Night and Day Part 13

'There's no need for us to race,' he complained at last; upon which she immediately slackened her pace, and walked too slowly to suit him. In desperation he said the first thing he thought of, very peevishly and without the dignified prelude which he had intended.

'I've not enjoyed my holiday.'

'No?'

'No. I shall be glad to get back to work again.'

'Sat.u.r.day, Sunday, Monday-there are only three days more,' she counted.

'No one enjoys being made a fool of before other people,' he blurted out, for his irritation rose as she spoke, and got the better of his awe of her, and was inflamed by that awe.

'That refers to me, I suppose,' she said calmly.

'Every day since we've been here you've done something to make me appear ridiculous,' he went on. 'Of course, so long as it amuses you, you're welcome; but we have to remember that we are going to spend our lives together. I asked you, only this morning, for example, to come out and take a turn with me in the garden. I was waiting for you ten minutes, and you never came. Every one saw me waiting. The stable-boys saw me. I was so ashamed that I went in. Then, on the drive you hardly spoke to me. Henry noticed it. Every one notices it... You find no difficulty in talking to Henry, though.'

She noted these various complaints and determined philosophically to answer none of them, although the last stung her to considerable irritation. She wished to find out how deep his grievance lay.

'None of these things seem to me to matter,' she said.

'Very well, then. I may as well hold my tongue,' he replied.

'In themselves they don't seem to me to matter; if they hurt you, of course they matter,' she corrected herself scrupulously. Her tone of consideration touched him, and he walked on in silence for a s.p.a.ce.

'And we might be so happy, Katharine!' he exclaimed impulsively, and drew her arm through his. She withdrew it directly.

'As long as you let yourself feel like this we shall never be happy,' she said.

The harshness, which Henry had noticed, was again unmistakable in her manner. William flinched and was silent. Such severity, accompanied by something indescribably cold and impersonal in her manner, had constantly been meted out to him during the last few days, always in the company of others. He had recouped himself by some ridiculous display of vanity which, as he knew, put him still more at her mercy. Now that he was alone with her there was no stimulus from outside to draw his attention from his injury. By a considerable effort of self-control he forced himself to remain silent, and to make himself distinguish what part of his pain was due to vanity, what part to the certainty that no woman really loving him could speak thus.

'What do I feel about Katharine?' he thought to himself. It was clear that she had been a very desirable and distinguished figure, the mistress of her little section of the world; but more than that, she was the person of all others who seemed to him the arbitresscg of life, the woman whose judgment was naturally right and steady, as his had never been in spite of all his culture. And then he could not see her come into a room without a sense of the flowing of robes, of the flowering of blossoms, of the purple waves of the sea, of all things that are lovely and mutable on the surface but still and pa.s.sionate in their heart. of life, the woman whose judgment was naturally right and steady, as his had never been in spite of all his culture. And then he could not see her come into a room without a sense of the flowing of robes, of the flowering of blossoms, of the purple waves of the sea, of all things that are lovely and mutable on the surface but still and pa.s.sionate in their heart.

'If she were callous all the time and had only led me on to laugh at me I couldn't have felt that about her,' he thought. 'I'm not a fool, after all. I can't have been utterly mistaken all these years. And yet, when she speaks to me like that! The truth of it is,' he thought, 'that I've got such despicable faults that no one could help speaking to me like that. Katharine is quite right. And yet those are not my serious feelings, as she knows quite well. How can I change myself? What would make her care for me?' He was terribly tempted here to break the silence by asking Katharine in what respects he could change himself to suit her; but he sought consolation instead by running over the list of his gifts and acquirements, his knowledge of Greek and Latin, his knowledge of art and literature, his skill in the management of metres, and his ancient west-country blood. But the feeling that underlay all these feelings and puzzled him profoundly and kept him silent was the certainty that he loved Katharine as sincerely as he had it in him to love any one. And yet she could speak to him like that! In a sort of bewilderment he lost all desire to speak, and would quite readily have taken up some different topic of conversation if Katharine had started one. This, however, she did not do.

