|IT was commonly reported that Mr. Durdan had stated with some degree of
publicity that the days of the Government were numbered.
There were a good many persons who were ready to agree with him before
the month of December had passed; for the agitation on the subject of
Siberia was spreading through the length and breadth of the land.
The active and observant Leader of the Opposition knew the people of
England, Scotland, and perhaps--so far as they allowed themselves to
be understood--of Wales, thoroughly. Of course Ireland was out of the
question altogether.
Knowing the people so well, he only waited for a sharp frost to open his
campaign. He was well aware that it would be ridiculous to commence an
agitation on the subject of Siberia unless in a sharp frost. To try
to move the constituencies while the water-pipes in their dwellings
remained intact, would be a waste of time. It is when his pipes are
burst that the British householder will join in any agitation that may
be started. The British farmer invariably turns out the Government after
a bad harvest; and there can be but little doubt that a succession of
wet summers would make England republican.
It was because all the water-pipes in England were burst, that the
atrocities in Bulgaria stirred the great sympathetic heart of this
England of ours, and the strongest Government that had existed for years
became the most unpopular. A strong Government may survive a year of
great commercial depression; but the strongest totters after a wet
summer, and none has ever been known to survive a frost that bursts the
household water-pipes.
The campaign commenced when the thermometer fell to thirty-two degrees
Fahrenheit. That was the time to be up and doing. In every quarter the
agitation made itself felt.
“The sympathetic pulse of the nation was not yet stilled,” we were
told. “Six years of inefficient Government had failed to crush down the
manhood of England,” we were assured. “The Heart was still there--it was
beating still; and wherever the Heart of an Englishman beats there was
found a foe--a determined, resolute foe--nay, an irresistible foe, to
tyranny, and what tyranny had the world ever known that was equal
to that which sent thousands and tens of thousands of noble men and
women--women--women--to a living death among the snows of Siberia?
Could any one present form an idea of the horrors of a Siberian winter?”
(Cries of “Yes, yes,” from householders whose water-pipes had burst.)
“Well, in the name of our common humanity--in the name of our common
sympathies--in the name of England (cheers)--England, mind you, with her
fleet, that in spite of six years of gross mismanagement on the part
of the Government, was still the mistress of the main--(loud cheers)
England, mind you, whose armies had survived the shocking incapacity
of a Government that had refused a seven-hours day to the artisans at
Woolwich and Aldershot--(tremendous cheers) in the name of this grand
old England of ours let those who were responsible for Siberia--that
blot upon the map of Europe”--(the agitator is superior to
geography)--“let them be told that their day is over. Let the Government
that can look with callous eyes upon such horrors as are enacted among
the frosts and snows of Siberia be told that its day is over (cheers).
Did anyone wish to know something of these horrors?” [‘Yes, yes!’)
“Well, here was a book written by a correspondent to a New York journal,
and which, consequently, was entitled to every respect”.... and so
forth.
That was the way the opponents of the Government talked at every
meeting. And in the course of a short time they had successfully mixed
up the labour question, the army and navy retrenchment question, the
agricultural question, and several other questions, with the stories of
Siberian horrors, and the aggregate of evil was laid to the charge of
the Government.
The friends of the Government were at their wits’ end to know how to
reply to this agitation. Some foolish ones endeavoured to make out
that England was not responsible for what was done in Siberia. But this
sophistry was too shallow for the people whose water-pipes were burst,
and those who were responsible for it were hooted on every platform.
It was at this critical time that the Prime Minister announced at a
Dinner at which he was entertained, that, while the Government was fully
sensible of the claims of Siberia, he felt certain that he was only
carrying out the desire of the people of England, in postponing
consideration of this vast question until a still greater question
had been settled. After long and careful deliberation, Her Majesty’s
Ministers had resolved to submit to the country a programme the first
item of which was the Conversion of the Jews.
The building where this announcement was made rang with cheers. The
friends of the Government no longer looked gloomy. In a few days
they knew that the Nonconformist Conscience would be awake, and as a
political factor, the Nonconformist Conscience cannot be ignored. A
Government that had for its policy the Conversion of the Jews would be
supported by England--this great Christian England of ours.
“My Lords and Gentlemen,” said the Prime Minister, “the contest on which
we are about to enter is very limited in its range. It is a contest of
England and Religion against the Continent and Atheism. My Lords and
Gentlemen, come what may, Her Majesty’s Ministers will be on the side of
Religion.”
