It was not that Marjorie was not an animal-lover. It was just that she was a Philip-lover and could not at that moment spare one ounce of feeling for anything or anybody else. True love is a peculiarly self-centered emotion and Marjorie was no different from anyone else.
She soon forgot her guilt over Mackintosh and settled down to wait for Hermione. She had not long to wait.
Hermione did not waste time on tea or preliminary social gambits but came straight to the point. “Before I tell you the news about Philip,” she began, “you must promise me not to breathe a word to a soul. It is deadly secret.”
Marjorie gave her word, her eyes like saucers.
“Philip,” said Hermione in a low voice, “is a member of the Camden Town Anarchists!”
“But what are they?” asked Marjorie, bewildered.
“Oh, they are a nutty group of strange people who meet in a house in Camden Town and plan to overthrow the King and the government and … and … everything.”
“But Philip would not have anything to do with that!” cried Marjorie.
“Oh, yes he has,” said Hermione. “He told me they don’t believe in every Tom, Dick or Harry having the vote. He says all the stuffy old establishments should be torn down so that they can rebuild Britain in their own image. Isn’t it awful?”
“But,” protested Marjorie with a rare flash of common sense, “Philip stands for everything that is old and stuffy, so to speak.”
“He is bored,” said Hermione. “That’s all. This is merely something to alleviate the boredom. He enjoys danger and he says he is not interested in any woman who is not prepared to share that danger with him. He never goes to their meetings, he is one of their most secret members. But he says he won’t have anything to do with me unless I go to their beastly meetings and learn all about the movement. And I can’t and I won’t. Then he said I hadn’t any courage but he was sure there were women who had. I hate to lose him but I simply haven’t got that kind of courage, dear Marjorie.”
“Were … I mean are … you engaged to Lord Philip?” asked Marjorie, her voice barely a whisper.
“Not officially,” said Hermione. “We always had an understanding but I’m not taking part in this lunacy.”
“I didn’t know you had an understanding with Lord Philip,” said Marjorie accusingly. “You might have told me. Why did you encourage me to write that silly poetry?”
“It wasn’t silly,” cried Hermione. “The fact is that Philip was already growing cold toward me and I didn’t want Amy or Jessie to have him. I’ve taken a liking to you, Marjorie. You’re more sensitive than the sort of girls I know.”
“Are you trying to tell me that I should join this group?” asked Marjorie.
“Oh, no!” shrieked Hermione in mock horror. “I simply had to have someone to confide in. I cried all last night.”
“Where has Lord Philip been? Has he been working with these anarchists? Is that why I haven’t seen him?”
Hermione nodded.
“It’s too ridiculous,” said Marjorie. “I can hardly believe it.”
“It’s true enough,” said Hermione sadly. “If the police find out, Philip’s going to be in awful trouble. I got as far as standing outside their headquarters. It’s in a sleazy sort of place, number nineteen Peter Street in Camden Town. I didn’t have the courage to go in.”
“I am doing nothing today,” said Marjorie thoughtfully. “Perhaps I might just go to see what the place looks like.”
“Oh, you mustn’t,” cried Hermione, “I wish I hadn’t told you.” She pierced Marjorie with a well-feigned look of jealousy, which did more to convince Marjorie that the tale was true than anything that had gone before. “I really must leave now. You must promise me you will not do anything about this. Philip would never forgive me if he knew I had told you.”
Marjorie replied with a noncommittal murmur and Hermione left, well satisfied.
Marjorie sat for a long time in thought after she had gone. It seemed that Lord Philip was not the god she had imagined. The Camden Town Anarchists indeed! Marjorie’s adoration of Lord Philip was now strengthened by a new strong maternal feeling. At all costs, he mustn’t come to harm. She, Marjorie Montmorency-James, would see to that!
A half hour later, dressed in a plain black coat and close-fitting hat borrowed from Rose, the parlormaid, with the excuse that Marjorie was attending a fancy dress tea as a maid, Marjorie cautiously set out to find a cab to take her to Camden Town. The nearest cab rank was deserted except for a four-wheeled clarence.
