“It is no use, Henry,” said Mrs. Altham on that same evening, “telling
me it is all stuff and nonsense, when I’ve seen with my own eyes the
parcel of Suffragette riband being actually directed to Mrs. Brooks; for
pen and ink is pen and ink, when all is said and done. Tapworth measured
off six yards of it on the counter-measure that gives two feet, for he
gave nine lengths of it and put it in paper and directed it. Of course,
if nine lengths of two feet doesn’t make eighteen feet, which is six
yards, I am wrong and you are right, and twice two no longer makes four.
And there were two other parcels already done up of exactly the same
shape. You will see if I am not right. Or do you suppose that Mrs.
Brooks is ordering it just to trim her nightgown with it?”
“I never said anything about Mrs. Brooks’ nightgown,” said Henry, who,
to do him justice, had been goaded into slightly Rabelaisian mood: “I
never thought about Mrs. Brooks’ nightgown. I didn’t know she wore
one--I mean----”
Mrs. Altham made what children would call “a face.” Her eyes grew
suddenly fixed and boiled, and her mouth assumed an acidulated
expression as if with a plethora of lemon-juice. The “face” was due to
the entry of the parlour-maid with the pudding. It was jelly, and was
served in silence. Mrs. Altham waited till the door was quietly closed
again.
“It is not a question of Mrs. Brooks’ nightgown,” she said, “since we
both agree that she would not order six yards of Suffragette riband to
trim it. I spoke sarcastically, Henry, and you interpreted me literally,
as you often do. It was the same at Littlestone in August, when the
bacon was so salt one day that I said to Mrs. Churchill that a little
bacon in the bath would be equivalent to sea-bathing. Upon which you
must needs tell her next morning to send your bacon to the bath-room,
which she did, and there was a plate of bacon on the sponge-tray, so
extraordinary. But all that is beside the point, though what she can
have thought of you I can’t imagine. After all, your gift of being
literal may help you now. Why does Mrs. Brooks want six yards of
Suffragette riband, and why are there two similar parcels on Tapworth’s
counter? If I had had a moment alone I would certainly have looked at
the other addresses, and seen where they were being sent. But young
Tapworth was there all the time--that one with the pince-nez, and the
ridiculous chin--and he put them into the errand-boy’s basket, and told
him to be sharp about it. So I had no chance of seeing.”
“You might have strolled along behind the boy to see where he went,”
suggested Mr. Altham.
“He went on a bicycle,” said Mrs. Altham, “and it is impossible to
stroll behind a boy on a bicycle and hope to get there in time. But he
went up the High Street. I should not in the least wonder if Mrs. Evans
had turned Suffragette, after that note to me about her not having time
to attend the anti-Suffragette meetings.”
“Especially since there was only one,” said Henry, in the literal mood
that had been forced on him, “and nobody came to that. It would not have
sacrificed very much of her time. Not that I ever heard it was
valuable.”
“What she can do with her day I can’t imagine,” said Mrs. Altham, her
mind completely diverted by this new topic. “Her cook told Griffiths
that as often as not she doesn’t go down to the kitchen at all in the
morning, and she’s hardly ever to be seen shopping in the High Street
before lunch, and what with Elsie gone to Dresden, and her husband away
on his rounds all day, she must be glad when it’s bedtime. And she’s a
small sleeper, too, for she told me herself that she considers six hours
a good night, though I expect she sleeps more than she knows, and I
daresay has a nap after lunch as well. Dear me, what were we talking
about? Ah, yes, I was saying I should not wonder if she had turned
Suffragette, though I can’t recall what made me think so.”
“Because Tapworth’s boy went up the High Street on a bicycle,” said Mr.
Altham, who had a great gift of picking out single threads from the
tangle of his wife’s conversation; “though, after all, the High Street
leads to other houses besides Mrs. Evans’. The station, for instance.”
“You seem to want to find fault with everything I say, to-night, Henry.
I don’t know what makes you so contrary. But there it is: I saw eighteen
yards of Suffragette riband being sent out when I happened to be in
Tapworth’s this morning, and I daresay that’s but a tithe of what has
been ordered, though I can’t say as to that, unless you expect me to
stand in the High Street all day and watch. And as to what it all means,
I’ll let you conjecture for yourself, since if I told you what I
thought, you would probably contradict me again.”
It was no wonder that Mrs. Altham was annoyed. She had been thrilled to
the marrow by the parcels of Suffragette riband, and when she
communicated her discovery, Henry, who usually was so sympathetic, had
seen nothing to be thrilled about. But he had not meant to be
unsympathetic, and repaired his error.
“I’m sure, my dear, that you will have formed a very good guess as to
what it means,” he said. “Tell me what you think.”
“Well, if you care to know,” said she, “I think it all points to there
being some demonstration planned, and I for one should not be surprised
if I looked out of the window some morning, and saw Mrs. Ames and Mrs.
