Tallente, for the first time in his life, was dining a few evenings
later at Dartrey's house in Chelsea, and he looked forward with some
curiosity to this opportunity of studying his chief under different
auspices. Dartrey, notwithstanding the fact that he was a miracle of
punctuality and devotion to duty, both at the offices in Parliament
Street and at the House, seemed to have the gift of fading absolutely
out of sight from the ken of even his closest friends when the task of
the day was accomplished. He excused himself always, courteously but
finally, from accepting anything whatever in the way of social
entertainment, he belonged to no clubs, and, if pressed, he frankly
confessed a predilection which amounted almost to passion for solitude
during those hours not actually devoted to official duties. The
invitation to dinner, therefore, was received by Tallente with some
surprise. He had grown into the habit of looking upon Dartrey as a man
who had no real existence outside the routine of their daily work. He
welcomed with avidity, therefore, this opportunity of understanding a
little more thoroughly Dartrey's pleasant but elusive personality.
The house itself, situated in a Chelsea square of some repute, was small
and unostentatious, but was painted a spotless white and possessed, even
from the outside, an air of quiet and unassuming elegance. A trim
maid-servant opened the door and ushered him into a drawing-room of grey
and silver, with a little faded blue in the silks of the French chairs.
There were a few fine-point etchings upon the walls, a small grand piano
in a corner, and very little furniture, although the little there was
was French of the best period. There were no flowers and the atmosphere
would have been chilly, but for the brightly burning fire. Tallente was
scarcely surprised when Dartrey's entrance alone indicated the fact
that, as was generally supposed, he was free from family ties.
"I am a little early, I am afraid," Tallente remarked, as they shook
hands.
"Admirably punctual," the other replied. "I shall make no apologies to
you for my small party. I have asked only Miss Miall and Miller to meet
you--just the trio of us who came to lure you out of your Devonshire
paradise."
"Miller?" Tallente repeated, with instant comprehension.
"Yes! I was thinking, only the other day, that you scarcely see enough
of Miller."
"I see all that I want to," was Tallente's candid comment.
Dartrey laid his hand upon his guest's shoulder. In his sombre dinner
garb, with low, turned-down collar and flowing black tie, his grey-black
beard cut to a point, his high forehead, his straightly brushed-back
hair, which still betrayed its tendency to natural curls, he looked a
great deal more like an artist of the dreamy and aesthetic type than a
man who had elaborated a new system of life and government.
"It is because of the feeling behind those words, Tallente," he said,
"that I have asked you to meet him here to-night. Miller has his
objectionable points, but he possesses still a great hold upon certain
types of the working man. I feel that you should appreciate that a
little more thoroughly. The politician, as you should know better than
I, has no personal feelings."
"The politician is left with very few luxuries," Tallente replied, with
a certain grimness.
Nora was announced, brilliant and gracious in a new dinner gown which
she frankly confessed had ruined her, and close behind her Miller, a
little ungainly in his overlong dress coat and badly arranged white tie.
It struck Tallente that he was aware of the object of the meeting and
his manner, obviously intended to be ingratiating, had still a touch of
self-conscious truculence.
They went into dinner, a few minutes later, and their host's tact in
including Nora in the party was at once apparent. She talked brightly
of the small happenings of their day-by-day political life and bridged
over the moments of awkwardness before general conversation assumed its
normal swing. Dartrey encouraged Miller to talk and they all listened
while he spoke of the mammoth trades unions of the north, where his hold
upon the people was greatest. He spoke still bitterly of the war, from
the moral effect of which, he argued, the working man had never wholly
recovered. Tallente listened a little grimly.
"The fervour of self-sacrifice and so-called patriotism which some of
the proletariat undoubtedly felt at the outbreak of the war," Miller
argued, "was only an incidental, a purely passing sensation compared to
the idle and greedy inertia which followed it. The war lost," he went
on, "might have acted as a lash upon the torpor of many of these men.
Won, it created a wave of immorality and extravagance from which they
had never recovered. They spent more than they had and they earned more
than they were worth. That is to say, they lived an unnatural life."
"It is fortunate, then," Tallente remarked, "that the new generation is
almost here."
"They, too, carry the taint," Miller insisted. Tallente looked
thoughtfully across towards his host.
"It seems to me that this is a little disheartening," he said. "It is
exactly what one might have expected from Horlock or even Lethbridge.
Miller, who is nearer to the proletariat than any of us, would have us
believe that the people who should be the bulwark of the State are not
fit for their position."
