Mrs. Ames

by E. F. Benson

  ‘More fools than knaves, I always say,’ said Major Ames magnanimously. ‘They are deluded, like the poor Suffragettes. Suffragettes now! A woman’s sphere of influence lies in her home. Women are the queens of the earth; I’ve often said that, and what do queens want with votes? Would Amy have any more influence in Riseborough if she had a vote? Not a bit of it. Well, then, why go about smacking the faces of policemen and chaining yourself to a railing? If I had my way - ’

  Major Ames became of lower voice and greater confidence.

  ‘Amy doesn’t wholly agree with me,’ he said, ‘and it’s a pleasure to thrash the matter out with somebody like yourself, who has sensible views on the subject. What use are women in politics? None at all, as you just said. It’s for women to rock the cradle, and rule the world. I say, and I have always said, that to give them a vote would be to wreck their influence, God bless them. But Amy doesn’t agree with me. I say that I will vote - she’s a Conservative, of course, and so am I - I will vote as she wishes me to. But she says it’s the principle of the thing, not the practice. But what she calls principle, I call want of principle. Home: that’s the woman’s sphere.’

  Mrs Evans gave a little sigh.

  ‘I never heard it so beautifully expressed,’ she said. ‘Major Ames, why don’t you go in for politics?’

  Major Ames felt himself flattered; he felt also that he deserved the flattery. Hence, to him now, it ceased to be flattery, and became a tribute. He became more confidential, and vastly more vapid.

  ‘My dear lady,’ he said, ‘politics is a dirty business nowadays. We can serve our cause best by living a quiet and dignified life, without ostentation, as you see, but by being gentlemen. It is the silent protest against these socialistic ideas that will tell in the long run. What should I do at Westminster? Upon my soul, if I found myself sitting opposite those Radical louts, it would take me all my time to keep my temper. No, no, let me attend to my garden, and give my friends good dinners - bless my soul, Amy is letting us have an ice tonight - strawberry ice, I expect; that was why she asked me whether there were plenty of strawberries. Glace de fraises; she likes her menu cards printed in French, though I am sure “strawberry ice” would tell us all we wanted to know. What’s in a name after all?’

  Conversation had already shifted, and Major Ames turned swiftly to a dry-skinned Mrs Brooks who sat on his left. She was a sad high-church widow who embroidered a great deal. Her dress was outlined with her own embroideries, so, too, were many altar cloths at the church of St Barnabas. She and Mrs Ames had a sort of religious rivalry over its decoration; the one arranged the copious white lilies that crowned the cloth made by the other. Their rivalry was not without silent jealousy, and it was already quite well known that Mrs Brooks had said that lilies of the valley were quite as suitable as Madonna lilies, which shed a nasty yellow pollen on the altar cloth. But Madonna lilies were larger; a decoration required fewer ‘blooms’. In other moods also she was slightly acid.

  Mrs Evans turned slowly to her right, where Harry was sitting. She might almost be supposed to know that she had a lovely neck, at least it was hard to think that she had lived with it for thirty-seven years in complete unconsciousness of it. If she moved her head very quickly, there was just a suspicion of loose skin about it. But she did not move her head very quickly.

  ‘And now let us go on talking,’ she said. ‘Have you told my little girl all about Cambridge? Tell me all about Cambridge too. What fun you must have! A lot of young men together, with no stupid women and girls to bother them. Do you play a great deal of lawn tennis?’

  Harry reconsidered for a moment his verdict concerning the wonderfulness of her. It was hardly happy to talk to a member of the Omar Club about games and the advantages of having no girls about.

  ‘No; I don’t play games much,’ he said. ‘The set I am in don’t care for them.’

  She tilted her head a little back, as if asking pardon for her ignorance.

  ‘I didn’t know,’ she said. ‘I thought perhaps you liked games - football, racquets, all that kind of thing. I am sure you could play them beautifully if you chose. Or perhaps you like gardening? I had such a nice talk to your father about flowers. What a lot he knows about them!’

  Flowers were better than games, anyhow; Harry put down his spoon without finishing his ice.

  ‘Have you ever noticed what a wonderful colour La France roses turn at twilight?’ he asked. ‘All the shadows between the petals become blue, quite blue.’