Brooks and the rest of them marching down the High Street with ribands
and banners. They’ve been keeping very quiet about it all, at least not
a word of what they’ve been doing has come to my ears, and I consider
that’s a proof that something is going on and that they want to keep it
secret.”
Mr. Altham’s legal mind cried out to him to put in the plea that a
complete absence of news does not necessarily constitute a proof that
exciting events are occurring, but he rightly considered that such logic
might be taken to be a sign of continued “contrariness.” So he gave an
illogical assent to his wife’s theory.
“Certainly it is odd that nothing more has been heard of it all,” he
said. “I wonder what they are planning. The election coming on so soon,
too! Can they be planning anything in connection with that?”
Mrs. Altham got up, letting her napkin fall on the floor.
“Henry, I believe you have hit it,” she said. “Now what can it be? Let
us go into the drawing-room, and thresh it out.”
But the best threshing-machines in the world cannot successfully fulfil
their function unless there is some material to work upon; they can but
show by their whirling wheels and rattling gear that they are capable of
threshing should anything be provided for them. The poor Althams were
somewhat in this position, for their rations of gossip were sadly
reduced, their two chief sources being cut off from them. For ever since
the mendacious Mrs. Brooks had appeared as Cleopatra, when she had as
good as promised to be Hermione, chill politeness had taken the place of
intimacy between the two houses, since there was no telling what trick
she might not play next, while the very decided line which Mrs. Altham
had taken when she found she was expected to meet people like
tradesmen’s wives had caused a complete rupture in relations with the
Ames’. That Suffragette meetings were going on was certain, else what
sane mind could account for the fact that only to-day a perfect stream
of people, some of them not even known by sight to Mrs. Altham, and
therefore probably of the very lowest origin, with Mrs. Ames and the
wife of the station-master among them, had been seen coming out of Mr.
Turner’s warehouse. It was ridiculous “to tell me” that they had been
all making purchases (nobody had told her), and such a supposition was
thoroughly negatived by the subsequent discovery that the warehouse in
question contained only a quantity of chairs. All this, however, had
been threshed out at tea-time, and the fly-wheels buzzed emptily.
Against the probability of an election-demonstration was the fact that
the Unionist member, to whom these attentions would naturally be
directed, was Mrs. Ames’ cousin, though “cousin” was a vague word, and
Mrs. Altham would not wonder if he was a very distant sort of cousin
indeed. Still, it would be worth while to get tickets anyhow for the
first of Sir James’ meetings, when the President of the Board of Trade
was going to speak, so as to be certain of a good place. _He_ was not
Mrs. Ames’ cousin, so far as Mrs. Altham knew, though she did not
pretend to follow the ramifications of Mrs. Ames’ family.
The fly-wheels were allowed to run on in silence for some little while
after this meagre material had been thoroughly sifted, in case anything
further offered itself; then Mr. Altham proposed another topic.
“You were saying that you wondered how Mrs. Evans got through her time,”
he began.
But there was no need for him to say another word, not any opportunity.
Mrs. Altham stooped like a hawk on the quarry.
“You mean Major Ames,” she said. “I’m sure I never pass the house but
what he’s either going in or coming out, and he does a good deal more of
the going in than of the other, in my opinion.”
Henry penetrated into the meaning of what sounded a rather curious
achievement and corroborated.
“He was there this morning,” he said, “on the doorstep at eleven
o’clock, or it might have been a quarter-past, with a bouquet of
chrysanthemums big enough to do all Mrs. Ames’ decorations at St.
Barnabas. What is the matter, my dear?”
For Mrs. Altham had literally bounced out of her chair, and was pointing
at him a forefinger that trembled with a nameless emotion.
“At a quarter-past one, or a few minutes later,” she said, “that bouquet
was lying in the middle of the road. Let us say twenty minutes past one,
because I came straight home, took off my hat, and was ready for lunch.
It was more like a haystack than a bouquet: I’m sure if I hadn’t stepped
over it, I should have tripped and fallen. And to think that I never
mentioned it to you, Henry! How things piece themselves together, if you
give them a chance! Now did you actually see Major Ames carry it into
the house?”
“The door was opened to him, just as I came opposite,” said Henry
firmly, “and in he went, bouquet and all.”
“Then somebody _must_ have thrown it out again,” said Mrs. Altham.
She held up one hand, and ticked off names on its fingers.
“Who was then in the house?” she said. “Mrs. Evans, Dr. Evans, Major
Ames. Otherwise the servants--how they can find work for six servants in
that house I can’t understand--and servants would never have thrown
chrysanthemums into the street. So we needn’t count the servants. Now
can you imagine Mrs. Evans throwing away a bouquet that Major Ames had
brought her? If so, I envy you your power of imagination. Or----”
She paused a moment.
“Or can there have been a quarrel, and did she tell him she had too
much of him and his bouquets? Or----”
“Dr. Evans,” said Henry.
She nodded portentously.
