Delia's luggage was brought in by the hall porter, and she and
Winnington stood waiting for the lift. Meanwhile Winnington happened to
notice, through the open door of the mansions, a couple of policemen
standing just outside, on the pavement, and two others on the further
side of the street. It seemed to him they were keeping the house which
Delia and he had just entered under observation.
The lift descended. There were in it four women, all talking eagerly in
subdued tones. One was grey-haired, the others were quite young girls.
The strained, excited look on all their faces struck Winnington sharply
as they emerged from the lift. One of the girls looked curiously at
Delia and her tall companion. The grey-haired lady's attention was
caught by the policeman outside. She gave a little chuckle.
"We shall have plenty to do with those gentry to-morrow!" she said to
the girl beside her, drawing her cloak round her so that it displayed a
black and orange badge.
Delia approached her.
"Is Miss Marvell here?"
They all stopped and eyed her.
"Yes, she's upstairs. She's just come back from the Central. But she's
very busy," said the elder lady. "She won't see you without an
appointment."
One of the girls suddenly looked at Delia, and whispered to the
speaker.
"Oh, I see!" said that lady, vaguely. "Are you Miss Blanchflower?"
"Yes."
"I beg your pardon. Miss Marvell's expecting you of course. Do make her
rest a bit if you can. She's simply _splendid_! She's going to be one
of our great leaders. I'm glad you won't miss it after all. You've been
delayed, haven't you?--by somebody's illness. Well, it's going
magnificently! We shall make Parliament listen--at last. Though they'll
protect themselves no doubt with any number of police--cowards!"
The eyes of the speaker, as her face came into the light of the hall
lamp, sparkled maliciously. She seemed to direct her words especially
to Winnington, who stood impassive. Delia turned to the lift, and they
ascended.
They were admitted, after much ringing. A bewildered maid looked at
Delia, and the luggage behind her, as though she had never heard of her
before. And the whole flat in the background seemed alive with voices
and bustle. Winnington lost patience.
"Tell this man, please, where to take Miss Blanchflower's luggage at
once. And where is the drawing-room?"
"Are you going to stay, Miss?" said the girl. "There's only the small
bedroom vacant."
Delia burst out laughing--especially at the sight of Winnington's irate
countenance.
"All right. It'll do quite well. Now tell me where Miss Marvell is."
"I mustn't interrupt her, Miss."
"This is my flat," said Delia, good-humouredly--"so I think you must.
And please shew Mr. Winnington the drawing-room."
The girl, with an astonished face, opened a door for Winnington, into a
room filled with people, and then--unwillingly--led Delia along the
passage.
Winnington looked round him in bewilderment. He had entered, it seemed,
upon a busy hive of women. The room was full, and everybody in it
seemed to be working at high pressure. A young lady at a central table
was writing telegrams as fast as possible, and handing them to a
telegraph clerk who was waiting. Two typewriters were busy in the
further corners. A woman, with a sharply clever face, was writing near
by, holding her pad on her knee, while a printer's boy, cap in hand,
was sitting by her waiting for her "copy." Two other women were undoing
and sorting rolls of posters. Winnington caught the head-lines--"Women
of England, strike for your liberties!" "Remember our martyrs in
prison!"--"Destroy property--and save lives!" "If violence won freedom
for men, why not for women!" And in the distance of the room were
groups in eager discussion. A few had maps in their hands, and others
note-books, in which they took down the arrangements made. So far as
their talk reached Winnington's ears, it seemed to relate to the
converging routes of processions making for Parliament Square.
"How do you do, Mr. Winnington," said a laughing voice, as a
daintily-dressed woman, with fair fluffy hair came towards him.
He recognised the sister of a well-known member of Parliament, a lady
who had already been imprisoned twice for window-breaking in Downing
Street.
"Who would have thought to see you here!" she said, gaily, as they
shook hands.
"Surprising--I admit! I came to see Miss Blanchflower settled in her
flat. But I seem to have stumbled into an office."
"The Central Office simply couldn't hold the work. We were all in each
other's way. So yesterday, by Miss Marvell's instructions, some of us
migrated here. We are only two streets from the central."
