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diff --git a/old/69589-0.txt b/old/69589-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 353dc52..0000000 --- a/old/69589-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,12120 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of To-morrow and to-morrow, by Stephen -McKenna - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: To-morrow and to-morrow - A novel - -Author: Stephen McKenna - -Release Date: December 20, 2022 [eBook #69589] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Al Haines, John Routh & the online Distributed Proofreaders - Canada team at https://www.pgdpcanada.net - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TO-MORROW AND TO-MORROW *** - - - - - - - BY STEPHEN McKENNA - - _NOVELS_: - - TO-MORROW AND TO-MORROW - VINDICATION - THE COMMANDMENT OF MOSES - SOLILOQUY - THE CONFESSIONS OF A WELL-MEANING WOMAN - THE SENSATIONALISTS: - I _Lady Lilith_ - II _The Education of Eric Lane_ - III _The Secret Victory_ - SONIA MARRIED - MIDAS AND SON - NINETY-SIX HOURS’ LEAVE - SONIA - THE SIXTH SENSE - SHEILA INTERVENES - THE RELUCTANT LOVER - - * * * * * - - BY INTERVENTION OF PROVIDENCE - WHILE I REMEMBER - TEX: A CHAPTER IN THE LIFE OF ALEXANDER TEIXEIRA DE MATTOS - - - - - TO-MORROW AND - TO-MORROW . . . - - _A NOVEL_ - - BY - STEPHEN McKENNA - - - - - BOSTON - LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY - 1924 - - - - - _Copyright, 1924_, - BY STEPHEN MCKENNA. - - - _All rights reserved_ - - Published, October, 1924 - - - PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA - - - - - TO - - MARION - - - -Three years ago, _The Secret Victory_ brought to an end the trilogy -which I called _The Sensationalists_. This book and the antecedent -volumes—_Lady Lilith_ and _The Education of Eric Lane_—described the -fortunes of certain men and women who constituted part of the larger -groups which I had approached in _Sonia, Midas and Son_ and _Sonia -Married_. - -By the accident of birth, fortune or talent, “these our actors” were -made to fill a position—before, during and after the war—which -attracted to them more attention than was warranted by their historical -importance. My defence—if I must defend myself—is that the butterfly -in every age has claimed more notice than the bee. The social scene, to -change my metaphor, presented by so single-minded a writer as Mr. -Greville has to find room for the D’Orsays, the Egremonts, the Sidney -Smiths and the Madame de Lievens, who throng his stage in act after act, -as well as for the Peels, Wellingtons and Melbournes. - -Is a defence still necessary for continuing the life of a character from -one novel to another? Mr. Disraeli, in his splendid progress through a -part of Mr. Greville’s period, refused to cut the thread of an imaginary -existence at the moment when his last page was bound into its cover; and -the novel-sequence which aims to describe a social and political scene -must, no less than succeeding volumes of memoirs, call back to the stage -the same leaders and the same camp-followers. If this present series -have any artistic or historical value, I should like it to be found in -the completed picture. - -I attempted, in _Sonia_, to trace the adolescence of the generation that -grew to manhood in time to meet the shock of the war. That war ends in -the first line of the present volume; and, before the last page, the -government that was charged to bring peace back to the sparse survivors -has itself passed away. One phase in history has been concluded; and -this series, which aimed at describing a single English scene in the -life of a single generation, ends with the end of that phase. - -I ask no one to share any regret which I may feel in taking leave of -characters that have been my constant companions for more than eight -years. If they are no more likable than the men and women we meet in -daily life, I have at least never allowed parental affection to cover up -their shortcomings. I present them to you as a small mark of a deep -devotion. - - STEPHEN MCKENNA. - - - - - “All our yesterdays have lighted fools - The way to dusty death.” . . . - - SHAKESPEARE: _Macbeth_. - - - - - CONTENTS - - PART ONE - - CHAPTER - - I TRUCE - II RETROSPECT - III THE DAWNING OF MORN - IV AFTER THE DELUGE - V THE RED ACCOUNT - - - PART TWO - - I THE NAKEDNESS OF THE LAND - II THAT WHICH REMAINED - III AS YOU SOW - IV IN A GILDED CAGE - V “UN SACRIFICE INUTILE” - - - PART THREE - - I TO-MORROW AND TO-MORROW - II THE TEST - III TWO IN THE FIELD - - - - - PART ONE - - - - - CHAPTER ONE - - - TRUCE - - - “‘Rise up, rise up, thou Dives, and take again thy gold, - And thy women and thy housen as they were to thee of old. - It may be grace hath found thee - In the furnace where We bound thee, - And that thou shalt bring the peace My Son foretold.’” - - RUDYARD KIPLING: _The Peace of Dives_. - - 1 - -“_The eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month_ . . .” - -Though the departmental order was marked “secret”, I did not hesitate to -give my wife a hint of its contents. All the world—if the armistice -were accepted—could read the news next morning. And the armistice would -be accepted. Silence hung over town and country throughout the misty, -long hours of Sunday: it was, I felt, as though all England were at -prayer. Faint restlessness muttered throughout the lagging, cold hours -of Sunday night: it was as though all England were keeping vigil. - -“You _can’t_ doubt,” I told Barbara, as we parted at the door of the -Admiralty. “With any luck, the news is waiting for me.” - -“I can’t _believe_,” she answered. “Four years and three months. Nearly -a fifth of my whole life. I’m used to the war . . . almost. I don’t see -why it should ever stop.” - - 2 - -It was my turn for late duty; but, when I reached my room, I found a -message: - - “Captain Hornbeck’s compliments; and it will not be necessary - for Commander Oakleigh to stay unless he wishes.” - -Peace was not yet come, then, or Philip Hornbeck would have told me; it -would come that night, or he would not have granted me leave of absence. -The Admiralty, meanwhile, could not have been more silent if the old -world had died in giving birth to the new. - -“You got my chit?,” Hornbeck asked in an undertone, when I went to -report. “Unless you _want_ to hang about here . . .” - -“My taste for bureaucracy,” I answered, with a glance of loathing at his -“IN”, “OUT” and “PENDING” trays, “has been cured.” How long did Barbara -say the war had lasted? Since 1914? Yes, four years and three months had -passed since I began to masquerade unconvincingly as an officer of the -Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve. With the actors, artists, barristers and -stockbrokers who combined to make up my section of the intelligence -department, I had talked a hundred times of the day when we should have -taken our last undeserved salute and laid aside the latest of our -comic-opera uniforms. Now it was come. “As I’m here, I may as well lend -a hand. I suppose they’re bound to sign?” - -Hornbeck unlocked a row of japanned boxes and glanced perfunctorily at -his secret files before plunging them in the fire. - -“It won’t come through in time for the morning papers, so I’m getting -rid of the evidence before I’m told not to,” he chuckled. “‘_The -eleventh hour . . . of the_ _eleventh day . . . of the eleventh month._’ -Sounds as if a journalist had had something to do with that!” One file -slipped to the floor; and I read on the faded docket “_Goeben and -Breslau, 1914_”. It had been a very long war. “Lord! These papers are a -satire on the vanity of human wishes!,” he drawled. “You can give all -your people leave for the day. They won’t be in a fit state to work -. . . even if you had any work to give them. And I suppose you won’t -have. It . . . takes you some time to grasp that it’s all over,” he -added, checking half way to the fire and staring bemusedly at the papers -in his hands. Looking at him, I needed time to recall that he had been a -young man when war broke out. “What are you and Lady Barbara going to do -with yourselves?,” he asked after a pause. - -“Get away to the sun,” I answered with the grim determination of a man -whose vitality was spent for lack of rest and good food. - -“Wonder . . . what will happen . . . to _us_,” Hornbeck pondered, -punctuating his words with abrupt shrieks of rending paper. “No more -wars; . . . no more navies . . . or armies.” - -“Well, you of all men are entitled to a holiday,” I said. Four years of -Whitehall had made him short-sighted and round-shouldered; his square, -wooden face was pallid; and his slow speech argued a tired brain. - -“Everything will seem a bit flat now,” muttered one of the most powerful -men in England, who within the next few days or hours would be as -inconsequential as myself. Beyond a narrow circle described round the -Treasury Exchange, the name of Captain Hornbeck was