Mrs. Ames (35 page)

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 light thing, 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? Nothing that 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 there-from, 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 hardly likely that she would have waited, since the servants would have told her that she herself was not expected home till dinnertime. 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 shirtsleeves 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 tomorrow 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 last month, 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 was fighting 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 can 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 person who 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 confusedly about, 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 for 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 of. I know everything.'

‘We were going for 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?'