Beyond the City

Chapter 9

Little did poor Doctor Walker imagine as he sat at

his breakfast-table next morning that the two sweet girls

who sat on either side of him were deep in a conspiracy,

and that he, munching innocently at his muffins, was the

victim against whom their wiles were planned. Patiently

they waited until at last their opening came.

"It is a beautiful day," he remarked. "It will do

for Mrs. Westmacott. She was thinking of having a spin

upon the tricycle."

"Then we must call early. We both intended to see

her after breakfast."

"Oh, indeed!" The Doctor looked pleased.

"You know, pa," said Ida, "it seems to us that we

really have a very great advantage in having Mrs.

Westmacott living so near."

"Why so, dear?"

"Well, because she is so advanced, you know. If we

only study her ways we may advance ourselves also."

"I think I have heard you say, papa," Clara remarked,

"that she is the type of the woman of the future."

"I am very pleased to hear you speak so sensibly, my

dears. I certainly think that she is a woman whom you

may very well take as your model. The more intimate you

are with her the better pleased I shall be."

"Then that is settled," said Clara demurely, and the

talk drifted to other matters.

All the morning the two girls sat extracting from

Mrs. Westmacott her most extreme view as to the duty of

the one s*x and the tyranny of the other. Absolute

equality, even in details, was her ideal. Enough of the

parrot cry of unwomanly and unmaidenly. It had been

invented by man to scare woman away when she poached too

nearly upon his precious preserves. Every woman should

be independent. Every woman should learn a trade. It

was their duty to push in where they were least

welcome. Then they were martyrs to the cause, and

pioneers to their weaker sisters. Why should the

wash-tub, the needle, and the housekeeper's book be

eternally theirs? Might they not reach higher, to the

consulting-room, to the bench, and even to the pulpit?

Mrs. Westmacott sacrificed her tricycle ride in her

eagerness over her pet subject, and her two fair

disciples drank in every word, and noted every suggestion

for future use. That afternoon they went shopping in

London, and before evening strange packages began to be

handed in at the Doctor's door. The plot was ripe for

execution, and one of the conspirators was merry and

jubilant, while the other was very nervous and troubled.

When the Doctor came down to the dining-room next

morning, he was surprised to find that his daughters had

already been up some time. Ida was installed at one end

of the table with a spirit-lamp, a curved glass flask,

and several bottles in front of her. The contents of

the flask were boiling furiously, while a villainous

smell filled the room. Clara lounged in an arm-chair

with her feet upon a second one, a blue-covered book in

her hand, and a huge map of the British Islands spread

across her lap. "Hullo!" cried the Doctor, blinking and

sniffing, "where's the breakfast?"

"Oh, didn't you order it?" asked Ida.

"I! No; why should I?" He rang the bell. "Why have

you not laid the breakfast, Jane?"

"If you please, sir, Miss Ida was a workin' at the

table."

"Oh, of course, Jane," said the young lady calmly.

"I am so sorry. I shall be ready to move in a few

minutes."

"But what on earth are you doing, Ida?" asked the

Doctor. "The smell is most offensive. And, good

gracious, look at the mess which you have made upon the

cloth! Why, you have burned a hole right through."

"Oh, that is the acid," Ida answered contentedly.

"Mrs. Westmacott said that it would burn holes."

"You might have taken her word for it without

trying," said her father dryly.

"But look here, pa! See what the book says: `The

scientific mind takes nothing upon trust. Prove all

things!' I have proved that."

"You certainly have. Well, until breakfast is ready

I'll glance over the Times. Have you seen it?"

"The Times? Oh, dear me, this is it which I have

under my spirit-lamp. I am afraid there is some acid

upon that too, and it is rather damp and torn. Here it

is."

The Doctor took the bedraggled paper with a rueful

face. "Everything seems to be wrong to-day," he

remarked. "What is this sudden enthusiasm about

chemistry, Ida?"

"Oh, I am trying to live up to Mrs. Westmacott's

teaching."

"Quite right! quite right!" said he, though perhaps

with less heartiness than he had shown the day before.

"Ah, here is breakfast at last!"

But nothing was comfortable that morning. There were

eggs without egg-spoons, toast which was leathery from

being kept, dried-up rashers, and grounds in the coffee.

Above all, there was that dreadful smell which pervaded

everything and gave a horrible twang to every mouthful.

"I don't wish to put a damper upon your studies,

Ida," said the Doctor, as he pushed back his chair. "But

I do think it would be better if you did your chemical

experiments a little later in the day."

"But Mrs. Westmacott says that women should rise

early, and do their work before breakfast."

"Then they should choose some other room besides the

breakfast-room." The Doctor was becoming just a little

ruffled. A turn in the open air would soothe him, he

thought. "Where are my boots?" he asked.

But they were not in their accustomed corner by his

chair. Up and down he searched, while the three servants

took up the quest, stooping and peeping under

book-cases and drawers. Ida had returned to her studies,

and Clara to her blue-covered volume, sitting absorbed

and disinterested amid the bustle and the racket. At

last a general buzz of congratulation announced that the

cook had discovered the boots hung up among the hats in

the hall. The Doctor, very red and flustered, drew them

on, and stamped off to join the Admiral in his morning

walk.

As the door slammed Ida burst into a shout of

laughter. "You see, Clara," she cried, "the charm works

already. He has gone to number one instead of to number

three. Oh, we shall win a great victory. You've been

very good, dear; I could see that you were on thorns to

help him when he was looking for his boots."

"Poor papa! It is so cruel. And yet what are we to

do?"

"Oh, he will enjoy being comfortable all the more if

we give him a little discomfort now. What horrible

work this chemistry is! Look at my frock! It is ruined.