He glanced at her, in case her expression might help him to understand her behaviour. As usual, she had quickened her pace unconsciously, and was now walking a little in front of him; but he could gain little information from her eyes, which looked steadily at the brown heather, or from the lines drawn seriously upon her forehead. Thus to lose touch with her, for he had no idea what she was thinking, was so unpleasant to him that he began to talk about his grievances again, without, however, much conviction in his voice.

'If you have no feeling for me, wouldn't it be kinder to say so to me in private?'

'Oh, William,' she burst out, as if he had interrupted some absorbing train of thought, 'how you go on about feelings! Isn't it better not to talk so much, not to be worrying always about small things that don't really matter?'

'That's the question precisely,' he exclaimed. 'I only want you to tell me that they don't matter. There are times when you seem indifferent to everything. I'm vain, I've a thousand faults; but you know they're not everything; you know I care for you.'

'And if I say that I care for you, don't you believe me?'

'Say it, Katharine! Say it as if you meant it! Make me feel that you care for me!'

She could not force herself to speak a word. The heather was growing dim around them, and the horizon was blotted out by white mist. To ask her for pa.s.sion or for certainty seemed like asking that damp prospect for fierce blades of fire, or the faded sky for the intense blue vault of June.

He went on now to tell her of his love for her, in words which bore, even to her critical senses, the stamp of truth; but none of this touched her, until, coming to a gate whose hinge was rusty, he heaved it open with his shoulder, still talking and taking no account of his effort. The virility of this deed impressed her; and yet, normally, she attached no value to the power of opening gates. The strength of muscles has nothing to do on the face of it with the strength of affections; nevertheless, she felt a sudden concern for this power running to waste on her account, which, combined with a desire to keep possession of that strangely attractive masculine power, made her rouse herself from her torpor.

Why should she not simply tell him the truth-which was that she had accepted him in a misty state of mind when nothing had its right shape or size? that it was deplorable, but that with clearer eyesight marriage was out of the question? She did not want to marry any one. She wanted to go away by herself, preferably to some bleak northern moor, and there study mathematics and the science of astronomy. Twenty words would explain the whole situation to him. He had ceased to speak; he had told her once more how he loved her and why. She summoned her courage, fixed her eyes upon a lightning-splintered ash-tree, and, almost as if she were reading a writing fixed to the trunk, began: 'I was wrong to get engaged to you. I shall never make you happy. I have never loved you.'

'Katharine!' he protested.

'No, never,' she repeated obstinately. 'Not rightly. Don't you see, I didn't know what I was doing?'

'You love some one else?' he cut her short.

'Absolutely no one.'

'Henry?' he demanded.

'Henry? I should have thought, William, even you-'

'There is some one,' he persisted. 'There has been a change in the last few weeks. You owe it to me to be honest, Katharine.'

'If I could, I would,' she replied.

'Why did you tell me you would marry me, then?' he demanded.

Why, indeed? A moment of pessimism, a sudden conviction of the undeniable prose of life, a lapse of the illusion which sustains youth midway between heaven and earth, a desperate attempt to reconcile herself with facts-she could only recall a moment, as of waking from a dream, which now seemed to her a moment of surrender. But who could give reasons such as these for doing what she had done? She shook her head very sadly.

'But you're not a child-you're not a woman of moods,' Rodney persisted. 'You couldn't have accepted me if you hadn't loved me!' he cried.

A sense of her own misbehaviour, which she had succeeded in keeping from her by sharpening her consciousness of Rodney's faults, now swept over her and almost overwhelmed her. What were his faults in comparison with the fact that he cared for her? What were her virtues in comparison with the fact that she did not care for him? In a flash the conviction that not to care is the uttermost sin of all stamped itself upon her inmost thought; and she felt herself branded for ever.

He had taken her arm, and held her hand firmly in his, nor had she the force to resist what now seemed to her his enormously superior strength. Very well; she would submit, as her mother and her aunt and most women, perhaps, had submitted; and yet she knew that every second of such submission to his strength was a second of treachery to him.

