The Balliols (23 page)

When the fatal morning came, when she woke with a sick headache and drear, searing pain, she did her best to gather her strength together. To be brave, to make the last fight. But in her imagination she had faced and accepted defeat so often, that when the wardresses pinioned her on the bed, when she saw grinning above her the loathed and mocking face, she broke down.

“Give me food. It's all right, I'll eat.”

With an arm flung across her eyes, she shut out from her vision the smile of triumph on that gloating face; such a smile of triumph as he must show when a long-sought conquest dropped her last defence.

Two days later, recovered now, strengthened, despising her weakness, wondering how she could have been so childish, she joined the exercise file upon the prison square. She was sick with shame. She would have no right now to repeat the password “Resolute.” To her surprise, however, none of the other twelve was there.

Later she asked a wardress the explanation. Had they been moved to another prison?

Moved into another place altogether, she was told. Been set free, they had been. There had been such a fuss in the paper, so many questions asked in the House about treatment of prisoners, that all suffragettes on hunger strike had been released.

“When had they gone?” she asked.

“Yesterday morning.”

Yesterday morning! If she had only hung on for another day she would have been released.

“Were they all released?”

“Every blinking one of them.”

Every one of them. She was the only one of the thirteen to fail.

The release of the twelve hunger strikers had been the occasion for a considerable demonstration outside the prison. When Lucy was released a fortnight later there was only her father waiting for her in the courtyard. He welcomed her as he had done on her return from school. He took her coat for her, slipped his arm through hers, pressed it affectionately; as he walked her towards the cab rank he talked of their immediate plans. “We've quite a number of amusing things arranged.” And just as on her return from school he had said: “After that long journey, I'm sure you'd like a cup of coffee,” so now he said, “You must be hungry. I'll stop the taxi at the first reasonable eating house.” Now, as then, she was touched by the affectionate hand clasp, grateful for the warming food. It was just as it had been then; only then she had been happy and excited; not only thrilled at the prospect of a holiday, but proud with the knowledge that that holiday had been earned. She had no feeling of pride now. She had done nothing to be proud of. She had failed. She had proved herself a coward. She was slinking home, beaten. There was no triumph about her return.

Her father made no reference to her stay in prison. He wouldn't. He never asked questions; never probed. If a confidence were brought to him, he was sympathetic; he would take infinite trouble to smooth out those difficulties on which advice had been invited. But he never interfered. She was grateful to him for that. “He's a darling, one couldn't have a better father. I wonder what he makes of it.” Not that she really cared. This was a part of her life that was apart from him: that he had never shared with her; in which he was not really interested; whose importance to her he had never accurately assessed; that he regarded as an interlude, as a fancy to be humoured, to be endured with patience. She did not worry about what he thought. She was anxious to make him happy; to spare him pain. She was sorry if she had made him unhappy. But it was Aunt Stella's opinion that really mattered. To Aunt Stella her exploit would have a personal significance. Would Aunt Stella be ashamed of her? Would Aunt Stella be able to understand her weakness? “I'm not going to make excuses. I'm not going to
explain myself. If she can't guess the way it was, well there it is, I'll have to find some other way of proving to her that I'm not a coward; that I can be trusted.” For on that point she was resolved. If she had lost or forfeited her Aunt's belief in her, she would win it back. She would have another chance.

So she mused as she sat over her breakfast at an A.B.C. The marbled, unclothed table, the thick cups, the simple fare were luxuries to her after her month of prison. It was of such a moment that she had dreamed during the hours of her hunger strike. But there was no relish to them now. She was still on trial. Till she had seen that first expression in Aunt Stella's face she would not know in what manner she was judged. She would be able to enjoy nothing till she knew.

At her side her father maintained a casual flow of talk; but his eyes were watching her; noting not only those things which he had expected—the worn, thin look of the cheeks, the dark hollows under the eyes, the untended finger nails, the roughened fingers—but things he had not looked for: a languid indifference of manner, a complete absence of any excitement at being free, no looking forward to pleasures of which she had been deprived. She seemed as though the vitality had been beaten out of her. Is
this
what prison does to people?

