Julia was conscious of a new vitality as she left the Park. She was her
own mistress now; her half tie to Graveling was permanently broken. So
much the better! The man's personality had always been distasteful to
her. She had suffered him only as a fellow worker. His overtures in
other directions had kept her in a continual state of embarrassment, but
in her ignorance as to her own feelings, she had hesitated to speak out.
She put sedulously behind her the question of what had brought this new
enlightenment.
She took the Tube to the British Museum and went round to see Aaron.
The house was busier than she had ever seen it before; taxicabs were
coming and going, and four or five people sat in the waiting-room.
Aaron looked up and waved his hand as she entered. He was alone in the
study where he worked.
"Come in," he cried eagerly. "Sit down. It's a joy to see you, Julia,
but I daren't stop working. I've forty or fifty letters to type before
he comes in, and he'll be off again in half-an-hour."
She sank into an easy chair. The atmosphere of the cool room, with its
opened windows and drawn Venetian blinds, was most restful.
"Is everything going well, Aaron?" she asked him.
He nodded.
"Better than well. There's a telegram just in from Manchester. We are
bound to win there. Did you read Foley's speech?"
"Yes. Did he mean it all, do you think?" she asked doubtfully.
"Every word," he replied confidently. "We've got it here in black and
white. There has been a commission appointed. Members of the
Government, if you please--nothing less. The masters have got an
ultimatum. If they refuse, Mr. Foley has asked Maraton to frame a
bill. We've got the sketch of it here already. What do you think of
that, Julia?"
"I only wish that I knew," she murmured. "What can have happened to Mr.
Foley?"
"They all do as Maraton bids them!" Aaron ex-claimed triumphantly. "If
only I had four hands! I can't finish, Julia. It's impossible."
She sprang up and tore off her gloves.
"Let me help," she cried eagerly. "You have another typewriter in the
corner there. I can work it, and you know I could always read your
shorthand."
He accepted her help a little grudgingly.
"You must be careful, then," he enjoined, with the air of one who
confers a favour. "There must be no mistakes. Begin here and do those
letters. One carbon copy of each. I'll lift the machine on to the
table for you."
She propped up the book and very soon there was silence in the room,
except for the click of the two typewriters. Presently she stopped
short and uttered a little cry.
"What is it?" he demanded, without looking up from his work.
"This letter to the Secretary of the Unionist Association, Nottingham!"
"Well?"
"Mr. Maraton is to go there Thursday, to address a meeting,--a Unionist
meeting."
Aaron glowered at her from over his typewriter.
"Why not? It's Mr. Foley's idea. He wants Mr. Maraton in Parliament.
Why not?"
"But as a Unionist!" she gasped. "Nottingham isn't a Labour
constituency at all."
"He is coming in as a Unionist, so as to have a
free hand. We don't want any interference from Peter Dale and that
lot."
She looked at him aghast. Peter Dale and his colleagues had been gods a
few weeks ago!
"Can't you see," Aaron continued irritably, "that the coming of Maraton
has changed many things? A man like that can't serve under anybody, and
no man could come as a stranger and lead the Labour Party. He has to be
outside. This is a working man's constituency. He is pledged to fight
Capital, fight it tooth and nail."
"I suppose it's all right," Julia said. "It seems different, somehow,
from what we had expected, and he never goes to the Clarion at all."
"Why should he?" Aaron demanded. "They are all jealous of him, every
one of 'em; Peter Dale is the worst of the lot. Didn't you hear how
they talked to him at Manchester?"
She nodded, and for a time they went on with their work. She found
herself, however, continually returning to the subject of those vital
differences; the Maraton as they had dreamed of him--the prophet with
the flaming sword, and this wonderfully civilised person.
"Tell me honestly, Aaron," she asked presently, "what do you think of it
all?--of him--of his methods? You are with him all the time. Haven't
you ever any doubts?"
She watched him closely. She would have been conscious of the slightest
tremor in his reply, the slightest hesitation. There was nothing of the
sort. He was merely tolerant of her ignorance.