'I did say I would marry you, but it was wrong,' she forced herself to say, and she stiffened her arm as if to annul even the seeming submission of that separate part of her; 'for I don't love you, William; you've noticed it, every one's noticed it; why should we go on pretending? When I told you I loved you, I was wrong. I said what I knew to be untrue.'

As none of her words seemed to her at all adequate to represent what she felt, she repeated them, and emphasized them without realizing the effect that they might have upon a man who cared for her. She was completely taken aback by finding her arm suddenly dropped; then she saw his face most strangely contorted; was he laughing, it flashed across her? In another moment she saw that he was in tears. In her bewilderment at this apparition she stood aghast for a second. With a desperate sense that this horror must, at all costs, be stopped, she then put her arms about him, drew his head for a moment upon her shoulder, and led him on, murmuring words of consolation, until he heaved a great sigh. They held fast to each other; her tears, too, ran down her cheeks; and were both quite silent. Noticing the difficulty with which he walked, and feeling the same extreme la.s.situde in her own limbs, she proposed that they should rest for a moment where the bracken was brown and shrivelled beneath an oak-tree. He a.s.sented. Once more he gave a great sigh, and wiped his eyes with a childlike unconsciousness, and began to speak without a trace of his previous anger. The idea came to her that they were like the children in the fairy tale who were lost in a wood, and with this in her mind she noticed the scattering of dead leaves all round them3 which had been blown by the wind into heaps, a foot or two deep, here and there. which had been blown by the wind into heaps, a foot or two deep, here and there.

'When did you begin to feel this, Katharine?' he said; 'for it isn't true to say that you've always felt it. I admit I was unreasonable the first night when you found that your clothes had been left behind. Still, where's the fault in that? I could promise you never to interfere with your clothes again. I admit I was cross when I found you upstairs with Henry. Perhaps I showed it too openly. But that's not unreasonable either when one's engaged. Ask your mother. And now this terrible thing-' He broke off, unable for the moment to proceed any further. 'This decision you say you've come to-have you discussed it with any one? Your mother, for example, or Henry?'

'No, no, of course not,' she said, stirring the leaves with her hand. 'But you don't understand me, William-'

'Help me to understand you-'

'You don't understand, I mean, my real feelings; how could you? I've only now faced them myself. But I haven't got the sort of feeling-love, I mean-I don't know what to call it'-she looked vaguely towards the horizon sunk under mist-'but, anyhow, without it our marriage would be a farce-'

'How a farce?' he asked. 'But this kind of a.n.a.lysis is disastrous!' he exclaimed.

'I should have done it before,' she said gloomily.

'You make yourself think things you don't think,' he continued, becoming demonstrative with his hands, as his manner was. 'Believe me, Katharine, before we came here we were perfectly happy. You were full of plans for our house-the chair-covers, don't you remember?-like any other woman who is about to be married. Now, for no reason whatever, you begin to fret about your feeling and about my feeling, with the usual result. I a.s.sure you, Katharine, I've been through it all myself. At one time I was always asking myself absurd questions which came to nothing either. What you want, if I may say so, is some occupation to take you out of yourself when this morbid mood comes on. If it hadn't been for my poetry, I a.s.sure you, I should often have been very much in the same state myself. To let you into a secret,' he continued, with his little chuckle, which now sounded almost a.s.sured, 'I've often gone home from seeing you in such a state of nerves that I had to force myself to write a page or two before I could get you out of my head. Ask Denham; he'll tell you how he met me one night; he'll tell you what a state he found me in.'

Katharine started with displeasure at the mention of Ralph's name. The thought of the conversation in which her conduct had been made a subject for discussion with Denham roused her anger; but, as she instantly felt, she had scarcely the right to grudge William any use of her name, seeing what her fault against him had been from first to last. And yet Denham! She had a view of him as a judge. She figured him sternly weighing instances of her levity in this masculine court of inquiry into feminine morality and gruffly dismissing both her and her family with some half-sarcastic, half-tolerant phrase which sealed her doom, as far as he was concerned, for ever. Having met him so lately, the sense of his character was strong in her. The thought was not a pleasant one for a proud woman, but she had yet to learn the art of subduing her expression. Her eyes fixed upon the ground, her brows drawn together, gave William a very fair picture of the resentment that she was forcing herself to control. A certain degree of apprehension, occasionally culminating in a kind of fear, had always entered into his love for her, and had increased, rather to his surprise, in the greater intimacy of their engagement. Beneath her steady, exemplary surface ran a vein of pa.s.sion which seemed to him now perverse, now completely irrational, for it never took the normal channel of glorification of him and his doings; and, indeed, he almost preferred the steady good sense, which had always marked their relationship, to a more romantic bond. But pa.s.sion she had, he could not deny it, and hitherto he had tried to see it employed in his thoughts upon the lives of the children who were to be born to them.

