Maraton made his way from Downing Street on foot, curiously enough
altogether escaping recognition from the crowds who were still hanging
about on the chance of catching a glimpse of him. He was somehow
conscious, as he turned northwards, of a peculiar sense of exhilaration,
a savour in life unexpected, not altogether analysable. As a rule, the
streets themselves supplied him with illimitable food for thought; the
passing multitudes, the ceaseless flow of the human stream,
justification absolute and most complete for the new faith of which he
was the prophet. For the cause of the people had only been recognised
during recent days as something entirely distinct from the Socialism and
Syndicalism which had been its precursors. It was Maraton himself who
had raised it to the level of a religion.
To-night, however, there was a curious background to his thoughts. Some
part of his earlier life seemed stirred up in the man. The one
selfishness permitted to rank as a virtue in his sex was alive. His
heart had ceased to throb with the loiterers, the flotsam and jetsam of
the gutters. For the moment he was cast loose from the absorbed and
serious side of his career. A curious wave of sentiment had enveloped
him, a wave of sentiment unanalysable and as yet impersonal; he walked
as a man in a dream. For the first time he had seen and recognised the
imperishable thing in a woman's face.
He reached at last one of the large, somewhat gloomy squares in the
district between St. Pancras and New Oxford street, and paused before
one of the most remote houses situated at the extreme northeast corner.
He opened the front door with a latch-key and passed across a large but
simply furnished hall into his study. He entered a little abstractedly,
and it was not until he had closed the door behind him that he realised
the presence of another person in the room. At his entrance she had
risen to her feet.
"At last!" she exclaimed. "At last you have come!"
There was a silence, prolonged, curious, in a sense thrilling. A girl
of wonderful appearance had risen to her feet and was looking eagerly
towards him. She was wearing the plain black dress of a working woman,
whose clumsy folds inadequately concealed a figure of singular beauty
and strength. Her cheeks were colourless; her eyes large and deep, and
of a soft shade of grey, filled just now with the half wondering, half
worshipping expression of a pilgrim who has reached the Mecca of her
desires. Her hair--her shabby hat lay upon the table--was dark and
glossy. Her arms were a little outstretched. Her lips, unusually
scarlet against the pallor of her face, were parted. Her whole attitude
was one of quivering eagerness. Maraton stood and looked at her in
wonder. The little cloud of sentiment in which he had been moving,
perhaps, made him more than ever receptive to the impressions which she
seemed to create. Both the girl herself and her pose were splendidly
allegorical. She stood there for the great things of life.
"I would not go away," she cried softly. "They forbade me to stay, but
I came back. I am Julia Thurnbrein. I have waited so long."
Maraton stepped towards her and took her hands.
"I am glad," he said. "It is fitting that you should be one of the
first to welcome me. You have done a great work, Julia Thurnbrein."
"And you," she murmured passionately, still clasping his hands, "you a
far greater one! Ever since I understood, I have longed for this
meeting. It is you who will become the world's deliverer."
Maraton led her gently back to the chair in which she had been sitting.
"Now we must talk," he declared. "Sit opposite to me there."
He struck a match and lit the lamp of a little coffee machine which
stood upon the table. She sprang eagerly to her feet.
"Let me, please," she begged. "I understand those things. Please let
me make the coffee."
He laughed and, going to the cabinet, brought another of the old blue
china cups and saucers. With very deft fingers she manipulated the
machine. Presently, when her task was finished, she sat back in her
chair, her coffee cup in her hand, her great eyes fixed upon him. She
had the air of a person entirely content.
"So you are Julia Thurnbrein."
"And you," she replied, still with that note of suppressed yet
passionate reverence in her tone, "are Maraton."
He smiled.
"The women workers of the world owe you a great deal," he said.
"But it is so little that one can do," she answered, quivering with
pleasure at his words. "One needs inspiration, direction. Now that you
have come, it will be different; it will be wonderful!"
