The Balliols Page 19

  Lucy rested her wrists against the keyboard. So that was it, then. Stella had lost faith in her; lost interest in her; thought she was good for nothing; because she had been brought up soft. That was what Stella thought. After all that she had faced: all the ignominy, the nausea, the actual pain. No account taken of all that; no allowance made; no chance given to her to retrieve that past. But I must. She mustn’t be allowed to think that of me. I must show her what I really am. She must believe in me. If other people look down on me, I don’t care. They don’t matter. They’re different. But she.… I’ve got to show her. What am I to do? I could leave here altogether. There are at least three different parties. I could get into touch with some of the other leaders. They would give me my chance. But that wouldn’t do. I would be separated from Stella. I couldn’t bear that. There is no point in what is not done for Stella. I must be near her, so that I can see her, so that she can know what I’m doing. But I can’t stay here, typing envelopes for Miss Draft; being ignored; not trusted; while other people are sharing her thoughts, her confidences. I can’t accept my failure, sit down under it, let myself be written down as a failure. I’ve got to show them. I’ll have to do it on my own; if they won’t help me. It’s against the regulations, I know that. But I can’t help it. There’s nothing else for me to do.

  VI

  Three days later, half-way through the morning’s Work, Lucy stopped in the middle of the typing, got up from her chair, walked with a stagger towards the window, flung up the sash and leant forward, her arms rested on the sill. A gust of air blew into the room, scattering the papers on Miss Draft’s desk.

  She looked up quickly, with customary impatience.

  “What’s all this?”

  “I’m sorry. I felt faint suddenly.”

  “Oh!”

  Lucy stood, huddled in the window, while the cool wind beat upon Miss Draft’s book. Miss Draft shivered. Her own discomfort made her susceptible to Lucy’s condition.

  “Is there anything really the matter with you?”

  “No, no. I’ll be all right in a second.”

  But it was a good two minutes before the window was lowered and Lucy returned unsteadily to her seat. The tapping of the keyboard was resumed; not, however, with its usual steady rhythm. There were pauses, and sudden spurts, as when a beginner hunts for a lost letter and then rushes at a word she knows. The unevenness worried Miss Draft. She found herself continually glancing over her shoulder at Lucy.

  “Are you really all right?” she asked.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  But a little later, after a particularly spasmodic burst of typing, Lucy dropped her wrists upon the keys.

  “Do you mind if I open the window? It feels awfully stuffy in here.”

  To Miss Draft it had seemed anything but stuffy; a nice reasonable temperature for May. With the windows open and a breeze blowing down her neck and fluttering her papers, it was a January atmosphere. If the girl thought this was a proper temperature, then there was very clearly something wrong with her. The sooner she was out of the room and the windows shut, the better.

  “You’d better go home,” she said. “You aren’t fit. I can see that. You’ll only knock yourself up if you stay here. Then you’ll be away for a week instead of an afternoon. Now, don’t argue. I can manage here all right. Ring up if you are not fit to-morrow.”

  Obediently Lucy packed her things together. The success of her little ruse pleased her. She had wanted to be given leave, instead of having had to ask for it. It looked less like a running away.

  “Good-bye, Miss Draft.”

  She took a last look round the room. When will I see you again?.… If I ever see you again, she added.

  It was a late spring day; one of those May mornings when London suddenly realizes that winter is past, that summer is at hand. The sky is of a hyacinth blue with that faint haze that tells you that over the Surrey hills the sun is beating with a summer radiance. The plane trees in the square are flecked with emerald; the window boxes are bright with the dull gold and yellow of wallflowers and marigolds. The air is warm; there is no need for wraps and overcoats and scarves. No need to keep the blood moving quickly with a hurried step. Young women saunter slowly in light frocks, so that the pavements are bright with live flowers like a succession of herbaceous borders. The long cavalcade of summer has begun. The Londoner, wearied of the frosts and fogs of February, sees a sudden prospect of windless afternoons, flannels and parasols, wide, floppy hats, the ping of tennis balls, strawberries and cream, cool bathing pools, rocks and yellow sand; punts drifted into shaded backwaters; a gramophone and fingers trailing in the stream.