'She will make a perfect mother-a mother of sons,' he thought; but seeing her sitting there, gloomy and silent, he began to have his doubts on this point. 'A farce, a farce,' he thought to himself. 'She said that our marriage would be a farce,' and he became suddenly aware of their situation, sitting upon the ground, among the dead leaves, not fifty yards from the main road, so that it was quite possible for some one pa.s.sing to see and recognize them. He brushed off his face any trace that might remain of that unseemly exhibition of emotion. But he was more troubled by Katharine's appearance, as she sat rapt in thought upon the ground, than by his own; there was something improper to him in her self-forgetfulness. A man naturally alive to the conventions of society, he was strictly conventional where women were concerned, and especially if the women happened to be in any way connected with him. He noticed with distress the long strand of dark hair touching her shoulder and two or three dead beech-leaves attached to her dress; but to recall her mind in their present circ.u.mstances to a sense of these details was impossible. She sat there, seeming unconscious of everything. He suspected that in her silence she was reproaching herself; but he wished that she would think of her hair and of the dead beech-leaves, which were of more immediate importance to him than anything else. Indeed, these trifles drew his attention strangely from his own doubtful and uneasy state of mind; for relief, mixing itself with pain, stirred up a most curious hurry and tumult in his breast, almost concealing his first sharp sense of bleak and overwhelming disappointment. In order to relieve this restlessness and close a distressingly ill-ordered scene, he rose abruptly and helped Katharine to her feet. She smiled a little at the minute care with which he tidied her and yet, when he brushed the dead leaves from his own coat, she flinched, seeing in that action the gesture of a lonely man.

'William,' she said, 'I will marry you. I will try to make you happy.'

CHAPTER XIX.

THE AFTERNOON WAS ALREADY growing dark when the two other wayfarers, Mary and Ralph Denham, came out on the high road beyond the outskirts of Lincoln. The high road, as they both felt, was better suited to this return journey than the open country, and for the first mile or so of the way they spoke little. In his own mind Ralph was following the pa.s.sage of the Otway carriage over the heath; he then went back to the five or ten minutes that he had spent with Katharine, and examined each word with the care that a scholar displays upon the irregularities of an ancient text. He was determined that the glow, the romance, the atmosphere of this meeting should not paint what he must in future regard as sober facts. On her side Mary was silent, not because her thoughts took much handling, but because her mind seemed empty of thought as her heart of feeling. Only Ralph's presence, as she knew, preserved this numbness, for she could foresee a time of loneliness when many varieties of pain would beset her. At the present moment her effort was to preserve what she could of the wreck of her self-respect, for such she deemed that momentary glimpse of her love so involuntarily revealed to Ralph. In the light of reason it did not much matter, perhaps, but it was her instinct to be careful of that vision of herself which keeps pace so evenly beside every one of us, and had been damaged by her confession. The grey night coming down over the country was kind to her; and she thought that one of these days she would find comfort in sitting upon the earth, alone, beneath a tree. Looking through the darkness, she marked the swelling ground and the tree. Ralph made her start by saying abruptly: 'What I was going to say when we were interrupted at lunch was that if you go to America I shall come too. It can't be harder to earn a living there than it is here. However, that's not the point. The point is, Mary, that I want to marry you. Well, what do you say?' He spoke firmly, waited for no answer, and took her arm in his. 'You know me by this time, the good and the bad,' he went on. 'You know my tempers. I've tried to let you know my faults. Well, what do you say, Mary?'

