“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.{249}
“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,{250} 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{251} 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?{252}”
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{253} 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{254} 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{255} 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.{256} 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.{257}”
“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{258} 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{259} 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{260} 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{261} 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{262} 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{263} 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{264} 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{265} 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?{266}”
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{267} 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,{268} 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{269} 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{270} 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{271} 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{272} 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{273} 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.{274} 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{275} 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.