unknown; the weight -and cunning of his hand, however, had been felt for more than four years -in Mexican revolutions, Greek _coups d’état_ and Russian -counter-revolutions. The papers which he was destroying ranged from -reports on South American credit-transfers to track-charts of North -Atlantic commerce-raiders. “This is what the N.O. has been training for, -ever since the old Britannia days,” he went on. “Now that we’ve finished -it . . .” - -Wiping the sweat from his forehead, he threw open the window. From force -of habit, he switched off the lights before pulling up the blind; then, -as the last night of the war engulfed him in a grey eddy of fog, he -laughed at his own forgetfulness. - -“There’s still a fair-sized mess to clean up,” I reminded him, as he -raked with irresolute fingers the memoranda that constituted the -Admiralty’s suggestions for the peace conference. - -“Ah, I must leave that to you politicians,” he laughed. “And I don’t -envy you the job. A world without war . . . It’s a thing we’ve never -seen, George. And when you consider that we’re all of us demoralized and -most of us bankrupt . . . I suppose friend Woodrow knows what he wants, -but I don’t believe any one else does. . . . Doctor feller once told me -that, when a baby’s born, it comes into the world with its fists -clenched. I sometimes wonder if war isn’t a natural instinct.” - -“Self-preservation is the first natural instinct,” I answered; “but it’s -not consistent with modern methods of fighting.” - -“Oh, I know. This war will be a friendly scrap by comparison with the -next.” - -“It’s stopping,” I said, “just when we were beginning to learn something -of mass-production, mass-enlistment, mass-mobilization of resources, -mass-destruction.” - -Hornbeck strolled to a vast wall-map of the world and stared at it, with -his hands dug deep into his pockets. - -“In the next war, we shan’t attempt to distinguish between combatants -and non-combatants,” he predicted. “The air-raids and the blockade have -caught the civilian.” - -“And no country will be allowed to remain neutral,” I added, “any more -than Luxemburg and Greece in this war.” - -“Until, at the end, when the human population of the earth has been -destroyed with typhoid-germs and poison-gas, you’ll be left with two -submersible flying-tanks chasing each other among the ice of the North -Pole.” - -He stirred the fire to a blaze and began once more to feed it with the -papers from his private safe. I might have helped him; but this news of -approaching peace seemed to relax all my muscles. For the first time in -more than four years I could look beyond the work of the moment and see -myself as an individual. When I was less tired, I could go back to the -old life; and, for a man with a competence, life in England had been -more than tolerable until the fourth of August, 1914. - -“Don’t let’s talk about the _next_ war,” I said. “Unless we can find a -substitute . . .” - -“People talked like that after Waterloo,” Hornbeck murmured. - -“I expect they talked like that after the siege of Troy; but they always -sowed their peace with the seeds of the next war.” - -The night air was chilling the room; and Hornbeck interrupted his task -of destruction to shut the window. - -“Well, what kind of peace do you want now?,” he asked, with a smile half -mocking, half wistful playing over his tired face. “This war followed -inevitably on the war of ’70, which followed inevitably on the -nationalist wars, which followed inevitably on Napoleon’s conquests. -Will you divide the world now according to nationalities? I’m afraid -you’ll have new wars in Poland, Alsace-Lorraine, Austria, Turkey; not to -mention Egypt and India. People talk about a United States of the World; -but, when you’ve been getting the last ounce out of national spirit for -all these years, you won’t persuade white men to take their orders from -an international committee of dagos.” - -I turned from the wall-map to the official estimates of casualties in -all countries. - -“When people remember what a bloody business war is . . .” I began. - -“We had South Africa and Japan to warn _us_!” he interrupted. “The next -generation . . . George, I promise you that, unless you get your new -heaven and your new earth functioning at once, you’ll drift back to the -only kind of life a nation knows. Fear and arrogance; insane hatred and -colossal stupidity. Periodically the world will panic into war, which is -the only final solution known to history.” . . . - -“The only one we’ve tried; and it’s a solution of nothing,” I answered. -“My God, if I didn’t believe this was really a war to end war . . .” - -I paused as Hornbeck was called to the telephone. He listened for a -moment, nodded to me and took down his coat and cap. Even he could work -no longer; and, as I walked home alone, I tried to understand that the -“war to end war” had itself ended. In four years I had forgotten how -London looked before the lamps were shrouded and the hoardings placarded -with patriotic appeals. Their purpose was accomplished; a uniform would -soon be as rare as civilian clothes were now; the hospitals would empty; -the blue coats and red ties of the convalescents would disappear. - -The city was very silent; but at eleven o’clock, I imagined, there would -be such a silence as would make men think that the earth was halting in -her course. Out there, over the water, some would adventure amicably -into the enemy’s lines; some would drift back to their base; most would -wait dumbly for orders; and one man would be the last to die in the -Great War. - -At the top of Waterloo Place I found a policeman flashing his lantern on -the doors and shutters of the shops. - -“I think you’d like to know that the Germans have accepted the -armistice,” I said. - -“Thank you, sir,” he answered with a salute. - -A taxi crawled westward across Piccadilly Circus; and I told the driver. - -“They ’ave, ’ave they?,” he muttered in perplexity. “Oh, they -_’ave_. . . . Well . . .” - -I hesitated long before reckoning the number of those for whom peace -came too late. In ’14 my generation was of an age to be called for the -hottest and the longest of the fighting. Sam Dainton had escaped with a -flesh wound, Jack Waring with a split head and a broken nerve, David -O’Rane with the loss of his sight; these, with the five or six who had -failed to pass the doctors or had been tied to a mission abroad, were -all that remained of the friends who had said good-bye to their schools -in the last years of the nineteenth century. - -A lifetime had passed since we all talked of what we would do “on the -day peace is signed”; and yet, when we spoke of “last summer”, we always -meant “the summer before the war”. It was, at the same time, an eternity -and an episode. - -“So,” I reflected at the door of my house in Seymour Street, “one school -of political thought in France looked upon the Revolution and the -Empire.” - -From force of habit, I headed for the hot milk in my dressing-room and -rang to have my bath prepared. Then I recollected that I need never -again work by night and sleep by day. - -“I’ll breakfast first,” I told Barbara’s maid. “And I shan’t go to bed -this morning. The armistice has been signed.” The girl tried to speak, -but could only turn away with a sob that sounded like “dad”. “Has her -ladyship been called?,” I asked. - -Still unable to speak, the girl shook her head and nodded in the -direction of a breakfast-tray. - - 3 - -Barbara was asleep, with a light burning by her side and an open book -face-downwards on the bed. At last, I told myself, I could see something -of my wife. I should be able to read the new poets and novelists who -overflowed her cases. At last we could entertain our friends again. At -last, after eight months, we could have our honeymoon. Barbara looked -dangerously fragile. As I watched her, one hand was drawn slowly up the -sheet; and the fingers were almost transparent. Her head turned -restlessly from side to side; and I knew that she was dreaming. There -was a whispered sigh; and I felt that her dreams were unhappy. - -“George! Oh, it’s you!,” she exclaimed with a throb of relief; and, as -she brushed the cloudy hair back from her face, I saw that her big, -deep-set eyes were black and anguished. - -“Who else should it be?,” I asked, as I draped a shawl over her thin -shoulders and kissed her flushed cheeks. “They’ve signed, Babs. It’s all -over.” - -“It’s . . . all . . . over?,” she repeated dreamily. - -“Yes. I telephoned to your mother from the Admiralty. They’re safe: -Neave and Charlie.” - -Silence fell between us until Barbara covered her face and murmured: -“Thank God!” Then she sat up and stared round the shadowy room: - -“What . . . what are we going to do now?” - -Within an hour I felt that most people would be asking themselves that -question: - -“I don’t know. For this morning Phil Hornbeck suggested that I should -invite a few friends to my room in case there’s