THE COMPACT
A strong man and a prominent politician, Sir John Hampden had occupied
the unfamiliar position in Parliament of belonging to no party. To no
party, that is, as the term had then been current in English politics;
for, more discerning than most of his contemporaries, he had foreseen
the obliteration of the existing boundaries and the phenomenal growth of
purely class politics even in the old century. It was, he recognised, to
be that development of the franchise with which the world was later to
become tolerably familiar: civil war on constitutional lines. His
warnings fell on very stony ground. The powers that had never yet
prepared for war abroad until the enemy had comfortably occupied all the
strategic points, lest they should wound some wily protesting old
gentleman's susceptibilities, were scarcely likely to take time by the
forelock--or even by a hind fetlock, to enlarge the comparison--at home.
While the Labour party was bringing pressure upon the Government of the
day to grant an extension of suffrage that made Labour the master of
eight out of every ten constituencies, the two great classical parties
were quarrelling vehemently whether L5000 should be spent upon a
sanatorium at Hai Yang and L5,000,000 upon a dockyard at Pittiescottie,
or L5,000,000 upon a dockyard at Hai Yang and L5000 upon a sanatorium at
Pittiescottie. When it is added that the Labour party was definitely
pledged to the inauguration of universal peace by declining to go to war
on any provocation, and looked towards wholesale disarmament as the
first means of economy on attaining office, the cataclysmal humour of
the situation becomes apparent.
They attained office, as it has been seen, thanks largely to the great
Liberal party whom they succeeded. The great Liberal party, like the
editor of _The Masses_ some years later, was pained and surprised at
this ingratitude. The great Liberal party had never contemplated such a
development, and through thick and thin had insisted upon regarding the
Labour party as its ally, notwithstanding the fact that the "ally" had
always laughed uproariously at the "alliance," and had pleasantly
announced its intention of strewing Westminster with the wreckage of all
existing capitalistic parties when once it was strong enough to do so.
Little wonder that that great Liberal Administration was destined to
pass down to future ages as the "House of Pathetic Fools." Posterity
adjudicated that no greater example of servile fatuousness could be
produced. This was unjust, for on 20th June 1792, Louis XVI., certainly,
let it be admitted, harder pressed, had accepted a red "cap of liberty,"
and putting it on in obedience to the command of the "extreme party" of
his time, had bowed right and left with ingratiating friendliness, while
a Labour gentleman, bearing upon a pike a raw cow's heart labelled "The
heart of an aristocrat," roared out, with his twenty thousand friends,
an amused approval.
It was out of the material of the two great traditional parties that Sir
John Hampden tried to create his "class" coalition to meet the new
conditions. The spectacle of working men suddenly dropping party
differences and merging into a solid phalanx of labour was before their
eyes, but the Tories were disintegrated and inert, the Whigs
self-satisfied and cock-sure. The years of grace--just so many years as
Sir John was before his contemporaries--passed. Then came a brief
period, desperate indeed, but not hopeless, while something might yet be
done; but the leaders of the historical parties were waiting for some
happy chance by which they might retract and yet preserve their dignity.
It was during this crisis that the party whose idea of dignity was
symbolised by the escort of a brass band on a green-grocer's cart,
abolished the House of Lords, suspended the naval programme, and
confiscated all ecclesiastical landed property. Panic reigned, but there
could be no appeal, for the party in power had never concealed their
aims and aspirations, and now that they had been returned, they were
only carrying out their promises.
That is putting their position so mildly as to be almost unjust. They
were, indeed, among political parties the only one immaculate and beyond
reproach. All others had trimmed and whittled, promised and recalled,
sworn and forsworn, till political assurances were emptier than
libertines' vows. The Socialists had nailed their manifesto to the mast,
and no man could charge them with duplicity. On every platform from
Caithness to Cornwall they had stood openly and declared: We are the
enemies to Capital; we are at war with Society as it is at present
constituted; we are for the forcible distribution of wealth, however
come by, the abolition of class distinctions, and the levelling of
humanity, with the unskilled labourer as the ideal standard.
"Good fellows all," had, in effect, declared their Liberal "allies,"
"and they do not really mean that--not phraseologically accurately, that
is. We go in for a little, say, serpent-charming ourselves at election
times, and when these excellent men are in Parliament the refining
influence of the surroundings will tone them down wonderfully, and they
will turn out thoroughly moderate and conciliatory members."
"Don't you make any error about that, comrades," the Socialistic-Labour
candidates had replied; and with a candour unparalleled in the history
of electioneering they had not merely hinted this or said it among
themselves, but had freely and honourably proclaimed it to the four
winds. "If you like to help us just now that's your affair, and we are
quite willing to profit by it. But if you knew what you were doing, you
would go home and all have the nightmare."
"So naive!" smiled the great Liberal party. "Suppose they have to talk
like that at present to please the unemployed."
Then came the deluge. Sir John Hampden could have every section of the
middle and upper class political parties to lead if he so deigned, but
wherever else he might lead them there was no possible hope of it being
to St. Stephen's. It was, as his daughter had said, then too late.
Labour members of one complexion or another had captured three-quarters
of the constituencies, and there was not the slightest chance of ousting
them.
So it came about that in less than a decade from the first alarm, the
extremity of the patriot's hope was that in perhaps twenty years' time,
when the country was reduced to bankruptcy and the position of a third
class power, and when there was no more property to confiscate in the
interest of the working class voter, a popular rising or a foreign
invasion might again place a responsible administration in power. But in
the meantime the organisations of the old parties fell to pieces, the
parties themselves ceased to be powers, their leaders were half
forgotten. Sir John Hampden might still be a rallying point if he raised
a standard in a time of renewed hope, but there was no hope, and Sir
John was reported to have broken his staff, drowned his books, and cut
himself off from politics in the bitterness of his indignation and
impotent despair.
