It was the eve of the reopening of Parliament. Maraton, who had been
absent from London--no one knew where--during the last six weeks, had
suddenly reappeared. Once more he had invited the committee of the
Labour Party to meet at his house. His invitation was accepted, but it
was obvious that this time their attitude towards the man who welcomed
them was one of declared and pronounced hostility. Graveling was there,
with sullen, evil face. He made no attempt to shake hands with Maraton,
and he sat at the table provided for them with folded arms and dour,
uncompromising aspect. Dale came late and he, too, greeted Maraton with
bluff unfriendliness. Borden's attitude was non-committal. Weavel
shook hands, but his frown and manner were portentous. Culvain, the
diplomat of the party, was quiet and reserved. David Ross alone had
never lost his attitude of unwavering fidelity. He sat at Maraton's
left hand, his head a little drooped, his eyes almost hidden beneath his
shaggy grey eyebrows, his lower lip protuberant. He had, somehow, the
air of a guarding dog, ready to spring into bitter words if his master
were touched.
"Gentlemen," Maraton began, when at last they were all assembled, "I
have asked you, the committee who were appointed to meet me on my
arrival England, to meet me once more here on the eve of the reopening
of Parliament."
There was a grim silence. No one spoke. Their general attitude was one
of suspicious waiting.
"You all know," Maraton went on, "with what ideas I first came to
England. I found, however, that circumstances here were in many
respects different from anything I had imagined. You all know that I
modified my plans. I decided to adopt a middle course."
"A seat in Parliament," Graveling muttered, "and a place at the Prime
Minister's dinner table."
"For some reason or other," Maraton continued, unruffled, "my coming
into Parliament seemed obnoxious to Mr. Dale and most of you. I
decided in favour of that course, however, because the offer made me by
Mr. Foley was one which, in the interests of the people, I could not
refuse. Mr. Foley has done his best to keep to the terms of his
compact with me. Perhaps I ought to say that he has kept to it. The
successful termination of the Lancashire strike is due entirely to his
efforts. The prolongation of the Sheffield strike is in no way his
fault. The blind stupidity of the masters was too much even for him.
The position has developed very much as I feared it might. You cannot
make employers see reason by Act of Parliament. Mr. Foley kept his
word. He has been on the side of the men throughout this struggle. He
has used every atom of influence he possesses to compel the employers to
give in. Temporarily he has failed--only temporarily, mind, for a Bill
will be introduced into Parliament during this session which will very
much alter the position of the employers. But this partial failure has
convinced me of one thing. This is too law-abiding a country for
compromises. For the last six weeks I have been travelling on the
Continent. I have realised how splendidly Labour has emancipated itself
there compared to its slow progress in this country. From town to town
in northern Europe I passed, and found the great industries of the
various districts in the hands of a composite body of men, embracing the
boy learning the simplest machine and the financier in the office, every
man there working like a single part of one huge machine, each for the
profit of the whole. A genuine scheme of profit-sharing is there being
successfully carried out. It is owing to this visit, and the
convictions which have come to me from the same, that I have called you
together to-day."
"You invited us," Peter Dale remarked deliberately, "and here we are.
As to what good's likely to come of our meeting, that's another matter.
There's no denying the fact that we've not been able to work together up
till now, and whether we shall in the future is by no means clear."
"I am sorry to hear you say so, Mr. Dale," Maraton declared. "I only
hope that before you go you will have changed your mind."
"Not in the least likely, that I can see," Peter Dale retorted. "For my
part, I can't reckon up what you want with us. You've gone into the
House on your own and you've chosen to sit in a place by yourself.
You've tried your best to manage things according to your own way of
thinking, without us. Now, all of a sudden, you invite us here. I
wonder whether this has anything to do with it."
With some deliberation, Peter Dale produced from his pocket a letter,
which he smoothed out upon the table before him. He had the air of a
man who prepares a bombshell. Maraton stretched out his hand toward it.
"Is that for me?" he asked.
