Works of E F Benson

by E. F. Benson

  “I’m afraid I’ve been grumbling all dinner,” he said. “Shall we go into the other room? There’s little sense in my looking at the decanters, if I mayn’t take my glass of port. Eh! That was a twinge!”

  CHAPTER XI

  “It is no use, Henry,” said Mrs. Altham on that same evening, “telling me it is all stuff and nonsense, when I’ve seen with my own eyes the parcel of Suffragette riband being actually directed to Mrs. Brooks; for pen and ink is pen and ink, when all is said and done. Tapworth measured off six yards of it on the counter-measure that gives two feet, for he gave nine lengths of it and put it in paper and directed it. Of course, if nine lengths of two feet doesn’t make eighteen feet, which is six yards, I am wrong and you are right, and twice two no longer makes four. And there were two other parcels already done up of exactly the same shape. You will see if I am not right. Or do you suppose that Mrs. Brooks is ordering it just to trim her nightgown with it?”

  “I never said anything about Mrs. Brooks’ nightgown,” said Henry, who, to do him justice, had been goaded into slightly Rabelaisian mood: “I never thought about Mrs. Brooks’ nightgown. I didn’t know she wore one — I mean—”

  Mrs. Altham made what children would call “a face.” Her eyes grew suddenly fixed and boiled, and her mouth assumed an acidulated expression as if with a plethora of lemon-juice. The “face” was due to the entry of the parlour-maid with the pudding. It was jelly, and was served in silence. Mrs. Altham waited till the door was quietly closed again.

  “It is not a question of Mrs. Brooks’ nightgown,” she said, “since we both agree that she would not order six yards of Suffragette riband to trim it. I spoke sarcastically, Henry, and you interpreted me literally, as you often do. It was the same at Littlestone in August, when the bacon was so salt one day that I said to Mrs. Churchill that a little bacon in the bath would be equivalent to sea-bathing. Upon which you must needs tell her next morning to send your bacon to the bath-room, which she did, and there was a plate of bacon on the sponge-tray, so extraordinary. But all that is beside the point, though what she can have thought of you I can’t imagine. After all, your gift of being literal may help you now. Why does Mrs. Brooks want six yards of Suffragette riband, and why are there two similar parcels on Tapworth’s counter? If I had had a moment alone I would certainly have looked at the other addresses, and seen where they were being sent. But young Tapworth was there all the time — that one with the pince-nez, and the ridiculous chin — and he put them into the errand-boy’s basket, and told him to be sharp about it. So I had no chance of seeing.”

  “You might have strolled along behind the boy to see where he went,” suggested Mr. Altham.

  “He went on a bicycle,” said Mrs. Altham, “and it is impossible to stroll behind a boy on a bicycle and hope to get there in time. But he went up the High Street. I should not in the least wonder if Mrs. Evans had turned Suffragette, after that note to me about her not having time to attend the anti-Suffragette meetings.”

  “Especially since there was only one,” said Henry, in the literal mood that had been forced on him, “and nobody came to that. It would not have sacrificed very much of her time. Not that I ever heard it was valuable.”

  “What she can do with her day I can’t imagine,” said Mrs. Altham, her mind completely diverted by this new topic. “Her cook told Griffiths that as often as not she doesn’t go down to the kitchen at all in the morning, and she’s hardly ever to be seen shopping in the High Street before lunch, and what with Elsie gone to Dresden, and her husband away on his rounds all day, she must be glad when it’s bedtime. And she’s a small sleeper, too, for she told me herself that she considers six hours a good night, though I expect she sleeps more than she knows, and I daresay has a nap after lunch as well. Dear me, what were we talking about? Ah, yes, I was saying I should not wonder if she had turned Suffragette, though I can’t recall what made me think so.”

  “Because Tapworth’s boy went up the High Street on a bicycle,” said Mr. Altham, who had a great gift of picking out single threads from the tangle of his wife’s conversation; “though, after all, the High Street leads to other houses besides Mrs. Evans’. The station, for instance.”

