Mr. Clacton was in his glory. The machinery which he had perfected and
controlled was now about to turn out its bi-monthly product, a
committee meeting; and his pride in the perfect structure of these
assemblies was great. He loved the jargon of committee-rooms; he loved
the way in which the door kept opening as the clock struck the hour, in
obedience to a few strokes of his pen on a piece of paper; and when it
had opened sufficiently often, he loved to issue from his inner chamber
with documents in his hands, visibly important, with a preoccupied
expression on his face that might have suited a Prime Minister
advancing to meet his Cabinet. By his orders the table had been
decorated beforehand with six sheets of blotting-paper, with six pens,
six ink-pots, a tumbler and a jug of water, a bell, and, in deference
to the taste of the lady members, a vase of hardy chrysanthemums. He
had already surreptitiously straightened the sheets of blotting-paper
in relation to the ink-pots, and now stood in front of the fire engaged
in conversation with Miss Markham. But his eye was on the door, and
when Mary and Mrs. Seal entered, he gave a little laugh and observed to
the assembly which was scattered about the room:
“I fancy, ladies and gentlemen, that we are ready to commence.”
So speaking, he took his seat at the head of the table, and arranging
one bundle of papers upon his right and another upon his left, called
upon Miss Datchet to read the minutes of the previous meeting. Mary
obeyed. A keen observer might have wondered why it was necessary for
the secretary to knit her brows so closely over the tolerably
matter-of-fact statement before her. Could there be any doubt in her
mind that it had been resolved to circularize the provinces with
Leaflet No. 3, or to issue a statistical diagram showing the proportion
of married women to spinsters in New Zealand; or that the net profits
of Mrs. Hipsley’s Bazaar had reached a total of five pounds eight
shillings and twopence half-penny?
Could any doubt as to the perfect sense and propriety of these
statements be disturbing her? No one could have guessed, from the look
of her, that she was disturbed at all. A pleasanter and saner woman
than Mary Datchet was never seen within a committee-room. She seemed a
compound of the autumn leaves and the winter sunshine; less poetically
speaking, she showed both gentleness and strength, an indefinable
promise of soft maternity blending with her evident fitness for honest
labor. Nevertheless, she had great difficulty in reducing her mind to
obedience; and her reading lacked conviction, as if, as was indeed the
case, she had lost the power of visualizing what she read. And directly
the list was completed, her mind floated to Lincoln’s Inn Fields and
the fluttering wings of innumerable sparrows. Was Ralph still enticing
the bald-headed cock-sparrow to sit upon his hand? Had he succeeded?
Would he ever succeed? She had meant to ask him why it is that the
sparrows in Lincoln’s Inn Fields are tamer than the sparrows in Hyde
Park—perhaps it is that the passers-by are rarer, and they come to
recognize their benefactors. For the first half-hour of the committee
meeting, Mary had thus to do battle with the skeptical presence of
Ralph Denham, who threatened to have it all his own way. Mary tried
half a dozen methods of ousting him. She raised her voice, she
articulated distinctly, she looked firmly at Mr. Clacton’s bald head,
she began to write a note. To her annoyance, her pencil drew a little
round figure on the blotting-paper, which, she could not deny, was
really a bald-headed cock-sparrow. She looked again at Mr. Clacton;
yes, he was bald, and so are cock-sparrows. Never was a secretary
tormented by so many unsuitable suggestions, and they all came, alas!
with something ludicrously grotesque about them, which might, at any
moment, provoke her to such flippancy as would shock her colleagues for
ever. The thought of what she might say made her bite her lips, as if
her lips would protect her.
But all these suggestions were but flotsam and jetsam cast to the
surface by a more profound disturbance, which, as she could not
consider it at present, manifested its existence by these grotesque
nods and beckonings. Consider it, she must, when the committee was
over. Meanwhile, she was behaving scandalously; she was looking out of
the window, and thinking of the color of the sky, and of the
decorations on the Imperial Hotel, when she ought to have been
shepherding her colleagues, and pinning them down to the matter in
hand. She could not bring herself to attach more weight to one project
than to another. Ralph had said—she could not stop to consider what he
had said, but he had somehow divested the proceedings of all reality.
