The Balliols (11 page)

“And I'm the kind of woman he thinks would make him a good wife. And I would, if I were only that part of me he sees. If I were content to argue, to talk, to do nothing. But if I were to join Miss Draft, if I were to throw my whole self into this movement, would I be the kind of wife he'd need? Probably not. If I'm not going to be the kind of wife he needs I've no right to say ‘yes.' I'd be a cheat. I'd be taking and not giving. That's the kind of thing Miss Draft can't see. But it's true. You've got to keep to your bargain. If a man marries you, expecting a specific thing, it's your duty as a wife to try and give it him. Otherwise you cheat.”

There are certain passages in life when a person sees as under a hard white light, the course his life must follow; recognizes the limitations imposed on him by heredity, environment, education; knowing what things are outside his scope; when he almost foresees the future. Such a passage may be of an instant's length; or a year's slow growth. During the few seconds while Alan Cheyne was explaining his views on the composition of the next parliament Stella saw in one glance, as one sees set up on a printed page, a detailed array of arguments. She and Alan might think alike. But they didn't feel alike. And marriage was a question of feeling, not of thinking. If she could take the same impersonal interest in affairs that Alan did, then they could be happy. For if you took an impersonal interest in affairs, you never felt any urge to get things done. You stood aside, a spectator, watching the current of events. As her brother had. That had been enough for him. But for her it was not enough. And because it was not enough sooner or later she knew well she would take up a line of action opposed diametrically to Alan's picture of the behaviour proper to his wife. Stella did not hold Miss Draft's opinions on a married woman's right to her own career. You owed loyalty of that kind if of no other to the husband whose name you bore, and whose means supported you.

There was no chance of her making Alan Cheyne his kind of wife.

There he was, setting out his belief in Ramsay Macdonald's future. “He always plays for safety. He's not like Keir Hardie. He looks dangerous, but he isn't really. He goes no further than he knows is safe.” In another moment or so, feeling that he had spoken enough, he would invite her opinion. He would listen carefully to what she said, amplifying it, interpolating comments,
building up her ideas for her, stimulating her imagination so that she saw her own arguments in a clearer, better light; so that she could be able to follow her arguments a step further than she had of herself been able. And it would go on like that till they had reached the coffee stage; just as business men did, when they wanted to put a deal through. Then in the same tone of voice that he had said, “I wonder if you read that third note of Massingham's in this week's
Nation?”
he would ask: “You got my letter, Stella?”

And she couldn't, she could not, wait for that. She could not sit under the shadow of that certain prospect. It had to be settled, to be got over, done with.…

She interrupted him in the middle of a sentence.

“I'm sorry, Alan. But I've got to tell you. About your letter. It wouldn't work. I know it. I don't want to discuss it. I was proud and touched. I'll never forget it. But it wouldn't work. I don't want you to mention it again. Never refer to it in any way. I think I missed your last point about Keir Hardie. What, exactly, did you mean when you said.…”

Through the remainder of the evening she kept the flow of talk bright and friendly. She even managed to enjoy herself. But it was wearily that she climbed the stairs to her bedroom at the evening's end. She sat before her mirror and leant forward, her elbows rested on the table, her chin supported on her hands; staring at her reflection; remembering in what spirit she had sat there four hours earlier. “That's that.”

She had done more in that interval than refuse a man. She had accepted a destiny. She had turned her back on personal happiness; or rather, on what for most women constituted personal happiness: a husband, a home, children; the things that with a part of herself she intensely needed. She wasn't a fish, like Alan. She was capable of passion. She knew that. She needed to love and to be loved. Looking at her reflection in the mirror she knew beyond cavilling that happiness of that kind would pass her by. She wasn't the type that men fell in love with; not in the way she wanted to be loved. Somewhere beneath the sun there must exist the mate for whose nature her own was destined; but she would never meet him. Or if she did, it would be too late. She would have so arranged her life that it would have no place for him. You couldn't just sit and wait on the off-chance of the
one
person turning up. You had to take up what lay to hand.

“I've got to go forward now.”

On the following morning, during her luncheon hour she called at the offices of the W.S.M. It was the first time she had been there. Miss Draft was seated in the front office. She looked up quickly as Stella came towards her. Her face wore an expression of, “I'm really very busy. You shouldn't bother me with personal things at a time like this.” There was a telephone at her side. Three large books of reference, a calendar, a clock were set along the back of the desk. One of the drawers was drawn half out, revealing a card index. The front of the desk was covered with little piles of correspondence. The current issue of
The Times
was neatly folded beside the blotter. Miss Draft looked like one of the fixtures at her desk.

“Well?” Her voice was abrupt, with a “No social chatter here, please” note about it.

“I want to know if I can be of any use here?”

“How do you mean—of any use? We've no room for anybody extra in this office.”

“I wasn't suggesting that. I meant work outside.”

“You mean active work?”

“Yes.”

“Militant?”

“Yes.”

Miss Draft eyed her cautiously; with a self-questioning suspicion.

“It won't be all jam and honey. It won't be what you're accustomed to. Do you realize what you are letting yourself in for?”

Stella smiled to herself, at Miss Draft's picture of her life of jam and honey: that small club-sitting-room; long hours in the Teach-Yourself-by-Post Institute.

“I know what I'm in for,” she replied.

“It's not just that you'll be shocking your friends. There is danger; real danger, you understand?”

“I'm prepared for that.”

“Very well. How much time can you give to the Cause?”

“As much as I'm needed.”

“What about your work?”

“I'm going to give that up.”