anything to see. -Afterwards . . .” - -“Afterwards you must take me away!,” she cried. “You’re quite sure -there’s been no mistake?” - -“Quite sure!,” I answered, as I sat down by the telephone and tried to -remember which of our friends we should both care to have with us at the -moment when peace dawned. - -A change had overtaken London by the time that I set out to collect my -party. As on August bank-holiday four years earlier, when I drove about -Gloucestershire, with Loring and O’Rane, waiting for news, the city had -an air of suspended animation. Of the twenty strangers who interrogated -me on my way across the park, not one had more doubt that the terms -would be accepted than that the sun would rise on the morrow. And yet, -so nicely balanced were hope and fear, I should have been surprised if -any one had laid me long odds on peace. Like Barbara, they were grown -used to the war. As I spread the news from house to house, every one -said: ‘What time is it now?’; and it seemed as if the eleventh hour of -the eleventh day would never come. There was a muddle-headed point of -honour, too, that no one should betray even impatience. - -“Oh, yes, I’ll look in, if I have nothing better to do. You might have -called here instead of bringing me to this infernal contraption,” -growled my uncle Bertrand, who always visited his hatred of the -telephone on the heads of those who addressed him by it. “That all you -have to say? Filson! Filson!,” I heard him calling to his man. “They’ve -signed!” - -Lady Dainton, whom I invited for the sake of old associations, murmured: -“Thank you so much. I know Roger will be interested,” as though I had -announced a minor change in the cabinet. Raymond Stornaway said: “I -trust this doesn’t mean a general holiday: I’ve the very devil of a -day’s work ahead of me.” My sister Beryl hoped that I had not gone to -the expense of buying that new uniform. - -I had already warned old Lady Loring by telephone; and, when I reached -Curzon Street, I found my cousin Violet dressed to go out and playing in -the hall with her boy. - -“I’m waiting to be told what to do next,” was her greeting. - -Though she had worn her deep mourning for more than three years, her -little white face looked pathetically young and helpless. I wondered -what kind of life she could expect from the armistice. - -“We’re all in the same boat,” I answered. “I called to suggest that you -should bring Sandy to the Admiralty. My father could just remember the -Famine; my mother remembers the crowds in the streets when Sebastopol -fell. Sandy may carry away something to fix this, eighty years hence, as -the day when the Great War ended.” - -“I wonder if people will talk about it then as ‘the Great War’?,” Violet -mused. - -As she buttoned her boy into his coat, I felt that she was thinking only -of the day when her husband of a month, with all that health, fortune, -rank and riches could give him, drifted whimsically to France, in the -meshes of a machine which he ridiculed, there to die in defence of one -country, which he faintly despised, against another, which he mildly -disliked. Violet had been left with a son to bring up and a vast estate -to administer. She would never, I knew, marry again; and, now that the -war was over, she saw herself fading into the twilight of life to dwell -with ghosts and memories and dreams. - -“The Great Waste,” I suggested, as we set out. “If any one could have -foreseen, four years ago, how this would end, I wonder if there’d have -been a war? I tremble to think what the world will look like when we -have time to take stock.” - -In our passage from Loring House to the Admiralty, I found that the news -had spread before us; and young Lucien de Grammont, speeding towards the -French Embassy, stopped long enough to vent on us his disappointment -that the allies had not insisted on unconditional surrender. - -“Those accursed Americans!,” he cried. “But for them, peace would have -been signed in Berlin! Now in fifty years’ time . . . Well, let us hope -we shan’t be alive to see it.” - -As he flung off in furious disappointment, I ventured the opinion that, -but for the Americans, a German peace might have been dictated in Paris. -Then we pressed through the crowd in the Processional Avenue and took up -our positions to see at least the greatest war in history ending. My -secretary had cleared the table of its trays; and we sat in a row, -looking through the mist of Horse Guards’ Parade and trying to guess -what was going to happen. The Crawleighs had arrived before us and were -talking to Raymond Stornaway; Sir Roger and Lady Dainton followed on our -heels; and our last inch of space was filled when my uncle Bertrand, -puffing and growling at the stairs, lumbered in with heavy tread and -demanded in the loud voice of incipient deafness why it was necessary to -collect this nest of magpies. - -“Disreputable old wrecks we are!,” he muttered with a glance of sour and -comprehensive disfavour from Lord Crawleigh to Sir Roger Dainton and -from Sir Roger Dainton to Raymond Stornaway. The grey November light, -shining on a row of bent backs and haggard faces, made us older than our -years. “We’ve _had_ our chance,” he continued; “I believe the only way -of stopping war is to have conscription for all men and women over fifty -and to call up the oldest classes first.” - -“So that you could hear men of thirty boasting that they’d ‘given’ two -grandfathers to the army?,” asked Raymond. - -“They’d still be of an age to be kicked, if they tried that kind of -cant. . . . No, but I’m sufficiently sick of everything to feel it’s -indecent for me to be alive when mere children are wearing black for men -who might have been my grandsons. Eighty-four. . . . Most of my friends -will tell you I’ve lived twenty years too long; and, on my soul, I -believe they’re right.” - -“You said something of the kind on the day war broke out,” I reminded -him. “Now that it’s all over . . .?” - -Bertrand gathered himself for attack, towering over me with his hands on -his hips till the silence of the room daunted him. Then he shrugged his -shoulders and turned, with a savage tug at his black walrus-moustache, -to shake hands with his neighbours: - -“I don’t detect any great reason for optimism. Um, Crawleigh. You -English have seen a million or two of your best men killed or -wounded. . . . Whose child is that? . . . You’ve seen new debt piled up -to the tune of thousands of millions. . . . How do, Lady Crawleigh? -. . . I’m an Irishman. . . . Violet, my dear! . . . And a liberal. I’ve -seen liberalism stamped out of existence and the Irish party -broken. . . . Lady Dainton, your humble servant. Find me a seat, George, -there’s a good boy.” - -Most of us knew my uncle well enough to imagine his violent anger if any -one else had dared to be so despondent. My father-in-law, however, felt -obliged to pick up the gage. - -“You mean that we should be no worse off,” he suggested, “if the Germans -had drawn up the terms and we had accepted them?” - -“Not quite,” Bertrand conceded, “not quite. . . . I beg your pardon, -Barbara my dear, I didn’t see you! . . . If you know your Bible, my dear -Crawleigh, you’ll recollect that a Jew called Samson tried to get level -with the Philistines by pulling a heavy roof down on their heads. He got -level; but he paid for it with his life. Some one pulled away the -pillars that had been holding up our civilization for Heaven knows how -many centuries. Credit, commerce, law and order, faith and morals, -production, exchange, distribution: they’ve all toppled; and they’ve -toppled on the heads of _all_ of us. You’ll see as soon as peace really -sets in. No! No, Crawleigh! This war should have ended two years ago, -while there were still a few tiles left on the roof!” - -I recalled my uncle’s warning, on the day war broke out, that freedom of -speech was dead; on the day it ended, he asserted his right to it with a -truculence that had been shouted down when he pleaded for “a patched-up -peace” at the end of 1916, before the United States came in, and again -in 1917 when the Lansdowne letter was published. - -“Lucien de Grammont wants to go on to Berlin,” I said. - -Bertrand clasped his hands over the crook of his stick and nodded -scornfully at a headstrong world that refused to take his advice. His -expression and attitude reminded me of Dr. Johnson, in the celebrated -picture, awaiting an audience with Lord Chesterfield. - -“He forgets, perhaps, that we at least went into this war to uphold the -neutrality of Belgium. We stayed in to make the Germans pay for the -damage they’d done there. Later . . . Later, we were told that the -French must have Alsace-Lorraine, Russia must have Constantinople, Italy -must have an infernal place called the Trentino. And any stray islands -or continents where a German or the ally of a German has ever set foot -must be taken away and given to somebody else. It may be all very right -and proper; but