Mrs. Ames (31 page)

A bustling official demanded their tickets, and was summarily thrust aside by another, just as bustling but more enlightened, who had recognized Sir James, and conducted them all to the Mayor's parlour, where that dignitary received them. There was coffee already provided, and all anxiety on that score was removed. Mr Chilcot effaced himself in a corner with his cup and his notes, while the others, notably Sir James, behaved with that mixture of social condescension and official deference which appears to be the right attitude in dealing with mayors. Then the Mayoress said, ‘George, dear, it has gone the half hour; will you escort Mrs Ames?'

George asked Mrs Ames if he might have the honour, and observed -

‘We shall have but a thin meeting, I am afraid. Most inclement for October.'

Mrs Ames pulled her cloak a little closer round her, in order to hide a chain that was more significant than the
Mayor's, and felt the little black velvet bag beating time to her steps against her knee.

They walked through the stark bare passages, with stone floors that exuded cold moisture in sympathy with the wetness of the evening, and came out into a sudden blaze of light.

A faint applause from nearly empty benches heralded their appearance, and they disposed themselves on a row of plush armchairs behind a long oak table. The Mayor sat in the centre, to right and left of him Sir James and Mr Chilcot. Just opposite Mrs Ames was a large table leg, which had for her the significance of the execution shed.

She put her bag conveniently on her knees, and quietly unloosed the latch that fastened it. There were no more preparations to be made just yet, since the chain was quite ready, and in a curious irresponsible calm she took further note of her surroundings. Scarcely a hundred people were there, all told, and face after face, as she passed her eyes down the seats, was friendly and familiar. Mrs Currie bowed, and the Turner family, in a state of the pleasantest excitement, beamed; Mrs Brooks gave her an excited hand-wave. They were all sitting in encouraging vicinity to each other, but she was alone, as on the inexorable seas, while they were on the pier … Then the Mayor cleared his throat.

It had been arranged that the Mayor was to be given an uninterrupted hearing, for he was the local grocer, and it had, perhaps, been tacitly felt that he might adopt retaliatory measures in the inferior quality of the subsequent supplies of sugar. He involved himself in sentences that had no end, and would probably have gone on for ever, had he not, with commendable valour, chopped off their tails when their coils threatened to strangle him, and begun again. The
point of it all was that they had the honour to welcome the President of the Board of Trade and Sir James Westbourne. Luckily, the posters, with which the town had been placarded for the last fortnight, corroborated the information, and no reasonable person could any longer doubt it.

He was rejoiced to see so crowded an assembly met together - this was not very happy, but the sentence had been carefully thought out, and it was a pity not to reproduce it - and was convinced that they would all spend a most interesting and enjoyable evening, which would certainly prove to be epoch-making. Politics were taken seriously in Riseborough, and it was pleasant to see the gathering graced by so many members of the fair sex. He felt he had detained them all quite long enough (no) and he would detain them no longer (yes), but call on the Right Honourable Mr Chilcot (cheers).

As Mr Chilcot rose, Mr Turner rose also, and said in a clear, cheerful voice, ‘Votes for Women.' He had a rosette, pinned a little crookedly, depending from his shoulder. Immediately his wife and daughter rose too, and in a sort of Gregorian chant said, ‘Women's rights', and a rattle of chains made a pleasant light accompaniment. From beneath her seat Mrs Currie produced a banner trimmed with the appropriate colours, on which was embroidered ‘Votes for Women.' But the folds clung dispiritingly together: there was never a more dejected banner. Two stalwart porters whom she had brought with her also got up, wiped their mouths with the backs of their hands, and said in low, hoarse tones, ‘Votes for Women.'

This lasted but a few seconds, and there was silence again. It was impossible to imagine a less impressive demonstration: it seemed the incarnation of ineffectiveness. Mr Chilcot had instantly sat down when it began, and,
though he had cause to be shy of Suffragettes, seemed quite undisturbed; he was smiling good-naturedly, and for a moment consulted his notes again. And then, suddenly, Mrs Ames realized that she had taken no share in it; it had begun so quickly, and so quickly ended, that for the time she had merely watched. But then her blood and her courage came back to her: it should not be her fault, in any case, if the proceedings lacked fire. The Idea, all that had meant so much to her during these last months, seemed to stand by her, asking her aid. She opened the little black velvet bag, pinned on her rosette, passed the second chain (strong enough to hold a mastiff) through the first, and round the leg of the table in front of her, heard the spring lock click, and rose to her feet, waving her hand.

‘Votes for Women!' she cried. ‘Votes for Women. Hurrah!'

Instantly everyone 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.

‘A
ND
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.'