by John Foster Fraser.
Originally published in The Windsor Magazine (Ward, Lock & Bowden Ltd.) vol.1 #4 (Apr 1895).
"Now slap in and win."
"That's all right for you, old man, for you know all the dodges of the game, but me—why, on earth, should I be a Member of Parliament?—tell me that."
"My dear boy, don't argue. Of course it was inconvenient your uncle dying suddenly, like he did, and spoiling your yachting cruise. Now there is a vacancy in the Dale-end division, who should be its representative but a Willoughby? Your family demands it; the shire demands it; why, the whole country—"
"Oh, drop that, Forsyth, and give a fellow some advice. You've all conspired to push me in as a candidate, and I've never spoken in public in my life, and I don't know anything about politics!"
"Oh, that's all right. Here are the collected speeches of Rosebery and Balfour. Pitch into one and praise up the other. Your constituency? Oh, partly rural and partly mining. When you're talking to the farmers, come it strong about agricultural depression and the price of corn; and when you have the miners as an audience, let loose about the toiling masses and the bowels of the earth, and all that sort of thing—you know."
"But I don't know."
Percy Willoughby, the inheritor of old Sir Harold Willoughby's estates, didn't at all like it. He walked nervously up and down the St. Pancras platform while Colonel Forsyth, M.P. for one of the northern manufacturing towns, instilled into his mind the first principles of political prevarication.
"Cheer up, Percy, my boy, and when I march you up the floor of the House of Commons as Member for Dale-end, why—"
"Oh, I'm not so sure. Who's the man I'm fighting?"
"Oh, Maurice Fitzgerald, Q.C. How those confounded lawyers do crop up. A tremendously clever fellow, I'm told, who practises at the Chancery Bar—talks about bimetallism—and has a wife—a long, scraggy lady, for I once met her at the Webster's—who has written a book on 'England as It Might Be.' She's down at Dale-end doing twice as much talking as the lawyer!"
"By Jove! and that reminds me," exclaimed Willoughby, wheeling round and staring dejectedly at his companion, "I've got to receive a deputation from the Dale-end Women's Suffrage Association!"
"Joy to you, my boy; much joy!" said the Colonel, slapping him on the back.
"But what am I to say to them?"
"Say to them? Why you're young enough and good-looking enough to say anything to them. Have you got your ticket? Now come on and don't miss the train. Smoking? No, that's wise. Keep your head clear, and just read up the pleuro-pneumonia question for the farmers."
"Oh, but look here, Forsyth, what shall I say to these women? Here's the letter—look at it. 'Understand—candidate—woman's influence—most important—views on woman's suffrage—receive deputation.' Oh, hang it all! It's signed 'Helen Anstruther'—some wizened old dame, no doubt. What do they want—what am I to say?"
"Oh that'll be all right. Just promise the old ladies whatever they want and then do as you like. Here you are; in you get. Goodbye, good luck! I'll come down next week and speak for you."
And then the express slowly steamed out of St. Pancras station on its journey northwards.
Percy Willoughby was miserable. He felt inclined to be rude to the old and stout clergyman on the other side, who would stand up to unstrap his bag and unearth a smoking cap, and in doing so threatened once or twice to fall heavily upon the Dale-end candidate.
"Dundering old idiot," muttered Willoughby with little reverence. Then he thought, "But perhaps he can tell me something about the Church question. That would be useful."
The clergyman was not inclined to tell anybody anything. He produced a volume of his bishop's sermons, laid them on his knee, and immediately dropped into a doze. But there was a third occupant in the carriage—a lady. Was she young? Maybe, but Willoughby could not see. She was holding a newspaper. Anyway, she had a very neat foot. Willoughby knew a neat foot when he saw it. So he argued by inference. She was probably pretty. Indeed, within two minutes he made up his mind she was pretty. That was rather a dainty dress of hers, a soft bluish grey with a silver band around the hem. And her hat—was it a bonnet or a hat? Anyway it was rather neat—nay, it was very neat.