“Turned out of the house, he and his bouquet,” she said. “Dr. Evans is a
powerful man, and Major Ames, for all his size, is mostly fat. I should
not wonder if Dr. Evans knocked him down. Henry, I have a good mind to
treat Mrs. Ames as if she had not been so insulting to me that day (and
after all that is only Christian conduct) and to take round to her after
lunch to-morrow the book she said she wanted to see last July. I am sure
I have forgotten what it was, but any book will do, since she only wants
it to be thought that she reads. After all, I should be sorry to let
Mrs. Ames suppose that anything she can do should have the power of
putting me out, and I should like to see if she still dyes her hair.
After the chrysanthemums in the road I should not be the least surprised
to be told that Major Ames is ill. Then we shall know all. Dear me, it
is eleven o’clock already, and I never felt less inclined to sleep.”
Henry stepped downstairs to drink a mild whisky and soda after all this
conversation and excitement, but while it was still half drunk, he felt
compelled to run upstairs and tap at his wife’s door.
“I am not coming in, dear,” he said, in answer to her impassioned
negative. “But if you find Major Ames is not ill?”
“No one will be more rejoiced than myself, Henry,” said she, in a
disappointed voice.
Henry went gently downstairs again.
* * * * *
Mrs. Ames was at home when the forgiving Mrs. Altham arrived on the
following afternoon, bearing a copy of a book of which there were
already two examples in the house. But she clearly remembered having
wanted to see some book of which they had spoken together, last July,
and it was very kind of Mrs. Altham to have attempted to supply her with
it. Beyond doubt she had ceased to dye her hair, for the usual grey
streaks were apparent in it, a proof (if Mrs. Altham wanted a proof,
which she did not) that artificial means had been resorted to. And even
as Mrs. Altham, with her powerful observation, noticed the difference in
Mrs. Ames’ hair, so also she noticed a difference in Mrs. Ames. She no
longer seemed pompous: there was a kindliness about her which was
utterly unlike her usual condescension, though it manifested itself only
in the trivial happenings of an afternoon call, such as putting a
cushion in her chair, and asking if she found the room, with its
prospering fire, too hot. This also led to interesting information.
“It is scarcely cold enough for a fire to-day,” she said, “but my
husband is laid up with a little attack of lumbago.”
“I am so sorry to hear that,” said Mrs. Altham feverishly. “When did he
catch it?”
“He felt it first last night before dinner. It is disappointing, for he
expected Harrogate to cure him of such tendencies. But it is not very
severe: I have no doubt he will be in here presently for tea.”
Mrs. Altham felt quite convinced he would not, and hastened to glean
further enlightenment.
“You must be very busy thinking of the election,” she said. “I suppose
Sir James is safe to get in. I got tickets for the first of his meetings
this morning.”
“That will be the one at which the President of the Board of Trade
speaks,” said Mrs. Ames. “My cousin and he dine with us first.”
Mrs. Altham determined on more direct questions.
“Really, it must require courage to be a politician nowadays,” she said,
“especially if you are in the Cabinet. Mr. Chilcot has been hardly able
to open his mouth lately without being interrupted by some Suffragette.
Dear me, I hope I have not said the wrong thing! I quite forgot your
sympathies.”
“It is certainly a subject that interests me,” said Mrs. Ames, “though
as for saying the wrong thing, dear Mrs. Altham, why, the world would be
a very dull place if we all agreed with each other. But I think it
requires just as much courage for a woman to get up at a meeting and
interrupt. I cannot imagine myself being bold enough. I feel I should be
unable to get on my feet, or utter a word. They must be very much in
earnest, and have a great deal of conviction to nerve them.”
This was not very satisfactory; if anything was to be learned from it,
it was that Mrs. Ames was but a tepid supporter of the cause. But what
followed was still more vexing, for the parlour-maid announced Mrs.
Evans.
“So sorry to hear about Major Ames, dear cousin Amy,” she said. “Wilfred
told me he had been to see him.”
Mrs. Ames made a kissing-pad, so to speak, of her small toad’s face, and
Millie dabbed her cheek on it.
“Dear Millie, how nice of you to call! Parker, tell the Major that tea
is ready and that Mrs. Evans and Mrs. Altham are here.”
But by the time Major Ames arrived Mrs. Altham was there no longer. She
was thoroughly disgusted with the transformation into chaff of all the
beautiful grain that they had taken the trouble to thresh out the night
before. She summed it up succinctly to her husband when he came back
from his golf.
“I don’t believe the Suffragettes are going to do anything at all,
Henry,” she said, “and I shouldn’t wonder if these chrysanthemums had
nothing to do with anybody. The only thing is that her hair is dyed,
because it was all speckled with grey again as thickly as yours, and I
declare I left _The Safety of the Race_ behind me, instead of bringing
it back again, as I meant to do.”
Henry, who had won his match at golf, was naturally optimistic.
“Then you didn’t actually see Major Ames?” he asked.
“No, but there was no longer any doubt about it all,” she said. “I do
not think I am unduly credulous, but it was clear there was nothing the
matter with him except a touch of lumbago. And all this Suffragette
business means nothing at all, in spite of the yards of riband. You may
take my word for it.”
