Works of E F Benson

by E. F. Benson

  “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-humoured smile faded, leaving an angry fighting face. But all this hostility and amazement, so far from cowing or silencing her, seemed like a draught of wine. “Votes for Women!” she cried again.

  At that the cry was taken up in earnest: by a desperate effort Mrs. Currie unfurled her banner, so that it floated free, her porters roared out their message with the conviction they put into their announcements to a stopping train that this was Riseborough, the Turner family gleefully shouted together: Mrs. Brooks, unable to adjust her rosette, madly waved it, and a solid group of enthusiasts just below the platform emitted loud and militant cries. All that had been flat and lifeless a moment before was inspired and vital. And Mrs. Ames had done it. For a moment she had nothing but glory in her heart.

  Mr. Chilcot leaned over the table to her.

  “I had no idea,” he said, “when I had the honour of dining with you that you proposed immediately afterwards to treat me with such gross discourtesy.”

  “Votes for Women!” shouted Mrs. Ames again.

  This time the cry was less vehemently taken up, for there was nothing to interrupt. Mr. Chilcot conferred a moment quietly with Sir James, and Mrs. Ames saw that Lyndhurst and Mrs. Evans were talking together: the former was spluttering with rage, and Mrs. Evans had laid her slim, white-gloved hand on his knee, in the attempt, it appeared, to soothe him. At present the endeavour did not seem to be meeting with any notable measure of success. Even in the midst of her excitement, Mrs, Ames thought how ludicrous Lyndhurst’s face was; she also felt sorry for him. As well, she had the sense of this being tremendous fun: never in her life had she been so effective, never had she even for a moment paralysed the plans of other people. But she was doing that now; Mr. Chilcot had come here to speak, and she was not permitting him to. And again she cried “Votes for Women!”

  An inspector of police had come on to the platform, and after a few words with Sir James, he vaulted down into the body of the hall. Next moment, some dozen policemen tramped in from outside, and immediately afterwards the Turner family, still beaming, were being trundled down the gangway, and firmly ejected. Sundry high notes and muffled shoutings came from outside, but after a few seconds they were dumb, as if a tap had been turned off. There was a little more trouble with Mrs. Currie, but a few smart tugs brought away the somewhat flimsy wooden rail to which she had attached herself, and she was taken along in a sort of tripping step, like a cheerful dancing bear, with her chains jingling round her, after the Turners, and quietly put out into the night. Then Sir James came across to Mrs. Ames.

  “Cousin Amy,” he said, “you must please give us your word to cause no more disturbance, or I shall tell a couple of men to take you away.”

  “Votes for Women!” shouted Mrs. Ames again. But the excitement which possessed her was rapidly dying, and from the hall there came no response except very audible laughter.

  “I am very sorry,” said Cousin James

  And then, with a sudden overwhelming wave, the futility of the whole thing struck her. What had she done? She had merely been extremely rude to her two guests, had seriously annoyed her husband, and had aroused perfectly justifiable laughter. General Fortescue was sitting a few rows off: he was looking at her through his pince-nez, and his red, good-humoured face was all a-chink with smiles. Then two policemen, one of whom had his beat in St. Barnabas Road, vaulted up on to the platform, and several people left their places to look on from a more advantageous position.

  “Beg your pardon, ma’am,” said the St. Barnabas policeman, touching his helmet with imperturbable politeness. “She’s chained up too, Bill.”

  Bill was a slow, large, fatherly-looking man, and examined Mrs. Ames’ fetters. Then a broad grin broke out over his amiable face.

  “It’s only just passed around the table-leg,” he said. “Hitch up the table-leg, mate, and slip it off.”

  It was too true . . . patent lock and mastiff-holding chain were slipped down the table-leg, and Mrs. Ames, with the fatherly-looking policeman politely carrying her chains and the little velvet bag, was gently and inevitably propelled through the door which, a quarter of an hour ago, she had entered escorted by the Mayor, and down the stone passage and out into the dripping street. The rain fell heavily on to the rose-coloured silk dress, and the fatherly policeman put her cloak, which had half fallen off, more shelteringly round her.