The clarence was more familiarly known as “the growler” because of the terrible noise it made as it rolled over stone or macadam roads. This one proved to be no exception. The loose rattling windows added a tremulous, shaky note to the growling bass of the wheels. Dirty straw littered the floor. The surly, overworked coachman was as decrepit as his horse.
Marjorie was jolted, deafened and rattled to bits by the time the ancient vehicle turned into the narrow and smelly confines of Peter Street.
The coachman charged her five shillings and Marjorie innocently paid. The fare should have been one shilling and sixpence.
“Look, miss,” said the coachman, his sharp eyes having noticed Marjorie’s expensive boots peeping out from beneath the shabby coat. “I have to rest me ’orse. Is you a-going to be long? For if not, I’ll waits ’ere for you and take you home.”
“Please wait, cabby,” said Marjorie gratefully. “That is, I may be about half an hour.”
“S’all right with me, lady.”
Marjorie turned and surveyed number 19 Peter Street. It was a tall, narrow tenement with dirty curtains at the window. Peter Street was little more than a short cul-de-sac. The tottering buildings on either side of number 19 were deserted and empty.
The coachman voiced Marjorie’s thought. “Sure you’ve got the right address, miss? Them buildings is condemned.”
“I think so,” said Marjorie doubtfully. Now that she had come all this way, she was reluctant to go back without finding out something. She shivered in Rose’s thin coat. The sky was growing darker by the minute. A workman crossing the end of the street stared at her curiously.
Courageously, Marjorie walked up to the door. There were so many bells like a series of organ stops sticking out at the side of the door that Marjorie despaired of finding the right one. She peered at the names and then found one at the top that simply consisted of a grimy card with C.T.A. printed on it.
She took a deep breath and pulled the bell. There was a long silence.
Well, whoever it was would have to come all the way down the stairs to let her in. Behind her, the elderly cab horse wheezed and stamped and a lamplighter came along the street with his long brass pole to light the lamps.
Marjorie turned to watch him. Who could ever see a lamplighter go by without turning to watch? Like a magician, he raised his brass pole and immediately a gas flower burst into bloom. The air was now damp and misty and the lamp was a globe of light surrounded by concentric rainbows, a miniature Saturn in a dirty London world.
Marjorie turned back. Through the cracked glass of the door, she could see the wavering gleam of a candle as someone came downstairs.
The door was jerked open and a very hairy young man stood there. He had so much hair on his head and so much hair on his face that his small eyes peered out at Marjorie like some wild creature staring out of the underbrush.
“Yerse?” he demanded, holding the candle up and studying Marjorie’s face.
“I have come to join you,” she said in a low voice, in case the cabbie should hear.
“Garn!” said the young man rudely. “Go back to your ma.”
“Go back to yours,” snapped Marjorie, all of a sudden not at all scared, merely furious. “Because you badly need a wash.”
“Hoity-toity,” he said in an affected voice. “You’d better come in. Send the cab away.”
“No,” said Marjorie firmly. “I have merely come to join and to have a list
of your meetings and then I’m leaving.”
“Don’t stand jawing on the doorstep, madam,” he said sourly. “You want the whole bloody street to hear you?”
Marjorie stepped past him into the dark hallway, which smelled of cats and cabbage and urine, the age-old smell of poverty. There was a scuttling noise in the shadows.
“Rats!” said the young man behind her gleefully.
“Of course,” said Marjorie coldly. “This place needs as much of a wash as you do.”
He sniggered but moved past her to light her way up a rickety flight of stairs. Marjorie had reached that excited point of bravery known to many soldiers. She had charged into battle and all her fears had left her.
Higher and higher they climbed until he came to a stop outside an attic door and knocked three times. A Judas in the door cracked open and a dirty sharp female face looked through.
“Password,” she demanded.
