Delia Blanchflower — Chapter 17

Chapter XVII

Delia's luggage was brought in by the hall porter, and she and Winnington stood waiting for the lift.

Meanwhile Winnington happened to notice, through the open door of the mansions, a couple of policemen standing just outside, on the pavement, and two others on the further side of the street.

It seemed to him they were keeping the house which Delia and he had just entered under observation.

The lift descended.

There were in it four women, all talking eagerly in subdued tones.

One was grey-haired, the others were quite young girls.

The strained, excited look on all their faces struck Winnington sharply as they emerged from the lift.

One of the girls looked curiously at Delia and her tall companion.

The grey-haired lady's attention was caught by the policeman outside.

She gave a little chuckle.

"We shall have plenty to do with those gentry to-morrow!"

she said to the girl beside her, drawing her cloak round her so that it displayed a black and orange badge.

Delia approached her.

"Is Miss Marvell here?"

They all stopped and eyed her.

"Yes, she's upstairs.

She's just come back from the Central.

But she's very busy," said the elder lady.

"She won't see you without an appointment."

One of the girls suddenly looked at Delia, and whispered to the speaker.

"Oh, I see!"

said that lady, vaguely.

"Are you Miss Blanchflower?"

"Yes."

"I beg your pardon.

Miss Marvell's expecting you of course.

Do make her rest a bit if you can.

She's simply _splendid_!

She's going to be one of our great leaders.

I'm glad you won't miss it after all.

You've been delayed, haven't you?

--by somebody's illness.

Well, it's going magnificently!

We shall make Parliament listen--at last.

Though they'll protect themselves no doubt with any number of police--cowards!"

The eyes of the speaker, as her face came into the light of the hall lamp, sparkled maliciously.

She seemed to direct her words especially to Winnington, who stood impassive.

Delia turned to the lift, and they ascended.

They were admitted, after much ringing.

A bewildered maid looked at Delia, and the luggage behind her, as though she had never heard of her before.

And the whole flat in the background seemed alive with voices and bustle.

Winnington lost patience.

"Tell this man, please, where to take Miss Blanchflower's luggage at once.

And where is the drawing-room?"

"Are you going to stay, Miss?"

said the girl.

"There's only the small bedroom vacant."

Delia burst out laughing--especially at the sight of Winnington's irate countenance.

"All right.

It'll do quite well.

Now tell me where Miss Marvell is."

"I mustn't interrupt her, Miss." "This is my flat," said Delia, good-humouredly--"so I think you must.

And please shew Mr. Winnington the drawing-room."

The girl, with an astonished face, opened a door for Winnington, into a room filled with people, and then--unwillingly--led Delia along the passage.

Winnington looked round him in bewilderment.

He had entered, it seemed, upon a busy hive of women.

The room was full, and everybody in it seemed to be working at high pressure.

A young lady at a central table was writing telegrams as fast as possible, and handing them to a telegraph clerk who was waiting.

Two typewriters were busy in the further corners.

A woman, with a sharply clever face, was writing near by, holding her pad on her knee, while a printer's boy, cap in hand, was sitting by her waiting for her "copy."

Two other women were undoing and sorting rolls of posters.

Winnington caught the head-lines--"Women of England, strike for your liberties!"

"Remember our martyrs in prison!"

--"Destroy property--and save lives!"

"If violence won freedom for men, why not for women!"

And in the distance of the room were groups in eager discussion.

A few had maps in their hands, and others note-books, in which they took down the arrangements made.

So far as their talk reached Winnington's ears, it seemed to relate to the converging routes of processions making for Parliament Square.

"How do you do, Mr. Winnington," said a laughing voice, as a daintily-dressed woman, with fair fluffy hair came towards him.

He recognised the sister of a well-known member of Parliament, a lady who had already been imprisoned twice for window-breaking in Downing Street.

"Who would have thought to see you here!"

she said, gaily, as they shook hands.

"Surprising--I admit!

I came to see Miss Blanchflower settled in her flat.

But I seem to have stumbled into an office."

"The Central Office simply couldn't hold the work.

We were all in each other's way.

So yesterday, by Miss Marvell's instructions, some of us migrated here.

We are only two streets from the central."

"Excellent!"

said Winnington.

"But it might perhaps have been well to inform Miss Blanchflower."

The flushed babyish face under the fashionable hat looked at him askance.

Lady Fanny's tone changed--took a sharpened edge.

"Miss Blanchflower--you may be quite sure--will be as ready as anyone else to make sacrifices for the cause.

But we don't expect _you_ to understand that!"

"Nobody can doubt your zeal, Lady Fanny."

"Only my discretion?

Oh, I've long left that to take care of itself.

What are you here for?"

"To look after my ward."

Lady Fanny eyed him again.

"Of course!

I had forgotten.

Well, she'll be all right."