"Excellent!" said Winnington. "But it might perhaps have been well to
inform Miss Blanchflower."
The flushed babyish face under the fashionable hat looked at him
askance. Lady Fanny's tone changed--took a sharpened edge.
"Miss Blanchflower--you may be quite sure--will be as ready as anyone
else to make sacrifices for the cause. But we don't expect _you_ to
understand that!"
"Nobody can doubt your zeal, Lady Fanny."
"Only my discretion? Oh, I've long left that to take care of itself.
What are you here for?"
"To look after my ward."
Lady Fanny eyed him again.
"Of course! I had forgotten. Well, she'll be all right."
"What are you really preparing to do to-morrow?"
"Force our way into the House of Commons!"
"Which means--get into an ugly scrimmage with the police, and put your
cause back another few years?"
"Ah! I can't talk to you, if you talk like that! There isn't time," she
threw back, with laughing affectation, and nodding to him, she
fluttered off to a distant table where a group of girls were busy
making black and orange badges. But her encounter with him seemed to
have affected the hive. Its buzz sank, almost ceased.
Winnington indeed suddenly discovered that all eyes were fixed upon
him--that he was being closely and angrily observed. He was conscious,
quickly and strangely conscious, of an atmosphere of passionate
hostility, as though a pulse of madness ran through the twenty or
thirty women present. Meredithian lines flashed into memory--
"Thousand eyeballs under hoods
Have you by the hair--"
and a shock of inward laughter mingled in his mind with irritation for
Delia--who was to have no place apparently in her own flat for either
rest or food--and the natural wish of a courteous man not to give
offense. At the same moment, he perceived on one of the tables a heap
of new and bright objects; and saw at once that they were light
hammers, fresh from the ironmongers. Near them lay a pile of stones,
and two women were busily casing the stones in a printed leaflet. But
he had no sooner become aware of these things than several persons in
the room moved so as to stand between him and them.
He went back into the passage, closing the door behind him.
The little parlour-maid came hurriedly from the back regions carrying a
tray on which was tea and bread and butter.
"Are you taking that to Miss Blanchflower?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Shew me the way, please."
Winnington followed her, and she, after a scared look, did not attempt
to stop him.
She paused outside a door, and instantly made way for him. He knocked,
and at the "Come in" he entered, the maid slipping in after him with
the tea.
Two persons rose startled from their seats--Delia and Gertrude Marvell.
He had chanced upon the dining-room, which no less than the
drawing-room had been transformed into an office and a store-room.
Masses of militant literature, copies of the _Tocsin_, books and
Stationery covered the tables, while, on the wall opposite the door, a
large scale map of the streets in the neighbourhood of the Houses of
Parliament had been hung over a picture.
It seemed to him that Delia looked ill and agitated. He walked up to
her companion, and spoke with vivacity--
"Miss Marvell!--I protest altogether against your proceedings in this
house! I protest against Miss Blanchflower's being drawn into what is
clearly intended to be an organised riot, which may end in physical
injury, even in loss of life--which will certainly entail imprisonment
on the ringleaders. If you have any affection for Delia you will advise
her to let me take her to my sister, who is in town to-night, at
Smith's Hotel, and will of course most gladly look after her."
Gertrude, who seemed to him somehow to have dwindled and withered into
an elderly woman since he had last seen her, looked him over from head
to foot with a touch of smiling insolence, and then turned quietly to
Delia.
"Will you go, Delia?"
"No!" said Delia, throwing back her beautiful head. "No! This is my
place, Mr. Mark. I'm very sorry--but you must leave me here. Give my
love to Mrs. Matheson."
"Delia!" He turned to her imploringly. But the softness she had shewn
on the journey had died out of her face. She stood resolved, and some
cold dividing force seemed to have rolled between them.
"I don't see what you can do, Mr. Winnington," said Gertrude, still
smiling. "I have pointed that out to you before. As a matter of fact
Delia will not even be living here on money provided by you at all. She
has other resources. You have no hold on her--no power--that I can see.
And she wishes to stay with me. I think we must bid you good night. We
are very busy."