“Then there will be no point in going to Sir James’ meeting,” said
Henry, “though the President of the Board of Trade is going to speak.”
“Not unless you want to hear the biggest windbag in the country
buttering up the greatest prig in the county. I should be sorry to waste
my time over it; and he is dining with the Ames’, and so I suppose all
there will be to look at will be the row of them on the platform, all
swollen with one of Mrs. Ames’ biggest dinners. We might have gone to
bed at our usual time last night, for all the use that there has been
in our talk. And it was you saw the chrysanthemums, from which you
expected so much and thought it worth while to tell me about them.”
And Henry felt too much depressed at the utter flatness of all that had
made so fair a promise, to enter any protest against the palpable
injustice of these conclusions.
* * * * *
Major Ames’ lumbago was of the Laodicean sort, neither hot nor cold. It
hung about, occasionally stabbing him shrewdly, at times retreating in
the Parthian mode, so that he was encouraged to drink a glass of port,
upon which it shot at him again, and he had to get back to his stew of
sloppy diet and depressing reflections. Most of all, the relations into
which he had allowed himself to drift with regard to Millie filled him
with a timorous yet exultant agitation, but he almost, if not quite,
exaggerated his indisposition, in order to escape from the
responsibility of deciding what should come of it. Damp and boisterous
weather made it prudent for him to keep to the house, and she came to
see him daily. Behind her demure quietness he divined a mind that was
expectant and sure: there was no doubt as to her view of the situation
that had arisen between them. She had played with the emotions of others
once too often, and was caught in the agitation which she had so often
excited without sharing in it. Mrs. Ames was generally present at these
visits, but when it was quite certain that she was not looking, Millie
often raised her eyes to his, and this disconcerting conviction lurked
behind them. Her speech was equally disconcerting, for she would say,
“It will be nice when you are well again,” in a manner that quite belied
the commonplace words. And this force that lay behind strangely
controlled him. Involuntarily, almost, he answered her signals, gave
himself the lover-like privilege of seeming to understand all that was
not said. All the time, too, he perfectly appreciated the bad taste of
the affair--namely, that a woman who was in love with him, and to whom
he had given indications of the most unmistakable kind that he was on
her plane of emotion, should play these unacted scenes in his wife’s
house, coming there to make pass his invalid hours, and that he should
take his part in them. It was common, and he could not but contrast that
commonness with the unconsciousness of his wife. Occasionally he was
inclined to think, “Poor Amy, how little she sees,” but as often it
occurred to him that she was too big to be aware of such smallnesses as
he and Milly were guilty of. And, in reality, the truth lay between
these extreme views. She was not too big to be aware of it; she was
quite aware of it, but she was big enough to appear too big to be aware
of it. She watched, and scorned herself for her watching. She fed
herself with suspicions, but was robust enough to spew them forth again.
Also, and this allowed the robuster attitude to flourish, she was
concerned with a nightmare of her own which daily grew more vivid and
unescapable.
A decade of streaming October days passed in this trying atmosphere of
suspicion and uncertainty and apprehension. Of the three of them it was
Major Ames who was most thoroughly ill at ease, for he had no
inspiration which enabled him to bear this sordid martyrdom. He divined
that Millie was evolving some situation in which he would be expected
to play a very prominent part, and such ardour as was his he felt not to
be of the adequate temperature, and he looked back over the peaceful
days when his garden supplied him not only with flowers, but with the
most poignant emotions known to his nature, almost with regret. It had
all been so peaceful and pleasant in that land-locked harbour, and now
she, like a steam-tug, was slowly towing him out past the pier-head into
a waste of breakers. Strictly speaking, it was possible for him at any
moment to cast the towing-rope off and return to his quiet anchorage,
but he was afraid he lacked the moral power to do so. He had let her
throw the rope aboard him, he had helped to attach it to the bollard,
thinking, so to speak, that he was the tug and she the frail little
craft. But that frail little craft had developed into an engined
apparatus, and it was his turn to be towed, helpless and at least
unwilling, and wholly uninspired. The others, at any rate, had
inspiration to warm their discomfort: Mrs. Ames the sense of justice and
sisterhood which was leavening her dumpy existence, Mrs. Evans the fire
which, however strange and illicit are its burnings, however common and
trivial the material from which it springs, must still be called love.
