Maraton spent three hours and a half that morning in conclave with the
committee appointed for his reception, and for that three hours and a
half he was profoundly bored. Every one had a good deal to say except
Richard Graveling, who sat at the end of the table with folded arms and
a scowl upon his face. The only other man who scarcely opened his lips
during the entire time, was Maraton himself. Peter Dale, Labour Member
for Newcastle, was the first to make a direct appeal. He was a
stalwart, grim-looking man, with heavy grey eyebrows and grey beard. He
had been a Member of Parliament for some years and was looked upon as
the practical leader of his party.
"We've heard a lot of you, Mr. Maraton," he declared, "of your fine
fighting methods and of your gift of speech. We'll hear more of that, I
hope, at Manchester. We are, so to speak, strangers as yet, but there's
one thing I will say for you, and that is that you're a good listener.
You've heard all that we've got to say and you've scarcely made a
remark. You won't object to my saying that we're expecting something
from you in the way of initiative, not to say leadership?"
Maraton glanced down the table. There were five men seated there, and,
a little apart from all of them, David Ross, who had refused to be
shaken off. Excepting him only, they were well-fed and substantial
looking men. Maraton had studied them carefully through half-closed
eyes during all the time of their meeting, and the more he had studied
them, the more disappointed he had become. There was not one of them
with the eyes of a dreamer. There was not one of them who appeared
capable of dealing with any subject save from his own absolutely
material and practical point of view.
Maraton from the first had felt a seal laid upon his lips. Now, when
the time had come for him to speak, he did so with hesitation, almost
with reluctance.
"As yet," he began, "there is very little for me to talk about. You
are, I understand, you five, a committee appointed by the Labour Party
to confer with me as to the best means of promulgating our beliefs. You
have each told me your views. You would each, apparently, like me to
devote myself to your particular district for the purpose of propagating
a strike which shall result in a trifling increase of wages."
"And a coal strike, I say," Peter Dale interrupted, "is the logical
first course. We've been threatening it for two years and it's time we
brought it off. I can answer for the miners of the north country. We
have two hundred and seventy thousand pounds laid by and the Unions are
spoiling for a fight. Another eighteen-pence would make life a
different thing for some of our pitmen. And the masters can afford it,
too. Sixteen and a half per cent is the average dividend on the largest
collieries around us."
A small man, with gimlet-like black eyes and a heavy moustache, at which
he had been tugging nervously during Peter Dale's remarks, plunged into
the discussion. His name was Abraham Weavel and he came from Sheffield.
"Coal's all very well," he declared, "but I speak for the ironfounders.
There's orders enough in Leeds and Sheffield to keep the furnaces ablaze
for two years, and the masters minting money at it. Our wages ain't to
be compared with the miners. We've twenty thousand in Sheffield that
aren't drawing twenty-five shillings a week and they're about fed up
with it. We've our Unions, too, and money to spare, and I tell you
they're beginning to ask what's the use of sending a Labour Member to
Parliament and having nothing come of it."
A grey-whiskered man, who had the look of a preacher, struck the table
before him with a sudden vigour.
"You remember who I am, Mr. Maraton? My name's Borden--Samuel
Borden--and I am from the Potteries. It's all very well for Weavel and
Dale there to talk, but there's no labour on God's earth so underpaid as
the china and glass worker. We may not have the money saved--that's
simply because it takes my people all they can do to keep from
starvation. I've figures here that'll prove what I say. I'll go so far
as this--there isn't a worse paid industry than mine in the United
Kingdom."
There was a moment's silence. Abraham Weavel leaned back in his chair
and yawned. Peter Dale made a grimace of dissent. Maraton turned to
one of the little company who as yet had scarcely opened his lips--a
thin, ascetic-looking, middle-aged man, who wore gold spectacles, and
who had an air of refinement which was certainly not shared by any of
the others.
"And you, Mr. Culvain," he enquired, "you represent no particular
industry, I believe? You were a journalist, were you not, before you
entered Parliament?"
"I was and am a journalist," Culvain assented. "Since you have asked my
opinion, I must confess that I am all for more peaceful methods. These
Labour troubles which inconvenience and bring loss upon the community,
do harm to our cause. I am in favour of a vigorous course of platform
education through all the country districts of England. I think that
the principles of Socialism are not properly understood by the working
classes."