She said nothing, but this did not seem to strike him.

'In most ways, at least in the important ways, as you said, we know each other and we think alike. I believe you are the only person in the world I could live with happily. And if you feel the same about me-as you do, don't you, Mary?-we should make each other happy.' Here he paused, and seemed to be in no hurry for an answer; he seemed, indeed, to be continuing his own thoughts.

'Yes, but I'm afraid I couldn't do it,' Mary said at last. The casual and rather hurried way in which she spoke, together with the fact that she was saying the exact opposite of what he expected her to say, baffled him so much that he instinctively loosened his clasp upon her arm and she withdrew it quietly.

'You couldn't do it?' he asked.

'No, I couldn't marry you,' she replied.

'You don't care for me?'

She made no answer.

'Well, Mary,' he said, with a curious laugh, 'I must be an arrant fool, for I thought you did.' They walked for a minute or two in silence, and suddenly he turned to her, looked at her, and exclaimed: 'I don't believe you, Mary. You're not telling me the truth.'

'I'm too tired to argue, Ralph,' she replied, turning her head away from him. 'I ask you to believe what I say. I can't marry you; I don't want to marry you.'

The voice in which she stated this was so evidently the voice of one in some extremity of anguish that Ralph had no course but to obey her. And as soon as the tone of her voice had died out, and the surprise faded from his mind, he found himself believing that she had spoken the truth, for he had but little vanity, and soon her refusal seemed a natural thing to him. He slipped through all the grades of despondency until he reached a bottom of absolute gloom. Failure seemed to mark the whole of his life; he had failed with Katharine, and now he had failed with Mary. Up at once sprang the thought of Katharine, and with it a sense of exulting freedom, but this he checked instantly. No good had ever come to him from Katharine; his whole relationship with her had been made up of dreams; and as he thought of the little substance there had been in his dreams he began to lay the blame of the present catastrophe upon his dreams.

'Haven't I always been thinking of Katharine while I was with Mary? I might have loved Mary if it hadn't been for that idiocy of mine. She cared for me once, I'm certain of that, but I tormented her so with my humours that I let my chances slip, and now she won't risk marrying me. And this is what I've made of my life-nothing, nothing, nothing.'

The tramp of their boots upon the dry road seemed to a.s.severate nothing, nothing, nothing. Mary thought that this silence was the silence of relief; his depression she ascribed to the fact that he had seen Katharine, and parted from her, leaving her in the company of William Rodney. She could not blame him for loving Katharine, but that, when he loved another, he should ask her to marry him-that seemed to her the cruellest treachery. Their old friendship and its firm base upon indestructible qualities of character crumbled, and her whole past seemed foolish, herself weak and credulous, and Ralph merely the sh.e.l.l of an honest man. Oh, the past-so much made up of Ralph; and now, as she saw, made up of something strange and false and other than she had thought it. She tried to recapture a saying she had made to help herself that morning, as Ralph paid the bill for luncheon; but she could see him paying the bill more vividly than she could remember the phrase. Something about truth was in it; how to see the truth is our great chance in this world.

'If you don't want to marry me,' Ralph now began again, without abruptness, with diffidence rather, 'there is no need why we should cease to see each other, is there? Or would you rather that we should keep apart for the present?'

'Keep apart? I don't know-I must think about it.'

'Tell me one thing, Mary,' he resumed; 'have I done anything to make you change your mind about me?'

She was immensely tempted to give way to her natural trust in him, revived by the deep and now melancholy tones of his voice, and to tell him of her love, and of what had changed it. But although it seemed likely that she would soon control her anger with him, the certainty that he did not love her, confirmed by every word of his proposal, forbade any freedom of speech. To hear him speak and to feel herself unable to reply, or constrained in her replies, was so painful that she longed for the time when she should be alone. A more pliant woman would have taken this chance of an explanation, whatever risks attached to it; but to one of Mary's firm and resolute temperament there was degradation in the idea of self-abandonment; let the waves of emotion rise ever so high, she could not shut her eyes to what she conceived to be the truth. Her silence puzzled Ralph. He searched his memory for words or deeds that might have made her think badly of him. In his present mood instances came but too quickly, and on top of them this culminating proof of his baseness-that he had asked her to marry him when his reasons for such a proposal were selfish and half-hearted.