She leaned towards him, and once more Maraton was conscious of the
splendid mobility of her trembling body. She was a revelation to him--a
modern Joan of Arc.
"Remember that I am no magician," he warned her.
"Ah, but your very presence alters everything!" she cried. "It makes
everything possible--everything. My brother, too, is mad with
excitement. He hoped that you might have been at the Clarion Hall
to-night, before you went to Downing Street. You have seen Mr. Foley
and talked with him?"
"I have come straight from there," he told her. "Foley is a shrewd man.
He sees the writing upon the wall. He is afraid."
She looked at him and laughed.
"They will try to buy you," she remarked scornfully. "They will try to
deal with you as they did with Blake and others like him--you--Maraton!
Oh, I wonder if England knows what it means, your coming!--if she really
feels the breaking dawn!"
"Tell me about yourself?" Maraton asked, a little abruptly--"your work?
I know you only by name, remember--your articles in the reviews and your
evidence before the Woman Labour Commission.
"I am a tailoress," she replied. "It is horrible work, but I have the
good fortune to be quick. I can make a living--there are many who
cannot."
He was leaning back in his chair, his head supported by his hand, his
eyes fixed curiously upon her. Her pallor was not wholly the pallor of
ill-health. In her beautiful eyes shone the fire of life. She laughed
at him softly and held out her hands for his inspection. They were
shapely enough, but her finger-tips were scotched and pricked.
"Here are the hall-marks of my trade. Others who work by my side have
fallen away. It is of their sufferings I have written. I myself am
physically very strong. It is the average person who counts."
He looked at her thoughtfully.
"You have written and worked a great deal for your age. Are you still
in employment?"
"Of course! I left off at seven this evening. I have nothing else in
my life," she added simply, "but my work, our work, the breaking of
these vile bonds. I need no pleasures. I have never thought of any."
Her eyes suddenly dropped before his. A confusion of thought seemed to
have seized upon her. Maraton, too, conscious of the nature of his
imaginings, although innocent of any personal application, was not
wholly free from embarrassment.
"Perhaps you will think," he observed, "that I am asking too many
personal questions for a new acquaintance, but, after all, I must know
you, must I not? We are fellow workers in a great cause. The small
things do not matter."
She looked at him once more frankly. The blush had passed from her
cheeks, her eyes were untroubled.
"I don't know what came over me," she confessed. "I was suddenly afraid
that you might misunderstand my coming to you like this, without
invitation, so late. Somehow, with you, it didn't seem to count."
"It must not!"
More at her ease now she glanced around the room and back at him. He
smiled.
"Confess," he said, "that there are some things about me and my
surroundings which have surprised you?"
She nodded.
"Willingly. I was surprised at your house, at being received by a man
servant--at everything," she added, with a glance at his attire. "Yet
what does that matter? It is because I do not understand."
The little lines about his eyes deepened. He laughed softly.
"I only hope that the others will adopt your attitude. I hear that many
of them have very decided views about evening dress and small luxuries
of any description."
"Graveling and Peter Dale--especially Dale--are terrible," she declared.
"Dale is very narrow, indeed. You must bear with them if they are
foolish at first. They are uncultured and rough. They do not quite
understand. Sometimes they do not see far enough. But to-morrow you
will meet them. You will be at the Clarion to-morrow?"
"I am not sure," he answered thoughtfully. "I am thinking matters
over. To-morrow I shall meet the men of whom you have spoken, and a few
others whose names I have on my list, and consult with them.
Personally, I am not sure as to the wisdom of opening my lips until
after our meeting at Manchester."
"Oh, don't say that!" she begged. "What we all need so much is
encouragement, inspiration. Our greatest danger is lethargy. There are
millions who stare into the darkness, who long for a single word of
hope. Their eyes are almost tired. Come and speak to us to-morrow as
you spoke to the men and women of Chicago."
He smiled a little grimly.
"You forget that this is England. Until the time comes, one must choose
one's words. It is just what would please our smug enemies best to have
me break their laws before I have been here long enough to become
dangerous."