“Oh.…” Miss Draft opened her mouth wide, in surprise; paused; then a flush came into her cheeks; the first flush that Stella had ever seen there. She rose to her feet, took Stella's hand between both of hers, pressed it firmly. “I'm proud of you. I did not know
you had it in you. I thought you wanted to play at being a suffragist. There are so many of your class who do. We hate that. It's a game to them. It's real to us. They lose interest in it the moment they find it is real. But you, you are fine.”

Her eyes shone with an enthusiasm that was not ridiculous; that was saved from being ridiculous by the alacrity with which she reverted to her brisk, competent officialdom.

“Let me see. Do you feel ready to begin at once? There is a meeting at the Colingdale Town Hall. Asquith's speaking. They have had special cards printed, so as to keep us out. But we've got hold of the cards; got some of our own printed to look just the same. Twenty-four of us are going. Separately, of course. We shall sit in different parts of the house. When question time begins we'll start one by one getting up and asking questions. He won't answer, of course. He never does. Then we stand on our chairs simultaneously and shout ‘Votes for Women!' We'll be flung out. But we'll have ruined the meeting. Would you like to come?”

For answer Stella stretched her hand out for the ticket.

Immediately on her return to her office, she sent a message to Mr. Beccles' secretary, to ask if she might see him. Within a few minutes a reply had come. Would she follow the messenger at once?

It was the first time she had seen Mr. Beccles since her return from her father's funeral. He greeted her with an air of serious, rather patronizing sympathy.

“So you're back, Miss Balliol? Well, well. I know how you must be feeling. I remember when my own father died. Twenty years ago it is now. Life's never quite the same afterwards. Still, one has to go on, make the best of things. It's hard at first. Perhaps that's what you've come to me about. I'd been thinking about it myself. A change of scene, perhaps. Half of your holiday; or indeed, your whole holiday, if you should wish it. It can be arranged quite easily.”

“I haven't come about that, Mr. Beccles. I've come to resign my position here.”

“What?”

The dismay on his face was extremely flattering to Stella's self-esteem. So he
has
valued me. He'll miss me here. He hasn't liked me. He's distrusted me. But he's known I was a good worker.

His astonishment was short-lived. He was too good a tactician to allow her to see more than a flash of his discomposure. He leant forward across the table, revolving a pen between his fingers in his most confidential manner.

“This is a surprise to me. And not by any means a pleasant one. You won't need my assurance on that point. But surely we can find some way of avoiding it. I imagine that you may find at such a time a number of things to do; in connection with your father's death. Your instinct perhaps is to say, ‘I must have six months clear. Then I'll find something else.' A very natural instinct, Miss Balliol. But, seriously, I think you would be unwise to follow it. After all, capable though you are, there are a great many competent young women looking for a very small number of well-paid posts.”

He smiled with a knowing facetiousness. Stella knew what was in his mind. He was trying to recover from the high impression of her value that his first astonishment had given her.

“It isn't that.”

“No? Then perhaps you were thinking of applying for some post somewhere else; or indeed, have already been offered some post by another house. Very likely a better offer. I know that such salaries are being paid nowadays. At the same time, the bird in the hand, you know. It's no good taking a well-salaried post, if the organization is unsound and the salary is going to stop within a week or so. There's no point in that, Miss Balliol, is there?” His face assumed an exceedingly avuncular expression. “At the same time,” he added, his face brightening to an “every cloud has a silver lining” look, “I don't really see why with a little persuasion the directors shouldn't be coaxed into raising your salary a little.”

Stella had watched his gambit with amusement.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Beccles. It isn't that. I've decided to give up office work altogether.”

“So?” The pouncing look came into his eyes. “So that's it, is it? I might have suspected—how stupid of me, a legacy, the need for office work removed.”

“More or less.”

“Ah, well.…” Mr. Beccles sat back in his chair. His most benevolent expression on his face, but a spirit of genuine spite beneath his friendliness. He's never liked me. He's resented my independence! His next remark proved to her that she had guessed right.

“So that's the explanation, is it? Well, we shall be sorry to
lose you; very, very sorry. We always appreciated the way you worked for us. At the same time, I can't pretend that I don't think you're wise. It's all very well to talk of women working on equal terms with men. No one's more pleased than I to see women support themselves. But only when they need; only when they absolutely need, Miss Balliol. You'll never persuade me that an office desk is the real place for a woman.”

She made no reply. Her blood boiled angrily. As he had known it would. That's what he thinks of me; of my high-vaunted independence. Just a façade; to convince myself and my world that I was acting of choice, not of necessity. As soon as I had a chance of flinging up the job I've taken it. Proving that women were at heart what he had always maintained they were: cats who wanted to sit in front of a warm fire; who, whatever they might argue, only really wanted one thing: a man who will support them. If not a husband, then a father. Well, he can think it, if he chooses.

She left his room, fretting with irritation. Men: they all thought the same things about one. It was so hard to answer them, since ninety per cent, of women were like that; since they'd been trained to be like that; since they'd acquired through generations the characteristics of the sea anemone: beautiful and useless. But lots of them weren't like that. The rest of them were not going to be like that. Men—they'd show them.…

It was in a heightened state of excitement and rebellion that she presented her card that evening at the doorway of the Colingdale Town Hall. There was a large crowd streaming towards the door. It was a masculine audience, for the most part. Each person held his card for the doorkeeper to examine. As Stella passed into the hall, an argument was in progress.

“But I tell you I was sent a card. I've lost it,” a man was insisting angrily.

“And I'm telling you that no one can get in without a card.”

“But I had a card.”

“There's no proof of that.”

“Proof to hell! You'll get the proof of that when I vote Tory at the next election.”

At that point a policeman intervened.

“Come along now, come along. We can't have any of this nonsense here.”

Stella chuckled to herself. She liked to think that a man
who had a perfect right to be there should be refused admittance, while she who had no right at all should be walking quickly to a seat.