IV

I dare say no place would have looked very attractive to me when I

came out from that hospital; but London and my lodging in it did seem

past all bearing unattractive. The Dorking lodging had been definitely

relinquished, and in any case I had no wish now to see Dorking, Leith

Hill, or the common.

Knowing practically nothing of my native land outside its capital, I

packed a small bag at my lodging, and walked to the nearest large

railway station, which happened to be Paddington. Arrived there, I

spent some dull moments in staring at way-bills, and finally took a

ticket at a venture for Salisbury. There I found a quiet lodging, and

spent the evening in idly wandering about the cathedral close.

The next day found me tramping over short turf--turf more ancient than

the cathedral--in the neighbourhood of Stonehenge. And so I spent the

better part of a fortnight, greatly to the benefit I dare say of my

bodily health. I shall always love the tiny hamlets of that sun and

wind-washed countryside, between Warminster, Andover, Stockbridge, and

Salisbury. Yet always they will be associated in my mind with a bowing

down sense of loneliness, of empty, unredeemed sadness, and of

irretrievable loss. I cannot pretend that I experienced any sense of

remorse or penitence, where my abortive attempt to win another man's

bride was concerned. I had no such feeling. But, discreditable as that

fact may be, it did not make the aching sorrow that possessed me any

the less real.

I was conscious of no remorse, and yet, God knows my state of mind was

humble enough, though too sombre and despairing to be called resigned.

I believe that in the retrospect my loss seemed more, a great deal

more to me, than just a lover's loss; though upon that score alone I

was smitten to the very dust. It was rather as though, at the one

blow, I had lost my heart's desire and a fortune and a position in the

world; or, at least, that these had been snatched from my grasp in the

moment of becoming mine.

I do not think I could ever explain this to any one else; since I

suppose that in the monetary sense the rupture of my plans left me the

better off. But I, who had always been something of an outlier in the

social sense, an unplaced wanderer bearing the badge of no particular

caste, I had grown in some way to feel that marriage with Cynthia

would in this sense bring me to an anchorage, and admit me to a

definite place of my own in the complex world of London. The idea was

not wholly unreasonable. I had lived very rapidly in those few

critical weeks. Years of hope, endeavour, determination, and emotional

experience, I had crowded into my last days in Dorking. And through it

all I had been upheld and exalted by a pervasive conviction (which I

apprehend is not part of the ordinary lover's capital) that now, at

length, I was to know peace, rest, content; the calm, glad realisation

of all the vague yearnings and strivings which had spurred me to

strenuousness, to unceasing effort, all my life long.

Cynthia had been the object of my love, of my passionate adoration,

indeed. But she had also been a great deal more. When she had bowed

her beautiful head to my wooing, when she had promised that upon my

call she would come, she had (all unconsciously, of course) become

more than my beloved. She became for me the actual embodiment, the

incarnate end, aim, and reward of all the strivings of my lonely life,

from the night of my flight from St. Peter's Orphanage down to that

very day. In my rapt contemplation of her, of the personality which

enthralled me far, far more than her beautiful person could, I smiled

over recollection of my bitter struggles in London slums, of the

heart-racking anxiety and grinding humiliation of life with poor

Fanny. I smiled happily at that squalid vista as at some trifling

inconvenience by the way, too small to be remembered as an obstacle in

my path toward the all-sufficing and radiant peace of union with

Cynthia.

'Now I see why all my life has been worth while,' I told myself on the

eve of the clumsy, brutal blow of Fate's hand that had for ever robbed

me of Cynthia.

In the living, the end had sometimes seemed too hopelessly far off to

justify the wearing strain of the means. There had been so little

refreshment by the way. But with Cynthia's promise there had come to

me an all-embracing certainty that my whole life had been justified;

that the end and reward of all my struggles was actually in my hands;

that I now had arrived, and was about to step definitely out from the

ranks of the striving, unsatisfied, hungry outliers, into the serene

company of those whose faces shine with the light of assured

happiness; of those who fight and struggle no longer; for the reason

that they have found their allotted place in life, and are at anchor

within the haven of their ambitions.

