“I must just congratulate you,” he said, “for Millie told me about last night. I’ve been telling her that if she had half your pluck, she would be the better for it. I hope you didn’t catch cold; beastly night, wasn’t it? Do let me know when it will come on again. I hate your principles, you know, but I love your practise. I shall come and shout, too!”
This was perfectly awful. Nobody understood; they all sympathized with her, but cared not two straws for that which had prompted her to do these sensational things.... They liked the sensational things ... it was fun to them. But it was no fun to those who believed in the principles which prompted them. They thought of her as a clown at a pantomime; they wanted to see Dan Leno.
She was some minutes late when she reached Mr. Turner’s house, depressed and not encouraged by this uncomprehending applause that took as an excellent joke all the manifestations which had been directed by so serious a purpose. What to her was tragic and necessary, was to them a farce of entertaining quality. But now she would meet her co-religionists again, those who knew, those whose convictions, of the same quality as hers, were of such weight as to make her feel that even her quarrel with Lyndhurst was light in comparison.
The jovial Turner family, father, mother, daughter,were in the drawing-room, and they hailed her as a heroine. If it had not been for her, there would have been no “scene” at all. Did the policemen hurt? Mr. Turner had got a small bruise on his knee, but it was quite doubtful whether he got it when he was taken out. Mrs. Turner had lost a small pearl ornament, but she was not sure whether she had put it on before going to the meeting. Miss Turner had a cold to-day, but it was certain that she had felt it coming on before they were all put out into the rain. None of them had seen the end; it was supposed that Mrs. Ames had thrown a glass of water at a policeman, and had hit Mr. Chilcot. They were all quite ready for Sir James’ next meeting; or would he be a coward, and cause scrutiny to be held on those who desired admittance?
Mrs. Brooks arrived; she had not been turned out last night, but she had caught cold, and did not think that much had been achieved. Mr. Chilcot had made his speech, apparently a very clever one, about Tariff Reform, and Sir James had followed, without interruption, telling the half empty but sympathetic benches about the House of Lords. There had been no allusion made to the disturbance, or to the motives that prompted it. Also she had lost her Suffragette rosette. It must have been torn off her, though she did not feel it go.
Mrs. Currie brought more life into the proceedings. She could get four porters to come to the next meeting, and could make another banner, as well as ensuring the proper unfurling of the first, which had stuck so unaccountably. It had waved quite properly when she had tried it an hour before, and it had waved quite properly (for it had been returned to herafter she had been ejected) when she tried it again an hour later at home. Two banners expanding properly would be a vastly different affair from one that did not expand at all. Her husband had laughed fit to do himself a damage over her account of the proceedings.
A dozen more only of the league made an appearance, for clearly there was a reaction and a cooling after last night’s conflagration, but all paid their meed of appreciation to Mrs. Ames. Their little rockets had but fizzed and spluttered until she “showed them the way,” as Mrs. Currie expressed it. But to them even it was the ritual, so to speak, the disturbance, the shouting, the sense of doing something, rather than the belief that lay behind the ritual, which stirred their imaginations. Could the cause be better served by the endurance of an hour’s solitary toothache, than by waving banners in the town hall, and being humanely ejected by benevolent policemen, there would have been less eagerness to suffer. And Mrs. Ames would so willingly have passed many hours of physical pain rather than suffer the heartache which troubled her this morning. And nobody seemed to understand; Mrs. Currie with her four porters and two banners, Mrs. Brooks with her cold in the head and odour of eucalyptus, the cheerful Turners who thought it would be such a good idea to throw squibs on to the platform, were all as far from the point as General Fortescue, chatting at the club, or even as Lyndhurst with the high-chipped bacon and the slammed front door. It was a game to them, as it had originally presented itself to her, an autumn novelty for, say, Thursday afternoon from five till seven. If only the opposite effects had beenproduced; if they all had taken it as poignantly as Lyndhurst, and he as cheerily as they!
He, meantime, after slamming the front door, had stormed up St. Barnabas Road, in so sincere a passion that he had nearly reached the club before he remembered that he had hardly touched his breakfast or glanced at the paper. So, as there was no sense in starving himself (the starvation consisting in only having half his breakfast), he turned in at those hospitable doors, and ordered himself an omelette. Never in his life had he been so angry, never in the amazing chronicle of matrimony, so it seemed to him, had a man received such provocation from his wife. She had insulted the guests who had dined with her, she made a public and stupendous ass of herself, and when, next morning, he, after making such expostulations as he was morally bound to make, had been so nobly magnanimous as to assure her that he would patch it all up for her, and live it down with her, he had been told that it was for him to apologize! No wonder he had sworn; Moses would have sworn; it would have been absolutely wrong of him not to swear. There were situations in which it was cowardly for a man not to say what he thought. Even now, as he waited for his omelette, he emitted little squeaks and explosive exclamations, almost incredulous of his wrongs.
He ate his omelette, which seemed but to add fuel to his rage, and went into the smoking-room, where, over a club cigar, for he had actually forgotten to bring his own case with him, he turned to the consideration of practical details. It was not clear how to re-enter his house again. He had gone out with a bang that made the windows rattle, but it was hardly possibleto go on banging the door each time he went in and out, for no joinery would stand these reiterated shocks. And what was to be done, even if he could devise an effective re-entry? Unless Amy put herself into his hands, and unreservedly took back all that she had said, it was impossible for him to speak to her. Somehow he felt that there were few things less likely to happen than this. Certainly it would be no good to resume storming operations, for he had no guns greater than those he had already fired, and if they were not of sufficient calibre, he must just beleaguer her with silence—dignified, displeased silence.
He looked up and saw that Mr. Altham was regarding him through the glass door; upon which Mr. Altham rapidly withdrew. Not long afterwards young Morton occupied and retired from the same observatory. A moment’s reflection enabled Major Ames to construe this singular behaviour. They had heard of his wife’s conduct, and were gluttonously feeding on so unusual a spectacle as himself in the club at this hour, and reconstructing in their monkey-minds his domestic disturbances. They would probably ascertain that he had breakfasted here. It was all exceedingly unpleasant; there was no sympathy in their covert glances, only curiosity.