that wasn’t our aim in 1914.” - -More was coming; but his audience began to shew signs of hostility; and -Violet intervened by setting her boy on the old man’s knee and -whispering: - -“You mustn’t quarrel on a day like this. Help me to shew him the -different nationalities, Uncle Bertrand. Sandy! Sandy! You see the -little man down there by the tree. D’you know what he is? He’s a Jap. -Japanese.” - -“Jap-an-ese,” Sandy repeated slowly. - -“Those are Americans,” she continued, with her finger pointing to three -grave, lean-faced young officers. “Amer-i-cans.” - -“Call ’em ‘Yanks’, most noble marquess,” grunted Bertrand, who—with -much else that was Johnsonian—exhibited the doctor’s unreasoning -antipathy to the new world. - -“Merry-cans,” Sandy repeated. - -“There’s a Frenchman! There’s a Canadian! See, Sandy? Uncle Bertrand, -find me an Italian,” Violet pleaded. “I don’t know how much this mite -will remember, but it is rather marvellous to see them all together. -That’s a South African, isn’t it? Oh, and a poor soul with only one leg. -There’ll still be plenty of them for him to see when he’s grown up. I -_wish_ I could find an Italian!” - -The open space under my window had filled so rapidly that it was hardly -possible for any one to move. Typists from the government offices, in -short skirts and transparent blouses, were standing on tiptoe, -bare-headed in the biting cold, staring bright-eyed over the shoulders -of those in front. There were soldiers, in uniform and in their hospital -undress; sailors; nurses; government messengers with battered red boxes; -a park-keeper; two clergymen; some errand-boys; and a thousand -nondescripts. At one moment they were very silent; at another, they -broke into feverish conversation with unknown neighbours, occasionally -shaking hands and cheering a foreign uniform. - -“Five minutes to eleven,” muttered a voice which I could not identify. - - 4 - -The emotions of the crowd were reacting on us. Behind me, I could hear -murmurs like the soughing of wind, rising and falling with the murmurs -of the crowd. When hands were excitedly shaken below us, I felt -Barbara’s fingers gripping my wrist and saw Violet bending to kiss the -silken curls of her child’s head. - -Out there, over the water, the ‘cease-fire’ must be travelling down the -unending shambles of the two opposing lines. The shadow that had -darkened the world for more than four years had at last been driven -away; and no one was going to be mutilated or killed any more. All—more -than all—that we set out to do in 1914 had been accomplished; and the -bound heads and empty sleeves of the survivors, the black dresses of -those with no survivors to welcome, testified to the cost. Of the -uniforms below us, some had first been donned in Tasmania, some in -Natal, others on the Alaskan border. Belgium and Servia, Russia and -France, Portugal and Japan, Italy and Rumania: all had joined hands with -our English-speaking peoples to hem in the wild beast. Throughout the -night, the news had crackled from Poldhu to the Azores, from Arlington -to Seattle, that the wild beast was subdued. It had flashed to lonely -patrols through the frost of the North Sea and the fire of the Persian -Gulf; two hundred million men were now standing silent, with their eyes -on their watches; and I fancied again the unearthly hush that must drop -on the world when the last war ended. - -In spite of Bertrand, in spite of Lucien de Grammont, in spite of -Hornbeck I believed that it was the last war. - -_Burp! . . . Burp! . . . Burp!_ The maroons were like the rending of -colossal drums. _Burp! . . . Burp! . . . Burp!_ Sandy turned wide eyes -of alarm upon us and buried his face in Violet’s bosom. _Burp! Burp! -Burp!_ - -“Eleven o’clock,” muttered Roger Dainton in a quavering voice. - -My secretary collapsed into a chair, murmuring “Air-raid”; and, though I -knew that air-raids had now passed into history, I imagined for a moment -that the last ‘scrap of paper’ had followed the first and that London -and Paris were to be laid in ruins. - -_Burp! . . . Burp! Burp!_ - -There was no concerted cheering from the crowd below; but I had a -curious feeling that the next man but one, down all that line from the -Admiralty Arch to Buckingham Palace, had opened his lips and was waiting -for a neighbour to cheer with him. Heads were turning in every -direction; eyes were gazing upward, as though they expected to see -“Peace” written across the sky in letters of flame; bodies, for a -moment, were very still. - -Then that vast sea of men and women gathered itself up and poured with a -hoarse roar towards the Palace. There was a check, and I fancy the -first-comers must have been pressed against the railings; I threw open -my window in time to hear a mutter rolling from lip to lip: “The king! -They’re calling for the king.” Later, though we could see and hear -nothing of it, the word was passed: “The king! He’s speaking”; later -still: “He’s finished! Give him a cheer! Hip, hip! _Come on._” - -The human sea must have eddied at the Palace. Five minutes later, as the -crowd below my window surged forward, a returning stream poured down the -Processional Avenue into Trafalgar Square; and a new current set in -towards the Abbey. There was little cheering now, though every one made -individual noises of greeting and laughter. A War Office car hooted its -deliberate way across Horse Guards’ Parade and was promptly seized by -three wounded soldiers and four girl-clerks, who ranged themselves along -the running-boards and perched on the bonnet. As though all had been -awaiting a signal, the crowd broke into little groups and swept like -swarming bees upon every vehicle in sight. So long as all could move, it -did not matter whither they hurried: something, all seemed to feel, must -be happening somewhere else. - -“The war’s over!,” some one cried; and mechanically, like hysterical -children, a dozen others repeated uncomprehendingly: “The war’s over! -The war’s over! The war’s over! The war’s over.” . . . - -“And the funny thing,” said Raymond Stornaway, blowing his nose -vigorously, “is that they don’t know what to do next.” - -“Do _we_?,” asked Bertrand; and, for once, he seemed less anxious to -instruct than to be instructed. - - 5 - -No one wanted to speak first. No one wanted to move. No one cared to -look any one else in the eyes. Lady Crawleigh, I think, was the first to -recover; and she was slipping out of the room, with a twisted smile, -when Raymond put his back to the door and took the position in hand with -a general invitation to lunch with him at the Carlton. - -“No speeches or ‘celebrations’,” he promised. “If you’ll fight your way -there as best you can, I’ll telephone for a table.” - -With the exception of Violet, we were glad to have our minds made up for -us. Bertrand was right: we none of us knew what to do next. The -movements of the crowd had become rhythmical by the time that we set -out. Every cab and bus was loaded with excited clusters of men and women -who seemed ready to do anything but remain still. Boys with paper caps -and empty tins marched aimlessly at the head of irregular battalions; -overwrought girls and grave grey-beards tramped with arms linked, -sublimely unselfconscious. The streets were carpeted with torn paper. An -indistinguishable hum of voices floated over and about us, still -seeming—as before—to come from our next neighbour but one; and on -every face was written vague relief, vague good-will, dawning -disappointment and vast perplexity. - -“‘They order this matter, I said, better in France’,” quoted Raymond, as -we drifted slowly through the crowd to kill time before luncheon. “The -English don’t know how to express their emotions.” - -“They haven’t had much time yet to think what their emotions are,” I -reminded him. “What’s the next stage? Babs and I are going off to the -Riviera as soon as we can. But after that?” - -“_My_ work will go on,” Raymond murmured with a rueful glance down Pall -Mall. We were within sight of the unwieldy mansion from whose roof young -Deryk Lancing fell or flung himself on the eve of the war. The estate, I -believe, was valued at about twenty-five million pounds sterling; and a -freakish will had laid upon Raymond’s shoulders the task of distributing -a fortune which Deryk himself could not control nor keep from -increasing. “You can come and help me, if you like, George.” - -“Thanks, I’ve done the last day’s work of my life,” I answered; “but -I’ve lived so long at other people’s orders that I’ve forgotten how to -take a holiday.” - -The rest of our party was awaiting us by the door of the restaurant; and -throughout the meal we talked, for talking’s sake, of the fourteen -points and the probable terms of peace. Though we had all accepted -Raymond’s invitation with relief, we were more sincerely relieved when -luncheon came to an end. We wanted to think; and, when I had written a -formal request for immediate demobilization, I