The cottage from the window of which the Misses Williams had looked out stands, and has stood for many a year, in that pleasant district which lies between Norwood, Anerley, and Forest Hill. Long before there had been a thought of a township there, when the was still quite a distant thing, old Mr. Williams had inhabited “The Brambles,” as the little house was called, and had owned all the fields about it. Six or eight such cottages over a rolling country-side were all the houses to be found there in the days when the century was young. From afar, when the breeze came from the north, the dull, low roar of the great city might be heard, like the breaking of the tide of life, while along the horizon might be seen the dim curtain of smoke, the grim spray which that tide threw up. Gradually, however, as the years passed, the City had thrown out a long brick-feeler here and there, curving, extending, and , until at last the little cottages had been gripped round by these red , and had been absorbed to make room for the modern . Field by field the estate of old Mr. Williams had been sold to the builder, and had borne rich crops of suburban , arranged in curving crescents and tree-lined avenues. The father had passed away before his cottage was bricked round, but his two daughters, to whom the property had , lived to see the last of country taken from them. For years they had clung to the one field which faced their windows, and it was only after much argument and many heartburnings, that they had at last consented that it should share the fate of the others. A broad road was driven through their quiet , the quarter was re-named “The Wilderness,” and three square, staring, uncompromising began to up on the other side. With sore hearts, the two shy little old maids watched their steady progress, and speculated as to what fashion of neighbors chance would bring into the little nook which had always been their own.
And at last they were all three finished. Wooden balconies and overhanging eaves had been added to them, so that, in the language of the advertisement, there were vacant three Swiss-built villas, with sixteen rooms, no basement, electric bells, hot and cold water, and every modern convenience, including a common tennis lawn, to be let at L100 a year, or L1,500 purchase. So an offer did not long remain open. Within a few weeks the card had vanished from number one, and it was known that Admiral Hay Denver, V. C., C. B., with Mrs. Hay Denver and their only son, were about to move into it. The news brought peace to the hearts of the Williams sisters. They had lived with a settled conviction that some wild impossible colony, some shouting, singing family of madcaps, would break in upon their peace. This establishment at least was . A reference to “Men of the Time” showed them that Admiral Hay Denver was a most officer, who had begun his active career at Bomarsund, and had ended it at Alexandria, having managed between these two episodes to see as much service as any man of his years. From the Taku Forts and the Shannon brigade, to dhow-harrying off Zanzibar, there was no variety of work which did not appear in his record; while the Victoria Cross, and the Albert Medal for saving life, for it that in peace as in war his courage was still of the same true temper. Clearly a very eligible neighbor this, the more so as they had been assured by the estate agent that Mr. Harold Denver, the son, was a most quiet young gentleman, and that he was busy from morning to night on the Stock Exchange.
“Well, at least, Monica,” remarked Bertha, as they sat over their teacups that afternoon, “however strange these people may be, it is our duty to be as polite to them as to the others.”
“Most certainly,” her sister.
“Since we have called upon Mrs. Hay Denver and upon the Misses Walker, we must call upon this Mrs. Westmacott also.”
“Certainly, dear. As long as they are living upon our land I feel as if they were in a sense our guests, and that it is our duty to welcome them.”
“Then we shall call to-morrow,” said Bertha, with decision.
“Yes, dear, we shall. But, oh, I wish it was over!”
At four o'clock on the next day, the two ladies set off upon their errand. In their stiff, crackling dresses of black silk, with jet-bespangled jackets, and little rows of grey curls down on either side of their black , they looked like two old fashion plates which had wandered off into the wrong decade. Half curious and half fearful, they knocked at the door of number three, which was instantly opened by a red-headed page-boy.
Yes, Mrs. Westmacott was at home. He them into the front room, furnished as a drawing-room, where in spite of the fine spring weather a large fire was burning in the grate. The boy took their cards, and then, as they sat down together upon a settee, he set their nerves in a thrill by behind a curtain with a cry, and at something with his foot. The bull pup which they had seen upon the day before bolted from its hiding-place, and from the room.
“It wants to get at Eliza,” said the youth, in a whisper. “Master says she would give him more'n he brought.” He smiled affably at the two little stiff black figures, and departed in search of his mistress.
“What—what did he say?” Bertha.
“Something about a—— Oh, goodness gracious! Oh, help, help, help, help, help!” The two sisters had bounded on to the settee, and stood there with staring eyes and skirts gathered in, while they filled the whole house with their yells. Out of a high wicker-work basket which stood by the fire there had risen a flat diamond-shaped head with wicked green eyes which came , waving gently from side to side, until a foot or more of neck was visible. Slowly the vicious head came floating up, while at every oscillation a fresh burst of came from the settee.
“What in the name of !” cried a voice, and there was the mistress of the house in the . Her gaze at first had merely taken in the fact that two strangers were standing screaming upon her red plush sofa. A glance at the fireplace, however, showed her the cause of the terror, and she burst into a fit of laughter.
“Charley,” she shouted, “here's Eliza misbehaving again.”
“I'll settle her,” answered a masculine voice, and the young man dashed into the room. He had a brown horse-cloth in his hand, which he threw over the basket, making it fast with a piece of so as to effectually its , while his aunt ran across to her visitors.
“It is only a rock snake,” she explained.