No one who is not a brute, and Major Ames was not that, enjoys a quarrel with his wife, and no one who is not utterly self-centred, and he was not quite that either, fails to desire sympathy when such a quarrel has occurred. He wanted sympathy now; he wanted to pour out into friendly ears the tale of Amy’s misdeeds, of his own magnanimity, to hear his own estimation of his conduct confirmed, fairly confirmed, by a woman who would see the woman’s point of view as well as his. The smoking-room with these peeping Toms was untenable, but he thought he knew where he could get sympathy.
Millie was in and would see him; from habit, as he crossed the hall he looked to the peg where Dr. Evans hung his hat and coat, and, seeing they were not there, inferred that the doctor was out. That suited him; he wanted to confide and be sympathized with, and felt that Evans’ breezy optimism and out-of-door habit of mind would not supply the kind of comfort he felt in need of. He wanted to be told he was a martyr and a very fine fellow, and that Amy was unworthy of him....
Millie was in the green, cool drawing-room, where they had sat one day after lunch. She rose as he entered and came towards him with a tremulous smile on her lips, and both hands outstretched.
“Dear Lyndhurst,” she said. “I am so glad you have come. Sit down. I think if you had not come I should have telephoned to ask if you would not see me. I should have suggested our taking a little walk, perhaps, for I do not think I could have risked seeing Cousin Amy. I know how you feel, oh, so well. It was abominable, disgraceful.”
Certainly he had come to the right place. Millie understood him: he had guessed she would. She sat down close beside him, and for a moment held her hand over her eyes.
“Ah, I have been so angry this morning,” she said; “and it has given me a headache. Wilfred laughed about it all; he said also that what Amy did showed a tremendous lot of pluck. It was utterly heartless. I knew how you must be suffering, and I was so angry with him. He did not understand.Oh no, my headache is nothing; it will soon be gone—now.”
She faintly emphasized the last word, stroked it, so to speak, as if calling attention to it.
“I’m broken-hearted about it,” said Major Ames, which sounded better than to say, “I’m in a purple rage about it.” “I’m broken-hearted. She’s disgraced herself and me——”
“No, not you.”
“Yes; a woman can’t do that sort of thing without the world believing that her husband knew about it. And that’s not all. Upon my word I’m not sure whether what she did this morning isn’t worse than what you saw last night.”
Millie leaned forward.
“Tell me,” she said, “if it doesn’t hurt you too much.”
He decided it did not hurt him too much.
“Well, I came down this morning,” he said, “willing and eager to make the best of a bad job. So were we all: James Westbourne last night was just as generous, and asked the reporters to say nothing about it, and invited me to a day’s shooting next week. Very decent of him. As I say, I came down this morning, willing to make it as easy as I could. Of course, I knew I had to give Amy a good talking to: I should utterly have failed in my duty to her as a husband if I did not do that. I gave her a blowing-up, though not half of what she deserved, but a blowing up. Even then, when I had said my say I told her we would live it down together, which was sufficiently generous, I think. But, for her good, I told her that James Westbourne said he saw she was unwell, and that when a man says that he means that she is drunk. Perhaps Westbourne didn’t mean that,but that’s what it sounded like. And would you believe it, just because I hadn’t knocked him down and stamped on his face, she tells me I ought to apologize to her for letting such a suggestion pass. Well, I flared up at that: what man of spirit wouldn’t have flared up? I left the house at once, and went and finished my breakfast at the club. I should have choked—upon my word, I should have choked if I had stopped there, or got an apoplexy. As it is, I feel devilish unwell.”
Millie got up, and stood for a moment in silence, looking out of the window, white and willowy.
“I can never forgive Cousin Amy,” she said at length. “Never!”
“Well, it is hard,” said Major Ames. “And after all these years! It isn’t exactly the return one might expect, perhaps.”
“It is infamous,” said Millie.
She came and sat down by him again.
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
“I don’t know. If she apologizes, I shall forgive her, and I shall try to forget. But I didn’t think it of her. And if she doesn’t apologize—I don’t know. I can’t be expected to eat my words: that would be countenancing what she has done. I couldn’t do it: it would not be sincere. I’m straight, I hope: if I say a thing it may be taken for granted that I mean it.”
She looked up at him with her chin raised.
“I think you are wonderful,” she said, “to be able even to think of forgiving her. If I had behaved like that, I should not expect Wilfred to forgive me. But then you are so big, so big. She does not understand you: she can’t understand one thing about you. She doesn’t know—oh, how blind some women are!”
It was little wonder that by this time Major Ames was beginning to feel an extraordinarily fine fellow, nor was it more wonderful that he basked in the warm sense of being understood. But from the first Millie had understood him. He felt that particularly now, at this moment, when Amy had so hideously flouted and wronged him. All through this last summer, the situation of to-day had been foreshadowed; it had always been in this house rather than in his own that he had been welcomed and appreciated. He had been the architect and adviser in the Shakespeare ball, while at home Amy dealt out her absurd printed menu-cards without consulting him. And the garden which he loved—who had so often said, “These sweet flowers, are they really for me?” Who, on the other hand, had so often said, “The sweet-peas are not doing very well, are they?” And then he looked at Millie’s soft, youthful face, her eyes, that sought his in timid, sensitive appeal, her dim golden hair, her mouth, childish and mysterious. For contrast there was the small, strong, toad’s face, the rather beady eyes, the hair—grey or brown, which was it? Also, Millie understood; she saw him as he was—generous, perhaps, to a fault, but big, big, as she had so properly said. She always made him feel so comfortable, so contented with himself. That was the true substance of a woman’s mission, to make her husband happy, to make him devoted to her, instead of raising hell in the town hall, and insisting on apologies afterwards.
“You’ve cheered me up, Millie,” he said; “you’ve made me feel that I’ve got a friend, after all, a friend who feels with me. I’m grateful; I’m—I’m more than grateful. I’m a tough old fellow, but I’ve got a heart still, I believe. What’s to happen to us all?”
It was emotion, real and genuine emotion, that made Millie clever at that moment. Her mind was of no high order; she might, if she thought about a thing, be trusted to exhibit nothing more subtle than a fair grasp of the obvious. But now she did not think: she was prompted by an instinct that utterly transcended any achievement of which her brain was capable.