  ‘Do they really? You must show me sometime. Are there some in your garden here?’

  ‘Yes, but father doesn’t care about them so much because they are common. I think that is so strange of him. Sunsets are common, too, aren’t they? There is a sunset every day. But the fact that a thing is common doesn’t make it less beautiful.’

  She gave a little sigh.

  ‘But what a nice idea,’ she said. ‘I am sure you thought of it. Do you talk about these things much at Cambridge?’

  Mrs Ames began to collect ladies’ eyes at this moment, and the conversation had to be suspended. Millie Evans, though she was rather taller than Harry, managed, as she passed him on the way to the door, to convey the impression of looking at him.

  ‘You must tell me all about it,’ she said. ‘And show me those delicious roses turning blue at twilight.’

  Dinner had been at a quarter to eight, and when the men joined the women again in the drawing room, light still lingered in the midsummer sky. Then Harry, greatly daring, since such a procedure was utterly contrary to all established precedents, persuaded Mrs Evans to come out into the garden, and observe for herself the chameleonic properties of the roses. Then he had ventured on another violation of rule, since all rights of flower-picking were vested in his father, and had plucked her half a dozen of them. But on their return with the booty, and the establishment of the blue theory, his father, so far from resenting this invasion of his privileges, had merely said:

  ‘The rascal might have found you something choicer than that, Mrs Evans. But we’ll see what we can find you tomorrow.’

  She had again seemed to look up at Harry.

  ‘Nothing can be lovelier than my beautiful roses,’ she said. ‘But it is sweet of you to think of sending me some more. Cousin Amy, look at the roses Mr Harry has given me.’

  Carriages arrived as usual that night at half past ten, at which hour, too, a gaunt, grenadier-like maid of certain age, rapped loudly on the front door, and demanded Mrs Brooks, whom she was to protect on her way home, and as usual carriages and the grenadier waited till twenty minutes to eleven. But even at a quarter to, no conveyance, by some mischance, had come for Mrs Evans, and despite her protests, Major Ames insisted on escorting her and Elsie back to her house. Occasionally, when such mistakes occurred, it had been Harry’s duty to see home the uncarriaged, but tonight, when it would have been his pleasure, the privilege was denied him. So, instead, after saying goodnight to his mother, he went swiftly to his room, there to write a mysterious letter to a member of the Omar Club, and compose a short poem, which should, however unworthily, commemorate this amorous evening.

  There is nothing in the world more rightly sacred than the first dawnings of love in a young man, but, on the other hand, there is nothing more ludicrous if his emotions are inspired, or even tinged, by self-consciousness and the sense of how fine a young spark he is. And our unfortunate Harry was charged with this absurdity; all through the evening it had been present to his mind, how dashing and Byronic a tale this would prove at the next meeting of the Omar Khayyam Club; with what fine frenzy he would throw off, in his hour of inspiration after the yellow wine, the little heart wail which he was now about to compose, as soon as his letter to Gerald Everett was written. And lest it should seem unwarrantable to intrude in the spirit of ridicule on a young man’s rapture and despair, an extract from his letter should give solid justification.

  ‘Of course, I can’t give names,’ he said, ‘because you know how su
ch things get about; but, my God, Gerald, how wonderful she is. I saw her this afternoon for the first time, and she dined with us tonight. She understands everything - whatever I said, I saw reflected in her eyes, as the sky is reflected in still water. After dinner I took her out into the garden, and showed her how the shadows of the La France roses turn blue at dusk. I quoted to her these two lines -

  “O, thou art fairer than the evening air, Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars.”

  ‘And I THINK she saw that I quoted AT her. Of course, she turned it off, and said, “What pretty lines!” but I think she saw. And she carried my roses home. Lucky roses!

  ‘Gerald, I am miserable! I haven’t told you yet. For she is married. She has a great stupid husband, years and years older than herself. She has, too, a great stupid daughter. There’s another marvel for you! Honestly and soberly she does not look more than twenty-five. I will write again, and tell you how all goes. But I think she likes me; there is clearly something in common between us. There is no doubt she enjoyed our little walk in the dusk, when the roses turned blue … Have you had any successes lately?’

