"You go--to all the most interesting ones."
"Part of my burden! Unlike your new friends, there"s nothing I hate so much, unless it is having to make a speech."
"Well, now, shall I stop "playing at ma"ams" and just say that when I hear a man like you explaining in that superior way how immensely he _doesn"t care_, I seem to see that that is precisely the worst indictment against your cla.s.s. If special privilege breeds that----"
It merely amused him to see that she was forgetting herself. He sat down again. He stretched out his long legs and interlaced his fingers across his bulging shirt front. His air of delicate mockery supplied the whip.
"If," Vida went on with shining eyes, "if to be able to care and to work and to sacrifice, if to get those impulses out of life, you must carry your share of the world"s burden, then no intelligent creature can be sorry the day is coming when all men will have to----" She took breath, a little frightened to see where she was going.
"Have to----?" he encouraged her, lazily smiling.
"Have to work, or else not eat."
"Even under your hard rule I wouldn"t have to work much. My appet.i.te is mercifully small."
"It would grow if you sweated for your bread."
"Help! help!" he said, not above his usual tone, but slowly he turned his fine head as the door opened. He fixed the amused grey-green eyes on old Mr. Fox-Moore: "A small and inoffensive pillar of the Upper House is in the act of being abolished."
"What, is she talking politics? She never favours me with her views,"
said Fox-Moore, with his chimpanzee smile.
When Borrodaile had said good-bye, Vida followed him to the top of the stairs.
"It"s rather on my mind that I--I"ve not been very nice to you."
""I would not hear thine enemy say so.""
"Yes, I"ve been rather horrid. I went and Trafalgar-Squared you, when I ought to have amused you."
"But you have amused me!" His eyes shone mischievously.
"Oh, very well." She took the gibe in good part, offering her hand again.
"Good-bye, my dear," he said gently. "It"s great fun having you in the world!" He spoke as though he had personally arranged this provision against dulness for his latter end.
The next evening he came up to her at a party to ask why she had absented herself from a dinner the night before where he expected to find her.
"Oh, I telephoned in the morning they weren"t to expect me."
"What were you doing, I should like to know?"
"No, you wouldn"t like to know. But you couldn"t have helped laughing if you"d seen me."
"Where?"
"Wandering about the purlieus of Battersea."
"Bless me! Who with?"
"Why, with that notorious Suffragette, Miss Ernestine Blunt. Oh, you"d have stared even harder if you"d seen us, I promise you! She with a leather portfolio under one arm--a most business-like apparatus, and a dinner-bell in one hand."
"A _dinner_ bell!" He put his hand to his brow as one who feels reason reeling.
"Yes, holding fast to the clapper so that we shouldn"t affright the isle out of season. I, if you please, carrying an armful of propagandist literature."
"Good Lord! _Where_ do you say these orgies take place?"
"Near the Fire Station on the far side of Battersea Park."
"I think you are in great need of somebody to look after you," he laughed, but no one who knew him could mistake his seriousness. "Come over here." He found a sofa a little apart from the crush. "Who goes with you on these raids?"
"Why, Ernestine--or rather, I go with her."
"But who takes care of you?"
"Ernestine."
"Who knows you"re doing this kind of thing?"
"Ernestine--and you. It"s a secret."
"Well, if I"m the only sane person who knows--it"s something of a responsibility."
"I won"t tell you about it if it oppresses you."
"On the contrary, I insist on your telling me."
Vida smiled reflectively. "The mode of procedure strikes one as highly original. It is simple beyond anything in the world. They select an open s.p.a.ce at the convergence of several thoroughfares--if possible, near an omnibus centre. For these smaller meetings they don"t go to the length of hiring a lorry. Do you know what a lorry is?"
"I regret to say my education in that direction leaves something to be desired."
"Last week I was equally ignorant. To-day I can tell you all about it. A lorry is a cart or a big van with the top off. But such elegancies are for the parks. In Battersea, you go into some modest little restaurant, and you say, "Will you lend me a chair?" This is a surprise for the Battersea restaurateur."
"Naturally--poor man!"
"Exactly. He refuses. But he also asks questions. He is amazed. He is against the franchise for women. "You"ll _never_ get the vote!" "Well, we must have something," says Ernestine. "I"m sure it isn"t against your principles to lend a woman a chair." She lays hands on one. "I never said you could have one of my----" "But you meant to, didn"t you? Isn"t a chair one of the things men have always been ready to offer us? Thank you. I"ll take good care of it and bring it back quite safe." Out marches Ernestine with the enemy"s property. She carries the chair into the road and plants it in front of the Fire Station. Usually there are two or three "helpers." Sometimes Ernestine, if you please, carries the meeting entirely on her own shoulders--those same shoulders being about so wide. Yes, she"s quite a little thing. If there are helpers she sends them up and down the street sowing a fresh crop of handbills. When Ernestine is ready to begin she stands up on that chair, in the open street and, as if she were doing the most natural thing in the world, she begins ringing that dinner bell. Naturally people stop and stare and draw nearer. Ernestine tells me that Battersea has got so used now to the ding-dong and to a.s.sociating it with "our meeting," that as far off as they hear it the inhabitants say, "It"s the Suffragettes! Come along!" and from one street and another the people emerge laughing and running. Of course as soon as there is a little crowd that attracts more, and so the s...o...b..ll grows. Sometimes the traffic is impeded. Oh, it"s a much odder world than I had suspected!" For a moment laughter interrupted the narrative. ""The Salvation Army doesn"t _quite_ approve of us," Ernestine says, "and the Socialists don"t love us either! We always take their audiences away from them--poor things," says Ernestine, with a sympathetic air. "_You_ do!" I say, because"--Vida nodded at Lord Borrodaile--"you must know Ernestine is a beguiler."
"Oh, a beguiler. I didn"t suppose----"
"No, it"s against the tradition, I know, but it"s true. She herself, however, doesn"t seem to realize her beguilingness. "It isn"t any one in particular they come to hear," she says, "it"s just that a woman making a speech is so much more interesting than a man making a speech." It surprises you? So it did me."
"Nothing surprises me!" said Borrodaile, with a wave of his long hands.
"Last night she was wonderful, our Ernestine! Even I, who am used to her, I was stirred. I was even thrilled. She had that crowd in the hollow of her hand! When she wound up, "The motion is carried. The meeting is over!" and climbed down off her perch, the mob cheered and pressed round her so close that I had to give up trying to join her. I extricated myself and crossed the street. She is so little that, unless she"s on a chair, she is swallowed up. For a long time I couldn"t see her. I didn"t know whether she was taking the names and addresses of the people who want to join the Union, or whether she had slipped away and gone home, till I saw practically the whole crowd moving off after her up the street. I followed for some distance on the off-side. She went calmly on her way, a tiny figure in a long grey coat between two helpers, the Lancashire cotton-spinner and the c.o.c.kney working woman, with that immense tail of boys and men (and a few women) all following after--quite quiet and well-behaved--just following, because it didn"t occur to them to do anything else. In a way she was still exercising her hold over her meeting. I saw, presently, there was one person in front of her--a great big fellow--he looked like a carter--he was carrying home the chair!"
They both laughed.