“Go back to your house,” she said, “and be ready for Cousin Amy to say she is sorry. Very likely she is waiting for you there now. Oh, Lyndhurst——”
He got up at once: those few words made him feel completely noble; they made her feel noble likewise. The atmosphere of nobility was almost suffocating....
“You are right,” he said; “you are always all that is right and good and delicious? Ha!”
There was no question about the cousinly relations between them. So natural and spontaneous a caress needed no explanation.
The house was apparently empty when he got back, but he made sufficiently noisy an entry to advise the drawing-room, in any case, that he was returned, and personally ready, since he did not enter “full of wrath,” like Hyperion, to accept apologies. Eventually he went in there, as if to look for a paper, in case of its being occupied, and, with the same pretext, strolled into his wife’s sitting-room. Then, still casually, he went into his dressing-room, where he had slept last night, and satisfied himself that she was not in her bedroom. Her penitence, therefore, which would naturally be manifested by her waiting, dim-eyed, for his return, had not been of any peremptory quality.
He went out into the garden, and surveyed the damage of last night’s rain. There was no need topunish the plants because Amy had been guilty of behaviour which her own cousin said was infamous: he also wanted something to employ himself with till lunch-time. As his hands worked mechanically, tying up some clumps of chrysanthemums which had a few days more of flame in their golden hearts, removing a débris of dead leaves and fallen twigs, his mind was busy also, working not mechanically but eagerly and excitedly. How different was the sympathy with which he was welcomed and comforted by Millie from the misunderstandings and quarrels which made him feel that he had wasted his years with one who was utterly unappreciative of him. Yet, if Amy was sorry, he was ready to do his best. But he wondered whether he wanted her to be sorry or not.
At half-past one the bell for lunch sounded, and, going into the drawing-room, he found that she had returned and was writing a note at her table. She did not look up, but said to him, just as if nothing had happened—
“Will you go in and begin, Lyndhurst? I want to finish my note.”
He did not answer, but passed into the dining-room. In a little while she joined him.
“There seems to have been a good deal of rain in the night,” she said. “I am afraid your flowers have suffered.”
Certainly this did not look like penitence, and he had no reply for her. In some strange way this seemed to him the dignified and proper course.
Then Mrs. Ames spoke for the third time.
“I think, Lyndhurst, if we are not going to talk,” she said, “I shall see what news there is. Parker, please fetch me the morning paper.”
At that moment he hated her.
Threedays later Major Ames was walking back home in the middle of the afternoon, returning from the house in which he had lately spent so considerable a portion of his time. But this was the last day on which he would go there, nor would he, except for this one time more, cross the threshold of his own house. The climax had come, and within an hour or two he and Millie were going to leave Riseborough together.
Now that their decision had been made, it seemed to him that it had been inevitable from the first. Ever since the summer, when, from some mixture of genuine liking and false gallantry, he had allowed himself to drift into relations with her, the force that drew and held him had steadily increased in strength, and to-day it had proved itself irresistible. The determining factor no doubt had been his quarrel with his wife; that gave the impulse that had been still lacking, the final push which upset the equilibrium of that which was tottering and ready to fall over.
The scene this afternoon had been both short and quiet, as such scenes are. Dr. Evans had been called up to town on business yesterday morning, returning possibly this evening but more probably to-morrow, and they had lunched alone. Afterwards Major Ames had again spoken of his wife.
“The situation is intolerable,” he had said. “Ican’t stand it. If it wasn’t for you, Millie, I should go away.”
She had come close to him.
“I’m not very happy, either,” she said. “If it wasn’t for you, I don’t think I could stand it.”
And then it was already inevitable.
“It’s too strong for us,” she said. “We can’t help it. I will face anything with you. We will go right away, Lyndhurst, and live, instead of being starved like this.”
She took both his hands in hers, completely carried away for the first time in her life by something outside herself. Treacherous and mean as was that course on which she was determined, she was, perhaps, a finer woman at this moment of supreme disloyalty than in all the years of her blameless married life.
“I’ve never loved before, Lyndhurst,” she said quietly, “nor have I ever known what it meant. Now I can’t consider anything else; it doesn’t matter what happens to Wilfred and Elsie. Nothing matters except you.”
This time it was not he who kissed her; it was she who pressed her mouth to his.
There was but little to settle, their plans were perfectly simple and ruthless. They would cross over to Boulogne that night, and, as soon as the law set them free, marry each other. A train to Folkestone left Riseborough in a little over an hour’s time, running in connection with the boat. They could easily catch it. But it was wiser not to go to the station together: they would meet there.
As he walked home through the gleaming October afternoon, Major Ames was conscious neither ofstruggle nor regret. The power which Millie had had over him all these months, so that it was she always who really took the lead, and urged him one step forward and then another, gripped him and led him on here to the last step of all. He still obeyed and followed that slender, fragile woman who so soon would be his; it was as necessary to do her bidding here as it had been to kiss her, when first, under the mulberry-tree, she had put up her face towards his. These last days seemed to have killed all sense of loyalty and manhood within him; he gave no thought at all to his wife, and thought of Harry only as Amy’s son. Besides, he was not responsible: man though he was, he was completely in the hands of this woman. All his life he had had no real principles to direct him, he had lived a decent life only because no temptation to live otherwise had ever really come near him, and even now it was in no way the wickedness of what he purposed that at all dragged him back; it was mere timidity at taking an irrevocable step.
Amy, he knew, was out: at breakfast she had announced to him that she did not expect to be in till dinner-time, and he had told her that he would be out for dinner. Such sentences dealing with household arrangements had been the sum of their discourse for the last days, and they were spoken not so much to each other as to the air, heard by, rather than addressed to any one in particular.
And yet the prospect of the life that should open for him, when once this irrevocable step had been taken, did not fill him with the resistless longing which, though it cannot excuse, at any rate accounts for the step itself. Millie, though throughout she had led him on until the climax was reached, had at least theauthentic goad to drive her: life with him seemed to her to be real life: it was passionately that she desired it. But with him, apart from the force with which she dominated him, it was the escape from the very uncomfortable circumstances of home that chiefly attracted him. In a way, he loved her; he felt for her a warmth and a tenderness of stronger quality than he could remember having ever experienced before, and since it is not given to all men to love violently, it may be granted that he was feeling the utmost fire of which his nature was capable. But it was of sufficient ardour to burn up in his mind the rubbish of minor considerations and material exigencies.