I may have been very greatly to blame in my passionate wooing of

another man's affianced wife; but, at least, I believe that my loss of

Cynthia was a far greater and more crushing loss for me than the loss

of any woman could possibly have been for Charles Barthrop. For me,

she had stood for all life held that was desirable--the sum and plexus

of my aims. For Barthrop there were his keenly relished sports and

pastimes, his host of friends, his family, his luxurious and well-defined

place in the world--not to mention the city of London.

V

When I left the spacious purlieus of Salisbury, it was to engage

chambers--bedroom, sitting-room, and bathroom--in a remodelled adjunct

to one of the Inns of Court. Here my arrangement was that a simple

breakfast should be served to me each day in my sitting-room, and that

I was free to obtain my other meals wherever I might choose. Thus

provided for in the matter of a place of residence, I resumed the

discarded journalistic life, as a member of the _Advocate's_ editorial

staff, in accordance with the engagement entered into with Arncliffe,

when I believed I had been arranging to secure an income for Cynthia

and myself.

Before renting these rooms I had called upon Sidney Heron, and invited

him to share a set of chambers with me.

'No,' he said, in his blunt way, 'I'd rather keep you as a friend.'

I dare say he was right; and, in any case, he had a fancy for living

at a good distance from the centre of the town; whereas my own

inclination was to avoid the town altogether, if that might be, and

failing this to have one's sanctuary right in the centre of it. My

chambers were within five minutes' walk of the _Advocate_ office, and

not much more than half that distance from the Thames Embankment--a

spot which interested me as much as its lively neighbour, the Strand,

irritated and worried me. An uneasy, shoddy street I thought the

Strand, full of insistent tawdriness and of broken-spirited folk whose

wretchedness had something in it more despicable than pitiable. Save

for its occasional gaping rustics (whom I thought sadly misguided to

be there at all) I cordially hated the Strand. But the Embankment I

regarded as one of the most romantic thoroughfares in London; and many

a score of articles (which brought me money) do I owe to the

inspiration of that broad, darkling, river-skirted road, and the queer

human flotsam and jetsam one may meet with there.

Among the direct results of Cynthia Lane's influence, I must place my

interest in politics. I had hardly realised that women had any concern

with politics until I met Cynthia. She was in no sense a politician,

but she followed the political news of the day with the same bright

and illuminating intelligence which she brought to bear upon all the

affairs of her life; and her attitude toward them was informed by a

fine patriotism, at once reasoning and ardent. Chance phrases from her

lips had opened my eyes to the existence of a love for England, for

our flag, and race, such as I had not dreamed of till that time.

We spoke once or twice of my Australian experiences. And here again

Cynthia's patriotism suggested whole avenues of unsuspected thought

and feeling to me. It was Cynthia who introduced to my mind the

conception of the British Empire, and our race, as a single family,

having many branching offshoots. I do not mean that Cynthia supplied

facts or theories hitherto unknown to me. But I do mean that her

woman's mind first made me feel these things, intimately and

personally, as people feel the joys and sorrows of members of their

own households.

As a result I looked now with changed eyes upon many things. Before, I

had loathed and detested the slums of London, and the vicious, ugly

squalor of the lives of many of their inhabitants; hated them with the

bitterness of one who has been made to feel their poison in his own

veins. There had been far more of loathing than of pity or sorrow in

my attitude toward the canker at London's heart. Gradually, now,

because of the insight I had had into Cynthia's love of England, my

view became more kindly. I looked upon the canker less with hatred,

and more with the feeling one might have regarding some horrible and

malignant disease in a son or a daughter, a brother or a sister. And,

too, with more of a sense of responsibility and of shame.

So, from a lofty and quite ignorant scorn of things so essentially

mundane, I grew to take an understanding interest in current politics,

and more particularly in their wider aspects, as touching not England

alone but all British lands and people. I obtained a press pass from

Arncliffe, and attended an important debate in the House of Commons,

subsequently recording my impressions, in the form of an article by an

Outsider, from Australia. Journalistically, that article was a rather

striking success; and I began to attend the House frequently, and to

write more or less regular political impressions for the _Advocate_.

For several years my interest in these matters continued to be

progressive. (Three volumes of a political or quasi-political and

sociological character have appeared under my name.) I am grateful for

that interest, because it gave me some additional hold upon life, at a

time when such anchorage as I had had seemed to have been wrested from

me.

There was a quite considerable period--five or six years, at least, I

think--during which political work tended to broaden my mind, widen my

sympathies, and enhance my esteem for a number of my contemporaries.