Peter Dale kept his fingers upon it.
"Its contents concern you," he announced. "I'll read it, if you'll be
so good as to listen. Came as a bit of a shock to us, I must confess."
"Anonymous?" Maraton murmured.
"If its contents are untrue," Peter Dale said, "you will be able to
contradict them. With your kind permission, then. Listen, everybody:
"'Dear Sir:
"'The following facts concerning a recent addition to the ranks of your
Party should, I think, be of some interest to you.
"'The proper name of Mr. Maraton is Mr. Maraton Lawes.
"'Mr. Maraton Lawes and a younger brother were once the possessors of
the world-famous Lawes Oil Springs, and are now the principal
shareholders in the Lawes Oil Company.
"'The person in question is a millionaire.
"'A Socialist millionaire who conceals the fact of his wealth and keeps
his purse closed, is a person, I think, open to criticism.
"'A sketch of Mr. Maraton Lawes' career will shortly appear in an
evening paper.'"
Maraton listened without change of countenance. All eyes were turned
upon him.
"Well?" he enquired nonchalantly.
"Is this true?" Peter Dale demanded.
Maraton inclined his head.
"The writer," he said, "a man named Beldeman, I am sure has been
singularly moderate in his statements. I have been expecting the
article to appear for some time."
They were all of them apparently afflicted with a curious combination of
emotions. They were angry, and yet--with the exception of
Graveling--there was beneath their anger some evidence of that curious
respect for wealth prevalent amongst their order. They looked at
Maraton with a new interest.
"A millionaire!" Peter Dale exclaimed impressively. "You admit it!
You--a Socialist--a people's man, as you've called yourself! And never
a word to one of us! Never a copper of your money to the Party! I
repeat it--not one copper have we seen!"
The man's cheeks were flushed with anger, his brows lowered. Something
of his indignation was reflected in the faces of all of
them--momentarily a queer sort of cupidity seemed to have stolen into
their expressions. Maraton shrugged his shoulders slightly.
"Why should I subscribe to your Party funds?" he asked calmly. "Some of
you do good work, no doubt, and yet there is no such destroyer of good
work as money. Work, individual effort, unselfish enthusiasm, are the
torches which should light on your cause. Money would only serve the
purpose of a slow poison amongst you."
"Prattle!" Abraham Weavel muttered.
"Rot!" Peter Dale agreed. "Just another question, Mr. Maraton: Why
have you kept this secret from us?"
"I will make a statement," Maraton replied coolly. "Perhaps it will save
needless questions. My money is derived from oil springs. I prospected
for them myself, and I have had to fight for them. It was in wilder
days than you know of here. I have a younger brother, or rather a
half-brother, whom I was sorry to see over here the other day, who is my
partner. My average profits are twenty-eight thousand pounds a year.
Ten thousand pounds goes to the support of a children's home in New
York; the remainder is distributed in other directions amongst
institutions for the rescue of children. Five thousand a year I keep
for myself."
"Five thousand a year!" Peter Dale gasped indignantly. "Did you hear
that?" he added, turning to the others.
"Four hundred a year and a hundred and fifty from subscriptions, and
that's every penny I have to bring up seven children upon," Weavel
declared with disgust.
"And mine's less than that, and the subscriptions falling off," Borden
grunted.
"What sort of a Socialist is a man with five thousand a year who keeps
his pockets tightly buttoned up, I should like to know?" Graveling
exclaimed angrily.
Maraton smiled.
"You have common sense, I am sure, all of you," he said. "In fact, no
one could possibly accuse you of being dreamers. Every effort of my
life will be devoted towards the promulgation of my beliefs, absolutely
without regard to my pecuniary position. I admit that the possession of
wealth is contrary to the principles of life which I should like to see
established. Still, until conditions alter, it would be even more
contrary to my principles to distribute my money in charity which I
abominate, or to weaken good causes by unwholesome and unearned
contributions to them. Shall we now proceed to the subject of our
discussion?"
