In Mrs Baker's opinion "John" was infallible, and by and by Norah became so much infected with this view that her afternoon's occupation became fraught with misery, as she thought of what "John" would say if he knew to what heresies she was lending her ears. One Sunday afternoon returning to the Berrington Square drawing-room after a short absence, she overheard a few words which sent an added pang through her heart.

"--Most fortunate indeed!" John was saying. "You might have searched the world over, and not found another like her. I had begun to fear that the type was extinct. A sweet, modest, old-fashioned girl!"

That evening Norah wet her pillow with her tears, and astonished the advanced lady the next afternoon by contradicting a.s.sertions, and raising up objections in a most unprecedented fashion. These signs of backsliding were very distressing to Miss Mellor, who had been encouraged by her companion's unfailing acquiescence to imagine herself unanswerable in argument, but she was encouraged to believe that example might perhaps accomplish what precept had failed to inspire.

"You will, I know, rejoice with me on a great honour which has been conferred upon me by my fellow-workers," she announced proudly one day.

"I have been promoted from the reserves to a foremost position in the fighting line. I am nominated for active service on Friday next!"

Norah's eyes were exceptionally large and expressive, and the saucer-like stare of curiosity which she turned upon the speaker was very gratifying to that good lady's feelings.

"On Friday evening. At the Albert Hall. The Chancellor is to speak.

We shall be there. Twenty are nominated for service. _I_ am Number Nine!"

Norah stared harder than ever. This sounded rather perilously like the story of a Nihilist Plot which she had read in a shilling shocker some weeks before. She had visions of bomb explosions and wholesale arrests, and, as ever, the thought of John obtruded itself into the foreground of her mind. What would John think if Miss Mellor were arrested, and gave the name of Norah Boyce as her chosen friend and confidante?

"Number Nine, for _what_?" she gasped nervously, and Miss Mellor was hurried into unthinking reply:

"For screaming--I mean protesting. The first eight champions will raise their voices in rotation. They will be silenced, probably ejected.

Then it will be My Turn."

"Ejected!" Norah looked scared. "Turned out. Oh-h! How dreadful!

They will seize hold of you--men will seize hold of you, and pull and drag. They will pinch your arms... It must be horrid to be pinched!"

"What would have become of the world if other great reformers had ceased their struggles through dread of being pinched?" demanded Miss Mellor sternly; and Norah felt snubbed, and looked it. She had no courage left for further argument.

On the next Friday afternoon Norah took her way to the flat to accompany her fighting employer on the walk abroad which should invigorate her for the evening's fray, but to her dismay found the good lady stretched upon the sofa, very flushed as to face, and husky as to voice.

"It is quinsy," she announced. "I'm subject to it. I felt it coming on, but I would not give in. I have gargled and fomented all morning, but it is too late. I couldn't scream to save my life. It's a terrible, terrible disappointment, but I am thankful that I need not upset the Committee's plans. You shall take my place!"

"I?" cried Norah shrilly. "No, no--I can't! I couldn't--I wouldn't-- not for anything in the whole wide world! Call out before a whole meeting, have them all staring at me, strange men catching hold of me, dragging my sleeves, crushing my hat--_never_! I'd sooner die!"

"Then," croaked Miss Mellor hoa.r.s.ely, "I shall go myself!" And from this point she refused to budge. She was ill; in the natural course of events she would grow worse; if she went out into the damp and the cold, and endured the excitement of a crowded political meeting, she would most certainly be very ill indeed; but she had promised; she could not disappoint the Committee at the eleventh hour; she had no energy to seek further for a subst.i.tute. Then her voice took a pathetic turn, and she sighed feebly.

"I have been kind to you, Norah. I have tried to be your friend.

Danvers (the maid) would accompany you to the Hall. You have nothing to do but to sit still and interrupt when your turn arrives. How can you be so selfish and unkind?"

As time went on and argument and appeal alike failed to move Miss Mellor from her position, a paralysis of helplessness seized Norah in its grip.

She knew that in the end she would be compelled to consent, for of two horrifying alternatives it seemed the least to dare a certain amount of buffeting for herself, rather than allow another woman to run the risk of serious, even fatal, consequences. At nine o'clock that evening, then, behold a trembling and faint-hearted Number Nine seated at the end of one of the rows of stalls at the Albert Hall, the faithful Danvers by her side, listening with all her ears, not to the eloquence of the Chancellor of the Exchequer, but to the shrill interruptions from feminine tongues which punctuated his utterances. Numbers One and Two had been escorted from the gallery by indulgent, if somewhat contemptuous, stewards. Numbers Pour and Five had received less consideration; Number Six had been undeniably hustled; Number Seven had squealed aloud. Norah realised with a dread sinking of the heart that the temper of the meeting was rising, and that each fresh disturber of the peace would receive less consideration. Only one more, and then...

The great building whirled before her eyes, the faces on the platform became faint and blurred, her heart pounded so loudly that it seemed impossible that her neighbours should not hear its thuds. She turned her head to look at the nearest door and examine the faces of the group of stewards waiting in readiness at its portal. Were they _very_ big, _very_ fierce, _very_ formidable? Which of the number would be the first to tear her from her seat? Her pretty face was blanched and drawn beneath her flower-wreathed hat; one of the stewards meeting her glance moved forward to her side with a stifled exclamation of dismay. He bent low over her, whispering in her ear:

"Miss Boyce! what are you doing here? Are you alone? You ought not to be here without a man to look after you. It is getting too noisy--too excited. If there are any more interruptions things will become dangerous. Let me take you out quietly, while there is time--"

John Baker, by all that was confounding and terrible! John, the last man on earth whom she would have wished to witness her humiliation!

