In the roar of applause which followed Maraton's brilliant but wholly
unprepared peroration, a roar which broke and swelled like the waves of
the sea, different people upon the platform heard different things.
Peter Dale and his little band of coadjutors were men enough to know
that a new force had come amongst them. It is possible, even, that
they, hardened as they were by time and circumstances, felt some thrill
of that erstwhile enthusiasm which in their younger days had brought
them out from the ranks of their fellows. To Aaron, listening with
quivering attention to every sentence, it seemed like the consummation
of all his dreams. Julia alone was conscious of a certain restraint,
knew that behind all the deep feeling and splendid hopefulness of
Maraton's words, there was a sense of something kept back. It wasn't
what he had meant to say. Something had come between Maraton and his
passionate dreams of freedom. He, too, had become a particularist. He,
too, was content to preach salvation piecemeal. He had spoken to them
at first simply, as one worker to another. Then he had drifted out into
the larger sea, and for those few moments he had been, at any rate,
vigorously in earnest as he had attacked with scorpion-like bitterness
the hideous disproportions which existed between the capitalized
corporation and the labour which supported it. Yet afterwards he had
gone back within himself. Almost she had expected to see him with his
hands upraised, bidding them tear down these barriers for themselves.
Instead he showed them the legalized way, not to free humanity, but to
ensure for themselves a more comfortable place in life. It was all very
magnificent. The strike was assured now, almost the success of it.
It was long before they let him leave the platform. In the droning
impotence of the men who followed him, the vast audience seemed to
realise once more the splendid perfection of his wholly natural and
inspiring oratory. They rose and shouted for him, and once again, as he
said a few words, the spell of silence lay upon them. Julia sat telling
herself passionately that all was well, that nothing more than this was
to have been hoped for, that indeed the liberator had come. More than
once she felt Aaron's hands gripping her arm, as Maraton's words seemed
to cleave a way towards the splendid truth. Ross, on her other side,
was like a man carried into another s world.
"It is the Messiah," he muttered, "the Messiah of suffering men and
women! No longer will they cry aloud for bread and be given stones."
Everything that happened afterwards seemed, in a way, commonplace. When
at last they succeeded in leaving the platform, they had to wait for a
long time in an anteroom while some portion of the immense crowd
dispersed. Peter Dale, as soon as he had lit his pipe, came up to
Maraton and patted him on the shoulder.
"There's no doubt about thy gift, lad," he said condescendingly. "A man
who can talk as you do has no need to look elsewhere for a living."
"Gave it to 'em straight," Mr. Weavel assented, "and what I propose is
a meeting at Sheffield--say this day month--and an appeal to the
ironfounders. It's all very well, Borden," he went on, a little
angrily, "but my people are looking for something from me, in return for
their cash. What with these strikes here and strikes there, and a bit
out of it for everybody, why, it's time Sheffield spoke."
"There's a question I should like to ask," Graveling intervened,
plunging into the discussion, "and that is, why are you so cocksure, Mr.
Maraton, of Government support in favour of the men? You said in your
speech to-night, so far as I remember, that if the masters wouldn't give
in without, Government must force them to see the rights of the matter.
And not only that, but Government should compel them to recognise the
Union and to deal with it. Now you've only been in this country a few
days, and it seemed to me you were talking on a pretty tall order."
"Not at all," Maraton replied. "I have a scheme of my own, scarcely
developed as yet, a scheme which I wasn't sure, when I came here, that I
should ever make use of, which justified me in saying what I did."
They looked at him jealously.
"Is it an arrangement with Mr. Foley that you're speaking of?" Peter
Dale enquired.
"Perhaps so," Maraton assented.
There was a dead silence. Maraton was leaning slightly against a
table. Julia was talking to the wife of one of the delegates, a little
way off. The others were all spread around, smoking and helping
themselves to drinks which had just been brought in. Graveling's face
was dark and angry.
"Are we to gather," he demanded, "that there's some sort of an
understanding between you and Mr. Foley?"
"If there is," Maraton asked easily, "to whom am I responsible?"
There was a silence, brief but intense. Julia had turned
her head; the others, too, were listening. Peter Dale was blowing
tobacco smoke from his mouth, Borden was breathing heavily. Graveling's
small eyes were bright with anger and distrust. They were all of
them realising the presence of a new force which had come amongst
them, and already, with the immeasurable selfishness of their class,
they were speculating as to its personal effect upon themselves. Peter
Dale, with his hands in his trousers pockets, and his pipe between
his teeth, elbowed his way to Maraton's side.
"Young man," he began solemnly, "we'd best have an understanding. Ask
any of these others and they'll tell you I'm the leader of the Labour
Party. Are you one of us or aren't you?"
"One of you, in a sense, I hope, Mr. Dale," Maraton answered simply.
"Only you must put me down as an Independent. I don't understand
conditions over here yet. Where my own way seems best, I am used to
following it."
Peter Dale removed his pipe from his mouth and spoke with added
distinctness.
"Politics over here," he said, "are a simpler game than in the States,
but there's one class of person we've got to do without, and that's the
Independent Member. You can't do anything over here except by sticking
together. If you'll come under the standard, you're welcome. I'll say
nothing about Parliament for a time, but we'll find you all the talking
you want and see that you're well paid for it."