  “You seem to want to find fault with everything I say, to-night, Henry. I don’t know what makes you so contrary. But there it is: I saw eighteen yards of Suffragette riband being sent out when I happened to be in Tapworth’s this morning, and I daresay that’s but a tithe of what has been ordered, though I can’t say as to that, unless you expect me to stand in the High Street all day and watch. And as to what it all means, I’ll let you conjecture for yourself, since if I told you what I thought, you would probably contradict me again.”

  It was no wonder that Mrs. Altham was annoyed. She had been thrilled to the marrow by the parcels of Suffragette riband, and when she communicated her discovery, Henry, who usually was so sympathetic, had seen nothing to be thrilled about. But he had not meant to be unsympathetic, and repaired his error.

  “I’m sure, my dear, that you will have formed a very good guess as to what it means,” he said. “Tell me what you think.”

  “Well, if you care to know,” said she, “I think it all points to there being some demonstration planned, and I for one should not be surprised if I looked out of the window some morning, and saw Mrs. Ames and Mrs. Brooks and the rest of them marching down the High Street with ribands and banners. They’ve been keeping very quiet about it all, at least not a word of what they’ve been doing has come to my ears, and I consider that’s a proof that something is going on and that they want to keep it secret.”

  Mr. Altham’s legal mind cried out to him to put in the plea that a complete absence of news does not necessarily constitute a proof that exciting events are occurring, but he rightly considered that such logic might be taken to be a sign of continued “contrariness.” So he gave an illogical assent to his wife’s theory.

  “Certainly it is odd that nothing more has been heard of it all,” he said. “I wonder what they are planning. The election coming on so soon, too! Can they be planning anything in connection with that?”

  Mrs. Altham got up, letting her napkin fall on the floor.

  “Henry, I believe you have hit it,” she said. “Now what can it be? Let us go into the drawing-room, and thresh it out.”

  But the best threshing-machines in the world cannot successfully fulfil their function unless there is some material to work upon; they can but show by their whirling wheels and rattling gear that they are capable of threshing should anything be provided for them. The poor Althams were somewhat in this position, for their rations of gossip were sadly reduced, their two chief sources being cut off from them. For ever since the mendacious Mrs. Brooks had appeared as Cleopatra, when she had as good as promised to be Hermione, chill politeness had taken the place of intimacy between the two houses, since there was no telling what trick she might not play next, while the very decided line which Mrs. Altham had taken when she found she was expected to meet people like tradesmen’s wives had caused a complete rupture in relations with the Ames’. That Suffragette meetings were going on was certain, else what sane mind could account for the fact that only to-day a perfect stream of people, some of them not even known by sight to Mrs. Altham, and therefore probably of the very lowest origin, with Mrs. Ames and the wife of the station-master among them, had been seen coming out of Mr. Turner’s warehouse. It was ridiculous “to tell me” that they had been all making purchases (nobody had told her), and such a supposition was thoroughly negatived by the subsequent discovery that the warehouse in question contained only a quantity of chairs. All this, however, had been threshed out at tea-time, and the fly-wheels buzzed emptily. Against the probability of an election-demonstration was the fact that the Unionist member, to whom these attentions would naturally be directed, was Mrs. Ames’ cousin, though “cousin” was a vague word, and Mrs. Altham would not wonder if he was a very distant sort of cousin indeed. Still, it would be wor
th 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, nor any opportunity.

  Mrs. Altham stooped like a hawk on the quarry.

  “You mean Major Ames,” she said. “I’m sure I never pass the house but what he’s either going in or coming out, and he does a good deal more of the going in than of the other, in my opinion.”

  Henry penetrated into the meaning of what sounded a rather curious achievement and corroborated.

  “He was there this morning,” he said, “on the doorstep at eleven o’clock, or it might have been a quarter-past, with a bouquet of chrysanthemums big enough to do all Mrs. Ames’ decorations at St. Barnabas. What is the matter, my dear?”

  For Mrs. Altham had literally bounced out of her chair, and was pointing at him a forefinger that trembled with a nameless emotion.

  “At a quarter-past one, or a few minutes later,” she said, “that bouquet was lying in the middle of the road. Let us say twenty minutes past one, because I came straight home, took off my hat, and was ready for lunch. It was more like a haystack than a bouquet: I’m sure if I hadn’t stepped over it, I should have tripped and fallen. And to think that I never mentioned it to you, Henry! How things piece themselves together, if you give them a chance! Now did you actually see Major Ames carry it into the house?”