  He finished his letter, and before beginning his poem, lit the candle on his dressing table, and examined his small, commonplace visage in the glass. It was difficult to arrange his hair satisfactorily. If he brushed it back it revealed an excess of high, vacant-looking forehead; if he let it drop over his forehead, though his resemblance to Keats was distinctly strengthened, its resemblance to seaweed was increased also. The absence of positive eyebrow was regrettable, but was there not fire in his rather pale and far-apart eyes? He rather thought there was. His nose certainly turned up a little, but what, if not that, did tip-tilted imply? A rather long upper lip was at present only lightly fledged with an adolescent moustache, but there was decided strength in his chin. It stuck out. And having practised a frown which he rather fancied, he went back to the table in the window again, read a few stanzas of Dolores, in order to get into tune with passion and bitterness (for this poem was not going to begin or end happily) and wooed the lyric muse.

  Major Ames, meantime, had seen Mrs Evans to her door, and retraced his steps as far as the club, where he was in half a mind to go in, and get a game of billiards, which he enjoyed. He played in a loud, hectoring and unskilful manner, and it was noticeable that all the luck (unless, as occasionally happened, he won) was invariably on the side of his opponent. But after an irresolute pause, he went on again, and let himself into his own house. Amy was still sitting in the drawing room, though usually she went to bed as soon as her guests had gone.

  ‘Very pleasant evening, my dear,’ he said, ‘and your plan was a great success. Uncommonly agreeable woman Mrs Evans is. Pretty woman, too; you would never guess she was the mother of that great girl.’

  ‘She was not considered pretty as a girl,’ said his wife.

  ‘No? Then she must have improved in looks afterwards. Lonely life rather, to be a doctor’s wife, with your husband liable to be called away at any hour of the day or night.’

  ‘I have no doubt Millie occupies herself very well,’ said Mrs Ames. ‘Goodnight, Lyndhurst. Are you coming up to bed?’

  ‘Not just yet. I shall sit up a bit, and smoke another cigar.’

  He sat in the window, and every now and then found himself saying half aloud, ‘Uncommonly agreeable woman.’ Just overhead Harry was tearing passion to shreds in the style (more or less) of Swinburne.

  DR EVANS was looking out of the window of his dining room as he waited the next morning for breakfast to be brought in, jingling a pleasant mixture of money and keys in his trouser pockets and whistling a tune that sounded vague and De Bussy-like until you perceived that it was really an air familiar to streets and barrel organs, and owed its elusive quality merely to the fact that the present performer was a little uncertain as to the comparative value of tones and semitones. But this slightly discouraging detail was more than compensated for by the evident cheerfulness of the executant; his plump, high-coloured face, his merry eye, the singular content of his whole aspect be tokened a personality that was on excellent terms with life.

  His surroundings were as well furnished and securely comfortable as himself. The table was invitingly laid; a Sheffield-plate urn (Dr Evans was an amateur in Georgian decoration and furniture) hissed and steamed with little upliftings of the lid under the pressure within, and a number of hot dishes suggested an English interpretation of breakfast. Fine mezzotints after the great English portrait-painters hung on the walls, and a Chippendale sideboard was spread with fruit dishes and dessert plates. The morning was very hot, but the high, spacious room, with its thick walls, was cool and fresh, while its potentialities for warmth and cosiness in the winter were sponsored for by the large open fireplace and the stack of hot-water pipes which stood beneath the sideboard. Outside, the windows at which Dr Evans stood looked out on to the large and secluded lawn, which had been the scene of the garden party the day before. Red brick walls ran along the two sides of it at right angles to the house; opposite, a row of espaliered fruit trees screened off the homeliness of the kitchen garden beyond, and the railway cutting which formed the boundary of this pleasant place.

  Wilfred Evans had whistled the first dozen bars of the ‘Merry Widow Waltz’ some six or seven times through, before, with the retarded consciousness that it was Sunday, he went on to ‘The Church’s One Foundation,’ and though, with his usual admirable appetite, he felt the allure of the hot dishes, he waited, still whistling, for some other member of his household, wife or daughter, to appear. He was one of the most gregarious and club-bable of men, and no hecatomb of stalled oxen would have given him content, if he had had to eat his beef alone. A firm attachment to his domestic circle, combined with the not very exacting calls of his practice, but truly fervent investigations in the laboratory at the end of the garden, of the habits and economy of phagocytes, comfortably filled up, to the furthest horizon, the scenery of his mental territories.