“Come on, Phyllis. It’s me, Tony.”
“Password,” repeated the grimy female in more militant tones.
“All right, all right,” sighed the young man. “Down with everything.”
The door swung open and Marjorie found herself in a low-ceilinged room.
Apart from the female doorkeeper and the young man, there were four people, all men and all as wild and unkempt and hairy as Marjorie’s escort. There was no furniture in the room and the company were seated on the bare boards before a smoky fire, drinking Wincarnis tonic wine. Marjorie wondered if the tonic wine was to fortify them for the revolution or if they had stolen it or could not afford anything else.
“She says she’s a new member,” said Marjorie’s escort, jerking a thumb at her. Six pairs of eyes studied Marjorie.
“My name,” said Marjorie’s escort, “is Tony Byles. That there is Phyllis Sidebottom. On the floor from left to right is Joseph, Charlie, Bernie and Jim.”
“How do you do,” said Marjorie politely. They all seemed to find this very funny and screamed with laughter.
Phyllis was the first to recover. “How did you find out about us?” she demanded.
Marjorie did not want to mention Lord Philip’s name since by doing so she would betray her friend Hermione. “In the newspapers,” she ventured boldly.
To her relief, they all nodded. “That would be the Camden Weekly,” said Phyllis proudly. “Blamed us for the bombing of the post office, it did, but the police couldn’t prove nothing.”
There was a silence while Marjorie digested this news about bombs. The anarchists must be very punctual people, she thought, noticing a row of brass alarm clocks along the mantelshelf.
“Why do you want to join us?” asked Tony at last.
Marjorie took a deep breath and repeated as much of what Hermione had told her as she could remember.
“Name?” said Phyllis, joining the interrogation.
“Rose Cummings,” lied Marjorie, using the parlormaid’s name.
“What d’you do?” chimed in Joseph.
“Parlormaid.”
“OOOH!” they all screamed with mock gentility and began curtsying and bowing. “How refeened!”
“Shut up!” barked Tony, who seemed to be in charge. “Look here, Rose, you can’t just come barging in here, demanding to join us. You’ll need to take a test. Then we’ll consider you.”
Rose-Marjorie took a deep breath. “All right,” she said.
“Make it a good un,” shrilled Phyllis. Marjorie surveyed her with dislike. She was a small thin girl in a grubby purple silk dress. She had greasy hair of an indeterminate color scraped back in a bun and wore a pair of cracked elastic-sided boots. She smelled quite terrible and Marjorie wished she wouldn’t move about so much. It was apt to spread the bouquet around the place.
There was a long silence while they all pondered Marjorie’s fate. The sky outside the window was quite black and somewhere from below came the whickering of the cab horse.
“Got it!” cried Tony at last. “You know White’s Club in St. James’s Street?”
“I know of it,” said Marjorie. “It is a gentlemen’s club. Women are not allowed in.”
“Nobody’s asking you to go in,” said Tony triumphantly. “Here’s what you got to do. You’ve got to throw a brick through the window.”
“What good will that do?” demanded Marjorie crossly.
“It will strike a blow at the heart of the establishment. You’re to put a note on the brick saying it’s a present from the anarchists, see. We’ll move our headquarters tomorrer. We’ve got to get out of this place tonight, anyways. Give us your address and we’ll send you word of our new place. If you do it.”
“Look at ’er face,” jeered Phyllis. “She’ll never do it.”
“Oh, yes I will,” said Marjorie, feeling strangely calm. God would surely reward her with marriage to Lord Philip after all this devotion and courage. The Lord helps those who help themselves. Everyone knew that.
The company stared at her in amazement and admiration. Marjorie explained she was in service to a Mrs. Wilton who would most certainly not allow her to receive letters. She cringed at the thought of the real Rose receiving a letter from the anarchists. “One of you shall meet me at the Albert Memorial in Kensington Gardens,” she said. “At three o’clock tomorrow.”