Cabs were of infrequent occurrence at this far end of St. Barnabas Road, and meeting one by hazard just outside his house, he told the driver to wait. Then, letting himself in, he went straight up to his dressing-room. There was not time for him to pack his whole wardrobe, and a moderate portmanteau would be all he really needed. And here the trivialities began to wax huge and engrossing: though the afternoon was warm, it would no doubt be fresh, if not chilly on the boat, and it would certainly be advisable to take his thick overcoat, which at present had not left its summer quarters. Those were in a big cupboard in the passage outside, overlooking the garden, where it was packed away with prophylactic little balls of naphthaline. These had impregnated it somewhat powerfully, but it was better to be odorously than insufficiently clad. Passing the window he saw that the chrysanthemums had responded bravely to his comforting a few mornings ago: if there was no more frost they would be gay for anotherfortnight yet. Should he take a bouquet of them with him? He did not see why he should not have the enjoyment of them. Yet there was scarcely time to pick them: he must hurry on with the packing of his small portmanteau, which presented endless problems.
A panama hat should certainly be included; also a pair of white tennis shoes, in which he saw himself promenading on the parade: a white flannel suit, though it was October, seemed to complete the costume. He need not cumber himself with a dress coat: a dinner jacket was all that would be necessary. She had told him she had six hundred a year of her own: he had another three. It was annoying that his sponge was rather ragged; he had meant to buy a new one this morning. Perhaps Parker could draw it together with a bit of thread. An untidy sponge always vexed him: it was unsoldierly and slovenly. “Show me a man’s washhand-stand,” he had once said, “and I’ll tell you about the owner.” His own did not invite inspection, with its straggly sponge.
Then for a moment all these trivialities stood away from him, and for an interval he saw where he stood and what he was doing—the vileness, the sordidness, the vulgarity of it. High principles, nobility of life were not subjects with which hitherto he had much concerned himself, and it would be useless to expect that they should come to his rescue now, but for this moment his kindliness, such as it was, his affection for his wife, such as it was, but above all the continuous, unbroken smug respectability of his days read him a formidable indictment. What could he plead against such an accusation? No irresistible or imperative necessity of soul that claimed Millie as his by right oflove. He knew that his desire for her was not of that fiery order, for he could see, undazzled and unburned, the qualities which attracted him. He admired her frail beauty, the youth that still encompassed her, he fed with the finest appetite on the devotion and admiration which she brought him. He loved being the god and the hero of this attractive woman, and it was this, far more than the devotion he brought her, that dominated him.
Respectability cried out against him and his foolishness. There would be no more strutting and swelling about the club among the mild and honourable men who frequented it, and looked up to him as an authority on India and gardening, nor any more of those pompous and satisfactory evenings when General Fortescue assured him that there was not such a good glass of port in Kent as that with which the Major supplied his guests. To be known as Major Ames, late of the Indian Army, had been to command respect; now, the less that he was known as Major Ames, late of Riseborough, the better would be the chance of being held in esteem. And to what sort of life would he condemn the woman, who for his sake was leaving a respectability no less solid than his own? To the companionship of such as herself, to the soiled doves of a French watering-place. That, of course, would be but a temporary habitation, but after that, what? Where was the society which would receive them, by which there would be any satisfaction in being received? Neither of them had the faintest touch of Bohemianism in their natures: both were of the school that is accustomed to silver teapots and life in houses with a garden behind. For a moment he hesitated as he folded back the sleevesof his dinner-jacket: then the tide of trivialities swept over him again, and he noticed that there was a spot of spilled wax on the cuff.
Among other engagements that Saturday afternoon, Mrs. Ames was occupied with the decoration of St. Barnabas’ Church for the Sunday service next day, and she had gone there after lunch with an adornment of foliage tinted red by October, for she had not felt disposed to ask Lyndhurst if she might pick the remnant of his chrysanthemums. She, too, like him, felt the impossibility of the present situation, and, as she worked, she asked herself if it was in any way in her power to end this parody of domestic life. Every day she had made the attempt to begin the breaking of this ridiculous and most uncomfortable silence which lay between them, by the introduction of ordinary topics, hoping by degrees to build up again the breach that yawned between them, but at present she had got no sense of the slightest answering effort on his side. Psychically no less than conversationally he had nothing whatever to say to her. If in the common courtesies of daily life he had nothing for her, it seemed idle to hope to find further receptiveness if she opened discussion of their quarrel. Besides, a certain very natural pride blocked her way: he owed her an apology, and when she indicated that, he had sworn at her. It did not seem unreasonable (even when decorating a church) to expect the initiatory step to be taken by him. But what if he did not do so?
Mrs. Ames gave a little sigh, and her mouth and throat worked uncomfortably. The quarrel was so childish, yet it was serious, for it was not a lightthing, whatever her provocation might have been, to pass days like these. Half-a-dozen times she went over the circumstances, and half-a-dozen times she felt that it was only just that he should make the advance to her, or at any rate behave with ordinary courtesy in answer to her ordinary civilities. It was true that the original dissension was due to her, but she believed with her whole heart in the cause for which she provoked it. All these last months she had felt her nature expand under the influence of this idea: she knew herself to be a better and a bigger woman than she had been. She believed in the rights of her sex, but had they not their duties too? It was nearly twenty-five years since she had voluntarily undertaken a certain duty. What if that came first, before any rights or privileges? What if that which she had undertaken then as a duty was in itself a right?
Yet even then, what could she do? In itself, she was very far from being ashamed of the part she had taken, yet was it possible to weigh this independently, without considering the points at which it conflicted with duties which certainly concerned her no less? She could not hope to convince her husband of the justice of the cause, nor of the expediency of promoting it in ways like these. For herself, she knew the justice of it, and saw no other expedient for promoting it. Those who had worked for the cause for years said that all else had been tried, that there remained only this violent crusading. But was not she personally, considering what her husband felt about it, debarred from taking part in the crusade? She had deeply offended and vexed him. Could anything but the stringency of moral law justify that? Nothingthat he had done, nothing that he could do, short of the violation of the essential principles of married life, could absolve her from the accomplishment of one tittle of her duty towards him.
