All Roads Lead to Calvary | Page 8

that had always prevented her from expressing her
emotions. She had inherited it, doubtless enough, from him. Perhaps
one day, between them, they would break down the barrier, the strength
of which seemed to lie in its very flimsiness, its impalpability.
And then during college vacations, returning home with growing
notions and views of her own, she had found herself so often in
antagonism with him. His fierce puritanism, so opposed to all her

enthusiasms. Arguing with him, she might almost have been listening
to one of his Cromwellian ancestors risen from the dead. There had
been disputes between him and his work-people, and Joan had taken
the side of the men. He had not been angry with her, but coldly
contemptuous. And yet, in spite of it all, if he had only made a sign!
She wanted to fling herself crying into his arms and shake him--make
him listen to her wisdom, sitting on his knee with her hands clasped
round his neck. He was not really intolerant and stupid. That had been
proved by his letting her go to a Church of England school. Her mother
had expressed no wish. It was he who had selected it.
Of her mother she had always stood somewhat in fear, never knowing
when the mood of passionate affection would give place to a chill
aversion that seemed almost like hate. Perhaps it had been good for her,
so she told herself in after years, her lonely, unguided childhood. It had
forced her to think and act for herself. At school she reaped the benefit.
Self-reliant, confident, original, leadership was granted to her as a
natural prerogative. Nature had helped her. Nowhere does a young girl
rule more supremely by reason of her beauty than among her fellows.
Joan soon grew accustomed to having her boots put on and taken off
for her; all her needs of service anticipated by eager slaves, contending
with one another for the privilege. By giving a command, by bestowing
a few moments of her conversation, it was within her power to make
some small adoring girl absurdly happy for the rest of the day; while
her displeasure would result in tears, in fawning pleadings for
forgiveness. The homage did not spoil her. Rather it helped to develop
her. She accepted it from the beginning as in the order of things. Power
had been given to her. It was her duty to see to it that she did not use it
capriciously, for her own gratification. No conscientious youthful
queen could have been more careful in the distribution of her
favours--that they should be for the encouragement of the deserving,
the 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 mother--not as one ought to love