"What is it, anyway?" Peter Dale demanded gruffly. "Do you find that
after being so plaguey independent you need our help after all? Is that
what it is?"
"I want no one's help," Maraton replied quietly. "I only want to give
you this earliest notice because, in your way, you do represent the
people--that it is my intention to revert to my first ideas. I have
arranged a tour in the potteries next week. I go straight on to
Newcastle, and from there to Glasgow. I intend to preach a universal
strike. I intend, if I can, to bring the shipbuilders, the coalminers,
the dockers, the railroad men, out on strike, while the Sheffield
trouble is as yet unsolved. Whatever may come of it, I intend that the
Government of this country shall realise how much their prosperity is
dependent upon the people's will."
There was a little murmur. Peter Dale, who had filled his pipe, was
puffing away steadily.
"Look here," he said slowly, "Newcastle's my job."
"Is it?" Maraton replied. "There are a million and a quarter of miners
to be considered. You may be the representative of a few of them. I am
not sure that in this matter you represent their wishes, if you are for
peace. I am going to see."
"As for the potteries," Mr. Borden declared, "a strike there's overdue,
and that's certain, but if all the others are going to strike at the
same time, why, what's the good of it? The Unions can't stand it."
"We have tried striking piecemeal," Maraton pointed out. "It doesn't
seem to me that it's a success. What is called the Government here can
deal with one strike at a time. They've soldiers enough, and law
enough, for that. They haven't for a universal strike."
Peter Dale struck the table with his clenched fist. His expression was
grim and his tone truculent.
"What I say is this," he pronounced. "I'm dead against any interference
from outsiders. If I think a strike's good for my people, well, I'll
blow the whistle. If you're for Newcastle next week, Mr. Maraton, so
am I. If you're for preaching a strike, well, I'm for preaching against
it."
"Hear, hear!" Graveling exclaimed. "I'm with you."
Maraton smiled a little bitterly.
"As you will, Mr. Dale," he replied. "But remember, you'll have to seek
another constituency next time you want to come into Parliament. Do be
reasonable," he went on. "Do you suppose the people will listen to you
preaching peace and contentment? They'll whip you out of the town."
"It's the carpet-bagger that will have to go first!" Dale declared
vigorously. "There's no two ways about that."
Maraton sighed.
"Sometimes," he said, looking around at them, "I feel that it must be my
fault that there has never been any sympathy between us. Sometimes I am
sure that it is yours. Don't you ever look a little way beyond the
actual wants of your own constituents? Don't you ever peer over the
edge and realise that the real cause of the people is no local matter?
It is a great blow for their freedom, this which I mean to strike. I'd
like to have had you all with me. It's a huge responsibility for one."
"It's revolution," Culvain muttered. "You may call that a
responsibility, indeed. Who's going to feed the people? Who's going to
keep them from pillaging and rioting?"
"No one," Maraton replied quietly. "A revolution is inevitable.
Perhaps after that we may have to face the coming of a foreign enemy.
And yet, even with this contingency in view, I want you to ask
yourselves: What have the people to lose? Those who will suffer by
anything that could possibly happen, will be the wealthy. From those
who have not, nothing can be taken. What I prophesy is that in the next
phase of our history, a new era will dawn. Our industries will be
re-established upon different lines. The loss entailed by the
revolution, by the dislocating of all our industries, will fall upon the
people who are able and who deserve to pay for it."
There was a moment's grim silence. Then David Ross suddenly lifted his
head.
"It's a great blow!" he cried. "It's the hand of the Lord falling upon
the land, long overdue--too long overdue. The man's right! This people
have had a century to set their house in order. The warning has been in
their ears long enough. The thunder has muttered so long, it's time the
storm should break. Let ruin come, I say!"
"You can talk any silly nonsense you like, David Ross," Dale declared
angrily, "but what I say is that we are listening to the most dangerous
stuff any man ever spouted. What's to become of us, I'd like to know,
with a revolution in the country?"