"I fancy," Dartrey said soothingly, "that Miller was talking more as a
philosopher than a practical man."
"I speak according to my experience," the latter insisted, a little
doggedly.
"Amongst your own constituents?" Tallente asked, with a faint smile,
reminiscent of a recent unexpected defeat of one of Miller's partisans
in a large constituency.
"Amongst them and others," was the somewhat acid reply. "Sands lost his
seat at Tenchester through the apathy of the very class for whom we
fight."
"Tenchester is a wonderful place," Nora intervened. "I went down there
lately to study certain phases of women's labour. Their factories are
models and I found all the people with whom I came in contact
exceptionally keen and well-informed."
Miller gnawed his moustache for a moment.
"Then I was probably unpopular there," he said. "I have to tell the
truth. Sometimes people do not like it."
The dinner was simply but daintily served. There were wines of
well-known vintages and as the meal progressed Dartrey unbent. Eating
scarcely anything and drinking less, the purely intellectual stimulus of
conversation seemed to unloose his tongue and give to his pronouncements
a more pungent tone. Naturally, politics remained the subject of
discussion and Dartrey disclosed a little the reason for the meeting
which he had arranged.
"The craft of politics," he pointed out, "makes but one inexorable
demand upon her followers--the demand for unity. The amazing thing is
that this is not generally realised. It seems the fashion, nowadays, to
dissent from everything, to cultivate the ego in its narrowest sense
rather than to try and reach out and grasp the hands of those around.
The fault, I think, is in an over-developed theatrical sense, the desire
which so many clever men have for individual notoriety. We Democrats
have prospered because we have been free from it. We have been able to
sink our individual prejudices in our cause. That is because our cause
has been great enough. We aim so high, we see so clearly, that it is
rare indeed to find amongst us those individual differences which have
been the ruin of every political party up to to-day. We have no Brown
who will not serve with Smith, no Robinson who declines to be associated
with Jones. We forget the small things which are repugnant to us in a
fellowman, because of the great things which bind us together."
"To a certain extent, yes," Tallente agreed, with some reserve in his
tone, "yet we are all human. There are some prejudices which no man may
conquer. If he pretends he does, he only lives in an atmosphere of
falsehood. The strong man loves or hates."
They took their coffee in their host's very fascinating study. There
was little room here for decoration. The walls were lined with books,
there were a few choice bronzes here and there, a statue of wonderful
beauty upon the writing table, and a figure of Justice leaning with
outstretched arms over the world, presented to Dartrey by a great French
artist. For the rest, there were comfortable chairs, an ample fire, and
a round table on which were set out coffee and liqueurs of many sorts.
"You will find that I am not altogether an anchorite," Dartrey observed,
as they settled into their places.
"I am a lover of old brandy. The '68 I recommend especially, Tallente,
and bring your chair round to the fire. There are cigars and cigarettes
at your elbow. Miller, I think I know your taste. Help yourself, won't
you?"
Miller drank crème de menthe and smoked homemade Virginia cigarettes.
Tallente watched him and sighed. Then, suddenly conscious of his host's
critical scrutiny, he felt an impulse of shame, felt that his contempt
for the man had in it something almost snobbish. He leaned forward and
did his best. Miller had been a school-board teacher, an exhibitioner
at college, and was possessed of a singular though limited intelligence.
He could deal adequately with any one problem presented by itself and
affected only by local conditions, yet the more Tallente talked with
him, the more he realised his lack of breadth, his curious weakness of
judgment when called upon to consider questions dependent upon varying
considerations. As to the right or wrong wording of a clause in the
Factory Amendment Act, he could be lucid, explanatory and convincing; as
to the justice of the same clause when compared with other forms of
legislation, he was vague and unconvincing, didactic and prejudiced. If
Dartrey's object had been to bring these two men into closer
understanding of each other, he was certainly succeeding. It is
doubtful, however, whether the understanding progressed entirely in the
fashion he had desired. Nora, curled up in an easy-chair, affecting to
be sleepy, but still listening earnestly, felt at last that intervention
was necessary. The self-revelation of Miller under Tallente's surgical
questioning was beginning to disturb even their host.
"I am being neglected," she complained. "If no one talks to me, I shall
go home."
Tallente rose at once and sat on the lounge by her side. Dartrey stood
on the hearth rug and plunged into an ingenious effort to reconcile
various points of difference which had arisen between his two guests.
Tallente all the time was politely acquiescent, Miller a little sullen.
Like all men with brains acute enough to deal logically with a
procession of single problems, he resented because he failed altogether
to understand that a wider field of circumstances could possibly alter
human vision.