That afternoon he rang up Stella from his office.

“Look here, I've seen Lucy. I'm very worried about her.”

“What's the matter?”

“She's lifeless, listless, uninterested.”

“That's what people often are by the time that the prison authorities have done with them.”

“That's as it may be. I want you to promise me that she shan't go there again.”

“I'll do my best.”

“That's what you said the last time.”

“I didn't know she'd go behind my back and against my orders.”

“Then will you see this time there are no people behind your back that she can get at?”

“Oh, very well.”

Stella walked angrily out of her office into Miss Draft's room. People like her brother seemed to imagine that she had nothing to do but dry-nurse their daughters, sisters, wives. The number of people who rang her up, or wrote to her, or called to ask whether the particular person in whom they were interested, could not have this,
that or the other concession arranged for them. Lucy was her parents' concern, not hers. Still, since the promise had been given.…

“It's about my niece,” she told Miss Draft. “She's had a bad time in prison. She's not strong enough to take on that kind of work. Not yet, anyhow. She's been brought up soft. She can't stand it. I want you to see that she's not sent on anything that's likely to get her put to prison. And see that Miss Wigmore and Mrs. Tyler are warned as well.”

That's that, she thought, as she went back to the large pile of work whose dimensions were increasing daily.

On the following morning, Stella arrived to find her niece already waiting in the front office.

She was surprised.

“I hadn't expected to see you here.”

“I wanted to start work again straight away.”

“That's fine, now let me see…” Stella hesitated. She was uncertain how best to employ Lucy for the moment. When Lucy had been sent to prison, she had had to find another secretary. The girl she had found was more experienced than Lucy; she was quick, silent, unobtrusive. There was an impersonal atmosphere about her that Stella liked. She felt that she was speaking her thoughts into a machine. On the other hand, she had been always conscious of Lucy as a real person, with whom a relationship had to be established and maintained. She could not, with Lucy as her secretary, walk into her office, pick up her papers and start her work, as though nothing but her work existed for her. Fond though she was of Lucy, she found it easier to work with her new secretary. She had, indeed, welcomed the change. As Beccles would have said, it was an ill wind that blew nobody any good. She had no intention of getting rid of her new secretary. She had not expected to be presented with Lucy's problem quite so early.

She hesitated.

“I think that's very fine of you, to want to come back so soon. I've had to get another girl to take your place; temporarily, of course; but in the meantime there are one or two things we're working on that can't be very well disturbed, so I think the best thing would be for you to help Miss Draft. She's always telling me she's got more than she can handle. Aren't you, Miss Draft? Well, here's Lucy to take some of it off your shoulders.”

With a preoccupied smile she passed into her own room.

As the door closed behind her, Lucy shut her eyes.

No longer to be Aunt Stella's secretary. She had expected many different kinds of welcome, but never this. Instead of earning respect, she had forfeited such confidence as had been hers before. How eagerly she had said good-bye to this room five weeks ago. She had pictured the proud, triumphant welcome of her return. The admiring look in her aunt's eyes, that accepted her friendship and co-operation on equal terms. It was the thought of that look that in prison had reconciled her to the pain and ignominies of the hunger strike; and later, after she had given way, had accepted the food which symbolized surrender, it had been the thought, the hope, the belief that her aunt would understand that had lessened the shame of failure. Whatever the other twelve might think, whatever Miss Draft and her parents might think of her, there would be one person who would understand. It might be that her failure might be a closer link than a spectacular success. They would share something that no one else could share; the other way, her aunt would have been one spectator out of many. That's what she had thought. That's how she had argued. And this was what had happened. To be exiled from confidence, and faith; to have less even than she had had before; to be Miss Draft's assistant.

