The lengthy reports of his Sheffield visit and speeches, of which the
newspapers made great capital, an extraordinary impression of the same
in Selingman's wonderful prose, and the caprice of a halfpenny paper,
made Maraton suddenly the most talked about man in England. A notoriety
which he would have done much to have avoided was forced upon him.
Early on the morning following his return, his house was besieged with a
little stream of journalists, photographers, politicians, men and women
of all orders and degrees, seeking for a few moments' interview with the
man of the hour. Maraton retreated precipitately into his smaller study
at the back of the house, and left Aaron to cope as well as he might
with the assailing host. Every now and then the telephone bell rang,
and Aaron made his report.
"There are fourteen men here who want to interview you," he announced,
"all from good papers. If you won't be interviewed, some of them want a
photograph."
"Send them away," Maraton directed. "Tell them the only photograph I
ever had taken is in the hands of the Chicago police."
"There's the editor here himself from the _Bi-Weekly_."
"My compliments and excuses," Maraton replied. "I will be interviewed
by no one."
"There's a representative from the _Oracle_ here," Aaron continued, "who
wants to know your exact position in connection with the Labour Party.
What shall I say?"
"Tell him to apply to Mr. Dale!" Maraton answered.
"Mr. Foley and Lady Elisabeth Landon are outside in a car. Mr.
Foley's compliments, and if you could spare a moment, they would be glad
to come in and see you."
Maraton hesitated.
"You had better let them come in.
"Shall I go?" Julia asked.
Maraton shook his head.
"Stay where you are," he enjoined. "Perhaps they will go sooner, if
they see that I am at work with you."
Mr. Foley was in his best and happiest mood. He shook hands heartily
with Maraton. Elisabeth said nothing at all, but Maraton was conscious
of one swift look into his eyes, and of the--fact that her fingers
rested in his several seconds longer than was necessary.
"We are profoundly mortified, both my niece and I," Mr. Foley said.
"Never have I had so many journalists on my doorstep, even on that
notorious Thursday when they thought that I was going to declare war. I
really fancy, Maraton, that they are going to make a celebrity of you.
Have you seen the papers?"
"I have read Selingman's sketch," Maraton replied.
"They say," Mr. Foley went on, "that he wrote all night at the office
in Fleet Street, and that his sheets were flung into type as he wrote
them. Selingman, too--the great Selingman! You know him?"
"He travelled down from Sheffield with me last night," Maraton answered.
"A more dangerous person even than you," Mr. Foley observed, "and an
Anglophobe. Never mind, what did we call about, Elisabeth?"
"Well, we were really on our way to the city," his niece reminded him.
"It was you who suggested, when we were at the top of the Square, that
we should call in and see Mr. Maraton."
"There was something in my mind," Mr. Foley persisted. "I remember.
Next Friday is the last day of the session, you know, Mr. Maraton. We
want you to go down to Scotland with us for a week."
Maraton shook his head.
"It is very kind of you," he said, "but I shall take no holiday. I need
none. I have endless work here during the vacation. There are some
industries I have scarcely looked into at all. And there is my Bill,
and the draft of another one to follow. Thank you very much, Mr.
Foley, all the same."
Elisabeth set down the illustrated paper which she had picked up. She
looked across at Maraton.
"Don't you think for one week, Mr. Maraton," she suggested softly,
"that you could bring your work with you. You could have a study in a
quiet corner of the house, and if you did not care to bring a
secretary, I would promise you the services of an amateur one."
Perhaps by accident, as she spoke, she glanced across at Julia, and
perhaps by accident Julia at that moment happened to glance up. Their
eyes met. Julia, from the grim loneliness of her own world, looked
steadfastly at this exquisite type of the things in life which she
hated.
"You are very kind," Maraton repeated, "but indeed I must not think of
it. It seems to me," he went on, after a slight hesitation, "that every
time lately when I have stood at the halting of two ways, and have had
to make up my mind which to follow, I have been forced by circumstances
to choose the easier way. This time, at least, my duty is quite plain.
I have work to do in London which I cannot neglect."
Elisabeth picked up the paper which she had set down the moment before.
Her eyes had been quick to appreciate the smothered fierceness of
Julia's gaze. At Maraton she did not glance.
"Well, I am sorry," Mr. Foley said. "You are a young man now, Maraton,
but one works the better for a change. I didn't come to talk shop, but
you've set a nice hornet's nest about our heads up in Sheffield."
"There are many more to follow," Maraton assured him.
Mr. Foley chuckled. His sense of humour was indomitable.
"If there is one thing in the Press this morning," he declared, "more
pronounced than the diatribes upon your speech, it is the number of
compliments paid to me for my perspicuity in extending the hand of
friendship to the most dangerous political factor at present
existent,--vide the _Oracle_. I've wasted many hours arguing with some
of my colleagues. If I had known what was coming, I might just as well
have sat tight and waited for to-day. I am vindicated, whitewashed.
