the window, her hands folded. Joan had been reading
to her, and the chapter finished, she had closed the book and her
thoughts had been wandering. Mrs. Phillips's voice recalled them.
"Do you remember that day, my dear," she said, "when we went furnishing
together. And I would have all the wrong things. And you let me."
"Yes," answered Joan with a laugh. "They were pretty awful, some of
them."
"I was just wondering," she went on. "It was a pity, wasn't it? I was
silly and began to cry."
"I expect that was it," Joan confessed. "It interferes with our reason
at times."
"It was only a little thing, of course, that," she answered. "But I've
been thinking it must be that that's at the bottom of it all; and that is
why God lets there be weak things--children and little animals and men
and women in pain, that we feel sorry for, so that people like you and
Robert and so many others are willing to give up all your lives to
helping them. And that is what He wants."
"Perhaps God cannot help there being weak things," answered Joan.
"Perhaps He, too, is sorry for them."
"It comes to the same thing, doesn't it, dear?" she answered. "They are
there, anyhow. And that is how He knows those who are willing to serve
Him: by their being pitiful."
They fell into a silence. Joan found herself dreaming.
Yes, it was true. It must have been the beginning of all things. Man,
pitiless, deaf, blind, groping in the darkness, knowing not even himself.
And to her vision, far off, out of the mist, he shaped himself before
her: that dim, first standard-bearer of the Lord, the man who first felt
pity. Savage, brutish, dumb--lonely there amid the desolation, staring
down at some hurt creature, man or beast it mattered not, his dull eyes
troubled with a strange new pain he understood not.
And suddenly, as he stooped, there must have come a great light into his
eyes.
Man had heard God's voice across the deep, and had made answer.