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.