For a moment, in spite of her perplexity and the difficulty of her decision, Mrs. Ames smiled at herself for the mental use of all these great words like duty and privilege, over so small an incident. For what had happened? She had been a militant Suffragette on one occasion only, and at breakfast next morning he had, in matters arising therefrom, allowed himself to swear at her. Yet it seemed to her that, with all the pettiness and insignificance of it, great laws were concerned. For the law of kindness is broken by the most trumpery exhibition of inconsiderateness, the law of generosity by the most minute word of spite or backbiting. Indeed, it is chiefly in little things, since most of us are not concerned with great matters, that these violations occur, and in cups of cold water that they are fulfilled. And for once Mrs. Ames did not finish her decoration with tidiness and precision, a fact clearly noted by Mrs. Altham next day.
There was a Suffragette meeting at four, but she was prepared to be late for that, or, if necessary, to fail in attendance altogether. In any case, she would call in at home on her way there, on the chance that her husband might be in. She made no definite plan: it was impossible to forecast her share in the interview. But she had determined to try to suffer long, to be kind ... to keep the promise of twenty-five years ago. There was a cab drawn up at the entrance, and it vaguely occurred to her that Millie might be here, for she had not seen her for some days, and it was possible she might have called. Yet it was hardlylikely that she would have waited, since the servants would have told her that she herself was not expected home till dinner-time. Or was Lyndhurst giving her tea? And Mrs. Ames grew suddenly alert again about matters to which she had scarcely given a thought during these last months.
She let herself in, and went to the drawing-room: there was no one there, nor in the little room next it where they assembled before dinner on nights when they gave a party. But directly overhead she heard steps moving: that was in Lyndhurst’s dressing-room.
She went up there, knocked, and in answer to his assent went in. The portmanteau was nearly packed, he stood in shirt-sleeves by it. In his hand was his sponge-bag—he had anticipated the entry of Parker with the stitched sponge.
She looked from the portmanteau to him, and back and back again.
“You are going away, Lyndhurst?” she asked.
He made a ghastly attempt to devise a reasonable answer, and thought he succeeded.
“Yes, I’m going—going to your cousin’s to shoot. I told you he had asked me. You objected to my going, but I’m going all the same. I should have left you a note. Back to-morrow night.”
Then she felt she knew all, as certainly as if he had told her.
“Since when has Cousin James been giving shooting parties on Sunday?” she asked. “Please don’t lie to me, Lyndhurst. It makes it much worse. You are not going to Cousin James, and—you are not going alone. Shall I tell you any more?”
She was not guessing: all the events of the lastmonth, the Shakespeare ball, Harrogate, their own quarrel, and on the top this foolish lie about a shooting party made a series of data which proclaimed the conclusion. And the suddenness of the discovery, the magnitude of the issues involved, but served to steady her. There was an authentic valour in her nature; even as she had stood up to interrupt the political meeting, without so much as dreaming of shirking her part, so now her pause was not timorous, but rather the rallying of all her forces, that came eager and undismayed to her summons.
Apparently Lyndhurst did not want to be told any more: he did not, at any rate, ask for it. Just then Parker came in with the mended sponge. She gave it him, and he stood with sponge-bag in one hand, sponge in the other.
“Shall I bring up tea, ma’am?” she said to Mrs. Ames.
“Yes, take it to the drawing-room now. And send the cab away. The Major won’t want it.”
Lyndhurst crammed the sponge into its bag.
“I shall want the cab, Parker,” he said. “Don’t send it away.”
Mrs. Ames whisked round on Parker with amazing rapidity.
“Do as I tell you, Parker,” she said, “and be quick!”
It was a mere conflict of will that, for the next five seconds, silently raged between them, but as definite and as hard-hitting as any affair of the prize ring. And it was impossible that there should be any but the one end to it, for Mrs. Ames devoted her whole strength and will to it, while from the first her husband’s heart was not in the battle. But she wasfighting for her all, and not only her all, but his, and not only his, but Millie’s. Three existences were at stake, and the ruin of two homes was being hazarded. And when he spoke, she knew she was winning.
“I must go,” he said. “She will be waiting at the station.”
“She will wait to no purpose,” said Mrs. Ames.
“She will be”—no word seemed adequate—“be furious,” he said. “A man cannot treat a woman like that.”
Any blow would do: he had no defence: she could strike him as she pleased.
“Elsie comes home next week,” she said. “A pleasant home-coming. And Harry will have to leave Cambridge!”
“But I love her!” he said.
“Nonsense, my dear,” she said. “Men don’t ruin the women they love. Men, I mean!”
That stung; she meant that it should.
“But men keep their word,” he said. “Let me pass.”
“Keep your word to me,” said she, “and try to help poor Millie to keep hers to her husband. It is not a fine thing to steal a man’s wife, Lyndhurst. It is much finer to be respectable.”
“Respectable!” he said. “And to what has respectability brought us? You and me, I mean?”
“Not to disgrace, anyhow,” she said.
“It’s too late,” said he.
“Never quite too late, thank God,” she said.
Mrs. Ames gave a little sigh. She knew she had won, and quite suddenly all her strength seemed to leave her. Her little trembling legs refused to uphold her, a curious buzzing was in her ears, and a crinkled mist swam before her eyes.
“Lyndhurst, I’m afraid I am going to make a goose of myself and faint,” she said. “Just help me to my room, and get Parker——”
She swayed and tottered, and he only just caught her before she fell. He laid her down on the floor and opened the door and window wide. There was a flask of brandy in his portmanteau, laid on the top, designed to be easily accessible in case of an inclement crossing of the Channel. He mixed a tablespoonful of this with a little water, and as she moved, and opened her eyes again, he knelt down on the floor by her, supporting her.
“Take a sip of this, Amy,” he said.
She obeyed him.
“Thank you, my dear,” she said. “I am better. So silly of me.”
“Another sip, then.”
“You want to make me drunk, Lyndhurst,” she said.
Then she smiled: it would be a pity to lose the opportunity for a humorous allusion to what at the time had been so far from humour.
“Really drunk, this time,” she said. “And then you tell Cousin James he was right.”