And this dreadful smell!" She threw open the window, and

thrust her little golden-curled head out of it. Charles

Westmacott was hoeing at the other side of the garden

fence.

"Good morning, sir," said Ida.

"Good morning!" The big man leaned upon his hoe and

looked up at her.

"Have you any cigarettes, Charles?"

"Yes, certainly."

"Throw me up two."

"Here is my case. Can you catch!"

A seal-skin case came with a soft thud on to the

floor. Ida opened it. It was full.

"What are these?" she asked.

"Egyptians."

"What are some other brands?"

"Oh, Richmond Gems, and Turkish, and Cambridge. But

why?"

"Never mind!" She nodded to him and closed the

window. "We must remember all those, Clara," said she.

"We must learn to talk about such things. Mrs.

Westmacott knows all about the brands of cigarettes. Has

your rum come?"

"Yes, dear. It is here."

"And I have my stout. Come along up to my room now.

This smell is too abominable. But we must be ready for

him when he comes back. If we sit at the window we shall

see him coming down the road."

The fresh morning air, and the genial company of the

Admiral had caused the Doctor to forget his troubles, and

he came back about midday in an excellent humor. As he

opened the hall door the vile smell of chemicals which

had spoilt his breakfast met him with a redoubled

virulence. He threw open the hall window, entered the

dining-room, and stood aghast at the sight which met his

eyes.

Ida was still sitting among her bottles, with a lit

cigarette in her left hand and a glass of stout on the

table beside her. Clara, with another cigarette, was

lounging in the easy chair with several maps spread out

upon the floor around. Her feet were stuck up on the

coal scuttle, and she had a tumblerful of some

reddish-brown composition on the smoking table close at

her elbow. The Doctor gazed from one to the other of

them through the thin grey haze of smoke, but his eyes

rested finally in a settled stare of astonishment upon

his elder and more serious daughter.

"Clara!" he gasped, "I could not have believed it!"

"What is it, papa?"

"You are smoking!"

"Trying to, papa. I find it a little difficult, for

I have not been used to it."

"But why, in the name of goodness--"

"Mrs. Westmacott recommends it."

"Oh, a lady of mature years may do many things which

a young girl must avoid."

"Oh, no," cried Ida, "Mrs. Westmacott says that there

should be one law for all. Have a cigarette, pa?"

"No, thank you. I never smoke in the morning."

"No? Perhaps you don't care for the brand. What

are these, Clara?"

"Egyptians."

"Ah, we must have some Richmond Gems or Turkish. I

wish, pa, when you go into town, you would get me some

Turkish."

"I will do nothing of the kind. I do not at all

think that it is a fitting habit for young ladies. I do

not agree with Mrs. Westmacott upon the point."

"Really, pa! It was you who advised us to imitate

her."

"But with discrimination. What is it that you are

drinking, Clara?"

"Rum, papa."

"Rum? In the morning?" He sat down and rubbed his

eyes as one who tries to shake off some evil dream. "Did

you say rum?"

"Yes, pa. They all drink it in the profession which

I am going to take up."

"Profession, Clara?"

"Mrs. Westmacott says that every woman should follow

a calling, and that we ought to choose those which women

have always avoided."

"Quite so."

"Well, I am going to act upon her advice. I am going

to be a pilot."

"My dear Clara! A pilot! This is too much."

"This is a beautiful book, papa. `The Lights,

Beacons, Buoys, Channels, and Landmarks of Great

Britain.' Here is another, `The Master Mariner's

Handbook.' You can't imagine how interesting it is."

"You are joking, Clara. You must be joking!"

"Not at all, pa. You can't think what a lot I have

learned already. I'm to carry a green light to starboard

and a red to port, with a white light at the mast-head,

and a flare-up every fifteen minutes."

"Oh, won't it look pretty at night!" cried her

sister.

"And I know the fog-signals. One blast means that a

ship steers to starboard, two to port, three astern, four

that it is unmanageable. But this man asks such dreadful

questions at the end of each chapter. Listen to this:

`You see a red light. The ship is on the port tack and

the wind at north; what course is that ship steering to

a point?'"

The Doctor rose with a gesture of despair. "I can't

imagine what has come over you both," said he.

"My dear papa, we are trying hard to live up to Mrs.

Westmacott's standard."

"Well, I must say that I do not admire the result.

Your chemistry, Ida, may perhaps do no harm; but your

scheme, Clara, is out of the question. How a girl of

your sense could ever entertain such a notion is more

than I can imagine. But I must absolutely forbid you to

go further with it."

"But, pa," asked Ida, with an air of innocent

inquiry in her big blue eyes, "what are we to do when

your commands and Mrs. Westmacott's advice are opposed?

You told us to obey her. She says that when women try to

throw off their shackles, their fathers, brothers and

husbands are the very first to try to rivet them on

again, and that in such a matter no man has any

authority."

"Does Mrs. Westmacott teach you that I am not the

head of my own house?" The Doctor flushed, and his

grizzled hair bristled in his anger.

"Certainly. She says that all heads of houses are

relics of the dark ages."

The Doctor muttered something and stamped his foot

upon the carpet. Then without a word he passed out into

the garden and his daughters could see him striding

furiously up and down, cutting off the heads of the

flowers with a switch.

"Oh, you darling! You played your part so

splendidly!" cried Ida.

"But how cruel it is! When I saw the sorrow and

surprise in his eyes I very nearly put my arms about him

and told him all. Don't you think we have done enough?"

"No, no, no. Not nearly enough. You must not turn

weak now, Clara. It is so funny that I should be leading

you. It is quite a new experience. But I know I am

right. If we go an as we are doing, we shall be able

to say all our lives that we have saved him. And if we

don't, oh, Clara, we should never forgive ourselves."