John, who had called her a "modest, old-fashioned girl." ... It was the last straw to poor Norah's composure; her fluttering heart gave one sickening leap, and then appeared to stop altogether; she held out her hands with a feeble, despairing gesture, and collapsed in a limp little heap in John Baker's arms.

When Norah came back to consciousness she was lying on a form in a bare, boarded room, and John was engaged in sprinkling water from a water-jug over the front of her best silk blouse. She sat up hastily, brushed the hair from her forehead, and stared around with bewildered eyes. A roar of applause from the great hall broke the silence, and brought back struggling remembrance.

"Did you--did you turn me out?"

"I _carried_ you out! You fainted, and I brought you in here. It was no wonder; you were not accustomed to such sights. Did you imagine in your faintness that you had been turned out like those other screaming women, you poor little frightened girl?" asked John's big voice in its most caressing tones.

Norah shivered with dismay.

"I was--I am--I mean I _should_ have been, if I had stayed five minutes longer! I'm Number Nine!" she cried; and then seeing John's stare of stupefied dismay, promptly threw up her hands to her face, and burst into weak-minded tears.

"Oh--oh! What _will_ you think of me--what _will_ you say!--I was obliged to earn some money--and half a crown a day was not enough,--Mrs Baker gives me half a crown. I--I go to another lady in the afternoons, and she is a Suffragette. She is very kind to me, and very patient, because I'm stupid, and can't understand, and--and I don't seem to care!

I don't _want_ a vote, but she was Number Nine to-night, and she is ill--her throat is very bad, she might be dangerously ill if she came out. She would only stay at home if I promised to take her place, and, she has been very kind.--I promised, and now I've failed. I was too terribly frightened. And then I saw your face... Oh, what _do_ you think of me?"

But John Baker refused to give any expression of opinion. All he said was:

"Half a crown a day! She offered you _that_! Oh, my poor little girl!"

And his voice was so low and tender that at the sound of it Norah sobbed afresh.

"Don't cry. Put on your hat. I will take you into the air, and drive you home in a taxi. You will feel better in the air," said John quietly.

He gave her his arm, and escorted her into the corridor, and as they walked along, another roar sounded from within the precincts of the hall, and through an open doorway shot a dishevelled female form, struggling in the grasp of half a dozen stewards. Danvers herself! The faithful Danvers, who, seeing the collapse of her mistress' proxy, had gallantly taken upon herself the duties of Number Nine. Norah shuddered, and grasped more tightly John's protecting arm.

"Oh, what _must_ you think of me?" she demanded once more; and John, looking down at her as they reached the cool air of the street, replied st.u.r.dily:

"I think that no woman can serve two masters. Can't you make up your mind to take _one_ instead?"

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

THE AFTER YEARS.

Fifteen years had come and gone. The men and women who had sat round the fire on that memorable New Year's Eve in Mrs Ingram's hospitable country manor, had left youth behind, and entered upon the strenuous term of middle age, while their host and hostess had reached a stage still further on the downward path, and frankly ranged themselves among the old.

Fifteen years ago! And now once more the end of the year was approaching, and Mr Ingram and his wife were discussing their plans for the festive season. It was a very frail woman who lay back against the cushions of her chair, and to her husband all outside considerations were as naught compared with the necessity of screening her from undue exertion.

"Forget that it is Christmas time, that's the best thing you can do!

All your life you have worked and schemed to give other people pleasure, now you must take it easy, and let them have a turn for a change. No Christmas presents, no village treats, no house-party over the New Year.

You and I will have a quiet resting time, and think of n.o.body but ourselves."

His wife smiled, her fine, delicate smile, and stretched out her hand to meet his.

"Foolish man!" she said softly. "What folly you do talk! The Christmas presents are _ready_, dear. I begin collecting them each January, as soon as the last batch is out of the way, and it would break my heart to disappoint the villagers of their treat; but I'll be very good, and leave the whole of the arrangements to the vicar. That's a concession made entirely to please you. I want to please you, because as regards the house-party I am going to ask _you_ to give in to me! I'd been planning a very special gathering for this year. Please, dear, don't say no! It would be such a great interest. I want to ask all the members of that Heart's Desire party of fifteen years ago--all that are left, that's to say, and sit over the fire together as we did then, for the first hour of the New Year, and talk over our different experiences.

I have thought of it for the last three or four years, but something has always come in the way, and now--now I would rather not postpone it again."

Her husband knew the meaning of that unwillingness. She was thinking that she might not live to see another New Year, and the knowledge was enough to stifle any objections which he might have made.

"You shall do as you choose, dearest," he said softly. "I ask only that you should spare yourself. You must spend the mornings in your own room, and then you will be able to enjoy your guests for the rest of the day." He was silent for a few minutes, gazing into the heart of the fire. "It is one thing to wish," he said at last, "and another to confess what has really happened. I wonder if they _will_ confess!"

"Probably--not!" Mrs Ingram said. "We may be sure of one thing at least, that the happenings which went deepest will never be put into words. All the same we shall know. It is not only by speech that the heart tells its secrets, Hubert!"

"But the ordinary man judges only by his ears. His eyes are holden that he cannot see."

"Ah, well," sighed Mrs Ingram softly, "there's an instinct that is truer than sight!"