It was felt that this timely utterance had saved the Government.
It was not to be expected that, when these tremendous issues were
broadening out, Mr. Edmund Airey should have much time at his disposal
for making afternoon calls; still he managed to visit Beatrice Avon
pretty frequently--much more frequently than he had ever visited anyone
in all his life. The season of German Opera was a brilliant one, and
upon several occasions Beatrice appeared in Mr. Airey’s box by the
side of the enthusiastic lady, who was pointed out in society as having
remained in her stall from the beginning to the end of “Parsifal.”
Mr. Airey never missed a performance at which Beatrice was present. He
missed all the others.
Only once did he venture to introduce Harold’s name in her drawing-room.
He mentioned having seen him casually in the street, and then he watched
her narrowly as he said, “By the way, I have never come upon him here.
Does he not call upon you?”
There was only a little brightening of her eyes--was it scorn?--as
she replied: “Is it not natural that Lord Fotheringay should be a very
different person from Mr. Harold Wynne? Oh, no, he never calls now.”
“I have heard several people say that they had found him greatly
changed, poor fellow!” said Edmund.
“Greatly changed--not ill?” she said.
He wondered if the tone in which she spoke suggested anxiety--or was it
merely womanly curiosity?
“Oh, no; he seems all right; but it is clear that his father’s death and
the circumstances attending it affected him deeply.”
“It gave him a title at any rate.”
The suspicion of scorn was once more about her voice. Its tone no longer
suggested anxiety for the health of Lord Fotheringay.
“You are too hard on him, Beatrice,” said Edmund. She had come to be
Beatrice to him for more than a week--a week in which he had been twice
in her drawing-room, and in which she had been twice in his opera box.
“Too hard on him?” said she. “How is it possible for you to judge what
is hard or the opposite on such a point?”
“I have always liked Harold,” said he; “that is why I must stand up for
him.”
“Ah, that is your own kindness of heart,” said she. “I remember how you
used to stand up for him at Castle Innisfail. I remember that when you
told me how wretchedly poor he was, you were very bitter against the
destiny that made so good a fellow poor, while so many others, not
nearly so good, were wealthy.”
“I believe I did say something like that. At any rate I felt that. Oh,
yes, I always felt that I must stand up for him; so even now I insist on
your not being too hard on him.”
He laughed, and so did she--yes, after a little pause.
“Come again--soon,” she said, as she gave him her hand, which he
retained for some moments while he looked into her eyes--they were more
than usually lustrous--and said,
“Oh, yes, I will come again soon. Don’t you remember what I said to you
in this room--it seems long ago, we have come to be such close friends
since--what I said about my aspirations--my supreme aspiration?”
“I remember it,” said she--her voice was very low.
“I have still to reveal it to you, Beatrice,” said he.
Then he dropped her hand and was gone.
He made another call the same afternoon. He drove westward to the
residence of Helen Craven and her mother, and in the drawing-room he
found about a dozen people drinking tea, for Mrs. Craven had a large
circle.
It took him some time to get beside Helen; but a very small amount of
manoeuvring on her part was sufficient to secure comparative privacy for
him and herself in a dimly-lighted part of the great room--an alcove
that made a moderately valid excuse for a Moorish arch and hangings.
“The advice that I gave to you was good,” said he.
“Your advice was that I should make no move whatever,” said she. “That
could not be hard advice to take, if he were disposed to make any move
in my direction. But, as I told you, he only called once, and then we
were out. Have you learned anything?”
“I have learned that whomsoever she marries, she will never marry Harold
Wynne,” said Edmund.
“Great heavens! You have found this out? Are you certain? Men are so apt
to rush at conclusions.”
“Yes; some men are. I have always preferred the crawling process, though
it is the slower.”
“That is a confession--crawling! But how have you found out that she
will not marry him?”
“He has treated her very badly.”
“That has got nothing whatever to do with the question. Heavens! If
women declined to marry the men that treat them badly, the statistics of
spinsterhood would be far more alarming than they are at present.”
“She will not marry him.”
“Will she marry you?”
Miss Craven had sprung to her feet. She was in a nervous condition, and
it was intensified by his irritating reiteration of the one statement.
“Will she marry you?” she cried, in a voice that had a strident ring
about it. “Will she marry you?”
“I think it highly probable,” said he.
She looked at him in silence for a long time.
“Let us return to the room,” said she.
They went through the Moorish arch back to the drawing-room.