"If only she would put down that confounded paper I might have a look at her. I can't offer to close the window, for it's already closed. Well, she's mightily interested—for a woman. I suppose it must be a breach of promise case, or perhaps all about the dresses at some fashionable wedding, or—ah!"
That 'ah!' was audible. The lady had put down the paper and was looking at him. He gazed at the dozing rector, but he felt a pair of eyes were turned in his direction. He was not a nervous fellow. He was a delightful companion in the shady corner of a conservatory, so long as the girl was pretty, but he now felt nervous, and he was quite sure he was blushing.
He turned his position so as to, just by chance as it were, have a peep at the lady. She was looking out of the window and was smiling. It wasn't the sheep or the cows or the landscape she was smiling at. Willoughby could have sworn that. He had something to do with the smile.
But she was pretty, and Willoughby knew a pretty woman when he saw one. So he forgave her and immediately began admiring her. He had already formed an opinion about the lips, and the eyes, and the wavy hair, and was just about to become inwardly enthusiastic over the shape of the nose, when the lady again took up the paper and left our hero to define the charm of that organ in vague but complimentary thoughts.
"Oh! confound it all!" said Willoughby, as he gave a lunge at his bag, covered with continental hotel labels, "what a nuisance this election is! I've almost a headache already. Now shall I read this book on Mining Royalties, or this pamphlet on Leasehold Enfranchisement, or Bimetallism in relation to the Cotton Trade? Oh! I'm hanged if I will! A fellow's country can ask him to do a good deal, but it shouldn't ask him to do that."
He laid the papers in a row on the seat and contemplated them dejectedly. There was a pile of the Dale-end journals, especially the opposition journal, which had an article on himself headed 'Youth and Ignorance.' He must reply to that! He had something stinging to say about the crime of youth—borrowed by the way from Pitt—and how he would hope that in coming years he would not be ignorant in spite of experience. Rather good, that! Then he began wondering what he could say respecting the importation of foreign cattle, and if the young lady at the other end of the carriage was married, and what sort of a creature Miss Helen Anstruther was, and whether Fitzgerald, Q.C., was so mighty clever after all, and if there was a possibility of getting to know the young lady, and if the majority would be a very large one, and whether the young lady was going to put down the paper and let him have another peep.
"May I look at your Dale-end Observer. I see you have it lying on the seat."
"Decidedly. Most pleased, I'm sure."
The lady smiled graciously upon him as he handed her the official organ of his foes, containing that biting article.
"I always read the Observer," continued the damsel, turning a look upon Willoughby which he acknowledged to be bewitching.
"As I've been in London I haven't seen this week's paper. Sleepy Dale-end is going to be quite excited. We've actually got a bye-election."
"So I've heard," said Willoughby, attempting to appear gracious, but knowing he was at a disadvantage. "Great nuisance—bye-elections."
"Oh, I don't think so," said the lady, as though quite prepared to argue the matter. "I think it's great fun hearing the candidates heckled."
"Yes, there is a humorous side to it," he said. Then, assuming an air of indifference, "And who are the candidates?" He looked beyond her out of the window, as though he were in profound ignorance. "Better get to know the temper of the town," he thought, "and, besides, she's rather a nice girl."
"Oh, there's Mr. Willoughby and Mr. Fitzgerald. Mr. Fitzgerald is tremendously clever. I don't think Mr. Willoughby is—that is, he might be, for I've only read his election address, and his grammar was so shaky."
"Indeed!"
"Yes, but then, he may be returned. He's the nephew of the late member, who was liked by everybody; and a name goes for something."
"I suppose it does."
"And here's an article about him. I must read it."
Willoughby felt uncomfortable. He would like to explain; but if he explained the lady wouldn't talk—at least, she wouldn't be frank.
"Oh, well, that is severe," observed the owner of the bewitching eyes, leaning back and softly laughing. "Do read it."
Willoughby glanced down the column. "That sort of humour doesn't appeal to me," he said, returning the paper.