  “The door was opened to him, just as I came opposite,” said Henry firmly, “and in he went, bouquet and all.”

  “Then somebody must have thrown it out again,” said Mrs. Altham.

  She held up one hand, and ticked off names on its fingers.

  “Who was then in the house?” she said. “Mrs. Evans, Dr. Evans, Major Ames. Otherwise the servants — how they can find work for six servants in that house I can’t understand — and servants would never have thrown chrysanthemums into the street. So we needn’t count the servants. Now can you imagine Mrs. Evans throwing away a bouquet that Major Ames had brought her? If so, I envy you your power of imagination. Or—”

  She paused a moment.

  “Or can there have been a quarrel, and did she tell him she had too much of him and his bouquets? Or—”

  “Dr. Evans,” said Henry.

  She nodded portentously.

  “Turned out of the house, he and his bouquet,” she said. “Dr. Evans is a powerful man, and Major Ames, for all his size, is mostly fat. I should not wonder if Dr. Evans knocked him down. Henry, I have a good mind to treat Mrs. Ames as if she had not been so insulting to me that day (and after all that is only Christian conduct) and to take round to her after lunch to-morrow the book she said she wanted to see last July. I am sure I have forgotten what it was, but any book will do, since she only wants it to be thought that she reads. After all, I should be sorry to let Mrs. Ames suppose that anything she can do should have the power of putting me out, and I should like to see if she still dyes her hair. After the chrysanthemums in the road I should not be the least surprised to be told that Major Ames is ill. Then we shall know all. Dear me, it is eleven o’clock already, and I never felt less inclined to sleep.”

  Henry stepped downstairs to drink a mild whisky and soda after all this conversation and excitement, but while it was still half drunk, he felt compelled to run upstairs and tap at his wife’s door.

  “I am not coming in, dear,” he said, in answer to her impassioned negative. “But if you find Major Ames is not ill?”

  “No one will be more rejoiced than myself, Henry,” said she, in a disappointed voice.

  Henry went gently downstairs again.

  Mrs. Ames was at home when the forgiving Mrs. Altham arrived on the following afternoon, bearing a copy of a book of which there were already two examples in the house. But she clearly remembered having wanted to see some book of which they had spoken together, last July, and it was very kind of Mrs. Altham to have attempted to supply her with it. Beyond doubt she had ceased to dye her hair, for the usual grey streaks were apparent in it, a proof (if Mrs. Altham wanted a proof, which she did not) that artificial means had been resorted to. And even as Mrs. Altham, with her powerful observation, noticed the difference in Mrs. Ames’ hair, so also she noticed a difference in Mrs. Ames. She no longer seemed pompous: there was a kindliness about her which was utterly unlike her usual condescension, though it manifested itself only in the trivial happenings of an afternoon call, such as putting a cushion in her chair, and asking if she found the room, with its prospering fire, too hot. This also led to interesting information.

  “It is scarcely cold enough for a fire to-day,” she said, “but my husband is laid up with a little attack of lumbago.”

  “I am so sorry to hear that,” said Mrs. Altham feverishly. “When did he catch it?”

  “He felt it first last night before dinner. It is disappointing, for he expected Harrogate to cure him of such tendencies. But it is not very severe: I have no doubt he will be in here presently for tea.”

  Mrs. Altham felt quite convinced he would not, and hastened to glean further enlightenment.

  “You must be very busy thinking of the election,” she said. “I suppose Sir James is safe to get in. I got tickets for the first of his meetings this morning.”

  “That will be the one at which the President of the Board of Trade speaks,” said Mrs. Ames. “My cousin and he dine with us first.”

  Mrs. Altham determined on more direct questions.

  “Really, it must require courage to be a politician nowadays,” she said, “especially if you are in the Cabinet. Mr. Chilcot has been hardly able to open his mouth lately without being interrupted by some Suffragette. Dear me, I hope I have not said the wrong thing! I quite forgot your sympathies.”