"What are you really preparing to do to-morrow?"

"Force our way into the House of Commons!"

"Which means--get into an ugly scrimmage with the police, and put your cause back another few years?"

"Ah!

I can't talk to you, if you talk like that!

There isn't time," she threw back, with laughing affectation, and nodding to him, she fluttered off to a distant table where a group of girls were busy making black and orange badges.

But her encounter with him seemed to have affected the hive.

Its buzz sank, almost ceased.

Winnington indeed suddenly discovered that all eyes were fixed upon him--that he was being closely and angrily observed.

He was conscious, quickly and strangely conscious, of an atmosphere of passionate hostility, as though a pulse of madness ran through the twenty or thirty women present.

Meredithian lines flashed into memory-- "Thousand eyeballs under hoods Have you by the hair--" and a shock of inward laughter mingled in his mind with irritation for Delia--who was to have no place apparently in her own flat for either rest or food--and the natural wish of a courteous man not to give offense.

At the same moment, he perceived on one of the tables a heap of new and bright objects; and saw at once that they were light hammers, fresh from the ironmongers.

Near them lay a pile of stones, and two women were busily casing the stones in a printed leaflet.

But he had no sooner become aware of these things than several persons in the room moved so as to stand between him and them.

He went back into the passage, closing the door behind him.

The little parlour-maid came hurriedly from the back regions carrying a tray on which was tea and bread and butter.

"Are you taking that to Miss Blanchflower?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Shew me the way, please."

Winnington followed her, and she, after a scared look, did not attempt to stop him.

She paused outside a door, and instantly made way for him.

He knocked, and at the "Come in" he entered, the maid slipping in after him with the tea.

Two persons rose startled from their seats--Delia and Gertrude Marvell.

He had chanced upon the dining-room, which no less than the drawing-room had been transformed into an office and a store-room.

Masses of militant literature, copies of the _Tocsin_, books and Stationery covered the tables, while, on the wall opposite the door, a large scale map of the streets in the neighbourhood of the Houses of Parliament had been hung over a picture.

It seemed to him that Delia looked ill and agitated.

He walked up to her companion, and spoke with vivacity-- "Miss Marvell!

--I protest altogether against your proceedings in this house!

I protest against Miss Blanchflower's being drawn into what is clearly intended to be an organised riot, which may end in physical injury, even in loss of life--which will certainly entail imprisonment on the ringleaders.

If you have any affection for Delia you will advise her to let me take her to my sister, who is in town to-night, at Smith's Hotel, and will of course most gladly look after her."

Gertrude, who seemed to him somehow to have dwindled and withered into an elderly woman since he had last seen her, looked him over from head to foot with a touch of smiling insolence, and then turned quietly to Delia.

"Will you go, Delia?"

"No!"

said Delia, throwing back her beautiful head.

"No!

This is my place, Mr. Mark.

I'm very sorry--but you must leave me here.

Give my love to Mrs. Matheson."

"Delia!"

He turned to her imploringly.

But the softness she had shewn on the journey had died out of her face.

She stood resolved, and some cold dividing force seemed to have rolled between them.

"I don't see what you can do, Mr. Winnington," said Gertrude, still smiling.

"I have pointed that out to you before.

As a matter of fact Delia will not even be living here on money provided by you at all.

She has other resources.

You have no hold on her--no power--that I can see.

And she wishes to stay with me.

I think we must bid you good night.

We are very busy."

He stood a moment, looking keenly from one to the other, at Gertrude's triumphant eyes blazing from her emaciated face, at Delia's exalted, tragic air.

Then, with a bow, and in silence, he left the room, and the house.

* * * * * It was quite dark when he emerged on Milbank Street.

All the neighbourhood of the Houses of Parliament and the Abbey seemed to be alive with business and traffic.

But Palace Yard was still empty save for a few passing figures, and there was no light on the Clock Tower.

A

placard on the railings of the Square caught his notice--"Threatened Raid on the House of Commons.

Police precautions."

At the same moment he was conscious that a policeman standing at the corner of the House of Commons had touched his hat to him, grinning broadly.

Winnington recognised a Maumsey man, whom he had befriended in various ways, who owed his place indeed in the Metropolitan force to Winnington's good word.

"Hullo, Hewson--how are you?

Flourishing?"

The man's face beamed again.

He was thinking of a cricket match the year before under Winnington's captaincy.

Like every member of the eleven, he would have faced "death and damnation" for the captain.

They walked along the man's beat together.

A thought struck Winnington.

"You seem likely to have some disturbance here tomorrow?"

he said, as they neared Westminster Bridge.

"It's the ladies, Sir.

They do give a lot of trouble!"

Winnington laughed--paused--then looked straight at the fine young man who was evidently so glad to see him.

"Look here, Hewson--I'll tell you something--keep it to yourself!

