"They did, at first," he answered. "The time-servers and the hypocrites among them. I made it a condition that they should be teetotallers, and chapel goers, and everything else that I thought good for them. I thought that I could save their souls by bribing them with cheap rents and share of profits. And then the Union came, and that of course finished it."

So he, too, had thought to build Jerusalem.

"Yes," he said. "I'll sound him about giving up his lodgings."

Joan lay awake for a long while that night. The moon looked in at the window. It seemed to have got itself entangled in the tops of the tall pines. Would it not be her duty to come back--make her father happy, to say nothing of the other. He was a dear, sweet, lovable lad. Together, they might realize her father's dream: repair the blunders, plant gardens where the weeds now grew, drive out the old sad ghosts with living voices. It had been a fine thought, a "King's thought." Others had followed, profiting by his mistakes. But might it not be carried further than even they had gone, shaped into some n.o.ble venture that should serve the future.

Was not her America here? Why seek it further? What was this unknown Force, that, against all sense and reason, seemed driving her out into the wilderness to preach. Might it not be mere vanity, mere egoism.

Almost she had convinced herself.

And then there flashed remembrance of her mother. She, too, had laid aside herself; had thought that love and duty could teach one to be other than one was. The Ego was the all important thing, entrusted to us as the talents of silver to the faithful servant: to be developed, not for our own purposes, but for the service of the Master.

One did no good by suppressing one's nature. In the end it proved too strong. Marriage with Arthur would be only repeating the mistake. To be worshipped, to be served. It would be very pleasant, when one was in the mood. But it would not satisfy her. There was something strong and fierce and primitive in her nature--something that had come down to her through the generations from some harness-girded ancestress--something impelling her instinctively to choose the fighter; to share with him the joy of battle, healing his wounds, giving him of her courage, exulting with him in the victory.

The moon had risen clear of the entangling pines. It rode serene and free.

Her father came to the station with her in the morning. The train was not in: and they walked up and down and talked. Suddenly she remembered: it had slipped her mind.

"Could I, as a child, have known an old clergyman?" she asked him. "At least he wouldn't have been old then. I dropped into Chelsea Church one evening and heard him preach; and on the way home I pa.s.sed him again in the street. It seemed to me that I had seen his face before. But not for many years. I meant to write you about it, but forgot."

He had to turn aside for a moment to speak to an acquaintance about business.

"Oh, it's possible," he answered on rejoining her. "What was his name?"

"I do not know," she answered. "He was not the regular Inc.u.mbent. But it was someone that I seemed to know quite well--that I must have been familiar with."

"It may have been," he answered carelessly, "though the gulf was wider then than it is now. I'll try and think. Perhaps it is only your fancy."

The train drew in, and he found her a corner seat, and stood talking by the window, about common things.

"What did he preach about?" he asked her unexpectedly.

She was puzzled for the moment. "Oh, the old clergyman," she answered, recollecting. "Oh, Calvary. All roads lead to Calvary, he thought. It was rather interesting."

She looked back at the end of the platform. He had not moved.

CHAPTER IX

A pile of correspondence was awaiting her and, standing by the desk, she began to open and read it. Suddenly she paused, conscious that someone had entered the room and, turning, she saw Hilda. She must have left the door ajar, for she had heard no sound. The child closed the door noiselessly and came across, holding out a letter.

"Papa told me to give you this the moment you came in," she said. Joan had not yet taken off her things. The child must have been keeping a close watch. Save for the signature it contained but one line: "I have accepted."

Joan replaced the letter in its envelope, and laid it down upon the desk.

Unconsciously a smile played about her lips.

The child was watching her. "I'm glad you persuaded him," she said.

Joan felt a flush mount to her face. She had forgotten Hilda for the instant.

She forced a laugh. "Oh, I only persuaded him to do what he had made up his mind to do," she explained. "It was all settled."

"No, it wasn't," answered the child. "Most of them were against it. And then there was Mama," she added in a lower tone.

"What do you mean," asked Joan. "Didn't she wish it?"

The child raised her eyes. There was a dull anger in them. "Oh, what's the good of pretending," she said. "He's so great. He could be the Prime Minister of England if he chose. But then he would have to visit kings and n.o.bles, and receive them at his house, and Mama--" She broke off with a pa.s.sionate gesture of the small thin hands.

Joan was puzzled what to say. She knew exactly what she ought to say: what she would have said to any ordinary child. But to say it to this uncannily knowing little creature did not promise much good.

"Who told you I persuaded him?" she asked.

"n.o.body," answered the child. "I knew."

Joan seated herself, and drew the child towards her.

"It isn't as terrible as you think," she said. "Many men who have risen and taken a high place in the world were married to kind, good women unable to share their greatness. There was Shakespeare, you know, who married Anne Hathaway and had a clever daughter. She was just a nice, homely body a few years older than himself. And he seems to have been very fond of her; and was always running down to Stratford to be with her."

"Yes, but he didn't bring her up to London," answered the child. "Mama would have wanted to come; and Papa would have let her, and wouldn't have gone to see Queen Elizabeth unless she had been invited too."

Joan wished she had not mentioned Shakespeare. There had surely been others; men who had climbed up and carried their impossible wives with them. But she couldn't think of one, just then.

"We must help her," she answered somewhat lamely. "She's anxious to learn, I know."

The child shook her head. "She doesn't understand," she said. "And Papa won't tell her. He says it would only hurt her and do no good." The small hands were clenched. "I shall hate her if she spoils his life."

The atmosphere was becoming tragic. Joan felt the need of escaping from it. She sprang up.

"Oh, don't be nonsensical," she said. "Your father isn't the only man married to a woman not as clever as himself. He isn't going to let that stop him. And your mother's going to learn to be the wife of a great man and do the best she can. And if they don't like her they've got to put up with her. I shall talk to the both of them." A wave of motherliness towards the entire Phillips family pa.s.sed over her. It included Hilda.

She caught the child to her and gave her a hug. "You go back to school,"

she said, "and get on as fast as you can, so that you'll be able to be useful to him."

The child flung her arms about her. "You're so beautiful and wonderful,"

she said. "You can do anything. I'm so glad you came."

Joan laughed. It was surprising how easily the problem had been solved.

She would take Mrs. Phillips in hand at once. At all events she should be wholesome and un.o.btrusive. It would be a delicate mission, but Joan felt sure of her own tact. She could see his boyish eyes turned upon her with wonder and grat.i.tude.

"I was so afraid you would not be back before I went," said the child. "I ought to have gone this afternoon, but Papa let me stay till the evening."

"You will help?" she added, fixing on Joan her great, grave eyes.

Joan promised, and the child went out. She looked pretty when she smiled. She closed the door behind her noiselessly.

It occurred to Joan that she would like to talk matters over with Greyson. There was "Clorinda's" att.i.tude to be decided upon; and she was interested to know what view he himself would take. Of course he would be on P---'s side. The _Evening Gazette_ had always supported the "gas and water school" of socialism; and to include the people's food was surely only an extension of the principle. She rang him up and Miss Greyson answered, asking her to come round to dinner: they would be alone. And she agreed.