And then, without conscious effort, by some trick of the brain, she
found herself becoming interested in some scheme for organizing a
newspaper campaign. Certain articles were to be written; certain
editors approached. What line was it advisable to take? She found
herself strongly disapproving of what Mr. Clacton was saying. She
committed herself to the opinion that now was the time to strike hard.
Directly she had said this, she felt that she had turned upon Ralph’s
ghost; and she became more and more in earnest, and anxious to bring
the others round to her point of view. Once more, she knew exactly and
indisputably what is right and what is wrong. As if emerging from a
mist, the old foes of the public good loomed ahead of her—capitalists,
newspaper proprietors, anti-suffragists, and, in some ways most
pernicious of all, the masses who take no interest one way or
another—among whom, for the time being, she certainly discerned the
features of Ralph Denham. Indeed, when Miss Markham asked her to
suggest the names of a few friends of hers, she expressed herself with
unusual bitterness:
“My friends think all this kind of thing useless.” She felt that she
was really saying that to Ralph himself.
“Oh, they’re that sort, are they?” said Miss Markham, with a little
laugh; and with renewed vigor their legions charged the foe.
Mary’s spirits had been low when she entered the committee-room; but
now they were considerably improved. She knew the ways of this world;
it was a shapely, orderly place; she felt convinced of its right and
its wrong; and the feeling that she was fit to deal a heavy blow
against her enemies warmed her heart and kindled her eye. In one of
those flights of fancy, not characteristic of her but tiresomely
frequent this afternoon, she envisaged herself battered with rotten
eggs upon a platform, from which Ralph vainly begged her to descend.
But—
“What do I matter compared with the cause?” she said, and so on. Much
to her credit, however teased by foolish fancies, she kept the surface
of her brain moderate and vigilant, and subdued Mrs. Seal very
tactfully more than once when she demanded, “Action!—everywhere!—at
once!” as became her father’s daughter.
The other members of the committee, who were all rather elderly people,
were a good deal impressed by Mary, and inclined to side with her and
against each other, partly, perhaps, because of her youth. The feeling
that she controlled them all filled Mary with a sense of power; and she
felt that no work can equal in importance, or be so exciting as, the
work of making other people do what you want them to do. Indeed, when
she had won her point she felt a slight degree of contempt for the
people who had yielded to her.
The committee now rose, gathered together their papers, shook them
straight, placed them in their attache-cases, snapped the locks firmly
together, and hurried away, having, for the most part, to catch trains,
in order to keep other appointments with other committees, for they
were all busy people. Mary, Mrs. Seal, and Mr. Clacton were left alone;
the room was hot and untidy, the pieces of pink blotting-paper were
lying at different angles upon the table, and the tumbler was half full
of water, which some one had poured out and forgotten to drink.
Mrs. Seal began preparing the tea, while Mr. Clacton retired to his
room to file the fresh accumulation of documents. Mary was too much
excited even to help Mrs. Seal with the cups and saucers. She flung up
the window and stood by it, looking out. The street lamps were already
lit; and through the mist in the square one could see little figures
hurrying across the road and along the pavement, on the farther side.
In her absurd mood of lustful arrogance, Mary looked at the little
figures and thought, “If I liked I could make you go in there or stop
short; I could make you walk in single file or in double file; I could
do what I liked with you.” Then Mrs. Seal came and stood by her.
“Oughtn’t you to put something round your shoulders, Sally?” Mary
asked, in rather a condescending tone of voice, feeling a sort of pity
for the enthusiastic ineffective little woman. But Mrs. Seal paid no
attention to the suggestion.
“Well, did you enjoy yourself?” Mary asked, with a little laugh.
Mrs. Seal drew a deep breath, restrained herself, and then burst out,
looking out, too, upon Russell Square and Southampton Row, and at the
passers-by, “Ah, if only one could get every one of those people into
this room, and make them understand for five minutes! But they _must_
see the truth some day.... If only one could _make_ them see it....”
Mary knew herself to be very much wiser than Mrs. Seal, and when Mrs.
Seal said anything, even if it was what Mary herself was feeling, she
automatically thought of all that there was to be said against it. On
this occasion her arrogant feeling that she could direct everybody
dwindled away.
“Let’s have our tea,” she said, turning back from the window and
pulling down the blind. “It was a good meeting—didn’t you think so,
Sally?” she let fall, casually, as she sat down at the table. Surely
Mrs. Seal must realize that Mary had been extraordinarily efficient?