'You needn't answer,' he said grimly. 'There are reasons enough, I know. But must they kill our friendship, Mary? Let me keep that, at least.'

'Oh,' she thought to herself, with a sudden rush of anguish which threatened disaster to her self-respect, 'it has come to this-to this-when I could have given him everything!'

'Yes, we can still be friends,' she said, with what firmness she could muster.

'I shall want your friendship,' he said. He added, 'If you find it possible, let me see you as often as you can. The oftener the better. I shall want your help.'

She promised this, and they went on to talk calmly of things that had no reference to their feeengs-a talk which, in its constraint, was infinitely sad to both of them.

One more reference was made to the state of things between them late that night, when Elizabeth had gone to her room, and the two young men had stumbled off to bed in such a state of sleep that they hardly felt the floor beneath their feet after a day's shooting.

Mary drew her chair a little nearer to the fire, for the logs were burning low, and at this time of night it was hardly worth while to replenish them. Ralph was reading, but she had noticed for some time that his eyes instead of following the print were fixed rather above the page with an intensity of gloom that came to weigh upon her mind. She had not weakened in her resolve not to give way, for reflection had only made her more bitterly certain that, if she gave way, it would be to her own wish and not to his. But she had determined that there was no reason why he should suffer if her reticence were the cause of his suffering. Therefore, although she found it painful, she spoke: 'You asked me if I had changed my mind about you, Ralph,' she said. 'I think there's only one thing. When you asked me to marry you, I don't think you meant it. That made me angry-for the moment. Before, you'd always spoken the truth.'

Ralph's book slid down upon his knee and fell upon the floor. He rested his forehead on his hand and looked into the fire. He was trying to recall the exact words in which he had made his proposal to Mary.

'I never said I loved you,' he said at last.

She winced; but she respected him for saying what he did, for this, after all, was a fragment of the truth which she had vowed to live by.

And to me marriage without love doesn't seem worth while,' she said.

'Well, Mary, I'm not going to press you,' he said. 'I see you don't want to marry me. But love-don't we all talk a great deal of nonsense about it? What does one mean? I believe I care for you more genuinely than nine men out of ten care for the women they're in love with. It's only a story one makes up in one's mind about another person, and one knows all the time it isn't true. Of course one knows; why, one's always taking care not to destroy the illusion. One takes care not to see them too often, or to be alone with them for too long together. It's a pleasant illusion, but if you're thinking of the risks of marriage, it seems to me that the risk of marrying a person you're in love with is something colossal.'

'I don't believe a word of that, and what's more you don't either,' she replied with anger. 'However, we don't agree; I only wanted you to understand.' She shifted her position, as if she were about to go. An instinctive desire to prevent her from leaving the room made Ralph rise at this point and begin pacing up and down the nearly empty kitchen, checking his desire, each time he reached the door, to open it and step out into the garden. A moralist might have said that at this point his mind should have been full of self-reproach for the suffering he had caused. On the contrary, he was extremely angry, with the confused impotent anger of one who finds himself unreasonably but efficiently frustrated. He was trapped by the illogicality of human life. The obstacles in the way of his desire seemed to him purely artificial, and yet he could see no way of removing them. Mary's words, the tone of her voice even, angered him, for she would not help him. She was part of the insanely jumbled muddle of a world which impedes the sensible life. He would have liked to slam the door or break the hind legs of a chair, for the obstacles had taken some such curiously substantial shape in his mind.

'I doubt that one human being ever understands another,' he said, stopping in his march and confronting Mary at a distance of a few feet.

'Such d.a.m.ned liars as we all are, how can we? But we can try. If you don't want to marry me, don't; but the position you take up about love, and not seeing each other-isn't that mere sentimentality? You think I've behaved very badly,' he continued, as she did not speak. 'Of course I behave badly; but you can't judge people by what they do. You can't go through life measuring right and wrong with a foot-rule. That's what you're always doing, Mary; that's what you're doing now.'