  “It is certainly a subject that interests me,” said Mrs. Ames, “though as for saying the wrong thing, dear Mrs. Altham, why, the world would be a very dull place if we all agreed with each other. But I think it requires just as much courage for a woman to get up at a meeting and interrupt. I cannot imagine myself being bold enough. I feel I should be unable to get on my feet, or utter a word. They must be very much in earnest, and have a great deal of conviction to nerve them.”

  This was not very satisfactory; if anything was to be learned from it, it was that Mrs. Ames was but a tepid supporter of the cause. But what followed was still more vexing, for the parlour-maid announced Mrs. Evans.

  “So sorry to hear about Major Ames, dear cousin Amy,” she said. “Wilfred told me he had been to see him.”

  Mrs. Ames made a kissing-pad, so to speak, of her small toad’s face, and Millie dabbed her cheek on it.

  “Dear Millie, how nice of you to call! Parker, tell the Major that tea is ready, and that Mrs. Evans and Mrs. Altham are here.”

  But by the time Major Ames arrived Mrs. Altham was there no longer. She was thoroughly disgusted with the transformation into chaff of all the beautiful grain that they had taken the trouble to thresh out the night before. She summed it up succinctly to her husband when he came back from his golf.

  “I don’t believe the Suffragettes are going to do anything at all, Henry,” she said, “and I shouldn’t wonder if these chrysanthemums had nothing to do with anybody. The only thing is that her hair is dyed, because it was all speckled with grey again as thickly as yours, and I declare I left The Safety of the Race behind me, instead of bringing it back again, as I meant to do.”

  Henry, who had won his match at golf, was naturally optimistic.

  “Then you didn’t actual
ly see Major Ames?” he asked.

  “No, but there was no longer any doubt about it all,” she said. “I do not think I am unduly credulous, but it was clear there was nothing the matter with him except a touch of lumbago. And all this Suffragette business means nothing at all, in spite of the yards of riband. You may take my word for it.”

  “Then there will be no point in going to Sir James’ meeting,” said Henry, “though the President of the Board of Trade is going to speak.”

  “Not unless you want to hear the biggest windbag in the country buttering up the greatest prig in the county. I should be sorry to waste my time over it; and he is dining with the Ames’, and so I suppose all there will be to look at will be the row of them on the platform, all swollen with one of Mrs. Ames’ biggest dinners. We might have gone to bed at our usual time last night, for all the use that there has been in our talk. And it was you saw the chrysanthemums, from which you expected so much and thought it worth while to tell me about them.”

  And Henry felt too much depressed at the utter flatness of all that had made so fair a promise, to enter any protest against the palpable injustice of these conclusions.

  Major Ames’ lumbago was of the Laodicean sort, neither hot nor cold. It hung about, occasionally stabbing him shrewdly, at times retreating in the Parthian mode, so that he was encouraged to drink a glass of port, upon which it shot at him again, and he had to get back to his stew of sloppy diet and depressing reflections. Most of all, the relations into which he had allowed himself to drift with regard to Millie filled him with a timorous yet exultant agitation, but he almost, if not quite, exaggerated his indisposition, in order to escape from the responsibility of deciding what should come of it. Damp and boisterous weather made it prudent for him to keep to the house, and she came to see him daily. Behind her demure quietness he divined a mind that was expectant and sure: there was no doubt as to her view of the situation that had arisen between them. She had played with the emotions of others once too often, and was caught in the agitation which she had so often excited without sharing in it. Mrs. Ames was generally present at these visits, but when it was quite certain that she was not looking, Millie often raised her eyes to his, and this disconcerting conviction lurked behind them. Her speech was equally disconcerting, for she would say, “It will be nice when you are well again,” in a manner that quite belied the commonplace words. And this force that lay behind strangely controlled him. Involuntarily, almost, he answered her signals, gave himself the lover-like privilege of seeming to understand all that was not said. All the time, too, he perfectly appreciated the bad taste of the affair — namely, that a woman who was in love with him, and to whom he had given indications of the most unmistakable kind that he was on her plane of emotion, should play these unacted scenes in his wife’s house, coming there to make pass his invalid hours, and that he should take his part in them. It was common, and he could not but contrast that commonness with the unconsciousness of his wife. Occasionally he was inclined to think, “Poor Amy, how little she sees,” but as often it occurred to him that she was too big to be aware of such smallnesses as he and Millie 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.