"If one might make a comment upon all that you have said," Maraton
remarked, "I might point out to you that there is a certain selfishness
in your individual suggestions. Three of you are in favour of a
gigantic strike, each in his own constituency. Mr. Culvain, who is a
writer and an orator, prefers the methods which appeal most to him. Yet
even these strikes which you propose are puny affairs. You want to wage
war for the sake of a few shillings. We ought to fight, if at all, for
a greater and more splendid principle. It isn't a shilling or two more
a week that the people want. It's a share--a share to which they are,
without the shadow of a doubt, entitled--in the direct product of their
labour."
"That's sound enough," Peter Dale admitted. "How are you going to get
it?"
"You ask for too much," Weavel observed, "and you get nothing."
"It is never wise," Culvain suggested quietly, "to have the public
against one."
Maraton rose a little abruptly to his feet. He had the air of one eager
to dismiss the subject.
"Gentlemen," he announced, "I've heard your views. In a few days' time
you shall hear mine. Only let me tell you this. To me you all seem to
be working and thinking on very narrow lines. Your object seems to be
the securing of small individual benefits for your individual
constituents. I think that if we get to work together in this country,
there must be something more national in our aspirations. That is all I
have to say for the present. As I think you know, I intend to make a
pronouncement of my own views at Manchester."
They all took their leave a little later. Maraton himself saw them out
and watched them across the Square. Somehow or other, his depression
had visibly increased as he turned away. He had come into contact
lately, on the other side of the world, with a different order of
person--men and women, too, passionately, strenuously in earnest. They
were well-fed, prosperous individuals, these whom he had just dismissed.
Their politics were their business, their position as Members of
Parliament a source of unmixed joy to all of them; hard-headed men, very
likely, good each in his own department; beyond that, nothing.
He returned presently to his study, where Aaron was already at work,
typing letters.
"So that is your committee of Labour Members," Maraton remarked,
throwing himself into an easy chair.
Aaron looked up.
"They are all sound men," he declared. "Peter Dale, too, is a fine
speaker."
Maraton sighed.
"Yet it isn't from them," he said quietly, "that I can take a mandate.
I must go to the people. I couldn't even talk to them to-day. I
couldn't take them into my confidence. I couldn't show them the things
I have seen perhaps only in my dreams. I don't suppose they would have
listened. . . . How many more letters, Aaron?"
"Thirty-seven, sir."
Maraton rose to his feet.
"I shall walk for an hour or so," he announced. "Get them ready for me
to sign when I come in. Have you a home, young man?"
"None, sir," Aaron admitted.
"Excellent!" Maraton declared cheerfully. "These people with homes lose
sight of the real thing. What do you think of your Labour Members,
honestly, Aaron? Ah, I can see that they have been little gods to you!
Little tin gods, I am afraid, Aaron. Do they know what it is to go
hungry, I wonder? Not often! . . . Get on with your letters. I am
going out."
Maraton walked to the Park and sat down underneath the trees. There
were a fair number of people about, notwithstanding the hot weather, and
very soon he recognised Lady Elisabeth. She was walking back and forth
along one of the side-walks, with a little, fussy woman, golden-haired,
and wearing a gown of the brightest blue. Maraton watched them, at
first idly and then with interest. Lady Elisabeth, in her cool muslin
gown and simple hat, seemed to be moving in a world of her own, into
which her companion's chatter but rarely penetrated. She walked with a
slow and delicate grace, not without a characteristic touch of languor.
Once or twice she looked around her--one might almost have imagined that
she was seeking escape from her companion--and on one of these occasions
her eyes met Maraton's. She stopped short. They were within a few feet
of one another, and Maraton rose to his feet. She lowered her parasol
and held out her hand.
"Only a very short time ago," she told him, "I was wondering what you
were doing. You know that my uncle is expecting to see or hear from you
this afternoon?"
"I know," he admitted. "To tell you the truth, I came out here to
think. I could not quite make up my mind what to say to him."
"It is strange that we should meet here," she continued, "when Mr.
Foley was talking to me about you for so long this morning. He wished
that he had laid more emphasis upon the fact that your coming to us at
Lyndwood committed you to nothing. No one is the worse off for hearing
every point of view, is he? My uncle will feel so much happier if he
really has had the opportunity of having a long, uninterrupted talk with
you."
Maraton smiled pleasantly. They were standing in a crowded part of the
walk and almost unconsciously they commenced to move slowly along
together. Lady Elisabeth turned to her companion.
