Affinities and Other Stories Part 33

"I want sea, sea with mist over it, and rocks. And a cave----"

"Caves are damp. There are plenty of hotels."

"A cave," she said, examining her cigarette dreamily, "with the sea coming in against a setting sun, and the spray every color in the world.

I think it's Tintagel, Madge."

Poppy is terribly pretty, and this is her story, not mine.

"That's a sweet frock," I said. "Did you hear that man to-day, when you were speaking at the Monument? He said, 'Bless its pretty 'eart----'"

Poppy's hair is the softest, straightest hair you ever saw, and her nose is short and childish. Her eyes are soft, too, and her profile is so helpless that the bobbies help her across the streets. But her full face is full of character.

"Was he in front of me?" she demanded.

"At the side."

We both understood. It was her profile again. She fell back in her chair and sighed.

"If you could address the House of Lords in profile," I said, "you'd get the vote."

"That's rot, you know," she retorted. But she coloured. She knew and she knew I knew that her new photographs were profile ones. And we both knew, too, that they were taken because Vivian Harcourt had demanded a picture.

"You're not doing the right thing, Poppy," I accused her. "For one day in the week that Viv sees you, there are six days for him to look at that picture."

"He isn't obliged to look at it at all."

"So long as women beg the question like that," I said severely, "just so long do they postpone serious consideration for the Cause."

She leaned back and laughed--rather rudely. The English can be very rude sometimes. They call it frankness.

"The ridiculous thing about you is that you don't know anything about the Cause," she said. "With you, it's a fad. It's the only thing you can't have, so you want it, little Madge. With some of us it's--well, I can't talk about it."

It made me furious. The idea of dedicating your life to a thing, and then being accused----

"I think enough of the Cause to stand out all day in a broiling sun," I snapped, "and be burnt to a cinder. Didn't I pa.s.s out your wretched literature for hours and make six shillings?"

"Don't call it wretched literature," she said gently. "But--now think a minute. If it came to a showdown--your own expression, isn't it--a question between one of these men who are so mad about you, Basil or any of the others--and the Cause, which would it be?"

"Both," I replied promptly.

She laughed again.

"You delightful little hypocrite!" she cried. "A Compromise, then! Not victory, but a truce! Oh, martyr to the Cause!"

"And you?"

"The Cause," she said, and turned, fullface to me.

Well, of course that was Poppy's affair. I believe in living up to one's conviction, and all that. But when you think of the lengths to which she carried her conviction, and the horrible situation that developed, it seems an exceedingly selfish theory of life. I believe in diplomatic compromise.

(I wrote the whole conversation that night to father, and he cabled a reply. He generally cables, being very busy. He said, "Life is a series of compromises. Who is Basil?")

Well, we got started at last. Poppy left in a raging temper over something or other--a bill before the house, I think. I was so busy getting packed that I forgot what it was, if I ever knew--and hardly spoke for twenty miles. But at Guildford she recovered her temper. It was the time of the a.s.sizes, and the Sheriff was lunching at our hotel.

His gilt coach was at the door, with a footman in wig and plush, white stockings and buckles, and a most magnificent coachman. Poppy's eyes narrowed. She pointed to the footman's ornamented legs.

"The great babies!" she said. "How a man loves to dress! Government, is it? Eighteenth century costumes and mediaeval laws! Government--in gold lace and a c.o.c.ked hat! Law in its majesty, Madge, with common sense and common justice in rags. _That_ can vote, while you and I----" she stopped for breath.

The footman's calves twitched, but he looked straight ahead.

I got her into the building somehow or other. She looked quite calm, except that she was breathing hard. I confess that I thought she was ashamed of herself; I reminded her that she had promised to be quiet on this trip, and I told her, as firmly as I could, that it wasn't proper to make fun of a man's legs.

She powdered her nose and looked penitent and distractingly pretty.

"I'm sorry," she said. "It's this parade of authority that gets on my nerves, and this glittering show of half the people ruling all the people."

When she came back from ordering the luncheon she was smiling. I thought it was all over. (I am telling this incident, not because it belongs to the story, but because it sheds a light on Poppy's character, and perhaps explains what came later.)

"Luncheon!" she said, cheerfully, "with strawberries as big as a teacup, and clotted cream."

I think my mind was on the clotted cream, for I followed her past one dining-room to a second, a long, low room, full of men. She pushed me in ahead.

"I--I think it's the wrong room, Poppy," I said. "There's the----"

It _was_ the wrong room, and she knew it. The Sheriff was at the centre table and near him was a great serving stand, with hot and cold roasts and joints.

I tried to back out, but at that moment Poppy slammed the door and locked it.

"Don't yell!" she said to me under her breath, and _dropped something ice-cold down my back. The key!_

About half the men started to their feet. Poppy raised a hand.

"Gentlemen," she said, "you need not rise! I have a few things I would like to say while you finish luncheon. I shall be entirely orderly. The question of the Suffrage----"

They dodged as if she had been loaded with shrapnel instead of a speech.

They shouted and clamored. They ordered us out. And all the time the door was locked and the key was down my back.

"Poppy!" I said, clutching her arm. "Poppy, for the love of heaven----"

She had forgotten me absolutely. When she finally turned her eyes on me, she never even saw me.

"The door is locked, gentlemen," she said. "Locked and the key hidden.

If you will give me five minutes----"

But they would not listen. The Sheriff sat still and ate his luncheon.

Time might come and time might go, tides flow and ebb, old eras give way to new--but the British lion must be fed. But once I caught his eye, and I almost thought it twinkled. Perish the thought! The old order wink at the new!

They demanded the key. The lunch hour was over. The a.s.sizes waited. In vain Poppy plead for five minutes to talk.