“But we go at such a snail’s pace,” said Sally, shaking her head
impatiently.
At this Mary burst out laughing, and all her arrogance was dissipated.
“You can afford to laugh,” said Sally, with another shake of her head,
“but I can’t. I’m fifty-five, and I dare say I shall be in my grave by
the time we get it—if we ever do.”
“Oh, no, you won’t be in your grave,” said Mary, kindly.
“It’ll be such a great day,” said Mrs. Seal, with a toss of her locks.
“A great day, not only for us, but for civilization. That’s what I
feel, you know, about these meetings. Each one of them is a step
onwards in the great march—humanity, you know. We do want the people
after us to have a better time of it—and so many don’t see it. I wonder
how it is that they don’t see it?”
She was carrying plates and cups from the cupboard as she spoke, so
that her sentences were more than usually broken apart. Mary could not
help looking at the odd little priestess of humanity with something
like admiration. While she had been thinking about herself, Mrs. Seal
had thought of nothing but her vision.
“You mustn’t wear yourself out, Sally, if you want to see the great
day,” she said, rising and trying to take a plate of biscuits from Mrs.
Seal’s hands.
“My dear child, what else is my old body good for?” she exclaimed,
clinging more tightly than before to her plate of biscuits. “Shouldn’t
I be proud to give everything I have to the cause?—for I’m not an
intelligence like you. There were domestic circumstances—I’d like to
tell you one of these days—so I say foolish things. I lose my head, you
know. You don’t. Mr. Clacton doesn’t. It’s a great mistake, to lose
one’s head. But my heart’s in the right place. And I’m so glad Kit has
a big dog, for I didn’t think her looking well.”
They had their tea, and went over many of the points that had been
raised in the committee rather more intimately than had been possible
then; and they all felt an agreeable sense of being in some way behind
the scenes; of having their hands upon strings which, when pulled,
would completely change the pageant exhibited daily to those who read
the newspapers. Although their views were very different, this sense
united them and made them almost cordial in their manners to each
other.
Mary, however, left the tea-party rather early, desiring both to be
alone, and then to hear some music at the Queen’s Hall. She fully
intended to use her loneliness to think out her position with regard to
Ralph; but although she walked back to the Strand with this end in
view, she found her mind uncomfortably full of different trains of
thought. She started one and then another. They seemed even to take
their color from the street she happened to be in. Thus the vision of
humanity appeared to be in some way connected with Bloomsbury, and
faded distinctly by the time she crossed the main road; then a belated
organ-grinder in Holborn set her thoughts dancing incongruously; and by
the time she was crossing the great misty square of Lincoln’s Inn
Fields, she was cold and depressed again, and horribly clear-sighted.
The dark removed the stimulus of human companionship, and a tear
actually slid down her cheek, accompanying a sudden conviction within
her that she loved Ralph, and that he didn’t love her. All dark and
empty now was the path where they had walked that morning, and the
sparrows silent in the bare trees. But the lights in her own building
soon cheered her; all these different states of mind were submerged in
the deep flood of desires, thoughts, perceptions, antagonisms, which
washed perpetually at the base of her being, to rise into prominence in
turn when the conditions of the upper world were favorable. She put off
the hour of clear thought until Christmas, saying to herself, as she
lit her fire, that it is impossible to think anything out in London;
and, no doubt, Ralph wouldn’t come at Christmas, and she would take
long walks into the heart of the country, and decide this question and
all the others that puzzled her. Meanwhile, she thought, drawing her
feet up on to the fender, life was full of complexity; life was a thing
one must love to the last fiber of it.
She had sat there for five minutes or so, and her thoughts had had time
to grow dim, when there came a ring at her bell. Her eye brightened;
she felt immediately convinced that Ralph had come to visit her.
Accordingly, she waited a moment before opening the door; she wanted to
feel her hands secure upon the reins of all the troublesome emotions
which the sight of Ralph would certainly arouse. She composed herself
unnecessarily, however, for she had to admit, not Ralph, but Katharine
and William Rodney. Her first impression was that they were both
extremely well dressed. She felt herself shabby and slovenly beside
them, and did not know how she should entertain them, nor could she
guess why they had come. She had heard nothing of their engagement. But
after the first disappointment, she was pleased, for she felt instantly
that Katharine was a personality, and, moreover, she need not now
exercise her self-control.