"No one who knows Maraton," he pronounced, "could fail to trust him."
After that she asked no more questions. They worked steadily for
another half hour or so. Messages were sometimes brought in to Aaron,
which he summarily disposed of. Julia wondered at the new facility, the
heart-whole eagerness which he devoted to every trifling matter.
Then, just as she was halfway through copying out a pile of figures,
Maraton came in. He stood and watched them in the doorway, half amused,
half surprised. For a moment she kept her head down. Then she looked
up slowly.
"Since when," he asked, "have I been the proud possessor of two
secretaries?"
"You left me letters enough for four, sir," Aaron reminded him. "I
wanted to finish them all, so Julia stayed to help me."
Maraton came smiling towards them.
"Why, I am afraid I forgot," he said. "In America I used sometimes to
have four typists working. You can't possibly get out all those details
by yourself, Aaron."
"We shall have finished this lot, anyhow, in an hour."
"You must get permanent help," Maraton insisted. "Leave off now, both
of you. I want to talk to your sister. Do you know," he went on,
turning towards her, "that I have scarcely seen anything of you since
Manchester?"
"My work keeps me rather a prisoner," she explained, "and after these
hot days one hasn't much energy left."
"You are still working at the tailoring?"
She nodded.
"I like to be in the midst of it all, but this weather I am almost
afraid I shan't be able to go on. The atmosphere is hateful. It seems
to draw all the life out of one."
He glanced over her shoulder at the work she had been doing.
"Why not come to me?" he suggested suddenly. "Aaron needs help. He
can't possibly do everything for himself. I have a thirst for
information, you know. I want statistics on every possible subject.
There are seven or eight big corporations now, whose wages bill I want
to compare with the interest they pay on capital. Aaron doesn't have
time even to answer the necessary letters. I am in disgrace all round.
Do come."
She was sitting quite still, looking at him. It would have been
impossible for any one to have guessed that his words were like music to
her.
"But there is my trade," she objected. "After all, I am useful there.
I keep in touch with the girls."
"You have finished with that," he argued. "You have done your work
there. They all know who you are and what you are. You have lots of
information which would be useful to me. Aaron must have some one to
help him. Why not you? As for the rest, I can afford to pay two
secretaries--you needn't be afraid of that."
"I never thought of it," she assured him. "I shouldn't want very much
money."
"Leave that to me," he begged, "only accept. Is it a promise? Come,
make it a promise and we will have an evening off. All day long I seem
to have been moving in a strained atmosphere, talking to men who are
only half in sympathy with me, talking to men who are civil because they
have brains enough to see the truth. I want an hour or two of rest.
Aaron shall telephone to Gardner. I was to have dined with him at his
club, but it is of no importance. He was dining there, anyhow, and the
other places I was going to this evening don't count. Telephone 1718
Westminster, Aaron, and say that Mr. Maraton is unable to keep his
dinner engagement with Mr. Gardner and begs to be excused. Then we'll
all go out together. What do you say? I have found something almost
like a roof garden. I'll tell you all about New York."
Her face for a moment shone. Then she looked down at her gown. He
laughed.
"You have done your day's work and I've done mine," he remarked. "I dare
say of the two, yours is the more worthy. We'll go just as we are. Get
rid of those people who are waiting, Aaron. I had a look at them. They
are all the usual class--cadgers."
"There is one gentleman whom you must see," Aaron declared. "I didn't
put him in the waiting-room--a Mr. Beldeman. He came to see you in
Manchester."
"Beldeman!"
Maraton repeated the name. Then he smiled.
"A very sensational gentleman," he observed. "Came to offer me--but
never mind, I told you about that. Yes, you're right, Aaron. He is
always interesting. Take your sister away for a few minutes. You can
be getting ready. When I've finished with Mr. Beldeman, we'll start
out. I shan't change a thing."
Mr. Beldeman entered the room, carrying his hat in his hand, unruffled
by his long wait, to all appearance wearing the same clothes, the same
smile, as on his visit to the hotel in Manchester. Maraton greeted him
good-humouredly.