"You would probably lose your jobs," Maraton answered calmly. "What
does it matter? There are others to follow you. The first whom the
people will turn upon will be those who have pulled down the pillars.
Our names will be hated by every one of them. What does it matter? It
is for their good."
Peter Dale doubled up his fist and once more he smote the table before
him.
"I am dead against you, Maraton," he announced. "Put that in your pipe
and smoke it. If you go to Newcastle, I go there to fight you. If you
go to any of the places in this country represented by us, our Member
will be there to fight. We are in Parliament to do our best for the
people we represent, bit by bit as we can. We are not there to plunge
the country into a revolution and run the risk of a foreign invasion.
There isn't one of us Englishmen here who'll agree with you or side with
you for one moment."
"Hear, hear!" they all echoed.
"Not one," Graveling interposed, "and for my part, I go further. I say
that the man who stands there and talks about the risk of a foreign
invasion like that, is no Englishman. I call him a traitor, and if the
thing comes he speaks of, may he be hung from the nearest lamp-post!
That's all I've got to say."
Maraton opened his lips and closed them again. He looked slowly down
that wall of blank, unsympathetic faces and he merely shrugged his
shoulders. Words were wasted upon them.
"Very well, gentlemen," he said, "let it be war. Perhaps we'd better
let this be the end of our deliberations."
Graveling rose slowly to his feet. His face was filled with evil
things. He pointed to Maraton.
"There's a word more to be spoken!" he exclaimed. "There's more behind
this scheme of Maraton's than he's willing to have us understand! It
looks to me and it sounds to me like a piece of dirty, underhand
business. I'll ask you a question, Maraton. Were you at the Ritz Hotel
one night about two months ago, with the ambassador of a foreign a
country?"
"I was," Maraton admitted coolly.
Graveling looked around with a little cry of triumph.
"It's a plot, this; nothing more nor less than a plot!" he declared
vigorously. "What sort of an Englishman does he call himself, I wonder?
It's the foreigners that are at the bottom of the lot of it! They want
our trade, they'd be glad of our country. They've bribed this man
Maraton to get it without the trouble of fighting for it, even!"
Maraton moved towards the door. Holding it open, he turned and faced
them.
"Before I came," he said, "I hoped that you might be men. I find you
just the usual sort of pigmies. You call yourselves people's men! You
haven't mastered the elementary truths of your religion. What's
England, or France, or any other country in the world, by the side of
humanity? Be off! I'll go my own way. Go yours, and take your little
tinsel of jingoism with you. Whenever you want to fight me, I shall be
ready."
"And fight you we shall," Peter Dale thundered, "mark you that! There's
limits, even to us. The Government of this country mayn't be all it
should be, but, after all, it's our English Government, and there is a
point at which every man has to support it. The law is the law, and so
you may find out, my friend!"
They filed out. Maraton closed the door after them. He was alone. He
threw open the window to get rid of the odour of tobacco smoke which
still hung about. The echo of their raucous voices seemed still in the
air. These were the men who should have been his friends and
associates! These were the men to whom he had the right to look for
sympathy! They treated him like a dangerous lunatic. Their own small
interests, their own small careers were threatened, and they were up in
arms without a moment's hesitation. Not one of them had made the
slightest attempt to see the whole truth. The word "revolution" had
terrified them. The approach of a crisis had driven their thoughts into
one narrow focus: what would it mean for them?
He resumed his seat. The empty chairs pushed back seemed, somehow or
other, allegorical. He was alone. The man for whose friendship he had
indeed felt some desire, the man who had opened his hands and heart to
him--Stephen Foley--would know him henceforth no more. He drew his
thoughts resolutely away from that side of his life, closed his ears to
the music which beat there, crushed down the fancies which sprang up so
easily if ever he relaxed his hold upon his will. He was lonely; for
the first time in his life, perhaps, intensely lonely. In all the
country there was scarcely a human being who would not soon look upon
him as a madman. What did one live for, after all? Just to continue
the dull, hopeless struggle--to fight without hope of reward, to fight
with oneself as well as with the world?