  “I’ll take a bus,” thought Lucy.

  She climbed to the top deck. “Young ladies don’t go on the tops of buses,” her nurse had told her. “Make the most of it while you can enjoy it.” But that was ten years ago. Things were different now. Young ladies did go on the tops of buses. Or plenty did. And anyhow, even if they didn’t, it wouldn’t matter now. She went to the front seat. She had always refused to go to the front seat in the days of horse-buses. Ruth had been so annoyed. “Don’t be silly. You see much better here.” “I daresay, but I don’t like seeing the driver whip the horses.” She had hated, too, the sight of the horses’ straining flanks; of the effort with which they started on an incline; their hooves slipping on the tarred roadway. She had been terrified lest one of them should fall. But Ruth had been right. You did see very, very much better from the front. It was nice that there were so few horse-buses now.

  In ten years’ time there probably wouldn’t be one left. How few hansoms there were nowadays. London would be quite a different place in the nineteen twenties. Pressed tight into her corner seat, she leant over the side, looking down, watching the panorama of the streets, as though she were to fix upon the retina of her mind’s memory, sights that would not be here for her to see in 1920. Yet she remarked, not the things which would be caught away upon the stream of change, but sights that in a different form had been familiar to the Londoner of the ‘nineties and would to his grandson in the ‘fifties.

  At the corner of Ayr Street and Piccadilly a newspaper placard of the Star was announcing Captain Coe’s final wire. The kind of man that was described in Punch cartoons as a seedy-looking individual was standing in the middle of the pavement, jostled from both sides, the paper spread open wide, his eyes fixed eagerly on the stop press column.

  A girl was standing in the entrance of the Burlington Arcade. Under a wide-brimmed, claret-coloured hat, she was peering anxiously at the passers-by. She had a sullen, sallow look. Then suddenly her face lit up. She was pretty and gay and laughing. Her hand had been taken, tucked under a long lean arm. With her quick, short steps she was trying to keep pace with a long slow stride. She was looking up, chattering, laughing as she talked.

  In a bow window on the north side of Piccadilly a very old man was peering through spectacles at the leader column of The Times. His hands and his head were shaking. Over a high, white collar the loose skin of his neck hung in thin, creased folds. There was a small table at his side; a half empty glass of sherry stood upon it.

  How clearly I see it all; just as though I were seeing it for the first time. All the way westwards, past the bow windows of Piccadilly, up the rise of Constitution Hill, past the bright, brief greenery of the Park, past the shops of Knightsbridge, she had the same sense of seeing things with a distinctness never before granted her. As the bus rattled into Kensington the clocks were striking twelve. In another quarter of an hour she would be at Earl’s Court. The Wild West show was about five minutes’ walk from the entrance of the Exhibition. The first performance was at twelve. It lasted about half an hour. That would give her just time to see the end. It was the end she wanted to see. She remembered it pretty well. It was only a fortnight since she had taken Francis; as a good-bye treat before the end of holidays. But she had taken no particular notice; she knew it in general outline but not in detail. It was the detail th
at she needed to know. There must be no mistake; this time.

  She reached Earl’s Court, as she had expected, at a little after the quarter past. It was a week-day; but the fine weather had lured many Londoners to the Exhibition. There was a steady thread growing along the sidewalks. The flying boats were circling above the lake. Every three or four minutes a boat-load of screaming girls was propelled down the watershoot. Over the tracks of the scenic railway cars shot and dived and rose. Rifles cracked, Aunt Sallies were detoothed, targets were wedged with darts. Children tugging at their mothers’ arms shouted, ‘Oh, look. We must see that!” Canoes glided into the dark mysteries of the river caves. Young men standing in the swing-boats, the cords discarded, were vieing with each other to somersault the bar. The helter-skelter was doing a busy trade. Lucy noted, without pausing to note, the changing scene. She knew what she had to do. She remembered where she had to go.