* * * * *
It was the evening of Sir James’ first meeting, and Mrs. Ames at six
o’clock was satisfying herself that nothing had been omitted in the
preparations for dinner. The printed menu cards were in place,
announcing all that was most sumptuous; the requisite relays of knives,
spoons and forks were on the sideboard; the plates of opalescent glass
for ice were to hand, and there was no longer anything connected with
this terrible feast, that to her had the horror of a murderer’s
breakfast on the last morning of his life, which could serve to distract
her mind any more. Millie was to dine with them and with them come to
the meeting, but just now it did not seem to matter in the slightest
what Millie did. All day Mrs. Ames had been catching at problematic
straws that might save her: it was possible that Mr. Chilcot would be
seized with sudden indisposition, and the meeting be postponed. But she
herself had seen him drive by in Cousin James’ motor, looking
particularly hearty. Or Cousin James might catch influenza: Lady
Westbourne already had it, and it was pleasantly infectious. Or
Lyndhurst might get an attack of really acute lumbago, but instead he
felt absolutely well again to-day, and had even done a little
garden-rolling. One by one these bright possibilities had been
extinguished--now no reasonable anchor remained except that dinner would
acutely disagree with her (and that was hardly likely, since she felt
incapable of eating anything) or that the motor which was to take them
to the town hall would break down.
At half-past six she went upstairs to dress; she would thus secure a
quarter of an hour before the actual operation of decking herself began,
in which to be alone and really face what was going to happen. It was no
use trying to face it in one piece: taken all together the coming
evening had the horror and unreality of nightmare brooding over it. She
had to take it moment by moment from the time when she would welcome her
guests, whom, so it seemed to her, she was then going to betray, till
the time when, perhaps four hours from now, she would be back again
here in her room, and everything that had happened had woven itself into
the woolly texture of the past, in place of being in the steely,
imminent future. There was dinner to be gone through; that was only
tolerable to think of because of what was to follow: in itself it would
please her to entertain her cousin and so notable a man as a Cabinet
Minister. Clearly, then, she must separate dinner from the rest, and
enjoy it independently. But when she went down to dinner she must have
left here in readiness the little black velvet bag ... that was not so
pleasant to think of. Yet the little black velvet bag had nothing to do
yet. Then there would follow the drive to the town hall: that would not
be unpleasant: in itself she would rather enjoy the stir and pomp of
their arrival. Sir James would doubtless say to the scrutinizing
doorkeeper, “These ladies are with me,” and they would pass on amid
demonstrations of deference. Probably there would be a little procession
on to the platform ... the Mayor would very likely lead the way with
her, her and her little black velvet bag....
* * * * *
And then poor Mrs. Ames suddenly felt that if she thought about it any
more she would have a nervous collapse. And at that thought her
inspiration, so to speak, reached out a cool, firm hand to her. At any
cost she was going through with this nightmare for the sake of that
which inspired it. It was no use saying it was pleasant, nor was it
pleasant to have a tooth out. But any woman with the slightest
self-respect, when once convinced that it was better to have the tooth
out, went to the dentist at the appointed hour, declined gas (Mrs. Ames
had very decided opinions about those who made a fuss over a little
pain), opened her mouth, and held the arms of the chair very firmly. One
wanted something to hold on to at these moments. She wondered what she
would find to hold on to this evening. Perhaps the holding on would be
done by somebody else--a policeman, for instance.
There was one more detail to attend to before dressing, and she opened
the little black velvet bag. In it were two chains--light, but of steel:
they had been sold her with the gratifying recommendation that either of
them alone would hold a mastiff, which was more than was required. One
was of such length as to go tightly round her waist: a spring lock with
hasp passing through the last link of it, closing with an internal snap,
obviated the necessity of a key. This she proposed to put on below the
light cloak she wore before they started. The second chain was rather
longer but otherwise similar. It was to be passed through the one
already in place on her waist, and round the object to which she desired
to attach herself. Another snap lock made the necessary connection.
She saw that all was in order and, putting the big Suffragette rosette
on top of the other apparatus, closed the bag: it was useless to try to
accustom herself to it by looking; she might as well inspect the
dentist’s forceps, hoping thus to mollify their grip. Cloak and little
velvet bag she would leave here and come up for them after dinner. And
already the quarter of an hour was over, and it was time to dress.
The daring rose-coloured silk was to be worn on this occasion, and she
hoped that it would not experience any rough treatment. Yet it hardly
mattered: after to-night she would very likely never care to set eyes on
it again, and emphatically Lyndhurst would find it full of disagreeable
associations. And then she felt suddenly and acutely sorry for him and
for the amazement and chagrin that he was about to feel. He could not
fail to be burningly ashamed of her, to choke with rage and
mortification. Perhaps it would bring on another attack of lumbago,
which she would intensely regret. But she did not anticipate feeling in
the least degree ashamed of herself. But she intensely wished it had not
got to be.
And now she was ready: the rose-coloured silk glowed softly in the
electric light, the pink satin shoes which “went with it” were on her
plump, pretty little feet, the row of garnets was clasped round her
neck. There was a good deal of colour in her face, and she was pleased
to see she looked so well. The last time she had worn all these fine
feathers was on the evening she returned home with brown hair and
softened wrinkles from Overstrand. That was not a successful evening: it
seemed that the rose-coloured silk was destined to shine on inauspicious
scenes. But now she was ready: this was her last moment alone. And she
plumped down on her knees by the bedside, in a sudden access of despair
at what lay before her, and found her lips involuntarily repeating the
words that were used in the hugest and most holy agony that man’s spirit
has ever known, when for one moment He felt that even He could not face
the sacrifice of Himself or to drink of the cup. But next moment she
sprang from her knees again, her face all aflame with the shame at her
paltriness. “You wretched little coward!” she said to herself. “How dare
you?”