There'll be a lady in that procession to-morrow whom I don't want knocked about.

I shall be here.

Is there anything you can do to help me?

I shall try and get her out of the crowd.

Of course I shall have a motor here."

Hewson looked puzzled, but eager.

He described where he was likely to be stationed, and where Winnington would probably find him.

If Mr. Winnington would allow him, he would tip a wink to a couple of mates, who could be trusted--and if he could do anything to help, why, he would be "rare pleased" to do it.

"But I'm afraid it'll be a bad row, Sir.

There's a lot of men coming--from Whitechapel--they say."

Winnington nodded and walked on.

He went to his club, and dined there, refusing a friend's invitation to go and dine with him at home.

And after dinner, as the best means of solitude, he went out again into the crowded streets, walking aimlessly.

The thought of Delia arrested--refused bail--in a police cell--or in prison--tormented him.

All the traditional, fastidious instincts of his class and type were strong in him.

He loathed the notion of any hand laid upon her, of any rough contact between her clean youth, and the brutalities of a London crowd.

His blood rushed at the thought of it.

The mere idea of any insult offered her made him murderous.

He turned down Whitehall, and at a corner near Dover House he presently perceived a small crowd which was being addressed by a woman.

She had brought a stool with her, and was standing on it.

A thin slip of a girl, with a childish, open face and shrill voice.

He went up to listen to her, and stood amazed at the ignorant passion, the reckless violence of what she was saying.

It seemed indeed to have but little effect upon her hearers.

Men joined the crowd for a few minutes, listened with upturned impassive faces, and went their way.

A few lads attempted horse-play, but stopped as a policeman approached; and some women carrying bundles propped them against a railing near, and waited, lifting tired eyes, and occasionally making comments to each other.

Presently, it appeared to Winnington that the speaker was no more affected by her own statements--appalling as some of them were--than her hearers.

She appeared to be speaking from a book--to have just learnt a lesson.

She was then a paid speaker?

And yet he thought not.

Every now and then phrases stood out--fiercely sincere--about the low wages of women, their exclusion from the skilled trades, the marriage laws, the exploiting and "selling" of women, and the like.

And always, in the background of the girl's picture, the hungry and sensual appetites of men, lying in wait for the economic and physical weakness of the woman.

He waited until she had finished.

Then he helped her down from her perch, and made a way for her through the crowd.

She looked at him in astonishment.

"Thank you, Sir,--don't trouble!

Last night I was pelted with filth.

Are you one of us?"

He shook his head, smiling.

"I didn't agree with you.

I advise you to look up some of those things you said.

But you speak very well.

Good-night."

She looked at him angrily, gathered up her skirt with a rattle, in a small hand, and disappeared.

He presently turned back towards Buckingham Gate, and in a narrow Westminster street, as he passed the side of a high factory building, suddenly there emerged from a door-way a number of women and girls, who had evidently been working over-time.

Some of them broke at once into loud talk and laughter, as though in reaction from the confinement and tension of their work, some--quite silent--turned their tired faces to him as they passed him; and some looked boldly, provocatively at the handsome man, who on his side was clearly observing them.

They were of all types, but the majority of the quite young girls were pale and stunted, shewing the effect of long hours, and poor food.

The coarse or vicious faces were few; many indeed were marked by a modest or patient gentleness.

The thin line of hurrying forms disappeared into darkness and distance, some one way, some another; and Winnington was left to feel that in what he had seen--this everyday incident of a London street--he had been aptly reminded of what a man who has his occupation and dwelling amid rural scenes and occupations too readily forgets--that toiling host of women, married and unmarried, which modern industry is every day using, or devouring, or wasting.

The stream of lives rushes day by day through the industrial rapids; some of it passing on to quiet and fruitful channels beyond the roar, and some lost and churned for ever in the main tumult of the river.

This new claim upon women, on the part of society, in addition to the old claims of home and motherhood--this vast industrial claim--must it not change and modify everything in time?

--depress old values, create new?

"The vote!

--give us the vote!

and all will be well.

More wages, more food, more joy, more share in this glorious world!

--that's what the vote means--give us the vote!"

Such, in effect, had been the cry of that half-mad speaker in Whitehall, herself marked and injured by the economic struggle.

The appeal echoed in Winnington's heart.

And Delia seemed to be at his side, raising her eager eyes to his, pressing him for admission.

Had he, indeed, thought enough of these things?

--taken enough to heart this new and fierce struggle of women with life and circumstance, that is really involved in the industrial organisation of the modern world?

He passed on--up Buckingham Gate, towards the Palace.

Turning to the left, he was soon aware of two contrasted things:--an evening party going on at a well-known Embassy, cars driving up and putting down figures in flashing dresses, and gold-encrusted uniforms, emerging, and disappearing within its open doors--and only twenty yards away, a group of women huddled together in the cold, outside a closed fish-shop, waiting to buy for a few pence the broken or spoiled fish of the day.