Looking past the speaker's hard, earnest face, Maraton was conscious of
the scorn flashing in Julia's I eyes. Intuitively he felt her
appreciation of the coarse selfishness of these men, terrified at his
gifts, resisting stubbornly the unwelcome conviction of a new
mastership. Her lips even moved, as though she were signalling to him.
At that moment, indeed, he would have been glad of her guidance. He
needed the machinery which these men controlled, distasteful though
their ideals and methods might be to him.
"Mr. Dale," he declared, "I am a people's man. I cannot enroll myself
in your party because I fancy that in many ways we should think
differently. But with so many objects in common, it is surely possible
for us to be friends?"
Ross leaned suddenly forward in his chair, his grey face
passion-stirred, the sweat upon his forehead.
"Aye!" he cried, "it's the greatest friend or the bitterest enemy of the
people you'll be. You'll do more with that tongue of yours than a
library of books or a century of Parliament, and may it wither in your
mouth if they buy you--those others! God meant you for a people's man.
It'll be hell for you and for us if they buy you away."
Maraton changed his position a little. He was facing them all now.
"My friends," he said, "that is one thing of which you need have no
fear. Our methods may be different, we may work in different ways, but
we shall work towards the same goal. Remember this, and remember always
that whether we fight under the same banner or not, I have told it to
you solemnly and from the bottom of my heart. I am a people's man!"
He turned towards the door and laid his hand upon Aaron's shoulder.
Julia, too, rose and followed him.
"I think," he added, "that the people will have cleared off by now. I
am going to try and get back to the hotel. I have messages to send
away, and an early train to catch in the morning."
They were passing out of the room almost in silence, but Henneford
struck the table with his fist.
"Come," he exclaimed, "we seem in a queer humour to-night! Don't let
Mr. Maraton think too hardly of us. Wherever his place may be in the
future, he's done us a grand service to-night, and don't let's forget
it. He's waked these people up as none other of us could have done.
He's started this strike in such a fashion as none other of us could.
Don't let's forget to be grateful. The education and the oratory isn't
all on the other side now. If we don't see you again to-night, Mr.
Maraton, or before you leave for London, here's my thanks, for one, for
to-night's work, and I'll lay odds that the others are with me."
They crowded around him after that, and though Graveling stood on one
side and Peter Dale still maintained his attitude of doubt, they all
parted cordially enough. They reached the back door of the hall and
found the shelter of a four-wheeled cab. Before they could start,
however, they were discovered. People came running from all directions.
Looking through the window, they could see nothing but a sea of white
faces. The crazy vehicle rocked from side to side. The driver was
lifted from his seat, the horse unharnessed. Slowly, and surrounded by
a cheering multitude, they dragged the cab through the streets.
Julia, sitting by Maraton's side, felt herself impelled to hold on to
his arm. Her body, her every sense was thrilled with the hoarse,
dramatic roll of their voices, the forest of upraised caps, the strange
calm of the man, who glanced sometimes almost sadly from side to side.
She clutched at him once passionately.
"Isn't it wonderful!" she murmured. "All the time they call to
you--their liberator!"
He smiled, and there was a shadow still of sadness in his eyes.
"It is a moment's frenzy," he said. "They have seen a gleam of the
truth. When the light goes out, the old burden will seem all the
heavier. It is so little that man can do for them."
They had flung open the top of the cab, and Maraton's eyes were fixed
far ahead at the dull glow which hung over the city, the haze of smoke
and heat, stretching like a sulphurous pall southwards. The roar of
voices was always in his ears, but for a moment his thoughts seemed to
have passed away, his eyes seemed to be seeking for some message beyond
the clouds. He alone knew the full meaning of the hour which had
passed.
They were sitting alone in the library, the French windows wide open,
the languorous night air heavy with the perfume of roses and the
sweetness of the cedars, drawn out by the long day's sunshine. Mr.
Foley was sitting with folded arms, silent and pensive--a man waiting.
And by his side was Elisabeth, standing for a moment with her fingers
upon his shoulder.
"Is that eleven o'clock?" she asked.
"A quarter past," he answered. "We shall hear in a few minutes now."
She moved restlessly away. There was something spectral about her in
her light muslin frock, as she vanished through the windows and
reappeared almost immediately, threading her way amongst the flower
beds. Suddenly the telephone bell at Mr. Foley's elbow rang. He
raised the receiver. She came swiftly to his side.
"Manchester?" she heard him say. . . . "Yes, this is Lyndwood Park.
It is Mr. Foley speaking. Go on."
There was silence then. Elisabeth stood with parted lips and luminous
eyes, her hand upon his shoulder. She watched him,--watched the slow
movement of his head, the relaxing of his hard, thin lips, the flash in
his eyes. She knew--from the first she knew!
"Thank you very much, and good night," Mr. Foley said, as he replaced
the receiver.
Then he turned quickly to Elisabeth and caught her hand. "They say that
Maraton's speech was wonderful," he announced. "He declared war, but a
man's war. Cotton first, and cotton alone."
She gave a little sobbing breath. Her hands were locked together.
"England will never know," Mr. Foley added, in a voice still trembling
with emotion, "what she has escaped!"