"Well, Mr. Beldeman," he began, "you see, I have made things all right
for your syndicate of manufacturers, although I couldn't accept your
offer. Sit down. You won't keep me long, will you? I have to go out.
Perhaps you are going to give me a little for my Lancashire operatives.
They can do with it. Strike pay over here is none too liberal, you
know."
Mr. Beldeman laid down his hat. He blinked for a moment behind his
gold spectacles.
"The Lancashire strike," he said softly, "is of very little service to
my principals. As you know, it is more than that for which we were
hoping."
Maraton nodded but made no remark.
"My principals," Mr. Beldeman continued, "have watched your career, Mr.
Maraton, for some time. They have studied eagerly your speeches and
your writings, and when you arrived on this side they expected something
more from you. They expected, in fact, the enunciation of a certain
doctrine which you have already propounded with singular eloquence in
other parts of the world. They expected to find it the text of your
first words to Labour in this country. I refer, of course, to the
universal strike."
"It was my great theory," Maraton admitted, suddenly grave. "I will not
say even now that I have abandoned it. It is in abeyance."
"My principals," Mr. Beldeman remarked slowly, "would like it to take
place."
Maraton smiled.
"Your principals, I presume," he said, "do not imagine that I am on the
earth to gratify them, even though they did offer me--let me see, how
much was it--a million pounds?"
"This time," Mr. Beldeman went on, "it is not a question of money."
"Not a question of money," Maraton repeated. "You don't want to buy me?
What do you want to do, then?"
"We threaten," Mr. Beldeman pronounced calmly.
Maraton for a moment seemed puzzled.
"Threaten," he murmured thoughtfully. "Come, do I understand you
properly? Is it assassination, or anything of that sort, you're talking
about?" Beldeman shook his head.
"Those are methods for extreme cases," he said. "Yours is not an
extreme case. We do not threaten you, Mr. Maraton, with death, but we
do threaten you with the death of your reputation, the end of your
career as a political power in this country, if you do not see your way
clear to act as we desire."
Maraton stood, for a few seconds, perfectly still.
"You have courage, Mr. Beldeman," he remarked.
"Sir," Mr. Beldeman replied, "I have been as near death as most men.
That is why I occupy my present position. I am the special agent of the
greatest political power in the world. When I choose to make use of my
machinery, I can kill or spare, abduct, rob, ruin--what I choose. You I
only threaten. I fancy that will be enough. We have our hold upon the
press of this country."
Maraton walked to the door and back again.
"I killed a man once, Mr. Beldeman," he said, "who threatened me."
"You will not kill me," Mr. Beldeman declared, with gentle confidence
in his tone.
"If I had known," Maraton continued softly, "I'd have wrung your neck at
Manchester."
"Quite easy, I should say," Mr. Beldeman agreed. "You look strong.
Without a doubt I could make you desperate. Better be reasonable. My
people want the railway strike, the coal strike, and the iron
strike--want them both within a month. Come, what are you afraid of?
Stick to your colours, Mr. Maraton. Wasn't it in the North. American
Review you declared that a war and conquest were the inevitable prelude
of social reform in this country?"
"Did I say that?" Maraton asked.
"You did. Now you are here, you are afraid. Never mind, war and
conquest are to come. We give you a month in which to deliver your
message. You have, I believe, two large meetings to address before that
date. Make your pronouncement and all will be well. The million is
yours for the people."
"A sort of gigantic blackmail," Maraton remarked drily.
"You can call it what you like. If you have conditions to make, I am
prepared to listen. I do not insult you by offering--"
Maraton flung open the door a little noisily.
"That will do, Mr. Beldeman," he said. "I congratulate you upon the
manner in which you have conducted this interview. I presume I shall
see you again one day before the month is up?"
"You certainly will," Mr. Beldeman replied. "If you should want me
before--an advance payment or anything of that sort--I am at the Royal
Hotel."
Maraton was alone in the room. For some moments he remained motionless.
He heard Aaron and Julia in the hall but he did not hasten to join them.
He moved instead to the window and stood watching Beldeman's retreating
form.