“Oh, Bertha!” “Oh, Monica!” gasped the poor gentlewomen.
“She's hatching out some eggs. That is why we have the fire. Eliza always does better when she is warm. She is a sweet, gentle creature, but no doubt she thought that you had designs upon her eggs. I suppose that you did not touch any of them?”
“Oh, let us get away, Bertha!” cried Monica, with her thin, black-gloved hands thrown forwards in .
“Not away, but into the next room,” said Mrs. Westmacott, with the air of one whose word was law. “This way, if you please! It is less warm here.” She led the way into a very handsomely appointed library, with three great cases of books, and upon the fourth side a long yellow table littered over with papers and scientific instruments. “Sit here, and you, there,” she continued. “That is right. Now let me see, which of you is Miss Williams, and which Miss Bertha Williams?”
“I am Miss Williams,” said Monica, still palpitating, and glancing about in of some new horror.
“And you live, as I understand, over at the pretty little cottage. It is very nice of you to call so early. I don't suppose that we shall get on, but still the intention is equally good.” She crossed her legs and leaned her back against the marble mantelpiece.
“We thought that perhaps we might be of some assistance,” said Bertha, timidly. “If there is anything which we could do to make you feel more at home——”
“Oh, thank you, I am too old a traveler to feel anything but at home wherever I go. I've just come back from a few months in the Marquesas Islands, where I had a very pleasant visit. That was where I got Eliza. In many respects the Marquesas Islands now lead the world.”
“Dear me!” ejaculated Miss Williams. “In what respect?”
“In the relation of the sexes. They have worked out the great problem upon their own lines, and their position has helped them to come to a conclusion of their own. The woman there is, as she should be, in every way the absolute equal of the male. Come in, Charles, and sit down. Is Eliza all right?”
“All right, aunt.”
“These are our neighbors, the Misses Williams. Perhaps they will have some . You might bring in a couple of bottles, Charles.”
“No, no, thank you! None for us!” cried her two visitors, earnestly.
“No? I am sorry that I have no tea to offer you. I look upon the of woman as largely due to her abandoning drinks and invigorating exercises to the male. I do neither.” She picked up a pair of fifteen-pound dumb-bells from beside the fireplace and swung them lightly about her head. “You see what may be done on stout,” said she.
“But don't you think,” the elder Miss Williams suggested timidly, “don't you think, Mrs. Westmascott, that woman has a mission of her own?”
The lady of the house dropped her dumb-bells with a crash upon the floor.
“The old !” she cried. “The old ! What is this mission which is reserved for woman? All that is , that is mean, that is soul-killing, that is so and so ill-paid that none other will touch it. All that is woman's mission. And who imposed these limitations upon her? Who cooped her up within this narrow sphere? Was it ? Was it nature? No, it was the arch enemy. It was man.”
“Oh, I say, auntie!” drawled her nephew.
“It was man, Charles. It was you and your fellows. I say that woman is a monument to the selfishness of man. What is all this boasted —these fine words and vague phrases? Where is it when we wish to put it to the test? Man in the abstract will do anything to help a woman. Of course. How does it work when his pocket is touched? Where is his chivalry then? Will the doctors help her to qualify? will the lawyers help her to be called to the bar? will the tolerate her in the Church? Oh, it is close your ranks then and refer poor woman to her mission! Her mission! To be thankful for and not to with the men while they grabble for gold, like swine round a trough, that is man's reading of the mission of women. You may sit there and , Charles, while you look upon your victim, but you know that it is truth, every word of it.”
Terrified as they were by this sudden of words, the two gentlewomen could not but smile at the sight of the , domineering victim and the big apologetic representative of mankind who sat bearing all the sins of his sex. The lady struck a match, whipped a cigarette from a case upon the mantelpiece, and began to draw the smoke into her lungs.
“I find it very when my nerves are at all ruffled,” she explained. “You don't smoke? Ah, you miss one of the purest of pleasures—one of the few pleasures which are without a reaction.”
Miss Williams smoothed out her silken lap.
“It is a pleasure,” she said, with some approach to self-assertion, “which Bertha and I are rather too old-fashioned to enjoy.”
“No doubt. It would probably make you very ill if you attempted it. By the way, I hope that you will come to some of our meetings. I shall see that tickets are sent you.”
“Your Guild?”
“It is not yet formed, but I shall lose no time in forming a committee. It is my habit to establish a branch of the Guild wherever I go. There is a Mrs. Sanderson in Anerley who is already one of the , so that I have a . It is only by organized resistance, Miss Williams, that we can hope to hold our own against the selfish sex. Must you go, then?”
“Yes, we have one or two other visits to pay,” said the elder sister. “You will, I am sure, excuse us. I hope that you will find Norwood a pleasant residence.”
“All places are to me simply a battle-field,” she answered, gripping first one and then the other with a grip which up their little thin fingers. “The days for work and healthful exercise, the evenings to Browning and high , eh, Charles? Good-bye!” She came to the door with them, and as they glanced back they saw her still standing there with the yellow bull pup cuddled up under one forearm, and the thin blue of her cigarette from her lips.
“Oh, what a dreadful, dreadful woman!” whispered sister Bertha, as they hurried down the street. “Thank goodness that it is over.”
“But she'll return the visit,” answered the other. “I think that we had better tell Mary that we are not at home.”