It was in something very like this mood that George Salt found him, and
it was an issue of the mood that would have made him inaccessible to a
less resourceful man. Day after day he had denied himself to his old
associates, and little disappointed hucksters who were anxious to betray
their party for their conscience' sake--provided there was a definite
offer of a more lucrative position in a new party--vainly shadowed his
doorway with ready-made cabals in their pocket-books. But the man who
had been a sailor and spoke few words had an air that carried where
fluency and self-assurance failed. Even then, almost at his first words,
Sir John would have closed the subject, definitely and without
discussion.
"Politics do not concern me, Mr Salt," he said, rising, with an angry
flash in the eyes whose fighting light gave the lie to the story of
abandoned hope. "If that is your business you have reached me by a
subterfuge."
"Having reached you," replied Salt, unmoved, "will you allow me to put
my suggestions before you?"
"I have no doubt that they are interesting," replied the baronet,
falling into smooth indifference, "but, as you may see, I am exclusively
devoted to Euplexoptera now." It might be true, for the table before him
was covered with specimens, scientific instruments and entomological
works, while not even a single newspaper betrayed an interest in the
day; but a world of bitterness smouldered beneath his half-scornful
admission. "If," he continued in the same vein, "you have an idea for an
effective series of magic lantern slides, you will find the offices of
the Union of Imperial Agencies in Whitehall."
The first act to which the new Government was pledged was the evacuation
of Egypt, and the mighty counterblast from the headquarters of the
remnant of the great opposing organisation was, it should be explained,
a travelling magic lantern van, designed to satisfy rural voters as to
the present happy condition of the fellahin!
"Possibly you would hardly complain that I am not prepared to go far
enough," replied the visitor. "But in order to discuss that, I must have
your serious attention."
"I have already expressed myself," replied Sir John formally. "I am not
interested."
"If you will hear me out and then repeat that, I will go," urged Salt
with desperate calmness. "Yet I have thrown up the profession of my life
because I hold that there is a certain remedy. And I have come a hundred
miles to-night to offer it to you: for you are the man. Realise that I
am vitally concerned."
"I am very sorry," replied Sir John courteously, but without the
faintest encouragement, "but the matter is beyond me. Leave me, and try
some younger, less disillusionised man."
"There is no other man who will serve my purpose." Sir John stared hard,
as well he might: others had not been in the habit of appealing to him
to serve their purposes. "You are the natural leader of our classes. You
alone can inspire them; you alone have the authority to call them to any
effort."
"I have been invited to lead a hundred forlorn hopes," replied Sir John.
"A dozen years--nine years--aye, perhaps even six years ago any one of
them might have been sufficient. Now--I have my earwigs. Good night, Mr
Salt."
The dismissal was so unmistakably final that the most stubborn
persistence could scarcely ignore it. Mr Salt rose, but only to approach
the table by which Sir John was standing.
"I wished to have you with me on the bare merits of my plan," he said in
a low voice, "but you would not. But you shall save England in spite of
your dead heart. Read this letter."
For a moment it seemed doubtful how Hampden would take so brusque a
demand. Another second and he might have imperiously ordered Salt to
leave the house, when his eyes fell with a start upon the writing thrust
before him, and taking the letter in his hand he read it through, read
it twice.
"Little fool!" he said, so low that it sounded tenderly; "poor little
fool!" Then aloud: "Am I to understand that you have saved my daughter's
life?"
"Yes," replied George Salt, and even the tropical sunburn could not
cover his hot shame.
"At great personal risk to yourself?"
Again the reply was, "Yes," without an added word.
"Why did you not let me know of this before?"
"Does that matter now?" It had been his master card, but a very
humiliating one to play throughout: to trade upon that moment's
instinctive heroism, to assert his bravery, to apprise it at its worth,
and to claim a fit return.
"No," admitted Sir John with intuition, "I don't suppose it does. The
position then is, that instead of exchanging the usual compliments
applicable to the occasion, I express my gratitude by listening to your
views on the political situation? And further," he continued, with the
same gentle air of irony, accepting Salt's silent acquiescence, "that I
proceed to liquidate my obligation fully by identifying myself with a
scheme which you have in your pocket for averting national disaster?"
"No," replied Salt sharply. "That is for you to accept or reject
unconditionally on your own judgment."
"Very well. I am entirely at your service now."
"In the first place, then, I ask you to admit that a state of civil war
morally exists, and that the only possible hope for our existence lies
in adopting the methods of covert civil war to secure our ends."
"Admit! Good God! I have been shrieking it into deaf ears for half my
life, it seems," cried Sir John, suddenly stirred despite himself. "They
called me the Phantom Storm-petrel--'Wolf-cry' Hampden, Heaven knows
what not--through an entire decade. Admit! Go on, Mr Salt. I accept your
first clause more easily than Lord Stirling swallowed Socialistic
amendments to his own Bills, and that is saying a great deal."
"Then," continued Salt, taking a bundle of papers from an inner pocket
and selecting a docket of half a dozen typewritten sheets from it, "I
propose for your acceptance the following plan of campaign."
He looked round the littered desk for a vacant space on which to lay the
document. With an impetuous movement of his arm Sir John swept books,
trays, and insects into one chaotic heap, and spreading the summary
before him plunged into it forthwith.