"I wonder what Mr. Willoughby thinks of it?" and the girl looked at him archly.
For a moment he was confused. Then he burst into a laugh. "Why, you know—you know what I think about it."
"Oh, but you've got no sense of humour."
"You have. And how did you know I am Mr. Willoughby?"
"I recognised you the moment you came into the carriage."
"But I don't think I've ever had the—"
"No, you haven't! I saw your picture in an illustrated paper, and—"
"It was a likeness?"
"It was!"
"Well, wonders will never cease. But it's an awful nuisance being a candidate. You see, I know nothing about politics."
"I thought you didn't."
"Indeed!"
"I mean I've heard you have not made them a serious study."
"I haven't, and I've got to go down there and give people my views just as if I were an oracle, and to have that fellow Fitzgerald cutting my speeches all to bits; and then, even if I am successful, have to stop in London all through September, while they discuss the abolition of the House of Lords, when I ought to be in Scotland. Don't you think the man would be a benefactor of his race who proposed the abolition of the House of Commons?"
"No, I don't."
"Then you believe in the House of Commons—you, a woman, so charming, so—I beg your pardon; it didn't strike me that you were the sort of lady who took an interest in—er—well, er—you know."
"Oh, but I do."
Willoughby sat forward on his seat and twitched nervously at his watch-guard. "Then perhaps—perhaps," he said, "you belong to the Dale-end Women's Suffrage Association."
"I do. Isn't it shocking?" and laughter danced in the eyes of the maiden.
"I—I don't think that, but all the ladies I have known—er—all the ladies I have had the honour of being acquainted with have been—well, quite different, you know."
"I hope to their great advantage," and she sat straight up.
"Oh, pray excuse me. I intended to say they were more concerned with—er—well, you know, dresses and balls and yachting and pic-nicking and golf, and all that. But I must confess that after to-day"—and a smile stole under his moustache—"that after to-day—er—"
"No compliments, sir."
"I beg your pardon. Do you know Miss—Miss, what's her name—oh, Miss Ellen Anstruther?"
"Helen Anstruther?"
"Yes, the secretary of the Dale-end Women's Suffrage Association. I suppose she's one of those advanced ladies whom one meets, who wear curls."
"She hasn't worn any for some years now."
"Is she good-looking?"
"I've never heard anybody say she was positively ugly."
"Is she old?"
"Well, she might be younger."
"I thought so. Do you know that secretary of yours has kept me awake for two nights."
"Oh, I'm sorry for that."
"I've had no sleep thinking of this woman's deputation I've got to meet. But I'll refuse to support their Woman's Suffrage movement."
"And I'm sorry for that."
"It would be different if all its advocates were—er—so—"
"Sir, I have warned you."
"So intelligent as you!"
"Thank you. And here's Dale-end."
"I hope I shall have the honour—"
"Oh, I shall be with the deputation to-night. And," she said, pushing back some rebellious hair that had escaped from under her hat, "are you sure you are strongly opposed to Women's Suffrage?"
He smiled and said, "I am always open to conviction."
There was a great crowd at the station. Colonel Forsyth, old political campaigner that he was, had sent a telegram to Willoughby's committee rooms announcing when he would arrive.
"Willoughby for ever!" "Three cheers for Willoughby!" "Down with Fitzgerald!" "Booh!"
A portly gentleman with red whiskers, much jewellery, and a profusion of shirt front, welcomed him as the bearer of a 'onourable name. Willoughby bowed and looked serious. There had never been such a demonstration since he won the 100 yards at college. He followed the bejewelled chairman of his committee to his carriage. He looked round for the lady with whom he had travelled, but she was out of sight.
"We're all glad to have a Willoughby, sir," said his host after dinner, "but there's no doubting your opponent's a smart man. What we want is the support of the women folk. They're getting a terrible power are those women! Fitzgerald's bald and married. Now you—well, sir, you know what women are when there's a good-looking— Oh, by all means, it certainly is time we were moving if the deputation hasn't to be left waiting."