He stood a moment, looking keenly from one to the other, at Gertrude's
triumphant eyes blazing from her emaciated face, at Delia's exalted,
tragic air. Then, with a bow, and in silence, he left the room, and the
house.
* * * * *
It was quite dark when he emerged on Milbank Street. All the
neighbourhood of the Houses of Parliament and the Abbey seemed to be
alive with business and traffic. But Palace Yard was still empty save
for a few passing figures, and there was no light on the Clock Tower. A
placard on the railings of the Square caught his notice--"Threatened
Raid on the House of Commons. Police precautions." At the same moment
he was conscious that a policeman standing at the corner of the House
of Commons had touched his hat to him, grinning broadly. Winnington
recognised a Maumsey man, whom he had befriended in various ways, who
owed his place indeed in the Metropolitan force to Winnington's good
word.
"Hullo, Hewson--how are you? Flourishing?"
The man's face beamed again. He was thinking of a cricket match the
year before under Winnington's captaincy. Like every member of the
eleven, he would have faced "death and damnation" for the captain.
They walked along the man's beat together. A thought struck Winnington.
"You seem likely to have some disturbance here tomorrow?" he said, as
they neared Westminster Bridge.
"It's the ladies, Sir. They do give a lot of trouble!" Winnington
laughed--paused--then looked straight at the fine young man who was
evidently so glad to see him.
"Look here, Hewson--I'll tell you something--keep it to yourself!
There'll be a lady in that procession to-morrow whom I don't want
knocked about. I shall be here. Is there anything you can do to help
me? I shall try and get her out of the crowd. Of course I shall have a
motor here."
Hewson looked puzzled, but eager. He described where he was likely to
be stationed, and where Winnington would probably find him. If Mr.
Winnington would allow him, he would tip a wink to a couple of mates,
who could be trusted--and if he could do anything to help, why, he
would be "rare pleased" to do it.
"But I'm afraid it'll be a bad row, Sir. There's a lot of men
coming--from Whitechapel--they say."
Winnington nodded and walked on. He went to his club, and dined there,
refusing a friend's invitation to go and dine with him at home. And
after dinner, as the best means of solitude, he went out again into
the crowded streets, walking aimlessly. The thought of Delia
arrested--refused bail--in a police cell--or in prison--tormented him.
All the traditional, fastidious instincts of his class and type were
strong in him. He loathed the notion of any hand laid upon her, of any
rough contact between her clean youth, and the brutalities of a London
crowd. His blood rushed at the thought of it. The mere idea of any
insult offered her made him murderous.
He turned down Whitehall, and at a corner near Dover House he presently
perceived a small crowd which was being addressed by a woman. She had
brought a stool with her, and was standing on it. A thin slip of a
girl, with a childish, open face and shrill voice. He went up to listen
to her, and stood amazed at the ignorant passion, the reckless violence
of what she was saying. It seemed indeed to have but little effect upon
her hearers. Men joined the crowd for a few minutes, listened with
upturned impassive faces, and went their way. A few lads attempted
horse-play, but stopped as a policeman approached; and some women
carrying bundles propped them against a railing near, and waited,
lifting tired eyes, and occasionally making comments to each other.
Presently, it appeared to Winnington that the speaker was no more
affected by her own statements--appalling as some of them were--than
her hearers. She appeared to be speaking from a book--to have just
learnt a lesson. She was then a paid speaker? And yet he thought not.
Every now and then phrases stood out--fiercely sincere--about the low
wages of women, their exclusion from the skilled trades, the marriage
laws, the exploiting and "selling" of women, and the like. And always,
in the background of the girl's picture, the hungry and sensual
appetites of men, lying in wait for the economic and physical weakness
of the woman.
He waited until she had finished. Then he helped her down from her
perch, and made a way for her through the crowd. She looked at him in
astonishment. "Thank you, Sir,--don't trouble! Last night I was pelted
with filth. Are you one of us?"
He shook his head, smiling.
"I didn't agree with you. I advise you to look up some of those things
you said. But you speak very well. Good-night."
She looked at him angrily, gathered up her skirt with a rattle, in a
small hand, and disappeared.