  “Better have a cab, ma’am, and go home quietly,” he said. “You’ll catch cold if you stay here, and we can’t let you in again, begging your pardon, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Ames looked round: Mrs. Currie was just crossing the road, apparently on her way home, and a carriage drove off containing the Turner family. A sense of utter failure and futility possessed her: it was cold and wet, and a chilly wind flapped the awning, blowing a shower of dripping raindrops on to her. The excitement and courage that had possessed her just now had all oozed away: nothing had been effected, unless to make herself ridiculous could be counted as an achievement.

  “Call a cab for the lady, Bill,” said her policeman soothingly.

  This was soon summoned, and Bill touched his helmet as she got in, and before closing the door pulled up the window for her. The cabman also knew her, and there was no need to give him her address. The rain pattered on the windows and on the roof, and the horse splashed briskly along through the puddles in the roadway.

  Parker opened the door to her, surprised at the speediness of her return.

  “Why, ma’am!” she exclaimed, “has anything happened?”

  “No, nothing, Parker,” said she, feeling that a dreadful truth underlay her words. “Tell the Major, when he comes in, that I have gone to bed.”

  She looked for a moment into the dining-room. So short a time had passed that the table was not yet cleared: the printed menu-cards had been collected, but the coffee, which had not been hot enough, still stood untasted in the cups, and the slices of pineapple, cut, but not eaten, were ruinously piled together. The thought of all the luncheons that would be necessary to consume all this expensive food made her feel sick. . . . These little things had assumed a ridiculous size to her mind; that which had seemed so big was pitifully dwindled. She felt desperately tired, and cold and lonely.

  CHAPTER XII

  “And what’s to be done now?” said Major Ames, chipping his bacon high into the air above his plate. “If you didn’t hear me, I said, ‘What’s to be done now?’ I don’t know how you can look Riseborough in the face again, and, upon my word, I don’t see how I can. They’ll point at me in the street, and say, ‘That’s Major Ames, whose wife made a fool of herself.’ That’s what you did, Amy. You made a fool of yourself. And what was the good of it all? Are you any nearer getting the vote than before, because you’ve screamed ‘Votes for Women’ a dozen times? You’ve only given a proof the more of how utterly unfit you are to have anything at all of your own, let alone a vote. I passed a sleepless night with thinking of your folly, and I feel infernally unwell this morning.”

  This clearly constituted a climax, and Mrs. Ames took advantage of the rhetorical pause that followed.

  “Nonsense, Lyndhurst,” she said; “I heard you snoring.”

  “It’s enough to make a man snore,” he said. “Snore, indeed! Why couldn’t you even have told me that you were going to behave like a silly lunatic, and if I couldn’t have persuaded you to behave sanely, I could have stopped away, instead of looking on at such an exhibition? Every one will suppose I must have known about it, and have countenanced you. I’ve a good mind to write to the Kent Chronicle and say that I was absolutely ignorant of what you were
going to do. You’ve disgraced us; that’s what you’ve done.”

  He took a gulp of tea, imprudently, for it was much hotter than he anticipated.

  “And now I’ve burned my mouth!” he said.

  Mrs. Ames put down her napkin, left her seat, and came and stood by him.

  “I am sorry you are so much vexed,” she said, “but I can’t and I won’t discuss anything with you if you talk like that. You are thinking about nothing but yourself, whether you are disgraced, and whether you have had a bad night.”

  “Certainly you don’t seem to have thought about me,” he said.

  “As a matter of fact I did,” she said. “I knew you would not like it, and I was sorry. But do you suppose I liked it? But I thought most about the reason for which I did it.”

  “You did it for notoriety,” said Major Ames, with conviction. “You wanted to see your name in the papers, as having interrupted a Cabinet Minister’s speech. You won’t even have that satisfaction, I am glad to say. Your cousin James, who is a decent sort of fellow after all, spoke to the reporters last night and asked them to leave out all account of the disturbance. They consented; they are decent fellows too; they didn’t want to give publicity to your folly. They were sorry for you, Amy; and how do you like half-a-dozen reporters at a pound a week being sorry for you? Your cousin James was equally generous. He bore no malice to me, and shook hands with me, and said he saw you were unwell when he sat down to dinner. But when a man of the world, as your Cousin James is, says he thinks that a woman is unwell, I know what he means. He thought you were intoxicated. Drunk, in fact. That’s what he thought. He thought you were drunk. My wife drunk. And it was the kindest interpretation he could have put upon it. Mad or drunk. He chose drunk. And he hoped I should be able to come over some day next week and help him to thin out the pheasants. Very friendly, considering all that had happened.”