She let herself rest longer than was physically necessary in the encircling crook of his arm, and let herself keep her eyes closed, though, if she had been alone, she would most decidedly have opened them. But those first few minutes had somehow to be traversed, and she felt that silence bridged them over better than speech. It was appropriate, too, that his arm should be round her.
“There, I am better,” she said at length. “Let me get up, Lyndhurst. Thank you for looking after me.”
She got on to her feet, but then sat down again in his easy-chair.
“Not quite steady yet?” he said.
“Very nearly. I shall be quite ready to come downstairs and give you your tea by the time you have unpacked your little portmanteau.”
She did not even look at him, but sat turned away from him and the little portmanteau. But she heard the rustle of paper, the opening and shutting of drawers, the sound of metallic articles of toilet being deposited on dressing-table and washing-stand. After that came the click of a hasp. Then she got up.
“Now let us have tea,” she said.
“And if Millie comes?” he asked.
She had been determined that he should mention her name first. But when once he had mentioned it she was more than ready to discuss the questions that naturally arose.
“You mean she may come back here to see what has happened to you?” she asked. “That is well thought of, dear. Let us see. But we will go downstairs.”
She thought intently as they descended the staircase, and busied herself with tea-making before she got to her conclusion.
“She will ask for you,” she said, “if she comes, and it would not be very wise for you to see her. On the other hand, she must be told what has happened. I will see her, then. It would be best that way.”
Major Ames got up.
“No, I can’t have that,” he said. “I can’t have that!”
“My dear, you have got to have it. You are in a dreadful mess. I, as your wife, am the only personwho can get you out of it. I will do my best, anyhow.”
She rang the bell.
“I am going to tell Parker to tell Millie that you are at home if she asks for you, and to show her in here,” she said. “There is no other way that I can see. I do not intend to have nothing more to do with her. At least I want to avoid that, if possible, for that is a weak way out of difficulties. I shall certainly have to see her some time, and there is no use in putting it off. I am afraid, Lyndhurst, that you had better finish your tea at once, or take it upstairs. Take another cup upstairs; you have had but one, and drink it in your dressing-room, in the comfortable chair.”
There was an extraordinary wisdom in this minute attention to detail, and it was by this that she was able to rise to a big occasion. It was necessary that he should feel that her full intention was to forgive him, and make the best of the days that lay before them. She had no great words and noble sentiment with which to convey this impression, but, in a measure, she could show him her mind by minute arrangements for his comfort. But he lingered, irresolute.
“You have got to trust me,” she said. “Do as I tell you, my dear.”
She had not long to wait after he had gone upstairs. She heard the ring at the bell, and next moment Millie came into the room. Her face was flushed, her breathing hurried, her eyes alight with trouble, suspense, and resentment.
“Lyndhurst,” she began. “I waited——”
Then she saw Mrs. Ames, and turned confusedlyabout, as if to leave the room again. But Amy got up quickly.
“Come and sit down at once, Millie,” she said. “We have got to talk. So let us make it as easy as we can for each other.”
Millie was holding her muff up to her face, and peered at her from above it, wild-eyed, terrified.
“It isn’t you I want,” she said. “Where is Lyndhurst? I—I had an appointment with him. He was late—we—we were going a drive together. What do you know, Cousin Amy?” she almost shrieked; “and where is he?”
“Sit down, Millie, as I tell you,” said Mrs. Ames very quietly. “There is nothing to be frightened at. I know everything.”
“We were going a drive,” began Millie again, still looking wildly about. “He did not come, and I was frightened. I came to see where he was. I asked you if you knew—if you knew anything about him, did I not? Why do you say you know everything?”
Suddenly Mrs. Ames saw that there was something here infinitely more worthy of pity than she had suspected. There was no question as to the agonized earnestness that underlay this futile, childish repetition of nonsense. And with that there came into her mind a greater measure of understanding with regard to her husband. It was not so wonderful that he had been unable to resist the face that had drawn him.
“Let us behave like sensible women, Millie,” she said. “You have come down from the station. Lyndhurst was not there. Do you want me to tell you anything more?”
Millie wavered where she stood, then she stumbled into a chair.
“Has he given me up?” she said.
“Yes, if you care to put it like that. It would be truer to say that he has saved you and himself. But he is not coming with you.”
“You made him?” she asked.
“I helped to make him,” said Mrs. Ames.
Millie got up again.
“I want to see him,” she said. “You don’t understand, Cousin Amy. He has got to come. I don’t care whether it is wicked or not. I love him. You don’t understand him either. You don’t know how splendid he is. He is unhappy at home; he has often told me so.”
Mrs. Ames took hold of the wretched woman by both hands.
“You are raving, Millie,” she said. “You must stop being hysterical. You hardly know whom you are talking to. If you do not pull yourself together, I shall send for your husband, and say you have been taken ill.”
Millie gave a sudden gasp of laughter.
“Oh, I am not so stupid as you think!” she said. “Wilfred is away. Where is Lyndhurst?”
Mrs. Ames did not let go of her.
“Millie,” she said, “if you are not sensible at once, I will tell you I shall do. I shall call Parker, and together we will put you into your cab, and you shall be driven straight home. I am perfectly serious. I hope you will not oblige me to do that. You will be much wiser to pull yourself together, and let us have a talk. But understand one thing quite clearly. You are not going to see Lyndhurst.”
The tension of those wide, childish eyes slowly relaxed, and her head sank forward, and there camethe terrible and blessed tears, in wild cataract and streaming storm. And Mrs. Ames, looking at her, felt all her righteousness relax; she had only pity for this poor destitute soul, who was blind to all else by force of that mysterious longing which, in itself, is so divine that, though it desires the disgraceful and the impossible, it cannot wholly make itself abominable, nor discrown itself of its royalty. Something of the truth of that, though no more than mere fragments and moulted feather, came to Mrs. Ames now, as she sat waiting till the tempest of tears should have abated. The royal eagle had passed over her; as sign of his passage there was this feather that had fallen, and she understood its significance.
Slowly the tears ceased and the sobs were still, and Millie raised her dim, swollen eyes.
“I had better go home,” she said. “I wonder if you would let me wash my face, Cousin Amy. I must be a perfect fright.”