He presently turned back towards Buckingham Gate, and in a narrow
Westminster street, as he passed the side of a high factory building,
suddenly there emerged from a door-way a number of women and girls, who
had evidently been working over-time. Some of them broke at once into
loud talk and laughter, as though in reaction from the confinement and
tension of their work, some--quite silent--turned their tired faces to
him as they passed him; and some looked boldly, provocatively at the
handsome man, who on his side was clearly observing them. They were of
all types, but the majority of the quite young girls were pale and
stunted, shewing the effect of long hours, and poor food. The coarse or
vicious faces were few; many indeed were marked by a modest or patient
gentleness. The thin line of hurrying forms disappeared into darkness
and distance, some one way, some another; and Winnington was left to
feel that in what he had seen--this everyday incident of a London
street--he had been aptly reminded of what a man who has his occupation
and dwelling amid rural scenes and occupations too readily
forgets--that toiling host of women, married and unmarried, which
modern industry is every day using, or devouring, or wasting. The
stream of lives rushes day by day through the industrial rapids; some
of it passing on to quiet and fruitful channels beyond the roar, and
some lost and churned for ever in the main tumult of the river.
This new claim upon women, on the part of society, in addition to the
old claims of home and motherhood--this vast industrial claim--must it
not change and modify everything in time?--depress old values, create
new? "The vote!--give us the vote! and all will be well. More wages,
more food, more joy, more share in this glorious world!--that's what
the vote means--give us the vote!" Such, in effect, had been the cry
of that half-mad speaker in Whitehall, herself marked and injured by
the economic struggle.
The appeal echoed in Winnington's heart. And Delia seemed to be at his
side, raising her eager eyes to his, pressing him for admission. Had
he, indeed, thought enough of these things?--taken enough to heart this
new and fierce struggle of women with life and circumstance, that is
really involved in the industrial organisation of the modern world?
He passed on--up Buckingham Gate, towards the Palace. Turning to the
left, he was soon aware of two contrasted things:--an evening party
going on at a well-known Embassy, cars driving up and putting down
figures in flashing dresses, and gold-encrusted uniforms, emerging, and
disappearing within its open doors--and only twenty yards away, a group
of women huddled together in the cold, outside a closed fish-shop,
waiting to buy for a few pence the broken or spoiled fish of the day.
But a little further on he suddenly plunged into a crowd coming down
Grosvenor Place. He stopped to watch it, and saw that it accompanied a
long procession of men tramping back from Hyde Park. A banner held by
the leaders bore the words--"Unemployed and starving! Give us work or
bread." And Winnington remembered there was a docker's strike going on
in Limehouse, passionately backed and defended by the whole body of the
local clergy.
His eyes examined the faces and forms in the procession. Young and old,
sickly and robust, they passed him by, all of them marked and branded
by their tyrant, Labour; rolled like the women amid the rocks and
whirlpools of the industrial stream; marred and worn like them, only
more deeply, more tragically. The hollow eyes accused him as they
passed--him, with his ease of honoured life. "What have you made of us,
your brethren?--you who have had the lead and the start!--you who have
had till now the fashioning of this world in which we suffer! What is
wrong with the world? We know no more than you. But it is your business
to know! For God's sake, you who have intelligence and education, and
time to use them, think for us!--think with us!--find a way out! More
wages--more food--more leisure--more joy!--By G--d! we'll have them,
or bring down your world and ours in one ruin together!"
And then far back, from the middle of the last century, there came to
Winnington's listening mind the cry of the founders of English
democracy. "The vote!--give us the vote!--and bring in the reign of
plenty and of peace." And the vote was given. Sixty years--and still
this gaunt procession!--and all through Industrial England, the same
unrest, the same bitterness!
The vote? What is it actually going to mean, in struggle for life and
happiness that lies before every modern Community? How many other
methods and forces have already emerged, and must yet emerge, beside
it! The men know it. And meanwhile, the women--a section of women--have
seized with the old faith, on the confident cries of sixty years
ago?--with the same disillusion waiting in the path?