"You must let me introduce Mr. Maraton to you," she said. "This is Mr.
Maraton--Mrs. Bollington-Watts."
The little woman leaned forward and looked at Maraton with undisguised
curiosity.
"Forgive my starting at your name, won't you, Mr. Maraton?" she began.
"It is uncommon, isn't it, and I'm only just over from the States. I
dare say you read about all those awful doings in Chicago."
Maraton, without direct reply, inclined his head. Mrs.
Bollington-Watts continued volubly.
"My brother is a judge out in Chicago. It was he who signed the warrant
for Maraton's arrest. I'm afraid our people are getting much too
scared, nowadays, about that sort of thing. We don't seem to be able to
enforce our laws like you do over here. They are all saying now that it
ought to have been served and the man shot if there had been any
resistance."
"In which case," Maraton remarked, "I should not have had the pleasure
of making your acquaintance, Mrs. Bollington-Watts."
She stared at him for a moment, speechless through sheer lack of
comprehension. Then she glanced at Lady Elisabeth and the truth
dawned upon her. It was more than she could grapple with at first,
however.
"You? But Lady Elisabeth--? But you, Mr. Maraton--are you really the
man who mur--who was associated with all that trouble in Chicago?"
"I am, without a doubt, the man," Maraton assented cheerfully. "I am an
enemy of your class, Mrs. Bollington-Watts. Your husband is the steel
millionaire, isn't he? And I am also a Socialist of the most militant
and modern type. Nevertheless, I can assure you, for these few moments
you are perfectly safe."
Mrs. Bollington-Watts drew a little breath. The remarkable
adaptability of her race came to her rescue; her point of view swung
round.
"Why," she declared, "I have never been so interested in my life. This
is perfectly thrilling. Mr. Maraton, I am having a few friends come in
to-morrow evening. I should dearly love to give them a surprise.
Couldn't you just drop in for an hour? Or, better still, if you could
dine? I have taken Lenchester House for a year. My, it would be good
to see their faces!"
Maraton shook his head.
"Thank you very much, Mrs. Bollington-Watts," he said, "but my visit to
England is one of business only. To be frank with you, I have no social
existence, nor any desire to cultivate one."
"But you know Lady Elisabeth," the little woman protested.
"I have the honour of knowing Lady Elisabeth incidentally," Maraton
replied. "If you will excuse me now--"
Mrs. Bollington-Watts turned aside to talk vigorously to a passer-by.
Lady Elisabeth laid her hand upon his arm.
"Mr. Maraton," she said softly, "do make up your mind. Please come to
Lyndwood."
Her blue eyes were raised to his, fearlessly, appealingly. Maraton was
more than ever conscious of the delicate perfection of her person, her
clear skin, her silky brown hair. She was something new to him in her
sex. He knew quite well that a request from her was an unusual thing.
"I will come, Lady Elisabeth," he promised gravely. "Beyond that, of
course, I can say nothing. But I will come to Lyndwood."
The slight anxiety passed from her face like a cloud. Her smile was
positively brilliant.
"It is charming of you," she whispered.
Mrs. Bollington-Watts was once more free and by their side. They moved
on to the corner and Maraton was on the point of taking his leave. Just
at that moment Mrs. Bollington-Watts gave a little cry of amazement. A
coach was drawn up by the side of the path, and a young man who was
driving it, was looking down at them. Mrs. Bollington-Watts stopped
and waved her hand at him almost frantically.
"Why, it's Freddy Lawes!" she exclaimed.. "Why, Freddy, what on earth
are you doing here? If this isn't a surprise! They told me you never
moved from Paris, and I thought I'd have to come right over there to see
you. . . . Well, I declare! Freddy!--why, Freddy, what's the
matter?"
The words of Mrs. Bollington-Watts seemed as though they had been
spoken into empty air. The young man was leaning forward in his place,
the reins loosely held in his hand, and a groom was already upon the
path, recovering the whip which had slipped from his fingers. His eyes
were fixed not upon Mrs. Bollington-Watts nor upon Lady Elisabeth, but
upon Maraton. He was a young man of harmless and commonplace appearance
but his features were at that moment transformed. His mouth was
strained and quivering, his eyes were lit with something very much like
horror. Some words certainly left his lips, but they did not carry to
the hearing of any one of those three people. He looked at Maraton with
the fierce, terrified intentness of one who looks upon a spectre!