Mr. Foley pointed to an easy-chair. Maraton, however, did not at once
respond to his gesture of invitation. He was standing, tense and
silent, with head upraised, listening. From the street outside came a
strange, rumbling sound.
"You permit?" he asked, stepping to the window and drawing the curtain a
few inches on one side. "There is something familiar about that sound.
I heard it last in Chicago."
Mr. Foley rose slowly from the easy-chair into which he had thrown
himself, and stood by his visitor's side. Outside, the pavements were
lined by policemen, standing like sentries about half-a-dozen yards
apart. The tented entrance to the house was guarded by a solid phalanx
of men in uniform. A mounted inspector was riding slowly up and down in
the middle of the road. At the entrance to the street, barely fifty
yards away, a moving mass of people, white-faced, almost spectral, were
passing slowly beneath the pale gas-lamps.
"The people!" Maraton murmured, with a curious note in his tone, half of
reverence, half of pity.
"The mob!" Mr. Foley echoed bitterly. "They brawl before the houses of
those who do their best to serve them. They bark always at our heels.
Perhaps to-night it is you whom they have come to honour. Your
bodyguard, eh, Mr. Maraton?"
"If they have discovered that I am here, it is not unlikely," Maraton
admitted calmly.
Mr. Foley dropped the curtain which he had taken from his companion's
fingers. Moving back into the room, he turned on more light. Then he
resumed his seat.
"Mr. Maraton," he began, "we met only once before, I think. That was
four years ago this summer. Answer me honestly--do you see any change
in me?"
Maraton leaned a little forward. His face showed some concern, as he
answered:
"You are not in the best of health just now, I fear, Mr. Foley."
"I am as well as I shall ever be," was the quiet reply. "What you see
in my face is just the record of these last four years, the outward
evidence of four years of ceaseless trouble and anxiety. I will not
call myself yet a broken man, but the time is not far off."
Maraton remained silent. His attitude was still sympathetic, but he
seemed determined to carry out his role of listener.
"If the political history of these four years is ever truthfully
written," Mr. Foley continued, "the world will be amazed at the calm
indifference of the people threatened day by day with national disaster.
We who have been behind the scenes have kept a stiff upper lip before
the world, but I tell you frankly, Mr. Maraton, that no Cabinet who
ever undertook the government of this country has gone through what we
have gone through. Three times we have been on the brink of war--twice
on our own account and once on account of those whom we are bound to
consider our allies. The other national disaster we have had to face,
you know of. Still, here we are safe up to to-night. There is nothing
in the whole world we need now so much as rest--just a few months'
freedom from anxiety. Until last week we had dared to hope for it.
Now, breathless still from our last escape, we are face to face suddenly
with all the possibilities of your coming."
"You fear the people," Maraton remarked quietly.
Mr. Foley's pale, worn face suddenly lit up.
"Fear the people!" he repeated, with a note of passion in his tone. "I
fear the people for their own sake; I fear the ruin and destruction they
may, by ill-advised action, bring upon themselves and their country.
Mr. Maraton, grant, will you not, that I am a man of some experience?
Believe, I pray you, that I am honest. Let me assure you of this. If
the people be not wisely led now, the Empire which I and my Ministers
have striven so hard to keep intact, must fall. There are troubles
pressing upon us still from every side. If the people are wrongly
advised to-day, the British Empire must fall, even as those other great
dynasties of the past have fallen."
Maraton turned once more to the window, raised the curtain, and gazed
out into the darkness. There was a little movement at the end of the
street. The police had driven back the crowd to allow a carriage to
pass through. A hoarse murmur of voices came floating into the room.
The people gave way slowly and unwillingly--still, they gave way. Law
and order, strenuous though the task of preserving them was becoming,
prevailed.
"Mr. Foley," Maraton said, dropping the curtain and returning once more
to his place, "I am honoured by your confidence. You force me, however,
to remind you that you have spoken to me as a politician. I am not a
politician. The cause of the people is above politics."
"I am for the people," Mr. Foley declared, with a sudden passion in his
tone. "It is their own fault, the blind prejudice of their ignorant
leaders, if they fail to recognise it."
"For the people," Maraton repeated softly.
"Haven't my Government done their best to prove it?" the Prime Minister
demanded, almost fiercely. "We have passed at least six measures which
a dozen years ago would have been reckoned rank Socialism. What we do
need to-day is a people's man in our Government. I admit our weakness.