“Now, there's something here that I'd like you to do for me, Miss Balliol,” a firm, precise voice was saying at her side.

Lucy opened her eyes, blinked, pulled herself together. She must get started on her next duties. She was not going to sulk. She would show Miss Draft what she was worth. As she seated herself before her typewriter, she was dramatizing the moment when Miss Draft would remark to Aunt Stella: “I can't tell you how satisfied I am with Lucy Balliol.…”

Half way through the morning the door was flung exuberantly open, and Annie Martin bounded into the room. She had been the ringleader of the Thirteen Club. She was red-cheeked, untidy; her hair loose under her hat, her eyes bright. She stopped at the sight of Lucy, in obvious embarrassment.

“What, you, Miss Balliol? I'd no idea you were out.”

“I came out yesterday.”

“So the time's passed as soon as that, really? Not that it's seemed so short to you, I suppose. Doesn't the time drag when one's in there? Out here it's simply flown. It's been such fun, you can't think what a reception we had. I do wish you had been with us. I asked for you everywhere. I thought there must be some mistake. But no, they said. You were sitting up and taking nourishment.
I was disappointed. We're going to have our first real meeting of the Thirteen Club next week. That's what I've come to see your aunt about. We want her to preside. We've co-opted another girl who did the hunger strike the week before. We felt we had to keep up the name that we first thought of. I think you ought to be an honorary member. Couldn't you come along? It's going to be on Thursday.”

Lucy shook her head.

“I'm very sorry. I've got to be a good daughter that day.”

“Have you? I
am
sorry. So will the others be, I know. Never mind. You must come along some other time. We mustn't lose sight of one another. Is your aunt in there? She is? Splendid! Then I'll go straight in.”

And that's what
I
ought to have been doing, Lucy thought; coming to ask Aunt Stella if she wouldn't preside for us.

She visualized the scene: seeing her thoughts in pictures, not in words. The twelve other girls discussing the arrangements for their first real meeting of the Thirteen Club in some A.B.C. or other over their working girl's lunch of coffee, poached egg and macaroon. One of them saying, “I do wish we could get Stella Balliol.” Clara Martin saying, “Well, there's only one person here who stands any chance of persuading
her”
Herself, flushing with pride at this general recognition of her closeness to their leader, saying, “Well, I'll do my best.” Picturing herself later in the day, coming into Stella's room, knocking at the door, knowing that she would be welcomed, Stella looking up with the friendly smile that had become habitual now that she was proved worthy of it. “Well, what is it?” “It's about the Thirteen Club we've formed. I told you about it. The thirteen of us who hunger struck together. We're having our first real meeting next week. We do so want you to come. Will you? Please!” “If
you
want me to…” The smile deepening.

Yes, that's how it should have been.

But it wasn't. Because she'd not been strong enough; because fate hadn't let her. She had missed her chance. She would have to wait till she was well again and strong. Then she would prove to Stella what she was worth. I must get strong again as quickly as I can.

Her resolve to get well again took a shape that was extremely congenial to her family. She displayed at table a heartiness of appetite that astonished Hugh. She showed a readiness for exercise that took the form of accompanying her father round the Hampstead
golf course on Saturday afternoons. She escorted Francis to the Zoo on Sunday mornings. She accepted week-end invitations in the country that involved ten-mile walks over the downs before lunch, and a four-mile stroll between tea and dinner. Colour came into her cheeks, her eyes brightened, her shoulders grew full, she became, suddenly, without anyone quite realizing it, an extremely lovely girl.

“She doesn't seem to be the same person that she was six weeks ago,” was her father's comment. Her mother nodded. He made frequent and gratified references to her health and appearance, but in spite of that he was a little worried. There was a reserve about Lucy that was new. One associated a brooding mood with dark corners, armchairs, pale cheeks, a sullen expression, a listless air. In Lucy's behaviour and appearance there were no such symptoms. Yet it was clear to him that she was brooding over secrets that she would share with no one.