“We were passing and saw a light in your window, so we came up,”
Katharine explained, standing and looking very tall and distinguished
and rather absent-minded.
“We have been to see some pictures,” said William. “Oh, dear,” he
exclaimed, looking about him, “this room reminds me of one of the worst
hours in my existence—when I read a paper, and you all sat round and
jeered at me. Katharine was the worst. I could feel her gloating over
every mistake I made. Miss Datchet was kind. Miss Datchet just made it
possible for me to get through, I remember.”
Sitting down, he drew off his light yellow gloves, and began slapping
his knees with them. His vitality was pleasant, Mary thought, although
he made her laugh. The very look of him was inclined to make her laugh.
His rather prominent eyes passed from one young woman to the other, and
his lips perpetually formed words which remained unspoken.
“We have been seeing old masters at the Grafton Gallery,” said
Katharine, apparently paying no attention to William, and accepting a
cigarette which Mary offered her. She leant back in her chair, and the
smoke which hung about her face seemed to withdraw her still further
from the others.
“Would you believe it, Miss Datchet,” William continued, “Katharine
doesn’t like Titian. She doesn’t like apricots, she doesn’t like
peaches, she doesn’t like green peas. She likes the Elgin marbles, and
gray days without any sun. She’s a typical example of the cold northern
nature. I come from Devonshire—”
Had they been quarreling, Mary wondered, and had they, for that reason,
sought refuge in her room, or were they engaged, or had Katharine just
refused him? She was completely baffled.
Katharine now reappeared from her veil of smoke, knocked the ash from
her cigarette into the fireplace, and looked, with an odd expression of
solicitude, at the irritable man.
“Perhaps, Mary,” she said tentatively, “you wouldn’t mind giving us
some tea? We did try to get some, but the shop was so crowded, and in
the next one there was a band playing; and most of the pictures, at any
rate, were very dull, whatever you may say, William.” She spoke with a
kind of guarded gentleness.
Mary, accordingly, retired to make preparations in the pantry.
“What in the world are they after?” she asked of her own reflection in
the little looking-glass which hung there. She was not left to doubt
much longer, for, on coming back into the sitting-room with the
tea-things, Katharine informed her, apparently having been instructed
so to do by William, of their engagement.
“William,” she said, “thinks that perhaps you don’t know. We are going
to be married.”
Mary found herself shaking William’s hand, and addressing her
congratulations to him, as if Katharine were inaccessible; she had,
indeed, taken hold of the tea-kettle.
“Let me see,” Katharine said, “one puts hot water into the cups first,
doesn’t one? You have some dodge of your own, haven’t you, William,
about making tea?”
Mary was half inclined to suspect that this was said in order to
conceal nervousness, but if so, the concealment was unusually perfect.
Talk of marriage was dismissed. Katharine might have been seated in her
own drawing-room, controlling a situation which presented no sort of
difficulty to her trained mind. Rather to her surprise, Mary found
herself making conversation with William about old Italian pictures,
while Katharine poured out tea, cut cake, kept William’s plate
supplied, without joining more than was necessary in the conversation.
She seemed to have taken possession of Mary’s room, and to handle the
cups as if they belonged to her. But it was done so naturally that it
bred no resentment in Mary; on the contrary, she found herself putting
her hand on Katharine’s knee, affectionately, for an instant. Was there
something maternal in this assumption of control? And thinking of
Katharine as one who would soon be married, these maternal airs filled
Mary’s mind with a new tenderness, and even with awe. Katharine seemed
very much older and more experienced than she was.
Meanwhile Rodney talked. If his appearance was superficially against
him, it had the advantage of making his solid merits something of a
surprise. He had kept notebooks; he knew a great deal about pictures.
He could compare different examples in different galleries, and his
authoritative answers to intelligent questions gained not a little,
Mary felt, from the smart taps which he dealt, as he delivered them,
upon the lumps of coal. She was impressed.
“Your tea, William,” said Katharine gently.
He paused, gulped it down, obediently, and continued.