  Mrs. Ames moved slightly away from him.

  “Do you mean to go?” she asked.

  “Of course I mean to go. He shows a very generous spirit, and I think I can account for the highest of his rocketters. He wants to smooth things over and be generous, and all that — hold out the olive branch. He recognizes that I’ve got to live down your folly, and if it’s known that I’ve been shooting with him, it will help us. Forgive and forget, hey? I shall just go over there, en garçon, and will patch matters up. I dare say he’ll ask you over again some time. He doesn’t want to be hard on you. Nor do I, I am sure. But there are things no man can stand. A man’s got to put his foot down sometimes, even if he puts it down on his wife. And if I was a bit rough with you just now, you must realize, Amy, you must realize that I felt strongly, strongly and rightly. We’ve got to live down what you have done. Well, I’m by you. We’ll live it down together. I’ll make your peace with your cousin. You can trust me.”

  These magnificent assurances failed to dazzle Mrs. Ames, and she made no acknowledgment of them. Instead, she went back rather abruptly and inconveniently to a previous topic.

  “You tell me that Cousin James believed I was drunk,” she said. “Now you knew I was not. But you seem to have let it pass.”

  Major Ames felt that more magnanimous assurances might be in place.

  “There are some things best passed over,” he said. “Let sleeping dogs lie. I think the less we talk about last night the better. I hope I am generous enough not to want to rub it in, Amy, not to make you more uncomfortable than you are.”

  Mrs. Ames sat down in a chair by the fireplace. A huge fire burned there, altogether disproportionate to the day, and she screened her face from the blaze with the morning paper. Also she made a mental note to speak to Parker about it.

  “You are making me very uncomfortable indeed, Lyndhurst,” she said; “by not telling me what I ask you. Did you let it pass, when you saw James thought I was drunk?”

  “Yes; he didn’t say so in so many words. If he had said so, well, I dare say I should have — have made some sort of answer. And, mind you, it was no accusation he made against you; he made an excuse for you!”

  Mrs. Ames’ small, insignificant face grew suddenly very firm and fixed.

  “We do not need to go into that,” she said. “You saw he thought I was drunk, and said nothing. And after that you mean to go over and shoot his pheasants. Is that so?”

  “Certainly it is. You are making a mountain out of—”

  “I am making no mountain out of anything. Personally, I don’t believe Cousin James thought anything of the kind. What matters is that you let it pass. What matters is that I should have to tell you that you must apologize to me, instead of your seeing it for yourself.”

  Major Ames got up, pushing his chair violently back.

  “Well, here’s a pretty state of things,” he cried; “that you should be telling me to apologize for last night’s degrading exhibition! I wonder what you’ll be asking next? A vote of thanks from the Mayor, I shouldn’t wonder, and an illuminated address. You teaching me what I ought to do! I should have thought a woman would have been only too glad to trust to her husband, if he was so kind, as I have been, as to want to get her out of the consequences of her folly. And now it’s you who must sit there, opposite a fire fit to roast an ox, and tell me I must apologize. Apologies be damned! There! It’s not my habit to swear, as you well know, but there are occasions — Apologies be damned!”

  And a moment later the house shook with the thunder of the slammed front door.