Dinner, that long expensive dinner, brought with it trouble
unanticipated by Mrs. Ames. Mr. Chilcot, it appeared, was a teetotaler
at all times, and never ate anything but a couple of poached eggs before
he made a speech. He was also, owing to recent experiences, a little
nervous about Suffragettes, and required reiterated assurances that
unaccountable females had not been seen about.
“It’s true that a week or two ago I received a letter asking me my
views,” said Sir James, “but I wrote a fairly curt reply, and have heard
nothing more about it. My agent’s pretty wide awake. He would have known
if there was likely to be any disturbance. No thanks, Major, one glass
of champagne is all I allow myself before making a speech. Capital wine,
I know; I always say you give one the best glass of wine to be had in
Kent. How’s time, by the way? Ah, we’ve got plenty of time yet.”
“I like to have five minutes’ quiet before going on to the platform,”
said Mr. Chilcot.
“Yes, that will be all right. Perhaps we might have the motor five
minutes earlier, Cousin Amy. No, no sweetbread thanks. Dear me, what a
great dinner you are giving us.”
An awful and dismal atmosphere descended. Mr. Chilcot, thinking of his
speech, frowned at his poached eggs, and, when they were finished, at
the table-cloth. Cousin James refused dish after dish, Mrs. Ames felt
herself incapable of eating, and Major Ames and Mrs. Evans, who was
practically a vegetarian, were left to do the carousing. Wines went
round untouched, silences grew longer, and an interminable succession of
dishes failed to tempt anybody except Major Ames. At this rate, not one,
but a whole series of luncheon-parties would be necessary to finish up
the untouched dainties of this ill-starred dinner. Outside, a brisk
tattoo of rain beat on the windows, and the wind having got up, the fire
began to smoke, and Mr. Chilcot to cough. A readjustment of door and
window mended this matter, but sluiced Cousin James in a chilly draught.
Mr. Chilcot brightened up a little as coffee came round, but the coffee
was the only weak spot in an admirable repast, being but moderately
warm. He put it down. Mrs. Ames tried to repair this error.
“I’m afraid it is not hot enough,” she said. “Parker, tell them to heat
it up at once.”
Cousin James looked at his watch.
“Really, I think we ought to be off,” he said. “I’m sure they can get a
cup of coffee for Mr. Chilcot from the hotel. We might all go together
unless you have ordered something, Cousin Amy. The motor holds five
easily.”
* * * * *
A smart, chill October rain was falling, and they drove through blurred
and disconsolate streets. A few figures under umbrellas went swiftly
along the cheerless pavements, a crowd of the very smallest dimensions,
scarce two deep across the pavement opposite the town hall, watched the
arrival of those who were attending the meeting. There was an
insignificant queue of half-a-dozen carriages awaiting their
disembarkments, but as the hands of the town hall clock indicated that
the meeting was not timed to begin for twenty minutes yet, even Mr.
Chilcot could not get agitated about the possibility of a cup of coffee
before his effort. Through the rain-streaked windows Mrs. Ames could see
how meagre, owing no doubt to the inclement night, was the assembly of
the ticket-holders. It was possible, of course, that crowds might soon
begin to arrive, but Riseborough generally made a point of being in its
place in plenty of time, and she anticipated a sparsely attended room.
Mrs. Brooks hurried by in mackintosh and goloshes, the cheerful Turner
family, who were just behind them in a cab, dived into the wet night,
and emerged again under the awning. Mrs. Currie (wife of the
station-master), with her Suffragette rosette in a paper parcel, had a
friendly word with a policeman at the door, and at these sights, since
they indicated a forcible assemblage of the league, she felt a little
encouraged. Then the car moved on and stopped again opposite the awning,
and their party dismounted.
A bustling official demanded their tickets, and was summarily thrust
aside by another, just as bustling but more enlightened, who had
recognized Sir James, and conducted them all to the Mayor’s parlour,
where that dignitary received them. There was coffee already provided,
and all anxiety on that score was removed. Mr. Chilcot effaced himself
in a corner with his cup and his notes, while the others, notably Sir
James, behaved with that mixture of social condescension and official
deference which appears to be the right attitude in dealing with mayors.
Then the Mayoress said, “George, dear, it has gone the half-hour; will
you escort Mrs. Ames?”
George asked Mrs. Ames if he might have the honour, and observed--
“We shall have but a thin meeting, I am afraid. Most inclement for
October.”
Mrs. Ames pulled her cloak a little closer round her, in order to hide
a chain that was more significant than the Mayor’s, and felt the little
black velvet bag beating time to her steps against her knee.
They walked through the stark bare passages, with stone floors that
exuded cold moisture in sympathy with the wetness of the evening, and
came out into a sudden blaze of light.