Beyond that point I am afraid no good came to me from the study of

politics; from which fact it is probably safe to assume that any

influence I exercised ceased to be beneficial. For a time it had, I

think, been helpful in its small way. That was while faith remained in

me.

I remember conceiving a warm respect for a number of men engaged in

political work as writers, organisers, and speakers. I admired these

men for the fervour with which they appeared to devote their lives to

the service of political ends. I even derived from my conception of

their enthusiasm, strong, almost emotional interest in certain

political issues, tendencies, and developments. Later, as I learned to

know the men and their work better, came rather painful

disillusionment. We differed fundamentally, it seemed, these eloquent

fellows and myself. One actually told me in so many words, and with a

cynical smile at his other companion of the moment, as who should say:

'Really, this innocent needs awakening'; that I was playing the gull's

part on the surface of things. 'We are not concerned with principles,'

he said, in effect. 'That may be all right for the groundlings--our

audience. Our concern is parties, office--the historic game of ins and

outs, in which we have our careers to make.'

Until I put the whole business for ever behind me, I never lost my

interest in issues and principles; neither did I ever acquire one jot

or tittle of the professional's interest in the political game, as

such; or endeavour to utilise its complex machinery for the

furtherance of my own career. But in the course of time the study, not

so much of politics as of political life, came to fill me with a kind

of sick weariness and disgust; a sort of dull nausea and shame, such

as I imagine forms one of the penalties for the unfortunate

sisterhood, of what is sardonically called the life of pleasure. Upon

the whole, I am afraid there is a good deal in common between the

political life and the life of the streets. Certainly, the camp

followers in political warfare are a motley crew of mercenaries, and

they take their tone from quite a number of their leaders.

It would be quite beside the mark to add that there are some fine men

in British politics. There are, of course, in all professions,

including (I dare say) that of burglary. There still are in the

political arena gentlemen whose single aim, pursued with undeviating

loftiness of purpose, is the service of their country. I will not

pretend to think their number large, for I know it is not. (But I dare

say it is larger than it will be a few years hence, when we have

pursued a little farther the enlightened ideal of governance by the

least fit for the least fit, by the most poorly equipped for the most

poorly equipped, by the most ignorant and irresponsible for the most

ignorant and irresponsible.) But the class of well-meaning, decent,

clean-lived politicians is a fairly large one. As these worthy if

unremarkable men have not a tithe of the brains of the most prominent

among the quite unscrupulous sort--the undoubted birds of prey--their

good intentions are of small value to their generation or their

country, and represent little or nothing in the shape of hindrance to

the skilled pirates of political waters.

But my personal concern was not so much with the rank and file of

actual politicians as with the great army of camp followers; the band

of fine, whole-souled, well-dressed, fluent fellows, for whom

'something must be done, you know,' because of this or that interest,

because of the alleged wishes of this great person or the other; and

because, above all, of their own quite wonderful pertinacity, untiring

pushfulness, and, of course, their valuable services and great

abilities as talkers, writers, 'organisers,' and what not.

I have known men who, for years, had found it worth not less than L800

or L1000 a year to them to have been spoken of by Mr. ----, Lord ----,

or Sir ----, as 'an exceedingly capable organiser, and--er--devoted to

the Cause.' No one ever knew precisely what they had organised (apart

from their own comfortable subsistence in West End clubs and houses)

or were to organise; but there they were, fine fellows all, tastefully

dressed, in the best of health and spirits, and indefatigably fluent

in--in--er--the service of the Cause, you know!

There was a period in which I fancied these parasites were the

monopoly of one political party. But I soon learned that this was far

from being the case. All the four parties which the twentieth century

saw established in parliament are equally surrounded by their camp

followers, who each differ from each other only superficially, and,

not unseldom, transfer their allegiance in pursuit of fatter game. The

differences do impress one at first, but, as I say, they are mainly

superficial. All are equally self-centred and true to type as

parasites; though one brood is better dressed than another, and has a

more formidable appetite. What makes rich pickings for the follower of

one camp would leave the follower of another camp lean and hungry

indeed. But the necessary scale of expenditure being higher in one

division than another, things equalise themselves pretty much. I

believe it is much the same in the case of the other ancient

profession I have mentioned.