"You broke the laws of America," she protested eagerly.
"I had a million men and women primed for battle at my back," he
reminded her. "The warrant was signed for my arrest, but no one dared
to serve it. All the same, I had to leave the country with some work
half finished."
"It was a glorious commencement," she cried enthusiastically.
"One must not forget, though," he sighed, "that England is different.
To attain the same ends here, one may have to use somewhat different
methods."
For the moment, perhaps, she was stirred by some prophetic misgiving.
The hard common sense of his words fell like a cold douche upon the
furnace of her enthusiasms. She had imagined him a prophet, touched by
the great and unmistakable fire, ready to drive his chariot through all
the hosts of iniquity; irresistible, unassailable, cleaving his way
through the bending masses of their oppressors to the goal of their
desires. His words seemed to proclaim him a disciple of other methods.
There were to be compromises. His attire, his dwelling, this
luxuriously furnished room, so different from anything which she had
expected, proclaimed it. She herself held it part of the creed of her
life to be free from all ornaments, free from even the shadow of luxury.
Her throat was bare, her hair simply arranged, her fingers and wrists
innocent of even the simplest article of jewellery. He, on the other
hand, the Elijah of her dreams, appeared in the guise of a man of
fashion, wearing, as though he were used to them, the attire of the
hated class, obviously qualified by breeding and use to hold his place
amongst them. Was this indeed to be the disappointment of her life?
Then she remembered and her courage rose. After all, he was the Master.
"I will go now," she said. "I am glad to have been the first to have
welcomed you."
He held out his hands. Then for a moment they both listened and turned
towards the door. There was the sound of an angry voice--a visitor,
apparently trying to force his way in. Maraton strode towards the door
and opened it. A young man was in the hall, expostulating angrily with
a resolute man servant. His hat had rolled on to the floor, his face
was flushed with anger. The servant, on recognising his master, stepped
back at once.
"The gentleman insisted upon forcing his way in, sir," he explained
softly. "I wished him to wait while I brought you his name."
Maraton smiled and made a little gesture of dismissal. The young man
picked up his hat. He was still hot with anger. Maraton pointed to the
room on the threshold of which the girl was still standing.
"If you wish to speak to me," he said, "I am quite at your service.
Only it is a little late for a visit, isn't it? And yours seems to be a
rather unceremonious way, of insisting upon it. Who are you?"
The young man stood and stared at his questioner. He was wearing a blue
serge suit, obviously ready-made, thick boots, a doubtful collar, a
machine-knitted silk tie of vivid colour. He had curly fair hair, a
sharp face with narrow eyes, thick lips and an indifferent complexion.
"Are you Maraton?" he demanded.
"I am," Maraton admitted. "And you?"
"I am Richard Graveling, M.P.," the young man announced, with a certain
emphasis on those last two letters,--"M.P. for Poplar East. We
expected you at the Clarion to-night."
"I had other business," Maraton remarked calmly.
The young man appeared a trifle disconcerted.
"I don't see what business you can have here till we've talked things
out and laid our plans," he declared. "I am secretary of the committee
appointed to meet and confer with you. Peter Dale is chairman, of
course. There are five of us. We expected you 'round to-night. You
got our telegram at Liverpool?"
"Certainly," Maraton admitted. "It did not, however, suit my plans to
accept your invitation. I had a message from Mr. Foley, begging me to
see him to-night. I have been to his house."
The young man distinctly scowled.
"So Foley's been getting at you, has he?"
Maraton's face was inscrutable but there was, for a moment, a dangerous
flash in his eyes.
"I had some conversation with him this evening.
"What did he want?" Graveling asked bluntly.
Maraton raised his eyebrows. He turned to the girl.
"Do you know Mr. Graveling?"
The young man scowled. Julia smiled but there was a shadow of trouble
in her face.
"Naturally," she replied. "Mr. Graveling and I are fellow workers."
