all roads lead to calvary-第4章

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reward　of　virtue；　more　sparing　of　her　frowns；　reserving　them　for　the　rectification　of　error。

At　Girton　it　was　more　by　force　of　will；　of　brain；　that　she　had　to　make　her　position。　　There　was　more　competition。　　Joan　welcomed　it；　as　giving　more　zest　to　life。　　But　even　there　her　beauty　was　by　no　means　a　negligible　quantity。　　Clever；　brilliant　young　women；　accustomed　to　sweep　aside　all　opposition　with　a　blaze　of　rhetoric；　found　themselves　to　their　irritation　sitting　in　front　of　her　silent；　not　so　much　listening　to　her　as　looking　at　her。　　It　puzzled　them　for　a　time。　　Because　a　girl's　features　are　classical　and　her　colouring　attractive；　surely　that　has　nothing　to　do　with　the　value　of　her　political　views？　　Until　one　of　them　discovered　by　chance　that　it　has。

〃Well；　what　does　Beauty　think　about　it？〃　this　one　had　asked；　laughing。　　She　had　arrived　at　the　end　of　a　discussion　just　as　Joan　was　leaving　the　room。　　And　then　she　gave　a　long　low　whistle；　feeling　that　she　had　stumbled　upon　the　explanation。　　Beauty；　that　mysterious　force　that　from　the　date　of　creation　has　ruled　the　world；　what　does　It　think？　　Dumb；　passive；　as　a　rule；　exercising　its　influence　unconsciously。　　But　if　it　should　become　intelligent；　active！　　A　Philosopher　has　dreamed　of　the　vast　influence　that　could　be　exercised　by　a　dozen　sincere　men　acting　in　unity。　　Suppose　a　dozen　of　the　most　beautiful　women　in　the　world　could　form　themselves　into　a　league！　　Joan　found　them　late　in　the　evening　still　discussing　it。

Her　mother　died　suddenly　during　her　last　term；　and　Joan　hurried　back　to　attend　the　funeral。　　Her　father　was　out　when　she　reached　home。　　Joan　changed　her　travel…dusty　clothes；　and　then　went　into　the　room　where　her　mother　lay；　and　closed　the　door。　　She　must　have　been　a　beautiful　woman。　　Now　that　the　fret　and　the　restlessness　had　left　her　it　had　come　back　to　her。　　The　passionate　eyes　were　closed。　Joan　kissed　the　marble　lids；　and　drawing　a　chair　to　the　bedside；　sat　down。　　It　grieved　her　that　she　had　never　loved　her　mothernot　as　one　ought　to　love　one's　mother；　unquestioningly；　unreasoningly；　as　a　natural　instinct。　　For　a　moment　a　strange　thought　came　to　her；　and　swiftly；　almost　guiltily；　she　stole　across；　and　drawing　back　a　corner　of　the　blind；　examined　closely　her　own　features　in　the　glass；　comparing　them　with　the　face　of　the　dead　woman；　thus　called　upon　to　be　a　silent　witness　for　or　against　the　living。　　Joan　drew　a　sigh　of　relief　and　let　fall　the　blind。　　There　could　be　no　misreading　the　evidence。　　Death　had　smoothed　away　the　lines；　given　back　youth。　　It　was　almost　uncanny；　the　likeness　between　them。　　It　might　have　been　her　drowned　sister　lying　there。　　And　they　had　never　known　one　another。　　Had　this　also　been　temperament　again；　keeping　them　apart？　　Why　did　it　imprison　us　each　one　as　in　a　moving　cell；　so　that　we　never　could　stretch　out　our　arms　to　one　another；　except　when　at　rare　intervals　Love　or　Death　would　unlock　for　a　while　the　key？　　Impossible　that　two　beings　should　have　been　so　alike　in　feature　without　being　more　or　less　alike　in　thought　and　feeling。　Whose　fault　had　it　been？　　Surely　her　own；　she　was　so　hideously　calculating。　　Even　Mrs。　Munday；　because　the　old　lady　had　been　fond　of　her　and　had　shown　it；　had　been　of　more　service　to　her；　more　a　companion；　had　been　nearer　to　her　than　her　own　mother。　　In　self…　excuse　she　recalled　the　two　or　three　occasions　when　she　had　tried　to　win　her　mother。　　But　fate　seemed　to　have　decreed　that　their　moods　should　never　correspond。　　Her　mother's　sudden　fierce　outbursts　of　love；　when　she　would　be　jealous；　exacting；　almost　cruel；　had　frightened　her　when　she　was　a　child；　and　later　on　had　bored　her。　　Other　daughters　would　have　shown　patience；　unselfishness；　but　she　had　always　been　so　self…centred。　　Why　had　she　never　fallen　in　love　like　other　girls？　　There　had　been　a　boy　at　Brighton　when　she　was　at　school　therequite　a　nice　boy；　who　had　written　her　wildly　extravagant　love…letters。　　It　must　have　cost　him　half　his　pocket…money　to　get　them　smuggled　in　to　her。　　Why　had　she　only　been　amused　at　them？　　They　might　have　been　beautiful　if　only　one　had　read　them　with　sympathy。　　One　day　he　had　caught　her　alone　on　the　Downs。　　Evidently　he　had　made　it　his　business　to　hang　about　every　day　waiting　for　some　such　chance。　　He　had　gone　down　on　his　knees　and　kissed　her　feet；　and　had　been　so　abject；　so　pitiful　that　she　had　given　him　some　flowers　she　was　wearing。　　And　he　had　sworn　to　dedicate　the　rest　of　his　life　to　being　worthy　of　her　condescension。　　Poor　lad！　　She　wonderedfor　the　first　time　since　that　afternoonwhat　had　become　of　him。　　There　had　been　others；　a　third　cousin　who　still　wrote　to　her　from　Egypt；　sending　her　presents　that　perhaps　he　could　ill　afford；　and　whom　she　answered　about　once　a　year。　　And　promising　young　men　she　had　met　at　Cambridge；　ready；　the　felt　instinctively；　to　fall　down　and　worship　her。　　And　all　the　use　she　had　had　for　them　was　to　convert　them　to　her　viewsa　task　so　easy　as　to　be　quite　uninterestingwith　a　vague　idea　that　they　might　come　in　handy　in　the　future；　when　she　might　need　help　in　shaping　that　world　of　the　future。