I have seen quite a large number of promising young men, fresh from

the Universities, and beginning life in London with high aspirations

and genuine patriotism in their hearts, only to become gradually

absorbed into the gigantic parasitical incubus of the body politic.

The process of absorption was none the less saddening and embittering

to watch, because its subjects usually waxed fatter and more

apparently jovial with each stage in their gradual exchange of ideals

for cash, patriotism for nepotism, enthusiasm for cynicism, and

disinterestedness for toadyism. Some had in them the makings of very

good and useful citizens. Their wives, so far as I was able to see,

almost invariably (whether deliberately or unknowingly) egged them on

in the downward path to complete surrender. As a rule, complete

surrender meant less striving and contriving, a better establishment,

and a freer use of hansom cabs in place of omnibuses. (I am thinking

for the moment of the days which knew not taxi-cabs.)

When they were writers, a frequent sign of the beginning of their end

(from my standpoint; of their success, from other standpoints,

including, no doubt, those of their wives) was that they began to

write of persons rather than principles; to eulogise rather than to

exhort, criticise, and suggest. So surely as they began their written

panegyrics of individuals, I found them laying aside the last remnants

of their private hero-worship. Very soon after this stage they

generally changed their clubs, becoming members of the most expensive

of these establishments; and from that point on, their progress

towards finished cynicism, fatty degeneration of the intellect, and

smiling abandonment of all scruples, all ideals, and all modesty, was

rapid and certain.

The inquiring student of such processes would perhaps have found

banquets, luncheons, and public dinners of a more or less political

colour his most prolific fields. Upon such occasions I always found

the genus very strongly represented. In one camp the dress clothes of

the followers would be of a better cut and more gracefully worn than

in the other camp; and those of the better-dressed camp had more of

assurance, more of brazen impudence, and more of hopelessly shallow

cynicism, I think, than those of other divisions. In many cases, too,

they had more of education; but, I fear, less of brains.

It was, I think, the contemplation of these gentlemen, even more

perhaps than my saddening knowledge of their shifty, time-serving,

shilly-shallying, or glaringly unscrupulous leaders and masters, that

finally disgusted me with those branches of political work which were

open to me. I have no wish to sit in judgment. Other and stronger men

may find that they may keep the most evil sort of company without ever

soiling their own hands. I know and very sincerely respect a few

political journalists and workers of different parties, whose

uprightness is beyond suspicion; whose fine enthusiasm remains

untarnished, even to-day. I yield to none in my admiration for such

men. But however much I admired, or even envied, it was not for me to

emulate these gentlemen. I probably lacked the necessary strength of

fibre.

Arncliffe was, as ever, very kindly when I showed him my feeling in

the matter; and, so far as might be, he released me from all

journalistic obligations of a political sort. But more, I was given a

complimentary dinner. Speeches were made, and I was genuinely

astonished by the length of the list of my avowed services to

politics. It was affirmed that, under Providence, and Arncliffe, and

one or two people with titles, I had been instrumental in starting

movements, launching an organ of opinion, and bringing about all kinds

of signs and portents. The occasion embarrassed me greatly.

It was true enough that, for a season, I had thrown myself heart and

soul into the furtherance of certain political aims; and, in all

honesty, I had worked very hard. And--heavens! how I was sick of the

fluent humbugs, and the complacent parasites! If only they could have

been dumb, and, in their writings, forbidden by law the use of all

such words as 'patriotism,' I could have borne much longer with them.

London is our British centre, and your true parasite makes ever for

the kernel. I have seen them treated with the gravest and most modest

deference by working bees from outlying hives--the Oversea Dominions

and the Services--as men who were supposed to be fighting the good

fight, there in the hub, the heart, and centre of our House. And,

listening to their complacent oozings, under the titillations of

innocent flattery, I have turned aside for very shame, in my

impatience, feeling that in truth the heart and centre were devoid of

virtue, and that true patriotism was a thing only to be found (where

it was never named) in unknown officers of either service, and obscure

civilians engaged in working out their own and the Empire's destinies

in its remote outposts, and upon the high seas.

And, impatient as that thought may have been, how infinitely better

founded and less extravagant it was than the presumptuous arrogance of

these gentlemen, who, by their way of it, were 'Bearing the heat and

burden of the day, here in the busy heart of things--the historic

metropolis of our race!'