But a little further on he suddenly plunged into a crowd coming down Grosvenor Place.

He stopped to watch it, and saw that it accompanied a long procession of men tramping back from Hyde Park.

A banner held by the leaders bore the words--"Unemployed and starving!

Give us work or bread."

And Winnington remembered there was a docker's strike going on in Limehouse, passionately backed and defended by the whole body of the local clergy.

His eyes examined the faces and forms in the procession.

Young and old, sickly and robust, they passed him by, all of them marked and branded by their tyrant, Labour; rolled like the women amid the rocks and whirlpools of the industrial stream; marred and worn like them, only more deeply, more tragically.

The hollow eyes accused him as they passed--him, with his ease of honoured life.

"What have you made of us, your brethren?

--you who have had the lead and the start!

--you who have had till now the fashioning of this world in which we suffer!

What is wrong with the world?

We know no more than you.

But it is your business to know!

For God's sake, you who have intelligence and education, and time to use them, think for us!

--think with us!

--find a way out!

More wages--more food--more leisure--more joy!

--By G--d!

we'll have them, or bring down your world and ours in one ruin together!"

And then far back, from the middle of the last century, there came to Winnington's listening mind the cry of the founders of English democracy.

"The vote!

--give us the vote!

--and bring in the reign of plenty and of peace."

And the vote was given.

Sixty years--and still this gaunt procession!

--and all through Industrial England, the same unrest, the same bitterness!

The vote?

What is it actually going to mean, in struggle for life and happiness that lies before every modern Community?

How many other methods and forces have already emerged, and must yet emerge, beside it!

The men know it.

And meanwhile, the women--a section of women--have seized with the old faith, on the confident cries of sixty years ago?

--with the same disillusion waiting in the path?

He passed on, drawn again down Constitution Hill, and the Mall, back to the Houses of Parliament and the River....

The night was clear and frosty.

He paused on Westminster Bridge, and leant over the parapet, feasting his eyes on that incomparable scene which age cannot wither nor custom stale for the heart of an Englishman.

The long front of the Houses of Parliament rose darkly over the faintly moonlit river; the wharves and houses beyond, a medley of strong or delicate line, of black shadow and pale lights, ran far into a vaporous distance powdered with lamps.

On the other side St. Thomas's Hospital, and an answering chain of lamps, far-flung towards Battersea.

Between, the river, heaving under a full tide, with the dim barges and tugs passing up and down.

"The Mississippi, Sir, is dirty water--the St. Lawrence is cold, dirty water--but the Thames, Sir, is liquid 'istory!"

That famous _mot_ of a Labour Minister delighted Mark's dreaming sense.

The river indeed as it flowed by, between buildings new and old, seemed to be bearing the nation on its breast, to symbolise the ever-renewed life of a great people.

What tasks that life had seen!

--what vaster issues it had still to see!

-- And in that dark building, like a coiled and secret spring ready to act when touched, the Idea which ruled that life, as all life, in the end, is ruled.

On the morrow, a few hundred men would flock to that building, as the representatives and servants of the Idea--of that England which lives "while we believe."

And the vote behind them?

--the political act which chose and sent them there?

Its social power, and all its ordinary associations, noble or ignoble, seemed suddenly to vanish, for Winnington, engulfed in something infinitely greater, something vital and primitive, on which all else depended.

He hung, absorbed, over the sliding water, giving the rein to reverie.

He seemed to see the English Spirit, hovering, proudly watchful, above that high roof beside the dark water-way, looking out to sea, and across the world.

What indomitable force, what ichor gleaming fire, through the dark veins of that weary Titan, sustained him there?

--amid the clash of alien antagonisms, and the mysterious currents of things?

What but the lavished blood and brain of England's sons?

--that rude primal power that men alone can bring to their country?

Let others solve their own problems!

But can women share the male tasks that make and keep _us_ a Nation, amid a jarring and environing host of Nations?

--an Empire, with the guardianship of half the world on its shoulders?

And if not, how can men rightly share with women the act which controls those tasks, and chooses the men to execute them?

And yet!

--all his knowledge of human life, all his tenderness for human suffering, rushed in to protest that the great question was only half answered, when it was answered so.

He seemed to see the Spirit of England, Janus-like, two-faced, with one aspect looking out to sea, the other, brooding over the great city at its feet, and turned inland towards the green country and studded towns beyond.

And as to that other, that home-face of England, his dreaming sense scarcely knew whether it was man or woman.

There was in it male power, but also virgin strength, and mother love.

Men and women might turn to it equally--for help.

No need for women in the home tasks--the national house-keeping of this our England?

He laughed--like France--at the mere suggestion of the doubt.

Why, that teeming England, north and south, was crying out for the work of women, the help of women!