I admit that with every desire to do the right thing, we may sometimes
err through lack of knowledge. Our great trouble is this; there is not
to-day a single man amongst the Labour Party, a single man who has come
into Parliament on the mandate of the people, whose assistance would be
of the slightest service to us. I make you an offer which you yourself
must consider a wonderful one. You come to this country as an enemy,
and I offer you my hand as a friend. I offer you not only a seat in
Parliament but a share in the counsels of my party. I ask you to teach
us how to legislate for the people of the future."
Maraton remained for a moment silent. His face betrayed no exultation.
His tone, when at last he spoke, was almost sad.
"Mr. Foley," he said, "if you are not a great man, you have in you, at
least, the elements of greatness. You have imagination. You know how
to meet a crisis. I only wish that what you suggest were possible.
Twenty years ago, perhaps, yes. To-day I fear that the time for any
legislation in which you would concur, is past."
"What have you to hope for but legislation?" Mr. Foley asked. "What
else is there but civil war?"
Maraton smiled a little grimly.
"There is what in your heart you are fearing all the time," he replied.
"There is the slow paralysis of all your manufactures, the stoppage of
your railways, the dislocation of every industry and undertaking built
upon the slavery of the people. What about your British Empire then?"
Mr. Foley regarded his visitor with quiet dignity.
"I have understood that you were an Englishman, Mr. Maraton," he said.
"Am I to look upon you as a traitor?"
"Not to the cause which is my one religion," Maraton retorted swiftly.
"Empires may come and go, but the people remain. What changes may
happen to this country before the great and final one, is a matter in
which I am not deeply concerned."
The telephone bell upon the table between them rang. Mr. Foley frowned
slightly, as he raised the receiver to his ear.
"You will forgive me?" he begged. "This is doubtless a matter of some
importance. It is not often that my secretary allows me to be disturbed
at this hour."
Maraton wandered back to the window, raised the curtain and once more
looked out upon the scene which seemed to him that night so pregnant
with meaning. His mind remained fixed upon the symbolism of the
streets. He heard only the echoes of a somewhat prolonged exchange of
questions and answers. Finally, Mr. Foley replaced the receiver and
announced the conclusion of the conversation. When Maraton turned
round, it seemed to him that his host's face was grey.
"You come like the stormy petrel," the latter remarked bitterly. "There
is bad news to-night from the north. We are threatened with militant
labour troubles all over the country."
"It is the inevitable," Maraton declared.
Mr. Foley struck the table with his fist.
"I deny it!" he cried. "These troubles can and shall be stopped.
Legislation shall do it--amicable, if possible; brutal, if not. But the
man who is content to see his country ruined, see it presented, a
helpless prey, to our enemies for the mere trouble of landing upon our
shores,--that man is a traitor and deserves to be treated as such. Tell
me, on behalf of the people, Mr. Maraton, what is it that you want?
Name your terms?"
Maraton shook his head doubtfully.
"You are a brave man, Mr. Foley," he said, "but remember that you do
not stand alone. There are your fellow Ministers."
"They are my men," Mr. Foley insisted. "Besides, there is the thunder
in the air. We cannot disregard it. We are not ostriches. Better to
meet the trouble bravely than to be crushed by it."
There was a tap at the door, and Lady Elisabeth appeared upon the
threshold. Maraton was conscious of realising for the first time that
this was the most beautiful woman whom he had ever seen in his life.
She avoided looking at him as she addressed her uncle.
"Uncle," she said deprecatingly, "I am so sorry, but every one is asking
for you. You have been in here for nearly twenty minutes. There is a
rumour that you are ill."
Mr. Foley rose to his feet reluctantly.
"I will come," he promised.
She closed the door and departed silently. At no time had she glanced
towards or taken any notice of Maraton.
"We discuss the fate of an empire," Mr. Foley sighed, "and necessity
demands that I must return to my guests! This conversation between us
must be finished. You are a reasonable man; you cannot deny the right
of an enemy to demand your terms before you declare war?"
Maraton, too, had risen to his feet. He had turned slightly and his
eyes were fixed upon the door through which Elisabeth had passed. For a
moment or two he seemed deep in thought. The immobility of his features
was at last disturbed. His eyes were wonderfully bright, his lips were
a little parted.
"On Saturday," Mr. Foley continued, "we leave for our country home.
For two days we shall be alone. It is not far away--an hour by rail.
Will you come, Mr. Maraton?"
Maraton withdrew his eyes from the door. "It seems a little useless,"
he said quietly. "Will you give me until to-morrow to think it over?"