Only　once　had　she　ever　thought　of　marriage。　　And　that　was　in　favour　of　a　middle…aged；　rheumatic　widower　with　three　children；　a　professor　of　chemistry；　very　learned　and　justly　famous。　　For　about　a　month　she　had　thought　herself　in　love。　　She　pictured　herself　devoting　her　life　to　him；　rubbing　his　poor　left　shoulder　where　it　seemed　he　suffered　most；　and　brushing　his　picturesque　hair；　inclined　to　grey。　　Fortunately　his　eldest　daughter　was　a　young　woman　of　resource；　or　the　poor　gentleman；　naturally　carried　off　his　feet　by　this　adoration　of　youth　and　beauty；　might　have　made　an　ass　of　himself。　　But　apart　from　this　one　episode　she　had　reached　the　age　of　twenty…three　heart…whole。

She　rose　and　replaced　the　chair。　　And　suddenly　a　wave　of　pity　passed　over　her　for　the　dead　woman；　who　had　always　seemed　so　lonely　in　the　great　stiffly…furnished　house；　and　the　tears　came。

She　was　glad　she　had　been　able　to　cry。　　She　had　always　hated　herself　for　her　lack　of　tears；　it　was　so　unwomanly。　　Even　as　a　child　she　had　rarely　cried。

Her　father　had　always　been　very　tender；　very　patient　towards　her　mother；　but　she　had　not　expected　to　find　him　so　changed。　　He　had　aged　and　his　shoulders　drooped。　　She　had　been　afraid　that　he　would　want　her　to　stay　with　him　and　take　charge　of　the　house。　　It　had　worried　her　considerably。　　It　would　be　so　difficult　to　refuse；　and　yet　she　would　have　to。　　But　when　he　never　broached　the　subject　she　was　hurt。　　He　had　questioned　her　about　her　plans　the　day　after　the　funeral；　and　had　seemed　only　anxious　to　assist　them。　　She　proposed　continuing　at　Cambridge　till　the　end　of　the　term。　　She　had　taken　her　degree　the　year　before。　　After　that；　she　would　go　to　London　and　commence　her　work。

〃Let　me　know　what　allowance　you　would　like　me　to　make　you；　when　you　have　thought　it　out。　　Things　are　not　what　they　were　at　the　works；　but　there　will　always　be　enough　to　keep　you　in　comfort；〃　he　had　told　her。　　She　had　fixed　it　there　and　then　at　two　hundred　a　year。　She　would　not　take　more；　and　that　only　until　she　was　in　a　position　to　keep　herself。

〃I　want　to　prove　to　myself；〃　she　explained；　〃that　I　am　capable　of　earning　my　own　living。　　I　am　going　down　into　the　market…place。　　If　I'm　no　good；　if　I　can't　take　care　of　even　one　poor　woman；　I'll　come　back　and　ask　you　to　keep　me。〃　　She　was　sitting　on　the　arm　of　his　chair；　and　laughing；　she　drew　his　head　towards　her　and　pressed　it　against　her。　　〃If　I　succeed；　if　I　am　strong　enough　to　fight　the　world　for　myself　and　win；　that　will　mean　I　am　strong　enough　and　clever　enough　to　help　others。〃