  The Wild West show was the chief attraction of the Exhibition. It was a display of riding, chiefly, for which a number of cowboys had been transported from California. To give greater point to the display, a piece of obvious two-reel film narrative had been introduced, with cattle thieves, Red Indians, and a lone squatter defending himself in a wooden hut. There was a good deal of shooting, shouting, and lassooing. Lucy arrived when the climax was a few minutes distant. Indians were circling round the hut, firing at it; and being fired at. Occasionally one of them would give a cry, throw his arms above his head and achieve a spectacular backward somersault on to the sawdust. At each somersault there was a cry of delight from the children over the death of a foe, and a burst of applause from the grown-ups in tribute to a fine feat of horsemanship. The amphitheatre was large, but it was at least half full. In the afternoon it would be more crowded still. I was right, I couldn’t have chosen a better place. And in a minute or two, that’ll be the right time for it.

  She watched the performance as though she Were taking part in a dress rehearsal. She had planned where she would sit: right down there in the front, a little to the left of the orchestra. There was a wooden ring running round the amphitheatre. That would be a help to her. She visualized exactly how she would do what she had to. Now, in a moment or two from now.

  The cheering as each Indian fell became less boisterous. The audience had begun to tire of this particular effect. It was the signal for the entrance of the rescuers. There was a roar from the back; a volley of rifle shots; with the sawdust flying, the cowboys came galloping to save the squatter. They charged straight up to the orchestra; then wheeling, dividing into two lines, rounded up the Indians. Yes, that was her moment. She rose to her feet. There was no need for her to stay any longer. The next performance was at two. At twenty-five past two, that was to say.

  She felt hungry. I’ll go and lunch.

  Ordinarily Lucy lunched in an A.B.C. or a Lyons’. A shilling settled the account. But it was in front of a pleasant-looking café restaurant advertising half-crown table d’hôte lunches that she checked her step. The menu was fixed on a brass-rimmed board. It announced a wide choice, varying between truite au bleu and Zabaglione. A waiter came up, deferentially inquisitive. Yes, yes. I want a table.

  A large tray of hors d’œuvre was wheeled before her. I’ll have that and that and that. She was alarmed when she saw how high-piled her plate was. Yet I do feel hungry. I’ve read that when one’s excited one can’t eat; that professional motorists will lose three pounds on the morning of a race. I don’t feel in the least like that. How good this Russian salad is. I wonder what that old man in the club window is doing now? Standing in front of the fireplace, his hands in his trousers pockets, the coat flap forward, as though he were warming himself; though there’s no fire in the grate; laying down the law. What a good time old men do have. No one takes any notice of what an old woman thinks. She’s told to sit in a corner and get on with her knitting. I wonder whether the man who bought the paper backed a horse? He must have. He’s sitting in a pub somewhere, waiting for the result. He was so shabby. It’s funny how people like that always have enough money to back horses and buy drinks. I suppose that girl’s sitting in the Park somewhere with her young man. Perhaps they’ve gone into the country. How happy she looked: transfigured. I wonder if I shall ever feel like that? I suppose I shall. Everyone does, some time. I never have. They say girls spend their whole time falling in and out of love. I haven’t. I shouldn’t be surprised if Ruth did. Boys like her. They always have. From the very start, at our children’s parties. They’ve never noticed me. Hugh’s always been her friend more than mine. Stella will have left for lunch by now. How surprised she would be if she could know where I was; what I was planning. She thinks I’m a coward. Or at least: she’s made up her mind I am. She probably never thinks about me at all. It’ll be a surprise to her.

  The picture was clear before her. Stella in her room that afternoon; letters to be dictated; letters to be signed. Reports to be drawn up, interviews, conferences; the minutes passing. Just like any other day. Then suddenly the news arriving. Miss Draft dashing into her room, not bothering to knock. “Miss Balliol, have you heard? Your niece.…” Lucy’s lips parted in a smile. Stella would realize then.

  It was close on two before Lucy had finished lunch. There was only just time to make her final preparations. These did not take long: a few minutes in the cloakroom, the attaché case a little lighter in her hand, a coat that on this warm day was uncomfortably heavy on her shoulders.