  Mrs. Ames sat for a couple of minutes exactly where she was, still shielding her face from the fire. She felt all the chilling effects of the reaction that follows on excitement, whether the excitement is rapturous or as sickening as last night’s had been, but not for a moment did she regret her share either in the events of the evening before or in the sequel of this morning. Last night had ended in utter fiasco, but she had done her best; this morning’s talk had ended in a pretty sharp quarrel, but again she found it impossible to reconsider her share in it. Humanly she felt beaten and ridiculed and sick at heart, but not ashamed. She had passed a sleepless night, and was horribly tired, with that tiredness that seems to sap all pluck and power of resistance, and gradually her eyes grew dim, and the difficult meagre tears of middle age, which are so bitter, began to roll down her cheeks, and the hard inelastic sobs to rise in her throat. . . . Yet it was no use sitting here crying, lunch and dinner had to be ordered whether she felt unhappy or not; she had to see how extensive was the damage done to her pink satin shoes by the wet pavements last night; she had to speak about this ox-roasting fire. Also there was appointed a Suffragette meeting at Mr. Turner’s house for eleven o’clock, at which past achievements and future plans would be discussed. She had barely time to wash her face, for it was unthinkable that Parker or the cook should see she had been crying, and get through her household duties, before it was time to start.

  She dried her eyes and went to the window, through which streamed the pale saffron-coloured October sunshine. All the stormy trouble of the night had passed, and the air sparkled with “the clear shining after rain.” But the frost of a few nights before had blackened the autumn flowers, and the chill rain had beaten down the glory of her husband’s chrysanthemums, so that the garden-beds looked withered and dishevelled, like those whose interest in life is finished, and who no longer care what appearance they present. The interest of others in them seemed to be finished also; it was not the gardener’s day here, for he only came twice in the week, and Major Ames, who should have been assiduous in binding up the broken-stemmed, encouraging the invalids, and clearing away the havoc wrought by the storm, had left the house. Perhaps he had gone to the club, perhaps even now he was trying to make light of it all. She could almost hear him say, “Women get queer notions into their heads, and the notions run away with them, bless them. You’ll take a glass of sherry with me, General, won’t you? Are you by any chance going to Sir James’ shoot next week? I’m shooting there one day.” Or was he talking it over somewhere else, perha
ps not making light of it? She did not know; all she knew was that she was alone, and wanted somebody who understood, even if he disagreed. It did not seem to matter that Lyndhurst utterly disagreed with her, what mattered was that he had misunderstood her motives so entirely, that the monstrous implication that she had been intoxicated seemed to him an excuse. And he was not sorry. What could she do since he was not sorry? It was as difficult to answer that as it was easy to know what to do the moment he was sorry. Indeed, then it would be unnecessary to do anything; the reconciliation would be automatic, and would bring with it something she yearned after, an opportunity of making him see that she cared, that the woman in her reached out towards him, in some different fashion now from that in which she had tried to recapture the semblance of youth and his awakened admiration. To-day, she looked back on that episode shamefacedly. She had taken so much trouble with so paltry a purpose. And yet that innocent and natural coquetry was not quite dead in her; no woman’s heart need be so old that it no longer cares whether she is pleasing in her husband’s eyes. Only to-day, it seemed to Mrs. Ames that her pains had been as disproportionate to her purpose as they had been to its result; now she longed to take pains for a purpose that was somewhat deeper than that for which she softened her wrinkles and refreshed the colour of her hair.

  She turned from the window and the empty garden, wishing that the rain would be renewed, so that there would be an excuse for her to go to Mr. Turner’s in a shut cab. As it was, there was no such excuse, and she felt that it would require an effort to walk past the club window, and to traverse the length of the High Street. Female Riseborough, on this warm sunny morning, she knew would be there in force, popping in and out of shops, and holding little conversations on the pavement. There would be but one topic to-day, and for many days yet; it would be long before the autumn novelty lost anything of its freshness. She wondered how her appearance in the town would be greeted; would people smile and turn aside as she approached, and whisper or giggle after she had gone by? What of the Mayor who, like an honest tradesman, was often to be seen at the door of his shop, or looking at the “dressing” of his windows? A policeman always stood at the bottom of the street, controlling the cross-traffic from St. Barnabas Road. Would he be that one who had helped to further her movements last night? . . . She almost felt she ought to thank him. . . . And then quite suddenly her pluck returned again, or it was that she realized that she did not, comparatively speaking, care two straws for any individual comment or by-play that might take place in the High Street, or for its accumulated weight. There were other things to care about. For them she cared immensely.