"What's Fitzgerald's views on Woman Suffrage?" asked Willoughby as he walked into the mayor's parlour at the Dale-end Town Hall. He was in trepidation and he felt that the fatal hour had arrived.
Alderman Freemantle, his host, replied:
"Well, it's hard to make out what Fitzgerald's views are. You see, he is a lawyer, and—well, it's hard!"
"I'm opposed to the whole thing," said Willoughby sturdily. "I think that the proper place of woman is—is—"
"Not by the hearth-side, sir!" gasped the alderman, "not by the hearth-side. That's what Fitzgerald said, and they laughed; yes, sir, they positively laughed at him. Oh, you don't know the Dale-end Women's Suffrage Association."
"And I don't want!" exclaimed the candidate savagely.
"The deputation would be pleased to receive you, sir," muttered a weak-voiced, weak-eyed little man who entered the room at that moment.
Percy Willoughby went forward. He would rather have faced a lion than the crowd of women whom he knew were scrutinising him, and weighing him up, and commenting on the way he did his hair, and asking one another whether he was engaged to be married or not. He bowed awkwardly.
There was a stout lady of doubtful years, with a pronounced air, staring hard at him. He knew it—that was Miss Helen Anstruther.
"Miss Anstruther, I believe!" he said, advancing and forcing a feeble smile.
"Oh no," said the lady addressed. "That is Miss Anstruther over by the doorway."
"That—that Miss—well, I'll be—He stopped and then felt as though he would like to laugh.
"It is very good of you, Mr. Willoughby, to receive this deputation," said his companion in the railway carriage that afternoon, coming forward with a smile.
"This is not fair," he muttered as he took her hand and looked straight into the large, tender, rather mischievous eyes.
"Oh, but all's fair in—in politics," was the laughing reply.
"Why, you told me you were old!"
"Indeed, no; I merely said I was not so young as I might be."
"Well, we won't argue."
"But are you convinced?"
"Of what?"
"Of the justice of woman's rights."
"Oh botheration—I beg your pardon, I mean I have quite made up my mind."
"And you are still—"
"I am still the most humble servant of every charming lady," he said with a bow.
There were several speeches. Willoughby didn't take much notice.
"Ladies," he said when the deputation had finished, "my views are soon told. It is only recently that I have taken an interest in party politics, but, ladies, I have always been a champion of justice. (Hear, hear.) Justice should be given to every man, and more than justice to every—I mean that women should be treated the same as men. (Cheers.) Ever since I have been able to think I have dreamed of some day being the chosen representative of such a constituency as this—(hear, hear)—and of being able to do a little towards the emancipation of women, to release them from the thraldom under which they have so long groaned. (Cheers.) Ladies, I have been a life-long believer in the principles of Woman's Suffrage, and I will vote for it on every conceivable and every inconceiv—on every opportunity." (Loud cheers.)
"And have you told the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?" whispered a reproving voice at his elbow.
"My dear Miss Anstruther, I am a political candidate," was the diplomatic reply.
* * * *
It was late summer. The Houses of Parliament were still sitting. To give afternoon tea to lady friends was the one bit of frivolity in which all the members joined. There was much chatter. Only one of the many dialogues interests us.
"If it hadn't been for you I should never have become a member. It was a small majority."
"And if you hadn't been returned you wouldn't have been able to give me afternoon tea."
"Neither would I. I think I shall pair and go for a holiday."
"With whom?"
"I shall pair with old Fairburn and go for a holiday with you."
"Please, Mr.—"
"No! I'm not joking this time, but I'm in earnest. I've been wanting to say it, but I've—I've been a coward. You know—you know—you know how I love you."
The waiter came and removed the empty cups and saucers.
"Helen!"
"Percy!"
"My wife," he whispered, placing his hand on hers, "I wish there weren't any people about."
"Why?"
They looked at each other and laughed, for their hearts were exceeding glad.