She ought to have insisted on their going to a decent shop. The mere advertisement ought to have forewarned her. It was the posters that had captured Mrs. Phillips: those dazzling apartments where bejewelled society reposed upon the "high-class but inexpensive designs" of Mr. Krebs. Artists ought to have more self-respect than to sell their talents for such purposes.
The contract was concluded in Mr. Krebs' private office: a very stout gentleman with a very thin voice, whose dream had always been to one day be of service to the renowned Mr. Robert Phillips. He was clearly under the impression that he had now accomplished it.
Even as Mrs. Phillips took up the pen to sign, the wild idea occurred to Joan of snatching the paper away from her, hustling her into a cab, and in some quiet street or square making the woman see for herself that she was a useless fool; that the glowing dreams and fancies she had cherished in her silly head for fifteen years must all be given up; that she must stand aside, knowing herself of no account.
It could be done. She felt it. If only one could summon up the needful brutality. If only one could stifle that still, small voice of Pity.
Mrs. Phillips signed amid splutterings and blots. Joan added her signature as witness.
She did effect an improvement in the poor lady's dress. On Madge's advice she took her to a voluble little woman in the Earl's Court Road who was struck at once by Madame Phillips's remarkable resemblance to the Baroness von Stein. Had not Joan noticed it?
Whatever suited the Baroness von Stein--allowed by common consent to be one of the best-dressed women in London--was bound to show up Madame Phillips to equal advantage. By curious coincidence a costume for the Baroness had been put in hand only the day before.
It was sent for and pinned upon the delighted Madame Phillips.
Perfection! As the Baroness herself would always say: "My frock must be a framework for my personality. It must never obtrude."The supremely well-dressed woman! One never notices what she has on: that is the test. It seemed it was what Mrs. Phillips had always felt herself. Joan could have kissed the voluble, emphatic little woman.
But the dyed hair and the paint put up a fight for themselves.
"I want you to do something very brave," said Joan. She had invited herself to tea with Mrs. Phillips, and they were alone in the small white-panelled room that they were soon to say good-bye to. The new house would be ready at Christmas. "It will be a little hard at first," continued Joan, "but afterwards you will be glad that you have done it. It is a duty you owe to your position as the wife of a great leader of the people."The firelight showed to Joan a comically frightened face, with round, staring eyes and an open mouth.
"What is it you want me to do?" she faltered "I want you to be just yourself," said Joan; "a kind, good woman of the people, who will win their respect, and set them an example."She moved across and seating herself on the arm of Mrs. Phillips's chair, touched lightly with her hand the flaxen hair and the rouged cheek. "I want you to get rid of all this," she whispered. "It isn't worthy of you. Leave it to the silly dolls and the bad women."There was a long silence. Joan felt the tears trickling between her fingers.
"You haven't seen me," came at last in a thin, broken voice.
Joan bent down and kissed her. "Let's try it," she whispered.
A little choking sound was the only answer. But the woman rose and, Joan following, they stole upstairs into the bedroom and Mrs.
Phillips turned the key.
It took a long time, and Joan, seated on the bed, remembered a night when she had taken a trapped mouse (if only he had been a quiet mouse!) into the bathroom and had waited while it drowned.
It was finished at last, and Mrs Phillips stood revealed with her hair down, showing streaks of dingy brown.
Joan tried to enthuse; but the words came haltingly. She suggested to Joan a candle that some wind had suddenly blown out. The paint and powder had been obvious, but at least it had given her the mask of youth. She looked old and withered. The life seemed to have gone out of her.
"You see, dear, I began when I was young," she explained; "and he has always seen me the same. I don't think I could live like this."The painted doll that the child fancied! the paint washed off and the golden hair all turned to drab? Could one be sure of "getting used to it," of "liking it better?" And the poor bewildered doll itself! How could one expect to make of it a statue: "The Woman of the People." One could only bruise it.
It ended in Joan's promising to introduce her to discreet theatrical friends who would tell her of cosmetics less injurious to the skin, and advise her generally in the ancient and proper art of "making up."It was not the end she had looked for. Joan sighed as she closed her door behind her. What was the meaning of it? On the one hand that unimpeachable law, the greatest happiness of the greatest number; the sacred cause of Democracy; the moral Uplift of the people; Sanity, Wisdom, Truth, the higher Justice; all the forces on which she was relying for the regeneration of the world--all arrayed in stern demand that the flabby, useless Mrs. Phillips should be sacrificed for the general good. Only one voice had pleaded for foolish, helpless Mrs. Phillips--and had conquered.
The still, small voice of Pity.