A faint applause from nearly empty benches heralded their appearance,
and they disposed themselves on a row of plush arm-chairs behind a long
oak table. The Mayor sat in the centre, to right and left of him Sir
James and Mr. Chilcot. Just opposite Mrs. Ames was a large table-leg,
which had for her the significance of the execution-shed.
She put her bag conveniently on her knees, and quietly unloosed the
latch that fastened it. There were no more preparations to be made just
yet, since the chain was quite ready, and in a curious irresponsible
calm she took further note of her surroundings. Scarcely a hundred
people were there, all told, and face after face, as she passed her eyes
down the seats, was friendly and familiar. Mrs. Currie bowed, and the
Turner family, in a state of the pleasantest excitement, beamed; Mrs.
Brooks gave her an excited hand-wave. They were all sitting in
encouraging vicinity to each other, but she was alone, as on the
inexorable seas, while they were on the pier.... Then the Mayor cleared
his throat.
* * * * *
It had been arranged that the Mayor was to be given an uninterrupted
hearing, for he was the local grocer, and it had, perhaps, been tacitly
felt that he might adopt retaliatory measures in the inferior quality of
the subsequent supplies of sugar. He involved himself in sentences that
had no end, and would probably have gone on for ever, had he not, with
commendable valour, chopped off their tails when their coils threatened
to strangle him, and begun again. The point of it all was that they had
the honour to welcome the President of the Board of Trade and Sir James
Westbourne. Luckily, the posters, with which the town had been placarded
for the last fortnight, corroborated the information, and no reasonable
person could any longer doubt it.
He was rejoiced to see so crowded an assembly met together--this was not
very happy, but the sentence had been carefully thought out, and it was
a pity not to reproduce it--and was convinced that they would all spend
a most interesting and enjoyable evening, which would certainly prove to
be epoch-making. Politics were taken seriously in Riseborough, and it
was pleasant to see the gathering graced by so many members of the fair
sex. He felt he had detained them all quite long enough (no) and he
would detain them no longer (yes), but call on the Right Honourable Mr.
Chilcot (cheers).
As Mr. Chilcot rose, Mr. Turner rose also, and said in a clear, cheerful
voice, “Votes for Women.” He had a rosette, pinned a little crookedly,
depending from his shoulder. Immediately his wife and daughter rose too,
and in a sort of Gregorian chant said, “Women’s rights,” and a rattle of
chains made a pleasant light accompaniment. From beneath her seat Mrs.
Currie produced a banner trimmed with the appropriate colours, on which
was embroidered “Votes for Women.” But the folds clung dispiritingly
together: there was never a more dejected banner. Two stalwart porters
whom she had brought with her also got up, wiped their mouths with the
backs of their hands, and said in low, hoarse tones, “Votes for Women.”
This lasted but a few seconds, and there was silence again. It was
impossible to imagine a less impressive demonstration: it seemed the
incarnation of ineffectiveness. Mr. Chilcot had instantly sat down when
it began, and, though he had cause to be shy of Suffragettes, seemed
quite undisturbed; he was smiling good-naturedly, and for a moment
consulted his notes again. And then, suddenly, Mrs. Ames realized that
she had taken no share in it; it had begun so quickly, and so quickly
ended, that for the time she had merely watched. But then her blood and
her courage came back to her: it should not be her fault, in any case,
if the proceedings lacked fire. The Idea, all that had meant so much to
her during these last months, seemed to stand by her, asking her aid.
She opened the little black velvet bag, pinned on her rosette, passed
the second chain (strong enough to hold a mastiff) through the first,
and round the leg of the table in front of her, heard the spring lock
click, and rose to her feet, waving her hand.
“Votes for Women!” she cried. “Votes for Women. Hurrah!”
Instantly every one on the platform turned to her: she saw Lyndhurst’s
inflamed and astonished face, with mouth fallen open in incredulous
surprise, like a fish in an aquarium: she saw Cousin James’ frown of
distinguished horror. Mrs. Evans looked as if about to laugh, and the
Mayoress said, “Lor’!” Mr. Chilcot turned round in his seat, and his
good-humored smile faded, leaving an angry fighting face. But all this
hostility and amazement, so far from cowing or silencing her, seemed
like a draught of wine. “Votes for Women!” she cried again.
At that the cry was taken up in earnest: by a desperate effort Mrs.
Currie unfurled her banner, so that it floated free, her porters roared
out their message with the conviction they put into their announcements
to a stopping train that this was Riseborough, the Turner family
gleefully shouted together: Mrs. Brooks, unable to adjust her rosette,
madly waved it, and a solid group of enthusiasts just below the platform
emitted loud and militant cries. All that had been flat and lifeless a
moment before was inspired and vital. And Mrs. Ames had done it. For a
moment she had nothing but glory in her heart.
Mr. Chilcot leaned over the table to her.
“I had no idea,” he said, “when I had the honour of dining with you that
you proposed immediately afterwards to treat me with such gross
discourtesy.”