And then it struck Mary that Katharine, in the shade of her
broad-brimmed hat, and in the midst of the smoke, and in the obscurity
of her character, was, perhaps, smiling to herself, not altogether in
the maternal spirit. What she said was very simple, but her words, even
“Your tea, William,” were set down as gently and cautiously and exactly
as the feet of a Persian cat stepping among China ornaments. For the
second time that day Mary felt herself baffled by something inscrutable
in the character of a person to whom she felt herself much attracted.
She thought that if she were engaged to Katharine, she, too, would find
herself very soon using those fretful questions with which William
evidently teased his bride. And yet Katharine’s voice was humble.
“I wonder how you find the time to know all about pictures as well as
books?” she asked.
“How do I find the time?” William answered, delighted, Mary guessed, at
this little compliment. “Why, I always travel with a notebook. And I
ask my way to the picture gallery the very first thing in the morning.
And then I meet men, and talk to them. There’s a man in my office who
knows all about the Flemish school. I was telling Miss Datchet about
the Flemish school. I picked up a lot of it from him—it’s a way men
have—Gibbons, his name is. You must meet him. We’ll ask him to lunch.
And this not caring about art,” he explained, turning to Mary, “it’s
one of Katharine’s poses, Miss Datchet. Did you know she posed? She
pretends that she’s never read Shakespeare. And why should she read
Shakespeare, since she IS Shakespeare—Rosalind, you know,” and he gave
his queer little chuckle. Somehow this compliment appeared very
old-fashioned and almost in bad taste. Mary actually felt herself
blush, as if he had said “the sex” or “the ladies.” Constrained,
perhaps, by nervousness, Rodney continued in the same vein.
“She knows enough—enough for all decent purposes. What do you women
want with learning, when you have so much else—everything, I should
say—everything. Leave us something, eh, Katharine?”
“Leave you something?” said Katharine, apparently waking from a brown
study. “I was thinking we must be going—”
“Is it to-night that Lady Ferrilby dines with us? No, we mustn’t be
late,” said Rodney, rising. “D’you know the Ferrilbys, Miss Datchet?
They own Trantem Abbey,” he added, for her information, as she looked
doubtful. “And if Katharine makes herself very charming to-night,
perhaps’ll lend it to us for the honeymoon.”
“I agree that may be a reason. Otherwise she’s a dull woman,” said
Katharine. “At least,” she added, as if to qualify her abruptness, “I
find it difficult to talk to her.”
“Because you expect every one else to take all the trouble. I’ve seen
her sit silent a whole evening,” he said, turning to Mary, as he had
frequently done already. “Don’t you find that, too? Sometimes when
we’re alone, I’ve counted the time on my watch”—here he took out a
large gold watch, and tapped the glass—“the time between one remark and
the next. And once I counted ten minutes and twenty seconds, and then,
if you’ll believe me, she only said ‘Um!’”
“I’m sure I’m sorry,” Katharine apologized. “I know it’s a bad habit,
but then, you see, at home—”
The rest of her excuse was cut short, so far as Mary was concerned, by
the closing of the door. She fancied she could hear William finding
fresh fault on the stairs. A moment later, the door-bell rang again,
and Katharine reappeared, having left her purse on a chair. She soon
found it, and said, pausing for a moment at the door, and speaking
differently as they were alone:
“I think being engaged is very bad for the character.” She shook her
purse in her hand until the coins jingled, as if she alluded merely to
this example of her forgetfulness. But the remark puzzled Mary; it
seemed to refer to something else; and her manner had changed so
strangely, now that William was out of hearing, that she could not help
looking at her for an explanation. She looked almost stern, so that
Mary, trying to smile at her, only succeeded in producing a silent
stare of interrogation.
As the door shut for the second time, she sank on to the floor in front
of the fire, trying, now that their bodies were not there to distract
her, to piece together her impressions of them as a whole. And, though
priding herself, with all other men and women, upon an infallible eye
for character, she could not feel at all certain that she knew what
motives inspired Katharine Hilbery in life. There was something that
carried her on smoothly, out of reach—something, yes, but
what?—something that reminded Mary of Ralph. Oddly enough, he gave her
the same feeling, too, and with him, too, she felt baffled. Oddly
enough, for no two people, she hastily concluded, were more unlike. And
yet both had this hidden impulse, this incalculable force—this thing
they cared for and didn’t talk about—oh, what was it?