“Yes, dear Millie,” said she; “but there is no hurry. See, shall I send your cab back to your house? It has your luggage on it; yes? Then Parker shall go with it, and tell them to take it back to your room and unpack it, and put everything back in place. Afterwards, when we have talked a little, I will walk back with you.”
Again the comfort of having little things attended to reached Millie, that and the sense that she was not quite alone. She was like a child that has been naughty and has been punished, and she did not much care whether she had been naughty or not. What she wanted primarily was to be comforted, to be assured that everybody was not going to be angrywith her for ever. Then, returning, Mrs. Ames made her some fresh tea, and that comforted her too.
“But I don’t see how I can ever be happy again,” she said.
There was something childlike about this, as well as childish.
“No, Millie,” said the other. “None of us three see that exactly. We shall all have to be very patient. Very patient and ordinary.”
There was a long silence.
“I must tell you one thing,” said Millie, “though I daresay that will make you hate me more. But it was my fault from the first. I led him on—I—I didn’t let him kiss me, I made him kiss me. It was like that all through!”
She felt that Mrs. Ames was waiting for something more, and she knew exactly what it was. But it required a greater effort to speak of that than she could at once command. At last she raised her eyes to those of Mrs. Ames.
“No, never,” she said.
Mrs. Ames nodded.
“I see,” she said baldly. “Now, as I said, we have got to be patient and ordinary. We have got, you and I, to begin again. You have your husband, so have I. Men are so easily pleased and made happy. It would be a shame if we failed.”
Again the helpless, puzzled look came over Millie’s face.
“But I don’t see how to begin,” she said. “To-morrow, for instance, what am I to do all to-morrow? I shall only be thinking of what might have happened.”
Mrs. Ames took up her soft, unresisting, unresponsive hand.
“Yes, by all means, think what might have happened,” she said. “Utter ruin, utter misery, and—and all your fault. You led him on, as you said. He didn’t care as you did. He wouldn’t have thought of going away with you, if he hadn’t been so furious with me. Think of all that.”
Some straggler from that host of sobs shook Millie for a moment.
“Perhaps Wilfred would take me away instead,” she said. “I will ask him if he cannot. Do you think I should feel better if I went away for a fortnight, Cousin Amy?”
Mrs. Ames’ twisted little smile played about her mouth.
“Yes,” she said. “I think that is an excellent plan. I am quite sure you will feel better in a fortnight, if you can look forward like that, and want to be better. And now would you like to wash your face? After that, I will walk home with you.”
Itwas a brisk morning in November, and Mr. and Mrs. Altham, who breakfasted at half-past eight in the summer, and nine in the winter, were seated at breakfast, and Mr. Altham was thinking how excellent was the savour of grilled kidneys. But he was not sure if they were really wholesome, and he was playing an important match at golf this afternoon. Perhaps two kidneys approached the limits of wisdom. Besides, his wife was speaking of really absorbing things; he ought to be able to distract his mind from the kidneys he was proposing to deny himself, under the sting of so powerful a counter-interest.
“And to think that Mrs. Ames isn’t going to be a Suffragette any more!” she said. “I met Mrs. Turner when I took my walk just now, and she told me all about it.”
A word of explanation is necessary. The fact was that Swedish exercises, and a short walk on an empty stomach, were producing wonderful results in Riseborough at the moment, especially among its female inhabitants. They now, instead of meeting in the High Street before lunch, to stand about on the pavement and exchange news, met there before breakfast, when on these brisk autumn mornings it was wiser not to stand about. They therefore skimmed rapidly up and down the street together, in short skirts and walking boots. Rain and sunnyweather, in this first glow of enthusiasm, were alike to them, and they had their baths afterwards. These exercises gave a considerable appetite for breakfast, and produced a very pleasant and comfortable feeling of fatigue. But this fatigue was a legitimate, indeed, a desirable effect, for their systems naturally demanded repose after exertion, and an hour’s rest after breakfast was recommended. Thus this getting up earlier did not really result in any actual saving of time, though it made everybody feel very busy, and they all went to bed a little earlier.
Mr. Altham found he got on very nicely without these gymnastics, but then he played golf after lunch. It was no use playing tricks with your health if it was already excellent: you might as well poke about in the works of a punctual watch. He had already had a pretty sharp lesson on this score, over the consumption of sour milk. It had made him exceedingly unwell, and he had sliced his drive for a fortnight afterwards. Just now he weaned his mind from the thoughts of kidneys, and gave it in equitable halves to marmalade and his wife’s conversation. To enjoy either, required silence on his part.
“She went to a meeting yesterday,” said Mrs. Altham, “so Mrs. Turner told me, and said that though she had the success of the cause so deeply at heart as ever, she would not be able to take any active part in it. That is a very common form of sympathy. I suppose, from what one knows of Mrs. Ames, we might have expected something of the sort. Do you remember her foolish scheme of asking wives without husbands, and husbands without wives? I warned you at the time, Henry, not to take any notice of it, because I was sure it wouldcome to nothing, and I think I may say I am justified. I don’t know whatyouthink.”
Mr. Altham, by a happy coincidence, had finished masticating his last piece of toast at this moment, and was at liberty to reply.
“I do not think anything about it at present,” said he. “I daresay you are quite right, but why?”
Mrs. Altham gave a little shrill laugh. The sprightliness at breakfast produced by this early walk and the exercises was very marked.
“I declare,” she said, “that I had forgotten to tell you. Mrs. Ames wrote to ask us both to dine on Saturday. I had quite forgotten! There is something in the air before breakfast that makes one forgetful of trifles. It says so in the pamphlet. Worries and household cares vanish, and it becomes a joy to be alive. I don’t think we have any engagement. Pray do not have a third cup of tea, Henry. Tannin combines the effects of stimulants and narcotics. A cup of hot water, now—you will never regret it. Let me see! Yes, dinner at the Ames’ on Saturday, and she isn’t a Suffragette any longer. As I said, one might have guessed. I daresay her husband gave her a good talking-to, after the night when she threw the water at the policeman. I should not wonder if there was madness in the family. I think I heard that Sir James’ mother was very queer before she died!”
“She lived till ninety,” remarked Mr. Altham.
“That is often the case with deranged people,” said Mrs. Altham. “Lunatics are notoriously long-lived. There is no strain on the brain.”