He passed on, drawn again down Constitution Hill, and the Mall, back to
the Houses of Parliament and the River.... The night was clear and
frosty. He paused on Westminster Bridge, and leant over the parapet,
feasting his eyes on that incomparable scene which age cannot wither
nor custom stale for the heart of an Englishman. The long front of the
Houses of Parliament rose darkly over the faintly moonlit river; the
wharves and houses beyond, a medley of strong or delicate line, of
black shadow and pale lights, ran far into a vaporous distance powdered
with lamps. On the other side St. Thomas's Hospital, and an answering
chain of lamps, far-flung towards Battersea. Between, the river,
heaving under a full tide, with the dim barges and tugs passing up and
down. "The Mississippi, Sir, is dirty water--the St. Lawrence is cold,
dirty water--but the Thames, Sir, is liquid 'istory!" That famous _mot_
of a Labour Minister delighted Mark's dreaming sense. The river indeed
as it flowed by, between buildings new and old, seemed to be bearing
the nation on its breast, to symbolise the ever-renewed life of a great
people. What tasks that life had seen!--what vaster issues it had still
to see!--
And in that dark building, like a coiled and secret spring ready to act
when touched, the Idea which ruled that life, as all life, in the end,
is ruled. On the morrow, a few hundred men would flock to that
building, as the representatives and servants of the Idea--of that
England which lives "while we believe."
And the vote behind them?--the political act which chose and sent them
there? Its social power, and all its ordinary associations, noble or
ignoble, seemed suddenly to vanish, for Winnington, engulfed in
something infinitely greater, something vital and primitive, on which
all else depended.
He hung, absorbed, over the sliding water, giving the rein to reverie.
He seemed to see the English Spirit, hovering, proudly watchful, above
that high roof beside the dark water-way, looking out to sea, and
across the world. What indomitable force, what ichor gleaming fire,
through the dark veins of that weary Titan, sustained him there?--amid
the clash of alien antagonisms, and the mysterious currents of things?
What but the lavished blood and brain of England's sons?--that rude
primal power that men alone can bring to their country?
Let others solve their own problems! But can women share the male tasks
that make and keep _us_ a Nation, amid a jarring and environing host of
Nations?--an Empire, with the guardianship of half the world on its
shoulders? And if not, how can men rightly share with women the act
which controls those tasks, and chooses the men to execute them?
And yet!--all his knowledge of human life, all his tenderness for human
suffering, rushed in to protest that the great question was only half
answered, when it was answered so. He seemed to see the Spirit of
England, Janus-like, two-faced, with one aspect looking out to sea, the
other, brooding over the great city at its feet, and turned inland
towards the green country and studded towns beyond. And as to that
other, that home-face of England, his dreaming sense scarcely knew
whether it was man or woman. There was in it male power, but also
virgin strength, and mother love. Men and women might turn to it
equally--for help.
No need for women in the home tasks--the national house-keeping of this
our England? He laughed--like France--at the mere suggestion of the
doubt. Why, that teeming England, north and south, was crying out for
the work of women, the help of women! Who knew it better than he? But
call in thought!--call in intelligence! Find out the best way to fit
the work to the organism, the organism to the work. What soil so rich
as England in the seed of political ideas? What nation could so easily
as we evolve new forms out of the old to fit new needs?
But what need for patience in the process--for tolerance--for clear
thinking! And while England ponders, bewildered by the very weight of
her own load, and its responsibilities, comes, suddenly, this train of
Maenads rushing through the land, shrieking and destroying.
He groaned in spirit, as he thought of Delia's look that day--of the
tragic-comic crowd around her. Again his thoughts flew hither and
thither, seeking to excuse, to understand her, and always, as it
seemed, with her dear voice in his ears--trembling--rushing--with the
passionate note he knew.
"Mr. Winnington!"
He looked up. An elderly woman, plain-featured, ill-dressed, stood
beside him, her kind eyes blinking under the lamp overhead. He
recognised Miss Dempsey, and grasped her by the hand.
"My dear lady, where have you sprung from?"
She hesitated, and then said, supporting herself on the parapet of the
bridge, as though thankful for the momentary rest.
"I had to go in search of someone."
He knew very well what she meant.
"You've found her?"
"Yes."
"Can anyone help?"
"No. The poor thing's safe--with good people who understand."
