The Ape Who Guards the Balance Read Free

explained. “Mrs. Markham assures us that he will respond to her request.”
    “If she is an old friend, why did she not request an interview through normal channels instead of instigating this . . . Ramses, don’t slouch against that railing. You will get rust on your coat.”
    “Yes, Mother.” Ramses straightened to his full height of six feet. The top hat added another twelve inches, and I was forced to admit that he lent a certain air of distinction to the gathering, which consisted almost entirely of ladies. The only other male person present was an eccentrically garbed individual who stood watching the discussion of the leaders. His long, rather shabby velvet cloak and broad-brimmed hat reminded me of a character from one of the Gilbert and Sullivan operas—the one that satirized the aesthetic movement and its languid poets. As my curious gaze came to rest on him, he turned and addressed the ladies in an affected, high-pitched voice.
    “Who is that fellow?” I asked. “I have never seen him before.”
    Ramses, who sometimes demonstrates an uncanny ability to read my mind, began to sing softly. I recognized one of the songs from the opera in question. “ ‘A most intense young man, A soulful eyed young man, An ultra-poetical, super-aesthetical, out-of-the-way young man.’ ”
    I could not help laughing. Miss Christabel gave me a look of freezing disapproval. “He is Mrs. Markham’s brother, and a sturdy defender of the cause. If you had deigned to attend our earlier meetings, Mrs. Emerson, you would be aware of these facts.”
    She did not give me time to reply that I had not been invited to attend their earlier meetings, but marched off with her nose in the air. I had heard the young lady praised for her wit and sense of humor. The latter appeared to be in abeyance at the moment.
    “I believe they are about to begin,” Ramses said.
    A rather ragged line formed, and placards were handed out. Mine read “Free the victims of male oppression!”
    A little crowd of spectators had gathered. A hard-faced man in the front ranks glared at me and called out, “You ought to be ‘ome washin’ of your ‘usband’s trousers!”
    Ramses, following behind me with a placard reading “Votes for WomenNOW !” replied loudly and good-humoredly, “I assure you, sir, the lady’s husband’s trousers are not in such sore need of laundering as your own.”
    We proceeded in a straggling line past the gates of Romer’s house. They were closed, and guarded by two blue-helmeted constables, who watched us curiously. There was no sign of life at the curtained windows of the mansion. It did not appear likely that Mr. Romer was in the mood to accept a petition.
    As we turned to retrace our steps, Miss Christabel hurried up and drew Ramses out of the line. Naturally I followed after them. “Mr. Emerson,” she exclaimed. “We are counting on you!”
    “Certainly,” said Ramses. “To do what, precisely?”
    “Mrs. Markham is ready to carry our petition to the house. We ladies will converge upon the constable to the left of the gate and prevent him from stopping her. Could you, do you think, detain the other police officer?”
    Ramses’s eyebrows went up. “Detain?” he repeated.
    “You must not employ violence, of course. Only clear the way for Mrs. Markham.”
    “I will do my best” was the reply.
    “Splendid! Be ready—they are coming.”
    Indeed they were. A phalanx of females, marching shoulder to shoulder, was bearing down on us. There were only a dozen or so of them—obviously the leaders. The two ladies heading the procession were tall and stoutly built, and both brandished heavy wooden placards with suffragist slogans. Behind them, almost hidden by their persons, I caught a glimpse of a large but tasteful flowered and feathered hat. Could the individual under it be the famous Mrs. Markham, on whom so much depended? The man in the velvet cape, his face shadowed by the brim of his hat, marched at her side.