“Votes for Women!” shouted Mrs. Ames again.
This time the cry was less vehemently taken up, for there was nothing to
interrupt. Mr. Chilcot conferred a moment quietly with Sir James, and
Mrs. Ames saw that Lyndhurst and Mrs. Evans were talking together: the
former was spluttering with rage, and Mrs. Evans had laid her slim,
white-gloved hand on his knee, in the attempt, it appeared, to soothe
him. At present the endeavour did not seem to be meeting with any
notable measure of success. Even in the midst of her excitement, Mrs.
Ames thought how ludicrous Lyndhurst’s face was; she also felt sorry for
him. As well, she had the sense of this being tremendous fun: never in
her life had she been so effective, never had she even for a moment
paralysed the plans of other people. But she was doing that now; Mr.
Chilcot had come here to speak, and she was not permitting him to. And
again she cried “Votes for Women!”
An inspector of police had come on to the platform, and after a few
words with Sir James, he vaulted down into the body of the hall. Next
moment, some dozen policemen tramped in from outside, and immediately
afterwards the Turner family, still beaming, were being trundled down
the gangway, and firmly ejected. Sundry high notes and muffled shoutings
came from outside, but after a few seconds they were dumb, as if a tap
had been turned off. There was a little more trouble with Mrs. Currie,
but a few smart tugs brought away the somewhat flimsy wooden rail to
which she had attached herself, and she was taken along in a sort of
tripping step, like a cheerful dancing bear, with her chains jingling
round her, after the Turners, and quietly put out into the night. Then
Sir James came across to Mrs. Ames.
“Cousin Amy,” he said, “you must please give us your word to cause no
more disturbance, or I shall tell a couple of men to take you away.”
“Votes for Women!” shouted Mrs. Ames again. But the excitement which
possessed her was rapidly dying, and from the hall there came no
response except very audible laughter.
“I am very sorry,” said Cousin James.
And then with a sudden overwhelming wave, the futility of the whole
thing struck her. What had she done? She had merely been extremely rude
to her two guests, had seriously annoyed her husband, and had aroused
perfectly justifiable laughter. General Fortescue was sitting a few
rows off: he was looking at her through his pince-nez, and his red,
good-humoured face was all a-chink with smiles. Then two policemen, one
of whom had his beat in St. Barnabas Road, vaulted up on to the
platform, and several people left their places to look on from a more
advantageous position.
“Beg your pardon, ma’am,” said the St. Barnabas policeman, touching his
helmet with imperturbable politeness. “She’s chained up too, Bill.”
Bill was a slow, large, fatherly-looking man, and examined Mrs. Ames’
fetters. Then a broad grin broke out over his amiable face.
“It’s only just passed around the table-leg,” he said. “Hitch up the
table-leg, mate, and slip it off.”
It was too true ... patent lock and mastiff-holding chain were slipped
down the table-leg, and Mrs. Ames, with the fatherly-looking policeman
politely carrying her chains and the little velvet bag, was gently and
inevitably propelled through the door which, a quarter of an hour ago,
she had entered escorted by the Mayor, and down the stone passage and
out into the dripping street. The rain fell heavily on to the
rose-coloured silk dress, and the fatherly policeman put her cloak,
which had half fallen off, more shelteringly round her.
“Better have a cab, ma’am, and go home quietly,” he said. “You’ll catch
cold if you stay here, and we can’t let you in again, begging your
pardon, ma’am.”
Mrs. Ames looked round: Mrs. Currie was just crossing the road,
apparently on her way home, and a carriage drove off containing the
Turner family. A sense of utter failure and futility possessed her: it
was cold and wet, and a chilly wind flapped the awning, blowing a
shower of dripping raindrops on to her. The excitement and courage that
had possessed her just now had all oozed away: nothing had been
effected, unless to make herself ridiculous could be counted as an
achievement.
“Call a cab for the lady, Bill,” said her policeman soothingly.
This was soon summoned, and Bill touched his helmet as she got in, and
before closing the door pulled up the window for her. The cabman also
knew her, and there was no need to give him her address. The rain
pattered on the windows and on the roof, and the horse splashed briskly
along through the puddles in the roadway.
Parker opened the door to her, surprised at the speediness of her
return.
“Why, ma’am!” she exclaimed, “has anything happened?”
“No, nothing, Parker,” said she, feeling that a dreadful truth underlay
her words. “Tell the Major, when he comes in, that I have gone to bed.”
She looked for a moment into the dining-room. So short a time had passed
that the table was not yet cleared: the printed menu-cards had been
collected, but the coffee, which had not been hot enough, still stood
untasted in the cups, and the slices of pineapple, cut, but not eaten,
were ruinously piled together. The thought of all the luncheons that
would be necessary to consume all this expensive food made her feel
sick.... These little things had assumed a ridiculous size to her mind;
that which had seemed so big was pitifully dwindled. She felt
desperately tired, and cold and lonely.