This appealed to their plotting natures and they agreed but all surveyed her with mocking glances. They never thought for a minute that she would do it. She said:
“I believe a certain member of the aristocracy belongs to your organization.” They looked at her rather blankly and then Tony said stoutly, “Of course. But we don’t tell no names, see. We’ve got all sorts of grand folks on our list.”
Tony received admiring nods from his friends. Like Tony, they were all rather impressed by the beautiful Marjorie and did not want her to think that she was meeting the sum total of the organization.
Marjorie was glad to escape outside into the cold open air. She was very thoughtful as the coachman rattled her back to the cab rank near Eaton Terrace. She would have to do it and do it that very evening before she lost this newfound calm courage. But White’s, of all places!
Founded one year earlier than the Bank of England, White’s is the oldest London club and the most famous in the world. In 1811, Beau Brummell and his friends had made the famous bow window their private preserve. Called once “an oasis of civilization in a desert of democracy,” White’s is the club with the most exclusive members list.
And one of its most exclusive members was Lord Philip Cavendish.
Marjorie paid off the coachman—another five shillings—and then looked up at him. “I would like to hire you for this evening,” she said. “What is your name?”
“Charlie, miss,” said the cabbie. “And my ’orse, he’s Charlie too.”
“I will pay you, let me see, two pounds to take me to White’s Club in St. James’s Street. You are to wait a few minutes for me. If you bring me back safely here,” she indicated the cab rank, “then I will pay you another two pounds. But …” she went on as Charlie was about to express his willingness to drive her to the ends of the earth … “you must not tell anyone about me, no matter what happens.”
“Cross my heart, miss,” said Charlie fervently. Four pounds in all. Four whole pounds! There had been a cabbie only the other week who had jumped off Westminster Bridge because he couldn’t stand the long hours and starvation any longer. Charlie, the horse, would have the biggest sack of oats he had ever seen and Charlie, the master, would have steak and kidney pie until it came out of his ears.
“I shall be here at eleven o’clock,” said Marjorie, feeling very like a heroine in a novel. “Do not fail me.”
“Not me, miss,” said Charlie entering into the spirit of the thing. “No one shall ’ear a word from old Charlie, not if they were to torture him ever so.”
Satisfied, Marjorie returned home, drawing the thin coat around her and skulking along in the shadows. She really must buy a cloak, she thought.
Lord Philip Cavendish did not believe in divine intervention. He was sitting in the famous bow window of White’s staring at the club bore, General Arthur Hammer, as if he could not believe his ears. Indifferent to his glazed eyes, the General pontificated on the insanity of the Women’s Suffragette Movement, the Cruel Sports League and the Bolshevists. The country was simply going to the dogs.
Democracy was a lot of rot. What England needed was to be governed by a few strong people like himself. Lord Philip had unwisely told the General he was awaiting the arrival of Toby Anstruther and so had neatly cut any line of retreat. The leather armchairs were deep and comfortable and his head began to nod. Oh, God, he thought wearily for the tenth time, let something happen to silence this incredible bore.
As if in answer to his prayer, there was a terrible shattering of glass as a brick sailed through the window and crashed onto the carpet between them.
“Bless my soul,” cried the General.
Lord Philip jumped to his feet and stared through the shards of glass into St. James’s Street. There were quite a number of carriages: hansoms, victorias, cabriolets, broughams and a shabby old clarence. There were startled shouts and yells and the club porter ran out on the steps and started shouting for the police.
Lord Philip ran out after him. A small crowd had gathered and was already noisily discussing the great event. It was the Suffragettes, the Bolshevists, the Cruel Sports League. They all sounded like so many General Hammers.
Lord Philip returned to the club to find General Hammer waving a piece of paper. “This was tied round the brick,” he cried.
Lord Philip read the note. It said very simply, “A present from the Anarchists.” The handwriting was educated and he felt sure that somehow he had seen it before. But that was impossible!
My Lords, Ladies and Marjorie Page 7