  He had not to wait long for his wife to appear, and he hailed her with his wonted cordiality.

  ‘Morning, little woman,’ he said. ‘Slept well, I hope?’

  Mrs Evans did not practise at home all those arts of pleasing with which she was so lavish in other people’s houses. Also, this morning she felt rather cross, a thing which, to do her justice, was rare with her.

  ‘Not very,’ she said. ‘I kept waking. It was stiflingly hot.’

  ‘I’m sorry, my dear,’ said he.

  Mrs Evans busied herself with tea-making; her long, slender hands moved with extraordinary deftness and silence among clattering things, and her husband whistled the ‘Merry Widow Waltz’ once or twice more.

  ‘Oh, Wilfred, do stop that odious tune,’ she said, without the slightest hint of impatience in her voice. ‘It is bad enough on your pianola, which, after all, is in tune!’

  ‘Which is more than can be said for my penny whistle?’ asked he, good-humouredly. ‘Right you are, I’m dumb. Tell me about your party last night.’

  ‘My dear, haven’t you been to enough Riseborough parties to know that there is nothing to tell about any party?’ she asked. ‘I sat between Major Ames and the son. I talked gardening on one side with the father, and something which I suppose was enlightened Cambridge conversation on the other. Harry Ames is rather a dreadful sort of youth. He took me into the garden afterwards to show me something about roses. And the carriage didn’t come. Major Ames saw me home. When did you get in?’

  ‘Not till nearly three. Very difficult maternity case. But we’ll pull them both through.’

  Millie Evans gave a little shudder, which was not quite entirely instinctive. She emphasized it for her husband’s benefit. Unfortunately, he did not notice it.

  ‘Will you have your tea now?’ she asked.

  He looked at her with an air mainly conjugal but tinged with professionalism.

  ‘Bit upset with the heat, little woman?’ he asked. ‘You look a trifle off colour. We can’t have yo
u sleeping badly, either. Show me the man who sleeps his seven hours every night, and I’ll show you who will live to be ninety.’

  This prospect did not for the moment allure his wife.

  ‘I think I would sooner sleep less and die earlier,’ she said in her even voice, ‘though I’m sure Elsie will live to a hundred at that rate. You encourage her to be lazy in the morning, Wilfred. I’m sure anyone can manage to be in time for breakfast at a quarter past nine.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘No, no, little woman,’ he said. ‘Let a growing girl sleep just as much as she feels inclined. I would sooner stint a girl’s food than her sleep. Give the red corpuscles a chance, eh?’

  Millie got up from the table, and went to the sideboard to get some fruit. Then suddenly it struck her that all this was hardly worthwhile. It seemed a stupid business to come down every morning and eat breakfast, to manage the household, to go for a walk, perhaps, or sit in the garden, and after completing the round of these daily futilities, to go to bed again and sleep, just for the recuperation that sleep gave, to enable her to do it all over again. But the strawberries looked cool and moist, and standing by the sideboard she ate a few of them. Just above it hung the oblong Sheraton mirror, which her husband had bought so cheaply at a local sale and had brought home so triumphantly. That, too, seemed to tell her a stale story, and the reflection of her young face, crowned with the shimmer of yellow hair, against the dark oak background of the panelling seemed without purpose or significance. She was doing nothing with her beauty that stayed so long with her. But it would not stay many years longer: this morning even there seemed to be a shadow over it, making it dim … Soon nobody would care if she had ever been pretty or not; indeed, even now Elsie seemed by her height and the maturity of her manner to be reminding everybody of the fact that she herself must be approaching the bar which every woman has to cross when she is forty or thereabouts … And, strange enough it may appear, these doubts and questionings which looked at Millie darkly from the Sheraton glass above the sideboard, selfish and elementary as they were, resembled ‘thought’ far more closely than did the generality of those surface impressions that as a rule mirrored her mind. They were, too, rather actively disagreeable, and generally speaking, nothing disagreeable occurred to her. The experiences of every day might be mildly exhilarating, or mildly tedious. But, whatever they were, she was not accustomed to think closely about them. Now, for the moment, it seemed to her that some shadow, some vague presence confronted her, and menacingly demanded her attention.