He asked no more about her errand. He knew very well that day after
day, and week after week, her tired feet carried her on the same
endless quest--seeking "that which was lost." But the stress of thought
in his own mind found expression in a question which surprised her.
"Would the vote help you? Is that why you want it?"
She smiled.
"Oh, no! Oh, dear no!" she said, with emphasis; after a moment, adding
in a lower tone, scarcely addressed to her companion--"'_It cost
more--to redeem their souls_!'" And again--"Dear Mr. Mark, men are what
their mothers make them!--that is the bottom truth. And when women are
what God intended them to be, they will have killed the ape and the
tiger in men. But law can't do it. Only the Spirit." Her face shone a
little. Then, in her ordinary voice--"Oh, no--I want the vote for quite
other reasons. It is our right--and it is monstrous we shouldn't have
it!" Her cheeks flushed.
He turned his friendly smile upon her, without attempting to argue.
They walked back over the bridge together.
* * * * *
The following day rose in wind and shower. But the February rain
cleared away towards noon, and the high scudding clouds, with bright
spaces between, suddenly began to prophesy Spring. From Hyde Park, down
the Mall, and along Whitehall, the troops gathered and the usual crowd
sprang up in their rear, pressing towards Parliament Square, or lining
the route. Winnington had sent a note early to Delia by messenger; but
he expected no reply, and got none. All he could do was to hide a motor
in Dean's Yard, to hold a conference or two with the friendly bobby in
Parliament Square, and then to wander about the streets looking
restlessly at the show. It duly passed him by, the Cinderella-coach,
with the King and Queen of fairy-tale, the splendid Embassy carriages,
the Generals on their gleaming horses, the Guards, in their red
cloaks--and all the rest. The Royalties disappeared up the carpeted
stairs into the House of Lords, and after half an hour, while the bells
of St. Margaret's filled all the air with tumult, came out, again; and
again the ermined Queen, and the glistening King passed bowing along
the crowd. Winnington caught hold of a Hampshire member in the crowd.
"When does the House meet?"
"Everything adjourned till four. They'll move the Address about five.
But everyone expects a row."
Nothing for it but to wait and stroll, to spend half an hour in the
Abbey, and take a turn along the Embankment.... And gradually,
steadily the Square filled up, no one knew how. The soldiers
disappeared, but policemen quietly took their places. All the entrances
to the House of Commons were carefully guarded, groups as they gathered
were dispersed, and the approaches to the House, in Old and New Palace
Yards, were rigorously kept free. But still the crowd in Parliament
Square grew and thickened. Girls, with smiling excited faces, still
moved to and fro in it, selling the _Tocsin_. Everybody waited
expectant.
Then the chimes of the Abbey struck four. And as they died away, from a
Westminster street, from Whitehall, and from Milbank, there arose a
simultaneous stir and shouting. And presently, from each quarter
appeared processions of women, carrying black and orange banners making
their way slowly through the throng. The crowd cheered and booed them
as they passed, swaying to this side and that. And as each procession
neared the outer line of police, it was firmly but courteously stopped,
and the leaders of it must needs parley with the mounted constables who
sat ready to meet them.
Winnington, jumping on the motor which he had placed opposite St.
Margaret's, drew out some field-glasses, and scanned the advancing
lines of women. The detachment coming from Whitehall seemed to be
headed by the chiefs of the whole organisation, to judge from the
glistening banner which floated above its foremost group. Winnington
examined it closely. Gertrude Marvell was not there, nor Delia. Then he
turned westwards. Ah, now he saw her! That surely was she!--in the
front ranks of the lines coming from Milbank. For a moment, he saw the
whole scene in orderly and picturesque array, the cordons of police,
the mounted constables, the banners of the processions, the swaying
crowds, Westminster Hall, the clock tower, with its light:--the next,
everything was tossed in wild confusion. Some savage impelling movement
in the crowd behind had broken the lines of police. The women were
through! He could see the scurrying forms running across the open
spaces, pursued, grappled with.
He threw himself into the crowd, which had rapidly hemmed him in,
buffeting it from side to side like a swimmer into troubled waters. His
height, his strength, served him well, and by the time he had reached
the southern corner of St. Margaret's, a friendly hand gripped him.