She saw herself in the Suffrage Office, delivering judgment, meting out right and wrong, and there seemed to her to be some justice in the charge, although it did not affect her main position.

'I'm not angry with you,' she said slowly. 'I will go on seeing you, as I said I would.'

It was true that she had promised that much already, and it was difficult for him to say what more it was that he wanted-some intimacy, some help against the ghost of Katharine, perhaps, something that he knew he had no right to ask; and yet, as he sank into his chair and looked once more at the dying fire it seemed to him that he had been defeated, not so much by Mary as by life itself. He felt himself thrown back to the beginning of life again, where everything has yet to be won; but in extreme youth one has an ignorant hope. He was no longer certain that he would triumph.

CHAPTER XX.

HAPPILY FOR MARY DATCHET she returned to the office to find that by some obscure Parliamentary manoeuvre the vote had once more slipped beyond the attainment of women. Mrs Seal was in a condition bordering upon frenzy. The duplicity of Ministers, the treachery of mankind, the insult to womanhood, the setback to civilization, the ruin of her life's work, the feelings of her father's daughter-all these topics were discussed in turn and the office was littered with newspaper cuttings branded with the blue, if ambiguous, marks of her displeasure. She confessed herself at fault in her estimate of human nature.

'The simple elementary acts of justice,' she said, waving her hand towards the window, and indicating the foot-pa.s.sengers and omnibuses then pa.s.sing down the far side of Russell Square, 'are as far beyond them as they ever were. We can only look upon ourselves, Mary, as pioneers in a wilderness. We can only go on patiently putting the truth before them. It isn't them,' them,' she continued, taking heart from her sight of the traffic, 'it's their leaders. It's those gentlemen sitting in Parliament and drawing four hundred a year of the people's money. If we had to put our case to the people, we should soon have justice done to us. I have always believed in the people, and I do so still. But-' She shook her head and implied that she would give them one more chance, and if they didn't take advantage of that she couldn't answer for the consequences. she continued, taking heart from her sight of the traffic, 'it's their leaders. It's those gentlemen sitting in Parliament and drawing four hundred a year of the people's money. If we had to put our case to the people, we should soon have justice done to us. I have always believed in the people, and I do so still. But-' She shook her head and implied that she would give them one more chance, and if they didn't take advantage of that she couldn't answer for the consequences.

Mr Clacton's att.i.tude was more philosophical and better supported by statistics. He came into the room after Mrs Seal's outburst and pointed out, with historical ill.u.s.trations, that such reverses had happened in every political campaign of any importance. If anything, his spirits were improved by the disaster. The enemy, he said, had taken the offensive; and it was now up to the Society to outwit the enemy. He gave Mary to understand that he had taken the measure of their cunning, and had already bent his mind to the task which, so far as she could make out, depended solely upon him. It depended, so she came to think, when invited into his room for a private conference, upon a systematic revision of the card-index, upon the issue of certain new lemon-coloured leaflets, in which the facts were marshalled once more in a very striking way, and upon a large scale map of England dotted with little pins tufted with differently coloured plumes of hair according to their geographical position. Each district, under the new system, had its flag, its bottle of ink, its sheaf of doc.u.ments tabulated and filed for reference in a drawer, so that by looking under M or S, as the case might be, you had all the facts with respect to the Suffrage organizations of that county at your fingers' ends. This would require a great deal of work, of course.

'We must try to consider ourselves rather in the light of a telephone exchange-for the exchange of ideas, Miss Datchet,' he said; and taking pleasure in his image, he continued it. 'We should consider ourselves the centre of an enormous system of wires, connecting us up with every district of the country. We must have our fingers upon the pulse of the community; we want to know what people all over England are thinking; we want to put them in the way of thinking rightly.' The system, of course, was only roughly sketched so far-jotted down, in fact, during the Christmas holidays.

'When you ought to have been taking a rest, Mr Clacton,' said Mary dutifully, but her tone was flat and tired.

'We learn to do without holidays, Miss Datchet,' said Mr Clacton, with a spark of satisfaction in his eye.