"Yes, we are that," the young man declared pointedly, "that and a little
more, I hope. To tell you the truth, I followed Miss Thurnbrein here,
and I think she'd have done better to have asked for my escort--the
escort of the man she's going to marry--before she came here alone at
this time of night." Mr. Graveling's ill-humour was explained. He was
of the order of those to whom the ability to conceal their feelings is
not given, and he was obviously in a temper. Maraton's face remained
impassive. The girl, however, stood suddenly erect. There was a vivid
spot of colour in her cheeks.
"You had better keep to the truth, Richard Graveling!" she cried
fearlessly. "I have never promised to marry you, or if I have, it was
under certain conditions. You had no right to follow me here."
The young man opened his lips and closed them again. He was scarcely
capable of speech. The very intensity of his anger seemed to invest the
little scene with a peculiar significance. The girl had the air of one
who has proclaimed her freedom. The face of the man who glared at her
was distorted with unchained passions. In the background, Maraton stood
with tired but expressionless countenance, and the air of one who
listens to a quarrel between children, a quarrel in which he has no
concern.
"It is not fair," Julia continued, "to discuss a purely personal matter
here. You can walk home with me if you care to, Richard Graveling, but
all that I have to say to you, I prefer to say here. I never promised
to marry you. You have always chosen to take it for granted, and I have
let you speak of it because I was indifferent, because I have never
chosen to think of such matters, because my thoughts have been wholly,
wholly dedicated to the greatest cause in the world. To-night you have
forced yourself upon me. You have done yourself harm, not good. You
have surprised the truth in my heart. It is clear to me that I--cannot
marry you; I never could. I shall not change. Now let us go back to
our work hand in hand, if you will, but that other matter is closed
between us forever."
She turned to say farewell to Maraton, but Graveling interposed himself
between them. His voice shook and there were evil things in his
distorted face.
"To-night, for the first time," he exclaimed hoarsely, "you speak in
this fashion! Before, even if you were indifferent, marriage at least
seemed possible to you. To-night you say that the truth has come to
you. You look at me with different eyes. You draw back. You begin to
feel, to understand. You are a woman to-night! Why? Answer me that!
Why? Why to-night? Why not before? Why is it that to-night you have
awakened? I will know! Look at me."
She was taken unawares, assailed suddenly, not only by his words but by
those curious new sensations, her own, yet unfamiliar to her. It was
civil war. A part of herself was in league with her accuser. She felt
the blushes stain her cheeks. She looked imploringly at Maraton for
help. He smiled at her reassuringly, delightfully.
"Children," he expostulated, "this is absurd! Off with you to your
homes. These are small matters of which you speak."
His hands were courteously laid upon both of them. He led them to the
door and pointed eastwards through the darkness.
"Think of the morning. Think of the human beings who wake in a few
hours, only to bend their bodies once more to the yoke. The other
things are but trifles."
She looked back at him from the corner of the Square, a straight,
impassive figure in a little halo of soft light. There was a catch in
her heart. Her companion's words were surely spoken in some foreign
tongue.
"We have got to have this out, Julia," he was saying. "If anybody or
anything has come between us, there's going to be trouble. If that's
the great Maraton, with his swagger evening clothes and big house, well,
he's not the man for our job, and I shan't mind being the first to tell
him so."
She glanced at him, for a moment, almost in wonder. Was he indeed so
small, so insignificant?
"There are many paths," she said softly, "which lead to the light. Ours
may be best suited to ourselves but it may not be the only one. It is
not for you or for me to judge."
Richard Graveling talked on, doing his cause harm with every word he
uttered. Julia relapsed into silence; soon she did not even hear his
words. They rode for some distance on an omnibus through the city, now
shrouded and silent. At the corner of the street where she had her
humble lodgings, he left her.
"Well, I have had my say," he declared. "Think it over. I'll meet you
out of work to-morrow, if I can. We shall have had a talk with Mr.
Maraton by that time!"
She left him with a smile upon her lips. His absence seemed like an
immense, a wonderful relief. Once more her thoughts were free.