"Do you see her, Sir?"
"Near the front!--coming from Milbank."
"All right! Follow me, Sir. This way!"
And with Hewson, and apparently two other police, Winnington battled
his way towards the tumult in front of St. Stephen's entrance. The
mounted police were pressing the crowd back with their horses, and as
Winnington emerged into clear ground, he saw a melee of women and
police,--some women on the ground, some held between police on either
side, and one group still intact. In it he recognised Gertrude Marvell.
He saw her deliberately strike a constable in the face. Then he lost
sight of her. All he saw were the steps of St. Stephen's entrance
behind, crowded with Members of Parliament. Suddenly another woman
fell, a grey-haired woman, and almost immediately a girl who was
struggling with two policemen, disengaged herself and ran to help. She
bent over the woman, and lifted her up. The police at once made way for
them, but another wild rush from behind seemed to part them--sweep
them from view--
"Now, Sir!" said Hewson, on tiptoe--"Hold on! They've got the old lady
safe. I think the young one's hurt."
They pressed their way through. Winnington caught sight of Delia again,
deadly white, supported by a policeman on one side, and a gentleman on
the other. Andrews!--by George! Winnington cursed his own ill-luck in
not having been the first to reach her; but the gallant Captain was an
ally worth having, all the same.
Mark was at her side. She lifted a face, all pain and bitter
indignation. "Cowards--Cowards!--to treat an old woman so!--Let me
go--let me go back! I must find her!"
"She's all safe, Miss--she's all safe--you go home," said a friendly
policeman. "These gentlemen will look after you! Stand back there!" And
he tried to open a passage for them.
Winnington touched her arm. But an involuntary moan startled him.
"She's hurt her arm"--said Andrews in his ear--"twisted it somehow. Go
to the other side of her--put your arm round her, and I'll clear the
way."
Delia struggled--"No--no!--let me go!"
But she was powerless. Winnington nearly carried her through the crowd,
while her faintness increased. By the time they reached the motor, she
was barely conscious. The two men lifted her in. Andrews stood looking
at her a moment, as she sank back with Winnington beside her, his ruddy
countenance expressing perhaps the most acute emotion of which its
possessor had ever yet been capable.
"Good-night. You'll take her home," he said gruffly, and lifted his
hat. But the next moment he ran back to say--"I'll go back and find out
what's happened. She'll want to know. Where are you taking her?"
"Smith's Hotel," said Winnington--"to my sister." And he gave the order
to the chauffeur.
They set out. Mark passed his arm round her again, to support her, and
she drooped unconsciously upon his shoulder. A fierce joy--mingled with
his wrath and disgust. This must be--this should be the _end_! Was such
a form made for sordid violence and strife? Her life just breathed
against his--he could have borne her so for ever.
But as soon as they had revived her, and she opened her eyes in Mrs.
Matheson's sitting-room at the hotel, she burst into a cry of misery.
"Where's Gertrude!--let me go to her! Where am I?"
As they wrestled with and soothed her, a servant knocked.
"A gentleman to see you, Sir, downstairs."
Winnington descended, and found Andrews--breathless with news.
Eighty women arrested--Miss Marvell among the ringleaders, for all of
whom bail has been refused? While the riot had been going on in
Parliament Square, another detachment of women had passed along
Whitehall, smashing windows as they went. And at the same moment, a
number of shop-windows had been broken in Piccadilly. The Prime
Minister had been questioned in the Commons, and Sir Wilfrid Lang had
denounced the "Daughters'" organisation, and the mad campaign of
violence to which they were committed, in an indignant speech much
cheered by the House.
* * * * *
The days that followed were days of nightmare both for Delia and those
who watched over her.
Gertrude Marvell and ten others went to prison, without the option of a
fine. About forty of the rank and file who refused to pay their fines,
or give surety for good behaviour, accompanied their leaders into
duress. The country rang with the scandal of what had happened, and
with angry debate as to how to stop the scandal in the future. The
Daughters issued defiant broadsheets, and filled the _Tocsin_ with
brave words. And the Constitutionalists who had pinned their hopes on
the Suffrage Bill before the House, wrung their hands, and wailed to
heaven and earth to keep these mad women in order.