The door was opened softly. Julia came in. Perhaps she guessed from
his attitude something of his trouble, for she moved at once to his
side.
"They have gone?" she asked.
"They have gone," he admitted.
She sighed.
"I shall not ask you anything," she said, "because I know. Pigs of
men--pigs with their noses to the ground! How can they lift their
heads! You could not make them understand!"
"I scarcely tried," he confessed. "They have found out, for one thing,
that I am wealthy, a fact that does not concern them in the least, and
they accused me of it as though it were a crime. It was all so
hopeless. You cannot make men understand who have not the capacity
for understanding. You cannot make the blind see. They even reminded
me that they were Englishmen. They talked the usual rubbish about
conquest and foreign enemies and patriotism."
"Clods!" she muttered. "But you?"
She sat down beside him, her eyes full of light. She laid her hands
boldly upon his.
"You will not let yourself be discouraged?" she I pleaded. "Remember
that even if you are alone in the world, you are right. You fight
without hope of reward, without hope of appreciation. You will be the
enemy of every one, and yet you know in your heart that you have the
truth. You know it, and I know it, and Aaron knows it, and David Ross
believes it. There are millions of others, if you could only find them,
who understand, too--men too great to come out from their studies and
talk claptrap to the mob. There are other people in the world who
understand, who will sympathise. What does it matter that you cannot
hear their spoken voices? And we--well, you know about us."
Her voice was almost a caress, the loneliness in his heart was so
intense.
"Oh, you know about us!" she continued. "I--oh, I am your slave! And
Aaron! We believe, we understand. There isn't anything in this world,"
she went on, with a little sob, "there isn't anything I wouldn't gladly
do to help you! If only one could help!"
He returned very gently the pressure of her burning fingers. She drew
his eyes towards hers, and he was startled to see in those few minutes
how beautiful she was. There was inspiration in her splendidly modelled
face--the high forehead, the eyes brilliantly clear, kindled now with
the light of enthusiasm and all the softer burning of her exquisite
sympathy. Her lips--full and red they seemed--were slightly parted.
She was breathing quickly, like one who has run a race.
"Oh, dear master," she whispered--"let me call you that--don't, even
for a moment, be faint-hearted!"
The door was suddenly thrown open. Selingman entered, an enormous bunch
of roses in his hand, a green hat on the back of his head.
"Faint-hearted?" he exclaimed. "What a word! Who is faint-hearted?
Julia, I have brought you flowers. You would have to kiss rue for them
if he were not here. Don't glower at me. Every one kisses me. Great
ladies would if I asked them to. That's the best of being a genius.
Lord, what a wreck he looks! What's wrong with you, man? I know! I
met them at the corner of the street. There was the rat-faced fellow
with the red tie, and the miner--Labour Members, they call themselves.
I would like to see them with a spade! Have you been trying to get at
their brains, Maraton? What's that to make a man like you depressed?
Did you think they had any? Did you think you could draw a single spark
of fire out of dull pap like that? Bah!"
Julia was moving quietly about the room, putting the flowers in water.
Aaron had slipped in and was seated before his desk. Selingman, his
broad face set suddenly into hard lines, plumped himself into the chair
which Peter Dale had occupied.
"Man alive, lift your head--lift your head to the skies!" he ordered.
"You're the biggest man in this country. Will you treat the prick of a
pin like a mortal wound? What did you expect from them? Lord
Almighty! . . . I've packed my bag. I'm ready for the road. Two
hundred and fifty pounds a time from the _Daily Oracle_ for thumbnail
sketches of the Human Firebrand! Lord, what is any one depressed for in
this country! It's chock-full of humour. If I lived here long, I
should be fat."
He looked downward at his figure with complacency. Julia laughed
softly.
"Aren't you fat now?" she asked.