Tallente walked home with Nora. They chose the longer way, by the
Embankment.
"This is the Cockney's antithesis to the moonlight and hills of you
country folk," Nora observed, as she pointed to the yellow lights
gashing across the black water.
Tallente drew a long breath of content.
"It's good to be here, anyway. I am glad to be out of that house," he
confessed.
"I'm afraid," she sighed, "that our dear host's party was a failure.
You and Miller were born in different camps of life. It doesn't seem to
me that anything will ever bring you together."
"For this reason," Tallente explained eagerly. "Miller's outlook is
narrow and egotistical. He may be a shrewd politician, but there isn't
a grain of statesmanship in him. He might make an excellent chairman of
a parish council. As a Cabinet Minister he would be impossible."
"He will demand office, I am afraid," Nora remarked.
Tallente took off his hat. He was watching the lights from the two
great hotels, the red fires from the funnel of a little tug, Mack and
mysterious in the windy darkness.
"I am sick of politics," he declared suddenly. "We are a parcel of
fools. Our feet move day and night to the solemn music."
"You, of all men," she protested, "to be talking like this!"
"I mean it," he insisted, a little doggedly. "I have spent too many of
my years on the treadmill. A man was born to be either an egoist and
parcel out the earth according to his tastes, or to develop like Dartrey
into a dreamer.--Curse you!" he added, suddenly shaking his fist at the
tall towers of the Houses of Parliament. "You're like an infernal
boarding-school, with your detentions and impositions and castigations.
There must be something beyond."
"A Cabinet Minister--" she began.
"The sixth form," he interrupted. "There's just one aspiration of life
to be granted under that roof and to win it you are asked to stifle all
the rest. It isn't worth it."
"It's the greatest game at which men can play," she declared.
"And also the narrowest because it is the most absorbing," he answered.
"We have our triumphs there and they end in a chuckle. Don't you love
sunshine in winter, strange cities, pictures, pictures of another age,
pictures which take your thoughts back into another world, architecture
that is not utilitarian, the faces of human beings on whom the strain of
life has never fallen? And women--women whose eyes will laugh into
yours, who haven't a single view in life, who don't care a fig about
improving their race, who want just love, to give and to take?"
She gazed at him in astonishment, a little carried away, her eyes soft,
her lips parted.
"But you have turned pagan!" she cried.
"An instant's revolt against the methodism of life," he replied, his
feet once more upon the earth. "But the feeling's there, all the same,"
he went on doggedly. "I want to leave school. I have been there so
long. It seems to me my holiday is overdue."
She passed her arm through his. She was a very clever and a very
understanding woman.
"That comes of your having ignored us," she murmured.
"It isn't my fault if I have," he reminded her.
"In a sense it is," she insisted. "The woman in your life should be the
most beautiful part of it. You chose to make her the stepping-stone to
your ambition. Consequently you go through life hungry, you wait till
you almost starve, and then suddenly the greatest things in the world
which lie to your hand seem like baubles."
"You are hideously logical," he grumbled.
They were walking slower now, within a few yards of the entrance to her
flat. Both of them were a little disturbed,--she, full as she was with
all the generous impulses of sensuous humanity, intensely awakened,
intensely sympathetic.
"Tell me, where is your wife?" she asked.
"In America."
"It is hopeless with her?"
"Utterly and irretrievably hopeless."
"It has been for long?"
"For years."
"And for the sake of your principles," she went on, almost angrily,
"your stupid, canonical and dry-as-dust little principles, you've let
your life shrivel up."
"I can't help it," he answered. "What would you have me do? Stand in
the market place and shout my needs?"
She clung to his arm. "You dear thing!" she said. "You're a great
baby!"
They were in the shadow of the entrance to the flats. He suddenly bent
over her; his lips were almost on hers. There was a frightened gleam in
her eyes, but she made no movement of retreat. Suddenly he drew himself
upright.
"That wouldn't help, would it?" he said simply. "Thank you, all the
same, Nora. Good-by!"
On his table, when he entered his rooms that night, lay the letter for
which he had craved. He opened it almost fiercely. The few lines
seemed like a message of hope:
"Don't laugh at me, dear friend, but I am coming to London for a week or
two, to my little house in Charles Street. I don't know exactly when.
You will find time to come and see me?"
Here the mists seem to have fallen upon us like a shroud, and we can't
escape. I galloped many miles this morning, but it was like trying to
find the edge of the world.
Please call on my sister at 17 Mount Street. She likes you and wants to
see more of you.
JANE.