Only the Opposition are furious. They are trying to claim you as a
natural member of the Radical Party. Shouldn't be surprised if they
didn't approach you to-day sometime."
Maraton smiled.
"The people I am in the most disgrace with," he observed, "are my own
little lot."
"That needn't worry you," Mr. Foley rejoined. "Our Labour Members are
not a serious body. The forces they represent are all right, but they
seem to have a perfectly devilish gift of selecting the wrong
representatives. . . . You'll be in the House this afternoon?"
Certainly!
"I shall be rather curious to see what sort of a reception they give
you," Mr. Foley continued. "You couldn't manage to walk in with me, I
suppose? It would mean such a headline for the _Daily Oracle!_"
Elisabeth glanced up from her paper.
"I am afraid, uncle," she remarked, "that _Punch_ was right when it said
that your sense of humour would always prevent your becoming a great
politician."
"Let _Punch_ wait until I claim the title," Mr. Foley retorted,
smiling. "No man has ever consented to be Premier who was a great
politician--in these days, at any rate. I doubt, even, whether our
friend Maraton would be a successful Premier. I fancy that if ever he
aspires so high, it will be to the Dictatorship of the new republic."
Maraton sighed.
"Even the _Oracle_," he reminded them, "is convinced that I have no
personal ambitions."
Mr. Foley took up his hat. He had been in high good humour throughout
the interview. Already he was looking forward to meeting his
colleagues.
"Well, we'll be off, Maraton," he said. "We had no right to come and
disturb you at this time in the morning, only we were really anxious to
book you for our quiet week in Scotland. Change your mind about it,
there's a good fellow. I shall be your helpless prey up there. You
could make of me what you would." Maraton shook his head very firmly.
"It is not possible," he answered. "Please do not think that I do not
appreciate your hospitality--and your kindness, Lady Elisabeth."
She looked at him for a moment rather curiously. There was something of
reproach in her eyes; something, too, which he failed to understand.
She did not speak at all.
"Miss Thurnbrein," Maraton begged, "will you see Mr. Foley and Lady
Elisabeth out? It sounds cowardly, doesn't it," he added, "but I really
don't think that I dare show myself."
Julia rose slowly to her feet and passed towards the door, which Maraton
was holding open. She lingered outside while Maraton shook hands with
his two visitors, then would have hurried on in advance, but that
Elisabeth stopped her.
"Do tell me," she asked, "you are the Miss Thurnbrein who has written so
much upon woman labour, aren't you?"
"I have written one or two articles," Julia replied, looking straight
ahead of her.
"I read one in the National Review," Elisabeth continued, "and another
in one of the evening papers. I can't tell you, Miss Thurnbrein, how
interested I was."
Julia turned and looked slowly at her questioner. Her cheeks seemed
more pallid than usual, her eyes were full of smouldering fire.
"I didn't write to interest people," she said calmly. "I wrote to
punish them, to let them know a little of what they were guilty."
"But surely," Elisabeth protested, "you make some excuse for those who
have really no opportunity for finding out? There is a society now, I
am told, for watching over the conditions of woman labour in the east
end. Is that so really?"
"There is such a society," Julia admitted. "I am the secretary of it."
"You must let me join," Elisabeth begged. "Please do. Won't you come
and see me one afternoon--any afternoon--and tell me all about it?
Indeed I am in earnest," she went on, a little puzzled at the other's
unresponsiveness. "This isn't just a whim. I am really interested in
these matters, but it is so hard to help, unless one is put in the right
way."
"The time has passed," Julia pronounced, "when patronage is of any
assistance to such societies as the one we were speaking of. Nothing is
of any use now but hard, grim work. We don't want money. We don't need
support of any kind whatever. We need work and brains."
"I am afraid," Elisabeth said, as she held out her hand, "that you think
I am incapable of either."
Julia's lips were tightly compressed. She made no reply. Mr. Foley
glanced back at her curiously as they stepped into the car.
"What a singularly forbidding young woman!" he remarked.
Elisabeth shrugged her shoulders. It is given to women to understand
much! . . . The car glided off. As they neared the corner of the
Square, they passed a stout, foreign-looking man with an enormous head,
a soft grey hat set far back, a quantity of fair hair, and the
ingenuous, eager look of a child. He was hurrying towards the corner
house and scarcely glanced in their direction. Mr. Foley, however,
leaned forward with interest.
"Who is that strange-looking person?" Elisabeth asked.
Mr. Foley became impressive.
"One of the greatest writers and philosophers of the day," he replied.
"I expect he is on his way to see Maraton. That was Henry Selingman."