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



CHAPTER　III



It　was　at　Madge　Singleton's　rooms　that　the　details　of　Joan's　entry　into　journalistic　London　were　arranged。　　〃The　Coming　of　Beauty；〃　was　Flora　Lessing's　phrase　for　designating　the　event。　　Flora　Lessing；　known　among　her　associates　as　〃Flossie；〃　was　the　girl　who　at　Cambridge　had　accidentally　stumbled　upon　the　explanation　of　Joan's　influence。　　In　appearance　she　was　of　the　Fluffy　Ruffles　type；　with　childish　innocent　eyes；　and　the　〃unruly　curls〃　beloved　of　the　Family　Herald　novelist。　　At　the　first；　these　latter　had　been　the　result　of　a　habit　of　late　rising　and　consequent　hurried　toilet　operations；　but　on　the　discovery　that　for　the　purposes　of　her　profession　they　possessed　a　market　value　they　had　been　sedulously　cultivated。　　Editors　of　the　old　order　had　ridiculed　the　idea　of　her　being　of　any　use　to　them；　when　two　years　previously　she　had；　by　combination　of　cheek　and　patience；　forced　herself　into　their　sanctum；　had　patted　her　paternally　upon　her　generally　ungloved　hand；　and　told　her　to　go　back　home　and　get　some　honest；　worthy　young　man　to　love　and　cherish　her。

It　was　Carleton　of　the　Daily　Dispatch　group　who　had　first　divined　her　possibilities。　　With　a　swift　glance　on　his　way　through；　he　had　picked　her　out　from　a　line　of　depressed…looking　men　and　women　ranged　against　the　wall　of　the　dark　entrance　passage；　and　with　a　snap　of　his　fingers　had　beckoned　to　her　to　follow　him。　　Striding　in　front　of　her　up　to　his　room；　he　had　pointed　to　a　chair　and　had　left　her　sitting　there　for　three…quarters　of　an　hour；　while　he　held　discussion　with　a　stream　of　subordinates；　managers　and　editors　of　departments；　who　entered　and　departed　one　after　another；　evidently　in　prearranged　order。　　All　of　them　spoke　rapidly；　without　ever　digressing　by　a　single　word　from　the　point；　giving　her　the　impression　of　their　speeches　having　been　rehearsed　beforehand。

Carleton　himself　never　interrupted　them。　　Indeed；　one　might　have　thought　he　was　not　listening；　so　engrossed　he　appeared　to　be　in　the　pile　of　letters　and　telegrams　that　lay　waiting　for　him　on　his　desk。　When　they　had　finished　he　would　ask　them　questions；　still　with　his　attention　fixed　apparently　upon　the　paper　in　his　hand。　　Then；　looking　up　for　the　first　time；　he　would　run　off　curt　instructions；　much　in　the　tone　of　a　Commander…in…Chief　giving　orders　for　an　immediate　assault；　and；　finishing　abruptly；　return　to　his　correspondence。　　When　the　last；　as　it　transpired；　had　closed　the　door　behind　him；　he　swung　his　chair　round　and　faced　her。

〃What　have　you　been　doing？〃　he　asked　her。

〃Wasting　my　time　and　money　hanging　about　newspaper　offices；　listening　to　silly　talk　from　old　fossils；〃　she　told　him。

〃And　having　learned　that　respectable　journalism　has　no　use　for　brains；　you　come　to　me；〃　he　answered　her。　　〃What　do　you　think　you　can　do？〃

〃Anything　that　can　be　done　with　a　pen　and　ink；〃　she　told　him。

〃Interviewing？〃　he　suggested。

〃I've　always　been　considered　good　at　asking　awkward　questions；〃　she　assured　him。

He　glanced　at　the　clock。　　〃I'll　give　you　five　minutes；〃　he　said。　〃Interview　me。〃

She　moved　to　a　chair　beside　the　desk；　and；　opening　her　bag；　took　out　a　writing…block。

〃What　are　your　principles？〃　she　asked　him。　　〃Have　you　got　any？〃

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

〃I　mean；〃　she　continued；　〃to　what　fundamental　rule　of　conduct　do　you　attribute　your　success？〃

She　leant　forward；　fixing　her　eyes　on　him。　　〃Don't　tell　me；〃　she　persisted；　〃that　you　had　none。　　That　life　is　all　just　mere　blind　chance。　　Think　of　the　yo