All Roads Lead to Calvary [90]
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
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