“And she wasn’t any relation of Mrs. Ames,” continued Henry. “Mrs. Ames is related to theWestbournes. She has no more to do with Sir James’ mother than I have to do with yours. I will take tea, my dear, not hot water.”
“You want to catch me up, Henry,” said she, “and prove I am wrong somehow. I was only saying that very likely there is madness in Mrs. Ames’ family, and I was going to add that I hoped it would not come out in her. But you must allow that she has been very flighty. You would have thought that an elderly woman like that could make up her mind once and for all about things, before she made an exhibition of herself. She thinks she is like some royal person who goes and opens a bazaar, and then has nothing more to do with it, but hurries away to Leeds or somewhere to unveil a memorial. She thinks it is sufficient for her to help at the beginning, and get all the advertisement, and then drop it all like cold potatoes.”
“Hot,” said Henry.
“Hot or cold: that is just like her. She plays hot and cold. One day she is a Suffragette and the next day she isn’t. As likely as not she will be a vegetarian on Saturday, and we shall be served with cabbages.”
“Major Ames went over to Sir James’ to shoot,—she wasn’t asked,” said Henry, reverting to a previous topic.
“There you are!” exclaimed Mrs. Altham. “That will account for her abandoning this husband and wife theory. I am sure she did not like that, she being Sir James’ relative and not being asked. But I never could quite understand what the relationship is, though I daresay Mrs. Ames can make it out. There are people who say they are cousins,because a grandmother’s niece married the other grandmother’s nephew. We can all be descendants of Queen Elizabeth or of Charles the Second at that rate.”
“It would be easier to be a descendant of Charles the Second than of Queen Elizabeth, my dear,” remarked Henry.
Mrs. Altham pursed her lips up for a moment.
“I do not think we need enter into that,” she said. “I was asking you if you wished to accept Mrs. Ames’ invitation for Saturday. She says she expects Sir James and his wife, so perhaps we shall hear some more about this wonderful relationship, and Dr. Evans and his wife and one or two others. To my mind that looks rather as if the husband and wife plan was not quite what she expected it would be. And giving up all active part in the Suffragette movement, too! But I daresay she feels her age, though goodness only knows what it is. However, it is clearly going to be a grand party on Saturday, and the waiter from the Crown will be there to help Parker, going round and pouring a little foam into everybody’s glass. I do not know where Major Ames gets his champagne from, but I never get anything but foam. But I am sure I do not wish to be unkind, and certainly poor Major Ames does not look well. I daresay he has worries we do not know of, and, of course, there is no reason why he should speak of them to us. The Evans’, too! I never satisfied myself as to why they went away in October. They must have been away nearly three weeks, for it was only yesterday that I saw them driving down from the station, with so much luggage on the top of the cab I wonder it did not fall over.”
“It can’t have been yesterday, my dear,” said Mr. Altham, “because you spoke of it to me two days ago.”
“You shall have it your own way, Henry,” said she. “I am quite willing that you should think it was a twelvemonth ago, if you choose. But I suppose you will not dispute that they went away in October, which is a very odd time to take for a holiday. Of course, Mrs. Evans stopped here all August, or so she says, and she might answer that she wanted a little change of air. But for my part, I think there must have been something more, though, as I say, I cannot guess what it is. Luckily, it is no concern of mine, and I need not worry my head about it. But I have always thought Mrs. Evans looked far from strong, and it seems odd that a doctor’s wife should not be more robust, when she has all his laboratory to choose from.”
Henry lit his cigarette, and strolled to the window. The lawn was still white with the unmelted hoar-frost, and the gardener was busy in the beds, putting things tidy for the winter. This consisted in plucking up anything of vegetable origin and carrying it off in a wheelbarrow. Thus the beds were ready to receive the first bedded-out plants next May.
“I remember, my dear,” said Henry, “that you once thought that there had been some—some understanding between Mrs. Evans and Major Ames, and some misunderstanding between Major Ames and Dr. Evans.”
Mrs. Altham brought her eyebrows together and put her finger on her forehead.
“I seem to remember some ridiculous story of yours, Henry, about a bunch of chrysanthemumsin the road outside Dr. Evans’ house, how you had seen Major Ames take them in, and there they were afterwards in the road. I seem to remember your being so much excited about it that I made a point of going round to Mrs. Ames’ next day with—with a book. I think that at the time—correct me if I am wrong—I convinced you that there was nothing whatever in it.... Or have you seen or heard anything since that makes you think differently?” she added rather more briskly.
“No, my dear, nothing whatever,” said he.
Mrs. Altham got up.
“I am glad, very glad,” she said. “At any rate, we know in Riseborough that we are safe from that sort of thing. I declare when I went to London last week, I hardly slept with thinking of the dreadful things that might be going on round me. Dear me, it is nearly ten o’clock. I do not know whether the hours or the days go quickest! It is always half-an-hour later than I expect it to be, and here we are in November already. I shall rest for an hour, Henry, and I will write to Mrs. Ames before lunch saying we shall be delighted to come on Saturday. November the twelfth, too! Nearly half November will be gone by then, and that leaves us but six weeks to Christmas, and it will be as much as we shall be able to manage to get through all that has to be done before that. But with these Swedish exercises, I declare I feel younger every day, and more able to cope with everything. You should take to them, Henry; by eleven o’clock they are finished and you have had your rest. With a little management you would find time for everything.”
Henry sat over the dining-room fire, consideringthis. As has been mentioned, he did not want to make any change in his excellent health, but, on the other hand, a little rest after breakfast would be pleasant, and when that was over it would be almost time to go to the club.
But it was impossible to settle a question like that offhand. After he had read the paper he would think about it.
Mrs. Altham came hurrying back into the room.
“Henry, you would never guess what I have seen!” she said. “I glanced out of the window in the hall on the way to my room, and there was Mrs. Ames wobbling about the road on a bicycle. Major Ames was holding it upright with both hands, and it looked to be as much as he could manage. Yet she has no time for Suffragettes! I should be sorry if I thought I should ever make such a hollow excuse as that. And at her age, too! I had no time to call you, but I dare say she will be back soon if you care to watch. The window-seat in the hall is quite comfortable.”
Henry took his paper there.
THE ENDRichard Clay & Sons, Ltd., London and Bungay.