Delia sat waiting--waiting--all these intolerable hours. She scarcely
spoke to Winnington, except to ask him for news, or to thank him, when
every evening, owing to a personal knowledge of the Home Secretary, he
was able to bring her the very latest news of what was happening in
prison. Gertrude had refused food; forcible feeding would very soon
have to be abandoned; and her release, on the ground of danger to life,
might have to be granted. But in view of the hot indignation of the
public, the Government were not going to release any of the prisoners
before they absolutely must.
Delia herself was maimed and powerless. How the wrenching of her arm
had come about--whether in the struggle with the two constables who had
separated her from Gertrude, or in the attempt to raise her companion
from the ground--she could not now remember. But a muscle had been
badly torn; she wore a sling and suffered constant and often severe
pain. Neither Alice Matheson, nor Lady Tonbridge--who had rushed up to
town--ever heard her complain, except involuntarily, of this pain.
Madeleine indeed believed that there was some atoning satisfaction in
it, for Delia's wounded spirit. If she was not with Gertrude in prison,
at least she too was suffering--if only a fraction of what Gertrude was
enduring.
The arm however was not the most serious matter. As France had long
since perceived, she had been overstrained in nursing Weston, and the
events since she left Maumsey had naturally increased the mischief. She
had become sleepless and neurasthenic. And Winnington watched day by
day the eclipse of her radiant youth, with a dumb wrath almost as Pagan
as that which a similar impression had roused in Lathrop.
The nights were her worst time. She lived then, in prison, with
Gertrude, vividly recalling all that she had ever heard from the
Daughters who had endured it, of the miseries and indignities of prison
life. But she also lived again through the events which had preceded
and followed the riot; her quick intelligence pondered the comments of
the newspapers, the attitude of the public, the measured words and
looks of these friends who surrounded her. And there were many times
when sitting up in bed alone, suffering and sleepless, she asked
herself bitterly--"were we just fools!--just fools?"
But whatever the mind replied, the heart and its loyalty stood firm.
She was no more free now than before--that was the horrible part of it!
It was this which divided her from Winnington. The thought of how he
had carried her off from the ugly or ridiculous scenes which the
newspapers described--scenes of which she had scarcely any personal
memory, alternately thrilled and shamed her. But the aching expectation
of Gertrude's return--the doubt in what temper of mind and what plight
of body she would return--dominated everything else.
At last came the expected message. "In consequence of a report from the
prison doctors and his own medical advisers, the Home Secretary has
ordered the immediate release of Miss Gertrude Marvell." Winnington was
privately notified of the time of release, information which was
refused to what remained of the Daughters' organisation, lest there
should be further disturbance. He took a motor to the prison gate, and
put a terribly enfeebled woman and her nurse into it. Gertrude did not
even recognise him, and he followed the motor to the Westminster flat,
distracted by the gloomiest forebodings.
Delia was already at the flat to receive her friend, having
quietly--but passionately--insisted, against all the entreaties of Mrs.
Matheson and Lady Tonbridge. Winnington helped the nurse and the porter
to carry Gertrude Marvell upstairs. They laid her on the bed, and the
doctor who had been summoned took her in charge. As he was leaving the
room, Winnington turned back--to look at his enemy. How far more
formidable to him in her weakness than in her strength! The keen eyes
were closed, the thin mouth relaxed and bloodless shewing the teeth,
the hands mere skin and bone. She lay helpless and only half-conscious
on her pillows, with nurse and doctor hovering round her, and Delia
kneeling beside her. Yet, as he closed the door, Winnington realised
her power through every vein! It rested entirely with her whether or no
she would destroy Delia, as she must in the end destroy herself.
He waited in the drawing-room for Delia. She came at last, with a cold
and alien face. "Don't come again, please! Leave us to ourselves. I
shall have doctors--and nurses. We'll let you know."
He took her hands tenderly. But she drew them away--shivering a little.
"You don't know--you can't know--what it means to me--to _us_--to see
what she has suffered. There must be no one here but those--who
sympathise--who won't reproach--" Her voice failed her.
There was nothing for it but to go.