"Immense," he confessed, "but it's nothing to what I could be. It
agrees with me," he went on. "You see, I have learnt the art of being
satisfied with myself. I know what I am. I am content. That is where
you, my friend Maraton, need to grow a little older. Oh, you are great
enough, great enough if you only knew it! Even Maxendorf admits that,
and he told me frankly he's disappointed in you. Don't sit there like a
dumb figure any longer. We are all coming with you, aren't we? I have
brought my car over from Belgium. It is a caravan. It will hold us
all--Aaron, too. Let us start; let us get out of this accursed city.
Where is the first move?"
"We can't leave tonight," Maraton said. "I am addressing a meeting of
the representatives of the Amalgamated Railway Workers--that is, if
Peter Dale doesn't manage to stop it. He'll do his best."
"He won't succeed," Aaron declared eagerly. "I saw Ernshaw two hours
ago. They're on to Peter Dale and his move. Do you know why Peter Dale
was late here this afternoon? He'd been to Downing Street. I heard.
Foley's lost you, but he's holding on to the Labour Party. He's pitting
the Labour Party against you in the country." Selingman laughed
heartily.
"He's got it!" he exclaimed. "That's the scheme. I am all for a fight,
spoiling for it. Fighting and eating are the grandest things in the
world! What time is the meeting?"
"Seven o'clock," Maraton replied.
"Two hours we will give you," Selingman continued. "Nine o'clock, a
little restaurant I know in the West End, the four of us before we
start. We will do ourselves well."
"Before I leave London," Maraton said, "I must see Maxendorf once more."
Selingman stroked his face thoughtfully.
"Your risk," he remarked. "Don't you let these chaps think you are
mixed up with Maxendorf."
"I must see Maxendorf," Maraton insisted. "When I leave London
to-night, the die is cast. I have cut myself adrift from everything in
life. I shall make enemies with every class of society. There must be
one word more pass between Maxendorf and me before I hold up the torch."
"He's got it," Selingman declared. "The trick is on him already.
Maxendorf he shall see. I will arrange a meeting somewhere--not at the
hotel. Miss Julia, write down this address. This is where we all meet
at nine. Half-past six now. I will take you round to your meeting,
Maraton. Do you want any papers?"
"I want no papers," Maraton answered. "I speak to these men to-night as
I shall speak to them in the north. I take no papers from London with
me, no figures, nothing. It is just the things I see I want to tell
them."
Selingman nodded.
"You shall speak immortal words," he declared. "And I--I am the one man
in the world to transcribe them, to write in the background, to give
them colour and point. What giants we are, Maraton--you with your
stream of words, and I with my pen! Miss Julia," he added, "remember
that you are to be our inspiration as well as my secretary. Put on your
prettiest clothes to-night. It is our last holiday."
She looked at him coldly.
"I do not wear pretty clothes," she said.
"Little fool!" he exclaimed. "Just because you've the big things
beating in your brain, you'd like to close your eyes to the fact that
your sex is the most wonderful thing on God's earth. That's the worst
of a woman. If ever she begins to think seriously, she does her hair in
a lump, changes silk for cotton, forgets her corsets, and leaves off
ribbons. Silly, silly child!" he went on, shaking his forefinger at
her. "I tell you women have done their greatest work in the world when
their brains have been covered with a pretty hat. . . . There she
goes, he growled," as she left the room. "Thinks I'm a flippant old
windbag, I know. And I'm not. Why don't you fall in love with her,
Maraton? It would be the making of you. Even a prophet needs
relaxation. She is yours, body and soul. One can tell it with every
sentence she speaks. And she is for the cause," he concluded with a
graver note in his tone. "She has found the fire somewhere. There were
women like her who held Robespierre's hand."
Maraton glanced up. Selingman was leaning forward and his eyes were
fixed steadily upon his friend.
"I was afraid, just a little afraid," he said slowly, "of the other
woman. I am glad she didn't count enough. Women are the very devil
sometimes when they come between us and the right thing!"