  The Wild West show was only a minute off. The attendant at the door recognized her. “Back already?” “I missed some of it this morning.” “Wish there was more like you.” There were a good many, however, who wanted to see the show through once. It was half as full again as it had been that morning. But there was still a seat on the ground row to the left of the orchestra. It was not one of the best places to see from, after all. She put her attaché case underneath the seat. The clasp was open. It would be very easy to fling back the lid when the moment came. She worked her arms out of the sleeves, holding her coat loosely round her. It was only a question of waiting now. The cattle thief episode was nearly finished. Another minute and the squatter would have retired to his hut; then there would be the Indians, the circling charge, the firing, the spectacular somersaults, the lessening cheers, the rescue, then her moment.

  A succession of pictures passed before her eyes. Stella returning from her lunch; the letters to be signed; the letters to be dictated. An old man standing before a fire laying down the law. A grubby, ill-dressed figure leaning across a bar. “I tell you he’s a dead cert.” A country lane, lovers walking hand in hand, the girl stopping, “Darling, I must pick that.” Miss Draft bursting into Stella’s room. “Miss Balliol, your niece.…” The pictures flickered, the minutes passed. The Indians were circling now, the applause was lessening. Lucy, feeling for the case below, flung back the lid, felt her fingers clasp on a linen tape. Half-bending, she looked up, her coat clasped at the throat by the other hand.

  From the back of the stage came shouting and a volley of shots. The plod of hooves in sawdust. The waved lassoo. “Now,” She had left it as long as possible so as not to have time to think. She pulled the linen tape from the attaché case; waving a banner, green and white and purple, she flung off her coat. The green, white and purple tricolour was crossed upon her breast. She leapt to her feet, sprang upon the wooden ring, yelled “Votes for Women!” A dozen horses were charging full towards her. At last, for the first time, she realized the incredible danger of her act. She hesitated. But it was too late. She was more frightened now of going back than going forward. She shut her eyes.… Stella sitting at her desk, letters to be dictated, letters to sign… waving her flag, she shouted “Votes for Women!”.… Miss Draft breaking into Stella’s room.… She jumped. The sawdust gave under her feet. She fell.… Miss Balliol, your niece.… The crash of innumerable hammers on her head.… Stella stretching out her hand.… The hammers louder now.… A smile… Silence.…

  VII

 
It was Miss Draft who first received the news. A reporter rang her up. He wanted details. The telephone conversation took considerably longer than it need have done because while he was trying to get information out of Miss Draft, she was trying to get information out of him.

  Said Miss Draft: “What do you say? She’s badly injured? How? Where? When?”

  Said the reporter: “Earl’s Court. Her father, you say, is Edward Balliol, the wine merchant. There are two other Balliols in the ‘phone book.”

  “Yes. But how badly hurt is she? Where is she?”

  “Which Edward Balliol’s daughter do you say she is?”

  In the end the reporter had learnt that Lucy was the daughter of Edward Balliol, the wine merchant; that she had been in prison once for window-breaking; that while the W.S.M. regarded her as a valuable associate, she was not in any sense an official; that the Movement could not in any way hold itself responsible for her action; that it was without their sanction or approval; that it was a “glorious gesture” but that the Movement would never ask its members to run so desperate a risk. That the reporter learnt. In return, Miss Draft was informed that Lucy Balliol was dangerously ill; that she was unconscious; that she was in St. James’ Hospital.

  Without bothering to knock upon the door, Miss Draft burst into Stella’s room. In quick sentences that lost something of their precision through her excitement, she told the story.

  “They don’t say how ill she is: dangerously, and unconscious, that is all. If she dies, we must arrange a funeral procession. The first martyr to the Cause. She died that Women might be Free. What a slogan, what publicity! If that does not move people, nothing will. It’ll touch their hearts: a long white procession, banners, music, classic.”

  But Stella was scarcely listening. She was busy gathering up her papers, putting her desk straight. “I’m going down to the hospital,” she said.