took Barbara home. The -streets were emptying as the silent crowds began to feel that they could -not for ever tramp to and fro or steal aimless rides. Hunger was driving -them in search of food; and the sunless November afternoon, already -touched with frost, was mottling their white faces and chapped hands. - -“I feel . . . dazed,” Barbara signed, as we got into a taxi with her -parents. - -“We all do,” answered Lady Crawleigh. - -As we drove away, I watched our party scattering. From their silence I -judged the Crawleighs were trying to realize that their two elder boys -were safe at last; the Daintons, walking close together with bent heads, -were no doubt thinking of the son who would not return. As my uncle’s -big, lonely figure disappeared from sight, I fancied that he might -indeed be feeling he had lived too long. William the Fourth had -completed half his reign when Bertrand was born: a man who had survived -the nineteenth century, the Victorian era and the greatest war in -history might well shrink aghast from the unknown future. - - 6 - -At Barbara’s thoughts I could make no guess. Before the war, she had -been more mercilessly pursued by publicity than any one of her -generation. When our engagement was announced, I slunk like a criminal -past the contents-bills that proclaimed a “_Famous Society Beauty -Engaged_”; and, on the day of the wedding, when the traffic was held up -for three hours and the auxiliary police were numbered by hundreds, the -London crowd was certainly far more concerned to catch a glimpse of Lady -Barbara Neave than to hear that the Channel ports were safe. Since our -marriage, she had hardly appeared in public; but, as she crouched over -the fire without speaking, I wondered what picture she was composing for -her life in the unknown, new peace. - -When her maid came to dress her, I went to my own room. Night had fallen -silently; and, when I looked towards the corner of Park Lane, the -streets were more empty than on the night of an air-raid. Once or twice -I heard the echo of subdued revelry; but, in ten minutes, I counted only -four men and two women walking rapidly westward, closely buttoned -against the biting air. Any vision of what this day would be had nothing -in common with the patchwork I had seen. Dawdling luxuriously—for the -first time in four years—over my dressing, I could recall scraps of -altercation with Bertrand, flashes of speculation with Hornbeck, -confidences with Crawleigh. Jerkiness, incompleteness, artificial -reserve, an overwhelming perplexity and a relief too great to be -expressed were what I carried away from the armistice; and I should -think that most people in England experienced the same confused emotions -and lay down that night with the same confused recollections. - -There was none of the vulgar debauchery that had disgraced the capital -of a great empire on Mafeking night: in nineteen years our pride was -more chastened and our thankfulness more heartfelt, even if we did not -know how to give it words. - -“I thought you promised to arrange a survivors’ dinner,” said Barbara, -as we went up to bed. - -“Only about six of us survived,” I answered. “And we’re all scattered. -We’re tired, too. The war went on too long.” Though I was almost too -exhausted to think, I remembered a far-away debate at Melton on the -first anniversary of the war, when the greatest headmaster and the -wisest man that I have met warned me that a long war would be followed -by an even longer moral reaction: a bruised world, said old Burgess, -would go back to the ways it knew and to the fleshpots it loved. “We -shall be useless for years,” I said. - -“I wonder if it was worth it,” Barbara mused. - -“That depends on what you expected or wanted. We’ve secured our terms. -And, if it’s not too rhetorical, I believe that every man who -voluntarily offered his life, at a time when we thought we were -degenerating, has to a great extent saved his soul. This country has -been spared invasion.” - -Barbara parted the curtains in her room and looked down on the silent -street. - -“The first night of peace since Jim’s last party at Loring Castle,” she -murmured. “We . . . Well, I suppose we go on from that?” - -“If we want to.” - -“Well, don’t you? For the last four years we haven’t been able to call -our souls our own.” - -“I wonder whether we ever shall again,” I said, as I filled my final -pipe. That last night of peace lingered more vividly in my memory than -any since. War was certain. We had read Grey’s speech; and I walked with -O’Rane up and down the valley-terrace, trying to decide what we were -fighting to preserve. “We want something more than the _status quo_,” I -told Barbara. “That night . . . There was no question, then, of a -general levy: the war must be over in a few months, and only the regular -army would fight. Well, we’d seen Jack Summertown and a car-load of -officers driving off the night before: they were a small minority who -were quite clearly going to risk their skins for the rest of us. Were we -worth it? I told Raney that I’d like to shew something that was better -worth fighting for.” - -“And haven’t we? When you think how every one has worked and fought -. . .” - -“But now that it’s all over?,” I persisted. “Raney said that people -couldn’t come back from the war to take up the old futility; you -couldn’t set up social barriers between men who had undertaken the same -charge. It was unthinkable to save a country from invasion in order to -perpetuate things like sweated labour. I wonder.” . . . - -“What a long time ago it all seems!” - -There was no cynicism in Barbara’s voice; but, if anybody spoke nowadays -of a new world, his words were dismissed as Fleet Street rhetoric or -Downing Street claptrap; and, though not one man of all the thousands -who would be returning in the next few days was likely to say that he -had risked his life to perpetuate sweated labour, I could not imagine -that many would exert themselves to abolish it. - -Exertion! I was too tired to undress! The world might be bankrupt and -yet survive; the world might be decimated and yet make good its wastage; -first and foremost, the world was weary to the marrow of its bones. - - - - - CHAPTER TWO - - - RETROSPECT - - - “Now tell us what ’t was all about,” - Young Peterkin, he cries; - And little Wilhelmine looks up - With wonder-waiting eyes; - “Now tell us all about the war, - And what they fought each other for.” - - “It was the English,” Kaspar cried, - “Who put the French to rout; - But what they fought each other for, - I could not well make out; - But every body said,” quoth he, - “That ’t was a famous victory. . . . - - . . . . . . . - - “With fire and sword the country round - Was wasted far and wide, - And many a childing mother then, - And new-born baby died; - But things like that, you know, must be - At every famous victory. . . . - - . . . . . . . - - “And every body praised the Duke - Who this great fight did win.” - “But what good came of it at last?” - Quoth little Peterkin. - “Why that I cannot tell,” said he, - “But ’t was a famous victory.” - -ROBERT SOUTHEY: _The Battle of Blenheim_. - - 1 - -When we set out for Cannes three days after my demobilization, I -intended to remain out of England for at least a twelvemonth. Since the -night when Hornbeck and I waited for news of the armistice I had thought -many times of his blank and puzzled confession: ‘_This is what the N.O. -has been training for, ever since the old Britannia days._’ If I had not -also been preparing for the peace and for the war which preceded it, I -had at least toiled for the whole of my adult life to preserve the peace -which preceded the war. Now I could have adapted Hornbeck’s reasoning of -‘_no more wars, no more armies and navies_’ to my own case; and, when my -friends asked me what I was going to do now, I might have said: ‘No more -wars, no more politics or journalism on the old lines.’ - -And this, I take it, was the attitude of all who had even a smattering -of modern history. From the moment when I warned Barbara that we should -perhaps never again be able to call our souls our own, I realized that -the armistice had ended nothing but the long business of killing. The -victors would now contend for the fruits of their victory, as Russians, -Prussians and British had contended in the Congress of Vienna; the -vanquished would struggle to preserve in defeat all that compassion, -adroitness and obstinacy could secure them, as Talleyrand had struggled -for France after Waterloo. The alliance, if it was like any other of -modern times, would be strained and perhaps broken in the first weeks of -peace, as after our wars with Louis XIV and Napoleon. We should hear men -speaking, as de Grammont and Hornbeck already spoke, of “the next war”. -Any one who was concerned to avert that must be prepared for a continued -effort in which he might truly be unable to call his soul his own. - - 2 - -Such energy or ability as I possess were ready to be thrown into the -common stock. I had told Philip Hornbeck that the war would have been -fought to no purpose if we failed to discover a means of preventing -future wars. My difficulty was to know where my own very moderate -ability and energy were to be applied. The leading articles and public -speeches of these days, taking their time from President Wilson, were -familiarizing the idea of a league of nations. Neither speech nor -article, however, made clear how the league could be helped to birth by -the good-will of insignificant, isolated individuals. I debated with -Bertrand whether I should stand again for parliament; but my radicalism -from 1906 to 1910 was too strong for the taste of Frank Jellaby and the -other liberal whips; it would be repugnant now to every section of an -assembly that had sunk party divisions and was aiming at an agreed -peace. Very much as Bishop Blougram counselled Gigadibs to “overhaul -theology”, my uncle suggested sardonically that I should examine the -creeds which I had been professing for the last quarter of a century and -see how much of them the war had left. He did not, however, urge my -returning to the House; and, if the outbreak of war had justified him in -discontinuing our propaganda in _Peace_, the end of the war was hardly -the occasion for resurrecting it. - -“I’m more completely out of a job than any of you,” I told Hornbeck when -my old colleagues at the Admiralty entertained me to a farewell dinner -on my last night in England. “An obsolete political editor . . .” - -“Lucky man!,” he sighed enviously. “I’ve been warned for duty when the -peace conference opens. And, after that, I’m to convert the intelligence -department here to peace uses. Beating swords into plough-shares; and -what not.” - -“If I thought I could be of any use to you . . .,” I began, with -temperate enthusiasm; but Hornbeck shook his head and nodded meaningly -towards the men at the far end of the table. - -“I’ve already more than I know what to do with,” he murmured ruefully. -“_You_ don’t _need_ a job, but most of these fellows do; and it’ll be -harder for them to find one than for you. The war was the opportunity of -a lifetime for most of them; but when it’s a question of conventional, -peace-time billets . . .” - -Hornbeck shrugged his shoulders and looked with mingled pride and -amusement at the flock which he had collected. There were men and women, -married and single, old and young; drawn from a dozen different -professions, they were alike in nothing but their admitted ignorance of -civil-service ways. And, in the hands of Hornbeck, this ignorance had -been converted into an asset. As the department is dead, I can praise -it—without offence—for loyalty, hard work and efficiency such as I -have never seen excelled; without offence, too, I hope, I can say that -we were the strangest collection of government officials that one man -ever assembled below one roof. The war, if it did nothing else, gave -scope to our versatility. At this dinner I recollect that Bellamy, the -actor, sat next to Clayton, the paper-manufacturer. On his other side -was Whitburn, the chancery silk; and, beyond him, old Norton, the -banker. Next to him sat my private slave and fact-finder, Spence-Atkins, -who had reached manhood as a traveller in Manchester goods and, on being -discharged for neglect of business, had drifted about the world, -collecting figures and languages. Next to him, again, was Jefferson -Wright, who began the war as a mathematical coach, lost a hand at Neuve -Chapelle, formed the statistical branch of the Purchase-and-Supply -Department, seconded himself to the Admiralty and ended mysteriously as -a brigadier on the pay-roll of the Ministry of Labour. - -“It takes all kinds to make an intelligence department,” I said. - -“I wish I could find something for them to do now,” answered Hornbeck; -and I remember his words as the first hint of the human dislocation that -would come as the country declared itself in a state of peace. - -In the meantime, our conversation at this dinner strengthened my feeling -that I could do no good by remaining in England at present; and I had -excellent private reasons for wishing to go abroad and to keep my wife -abroad. Until conditions were normal, we did not even know where to -live. Most of my income was derived from Ireland: sentiment and duty -required that I should spend part of my time there as soon as the -country was habitable; and, now that my sister was married and my mother -had made her home in the south of France, Barbara might well grasp at -the chance of escaping from England. - -“Quite deliberately, I feel as if I never wanted to go back,” she -announced next day, as we watched the white cliffs of Dover fading from -view. - -“But London, without you, would simply not be London!,” said Lucien de -Grammont, who was taking us to stay with him at his father’s house by -the Etoile. - -“It will perhaps be better for London, certainly better for me, if we -both make a fresh start,” she answered. “I’m rather tired of it all.” - -“Of London in war? Naturally!,” Lucien persisted. “And for the first -months after the war, when we look for the familiar faces and have to -tell ourselves that they will not come back . . . Later on . . .” - -“Later on, we must see how we feel,” I said; and the conversation swung -on to a less dangerous tack. - -Though we never discussed her adventures in the days before our -marriage, I felt that Barbara was thinking less of the familiar faces, -which she would not see again, than of those which would inevitably -reappear in London when each man returned to his own place. Among our -distressingly free-spoken friends it was commonly reported that she was -half engaged at the beginning of the war to young Jack Waring; and, -though she never pretended to be in love with him, the -engagement—according to the Crawleighs—kept her from marrying Eric -Lane, with whom she was in love beyond all shadow of doubt. Jack was in -England looking for work. Eric had been lecturing and travelling in -America and Japan; he would be coming to England as soon as he had a new -play to produce. I did not want Barbara to be reminded, I did not want -to be reminded myself, that she only married me when Eric vanished from -her world. - -“We want to begin our married life in some place with no associations,” -she went on, half to herself. Then, as though to protest that she was -not thinking of Eric, she looked up with a smile and took my arm. -“George and I have had no honeymoon yet; and my beloved parents didn’t -make things very comfortable for us when I married without a -dispensation. Perhaps they’ll be more reconciled if we give them a -holiday. . . . How soon will peace be signed?” - -“That depends how soon the conference opens,” Lucien answered with a -shrug. “You are to have your general election first; and we . . . you -will not find we are in any hurry. There are nearly five lost years to -make up. France too is tired.” - -The lost years were being recovered when we reached Paris in the last -days of November. We had seen the war ending in London; here we watched -it being buried. Every one who could get a passport and a ticket seemed, -like us, to be heading for the Riviera and spending a week in Paris on -the way. Every one, too, seemed to share our vagueness and indifference -to what lay ahead of this holiday. For the first time in four years, our -time was our own; for the first time in four years Paris could dine and -dance without fear of being bombed or shelled. Barbara bought frocks; -Lucien arranged parties; and I added the hall of the Ritz to the brief -list—headed by Port Said and Charing Cross—of the places where a man, -without waiting unduly long, can be sure of meeting every one who has -ever crossed his path before. - -I doubt if in any other single week I have eaten so many meals or spent -so much money. From time to time Lucien grumbled half-heartedly at all -this waste of time: he had been recalled from the embassy in London to -assist in drafting the agenda for the conference, and I felt he owed a -grumble to his conscience. For myself, I blessed every hour of delay -that enabled us to shed the memories of the last five years and to -forget the acerbities of the last five months. Lucien had long been an -old enough friend to drop his diplomatic reserve in talking to me; and -there were times, before and after the expeditions to Gallipoli and -Salonica, before and after the United States entered the war, before and -after the Italian reverse and the Russian collapse, when the alliance -would have been severed if we had been responsible for it. Now, as I -told him, this brief spell of dissipation had saved us from becoming -stale. With Victor Boscarelli, from the Italian embassy, and Clifford -van Oss, from the American Red Cross, we formed a private international -alliance, each entertaining the others by turn and all swearing -friendships that death itself would be powerless to sunder. A critic -might have been puzzled to say whether Clifford’s Italian was worse than -my French; but our radiant good-will transcended the halting -interpretation of words, and I felt a warmer liking for my neighbours -than I had ever, in my pitiable insularity, been able to achieve before -with men of another race. - -“At last,” I pointed out to Lucien, “we can talk amicably without -discussing whether one country did all the work and another made all the -money. There’s a real understanding. France, England, America: all are -at the very top of their prestige. If we can pull together, we can make -what we like of the peace.” - -“I still think we ought to have gone on to Berlin,” he persisted. -“However, if you back us up and if we can get what we want without it, I -shan’t complain.” - -“Remember you’re all coming to stay with us at Cannes,” I said. - -And, on that word, we set out for a house where the rumour of war and -world-settlement seemed never to have penetrated. - -Looking back on the three months which we spent with my mother, I am in -one way reminded of the two years which Jack Waring passed as a prisoner -in Germany. So complete was our isolation that, when we emerged from it, -we found a world of peace hardly less different from the one we had left -than Jack’s war-world of tanks and gothas and tear-shells was different -from the one which was blotted out in the early days of 1915. In the -first weeks we saw no visitors; we read no papers; and, when we were -rested enough to think and talk, we turned to the days when the world -had last been at peace and speculated why the war had come and how other -wars were to be prevented. - -The last of my reasons for hurrying abroad was that I could take up no -work in England until I had discharged the task which Violet Loring -imposed on me within a few hours of her husband’s death. As the world in -which we had been brought up was swallowed by the war, she asked me to -set down my memories of it for the later instruction of her boy. I had -carried my account to 1915; but, after that, the mass of material was -too great for me to attack in odd hours after my work at the Admiralty. -A steamer-trunk, filled with memoirs and monographs, kept me company to -Cannes; and, in the few weeks that remained before my cousin came to -demand her bond, I philosophized about the deluge and described the -world before it and speculated about the world that would appear when -the waters had subsided. - -Small wonder if at this time, with my mother placidly dipping into -Victorian biographies and with Barbara dreaming over her share in the -history I was writing, we knew little and cared less about what was -happening in Paris and London, Washington and Rome! While Lucien de -Grammont drew the lines of a recreated Europe, I was living again -through the years when Sandy Loring’s father and I were fellow-fags and -fellow-monitors at Melton, when we were freshmen at Oxford, when we -ventured together into Edwardian London. The dead so came to life, as I -wrote about them, that sometimes I would lay down my pen and forget the -war for the days before David O’Rane was blinded and Tom Dainton killed, -the days when every one was quoting Barbara’s latest epigram and -discussing Val Arden’s last novel, the days when Sonia Dainton broke a -heart a week and an engagement a season. Musing of days and nights -softened by time, I felt that never had there been such years in the -life of any country, never had there been women and men like those of -our generation. - -“In two or three years I expect everything will be very much as it was -before the war,” predicted Barbara. - -“The people will be different,” I answered; “and they’ll make everything -else different. Sandy’s world will never be like Jim’s.” - -And then I fell to wondering what Sandy’s father would have made of the -new dispensation which was taking shape before our eyes. He and I, who -agreed on little else, agreed that we were saying good-bye, that last -night at Loring Castle, to a phase in history. The old ruling families -had lost their power since the first marquess commanded his fifteen -seats in the unreformed House of Commons and “Trimmer” Crawleigh dodged -in and out of George the Fourth’s ministries, leaving a broken -government in his train; under a new distribution of wealth they might -lose their prestige. The _arrivistes_ of the nineties, who had floated -on waves of beer and diamonds into the arid heights of a depressed -territorial aristocracy, would find their places taken, in the -nineteen-twenties, by social adventurers of ambition equal to Lady -Dainton’s and of wealth greater than Sir Adolph Erckmann’s. A new class -of politician, officer, publicist and financier must inevitably be -brought to birth by the new demands of public life: the sons of the new -men would quickly preponderate in the old schools and universities, -their daughters would soon come to dominate a new society. That which I -had denounced, in my hotter radical days, as “privilege” would count for -less in Sandy Loring’s life. - -It was not within my terms of reference to say if the one order was in -any way better or worse than the other: it was different. My haphazard -recollections, covering a period of about fifteen years, were chosen -solely for the light which they threw on the generation that was of -military age when war broke out. - -“_As_,” I wrote in conclusion, “_the French Revolution challenged and -overthrew the territorial aristocracies and feudal kingships of the -middle ages, so the Great War challenged the systems which the French -Revolution had evolved in their place._” - -There—for the moment—I stopped, for no one could say what systems the -Great War would evolve in place of those which it overturned. Later, in -brooding over these reminiscences of a vanished generation, I began to -read a moral into them; and, on the morning of Violet’s arrival, when -Barbara bent over my chair to ask if I had finished my work, I had to -answer that, so far as I could see, it was only beginning. - -“If I’m right,” I explained, “the old governing classes are being -superseded, under our eyes . . .” - -“The new lot will pick up the old ideas,” she interrupted. - -“That’s just what I’m afraid of,” I said. - - 3 - -My discovery—the one incontrovertible moral that I could read into the -war—had been made by others before me; and I doubt not that some at -least of them reached it by the same road after toiling conscientiously -through the official explanations and apologies which every foreign -office in Europe issued in proof of its own innocence. The polychromatic -outpouring of white papers, green books and red books was succeeded by a -vaster flood of unofficial polemics, in which defensive chancellors and -prime ministers, field-marshals and admirals demonstrated that some one -else was responsible for the war and that peace would have been -preserved or victory secured if only their advice had been followed. To -the strategical arguments I paid little attention: nothing will make me -understand strategy by land or sea, and it was hardly relevant to my -main enquiry. The diplomatic defence, on the other hand, I studied with -care, deciding—as, I imagine, most people outside Germany have decided -independently—that, while Berlin was guilty of starting the -conflagration, every other power lent a hand in piling up an inflammable -heap of suspicions, jealousies and misunderstandings. It was this -conclusion that pointed me my moral. - -“And what do you make of it all?,” my mother asked as I laid aside the -last of these bitter, aggressive manifestoes. - -“Well,” I said, “whoever made the war, it’s clear that no single -country, no single form of government was able to keep the peace.” - -With that conclusion no one could disagree. - -“In contrasting Jim’s world with the present,” I told Violet Loring, -when my essay was ready for her criticism, “the outstanding lesson is -that the government of man by his fellow-man has broken down in every -form that’s been tried. You had constitutional monarchy in England, -absolutism in Russia, a republic in France and America, a feudal -kingship in Austria-Hungary. None of them could perform the elementary -duty of protecting the life and liberty of their citizens. Those who -took no part lived on the sufferance of the belligerents. From China to -Honduras . . .” - -“When once war breaks out . . .” Violet began helplessly. - -“The governments that allowed war to break out failed in their first -duty,” I maintained. “By negligence or malignity or impotence they’re -responsible for the death or mutilation of some ten million human -beings. It’s not enough to put the blame on Germany or the kaiser or -Bernhardi. If a homicidal maniac runs amok in England, we blame the -police for not stopping him.” - -While my cousin turned the pages of my manuscript, I flung a similar -cold douche of first principles over the head of Philip Hornbeck, who -had come to us for a week between dismantling his old department and -erecting the new. - -“If you’d had a bigger police-force,” he suggested, “your homicidal -maniac would have had no run for his money. If we’d smashed the German -navy while it was building . . .” - -“And turned homicidal maniac on our own account?,” I interrupted. - -“If you like to put it that way. It’s not much use arguing with me, -George, because I’m one of the old impenitents who believe that there -will always be wars and what not. _Admitting_ that it’s the duty of all -governments to keep the peace, _admitting_ that every government has -failed in its duty, what are you going to do then?” - -“Try a different kind of government,” I answered. - -“A soviet?,” he asked. “If the aristocracy and _bourgeoisie_ have -failed, that’s all you have left.” - -“I’d sooner have a soviet that thought it could keep peace than an -aristocracy that admits it can’t.” - -“You should go and live in Russia,” Hornbeck recommended. - -The battle-piece which I was composing for Violet seemed naturally to -take the form of a triptych; and the first two panels shewed that the -governing classes in all countries had failed to keep the peace and had -bungled the business of making war. When the third panel came to be -painted, I wondered whether they would be more successful in making -peace. - -“Is this going to be a _lasting_ settlement?,” I asked Lucien de -Grammont, when he came to refresh himself after his work on the agenda. - -“We’re doing our best,” he answered. “As I told you at the time, the war -stopped too soon. If we’re to secure that France is never again to be -menaced, we must to some extent carry the war on into the peace.” - -“Do you still think there will be another war in fifty years’ time?” - -“I won’t pin myself to a date, but you’ll never abolish war.” - -“Then,” I said, “it’s time you made way for somebody who will. The old -systems, the old diplomacy, the old men who ran the old system, are a -self-confessed failure.” - -Lucien twirled his neat moustache and addressed to his neatly-shod feet -a muttered confidence about doctrinaire idealists. Gerald Deganway, for -the honour of the old diplomacy as practised in the British Foreign -Office, screwed his eye-glass into place and exclaimed: - -“I say, you know, George, you’re an absolute bolshevist!” - -And Hornbeck administered the most damaging criticism by accepting my -premises and proceeding to a diametrically opposite conclusion. - -“You’re proving too much, old son,” he argued. “I agree that governments -should prevent wars, I agree that every government in the world failed -to prevent this last one. That only shews you’re asking governments to -do an impossibility. Take every nation in turn, from Belgium to the -States, and tell me how the government of any one could have kept out of -the war. When once the racket begins . . .” - -“We must go back a stage, then,” I said, “to the time before it begins. -We must have a ‘will to peace’.” - -“Didn’t we have that in England?,” asked Violet. “Honour apart, we -couldn’t afford to stay out in 1914.” - -“You must go beyond England,” I told her. “We want an international -‘will to peace’; a solemn league and covenant, not between foreign -secretaries, but between the units of the world’s cannon-fodder. War -will end of its own accord when you can’t fill your armies.” - -“And how will you set your solemn league and covenant to work?,” -Hornbeck enquired sceptically. - -I could make no reply until I had found more time to think; time, too, -perhaps, to talk with my uncle Bertrand of the old Disarmament League -and of the propaganda that issued from _Peace_ office before the war. -When I told Barbara that, so far as I could see, my work was only -beginning, I felt that in all likelihood the task before our generation -would be to create a ‘will to peace’ out of the present disgust with -war. If history was human nature repeating itself, there had been the -same disgust at the end of every great war; but the memory of that -disgust faded quickly. It was no match for the urgent plea that honour -or security was at stake; no match for the cynical resignation of those -who said that there always had been wars and always would be. - -“Of course you’re right to try,” was the utmost encouragement that I -could win even from Violet, “but these Hague Conventions and things -haven’t done much good, have they?” - -“No one has yet appealed to the rank-and-file,” I answered. “No one has -appealed while the full horror of war was vividly remembered. No one has -shewn the dumb millions of the world how much alike they all are, how -they swim together and sink together. In all I’ve been reading these -last few weeks I’ve been amazed by the sameness of conditions in all -countries. If we can work on that till the sameness becomes a oneness -. . .” - -In aiming at perspective for my second panel, I tried to set my own -impressions and experiences of the war beside those of the cosmopolitan -population that floated through Cannes in these first weeks of the -armistice. When we had passed the stage of fancying that our individual -histories were unique, I was more struck by the similarities of what I -heard than by the differences. Necessarily, the islander and the -continental must always disagree on foreign politics; and in Cannes I -met for the first time the chronic terror that is begotten of land -frontiers. “It’s all very well for you,” I was told by Italians, Greeks, -Poles and Dutch: “You’re an island.” With allowance for this, I felt -that the war had left on every country an almost identical mark. The -Austrians and Germans whom I met in Monte Carlo, old journalistic -allies—for the most part—, were as bitterly convinced that the war had -been forced upon them as we in England were convinced that they had -forced it on us; but, when we had agreed to differ, their description of -the last four years in their own countries might have been applied, -almost without a word changed, to England. There were, I discovered, -idlers, _embusqués_ and adventurers of both sexes in all classes -everywhere; and it was amusing, for one who thought of a German -alternately as a sheep and a genius, to hear the tribute of Austria and -Germany to our more than Teutonic docility and enterprise. France had -her rapacious profiteers, Prussia her bloated munition-makers. The -drinking that was said to obtain in English high-places could be matched -by the drugging that was reported to be corrupting Austrian society. I -was assured, without calling for proof, that there was little to choose -for courage and endurance between the best troops of any two countries; -and, when the public morale broke, any one class in its own way cut as -sorry a figure as any other. If I despaired of the populace that -believed the grotesque stories in the Pemberton-Billing case, I -despaired more profoundly of Lady Dainton when she told me that Prince -Louis of Battenberg had been executed in the Tower for treason. - -“The moral is,” I told Violet Loring, “that, under an abnormal strain, -the sublime and the dastardly go hand-in-hand. Five years ago, we didn’t -know the meaning of danger or suffering. To face it without breaking, we -called up the primitive beast that lies inside all of us: he was a very -brave beast, but he was also very treacherous, savage, credulous.” . . . - -As Violet turned my pages, I looked through a palisade of palm-trees to -the sparkling blue of the Mediterranean and filled my lungs with warm, -scented air. Cannes, after London, was like the open street after an -opium-den; and, in thinking of the strange shapes seen in the long, mad -half-light of the war, I almost fancied that I had been dreaming. The -political intrigue and chicanery that began with the high-explosive -controversy in 1915 and continued until the 1918 election was incredible -unless one likened it to a panic on board a burning ship. If Violet had -told me four years earlier that one common acquaintance would be -imprisoned for trafficking in cocaine and that another would commit -suicide to avoid prosecution for forgery, I should not have believed -her. I could now hardly believe my own certain knowledge until I -remembered that every war has claimed its civil casualties. - -“How long does it take to chain up your primitive beast?,” Violet asked. -“I mean, . . . these are the people that the war has left us to live -with and work with.” . . . - -To that I had no answer ready. It was easier to say that Sonia O’Rane -would not have run away from her husband before the war than to be -certain she would not run away again. And it seemed idle to talk of -international conferences and a reconstructed world, of a new spirit and -a ‘will to peace’ while the passions of the war were still unfettered. - - 4 - -My triptych, displaying—in its centre—the war and—on either side—the -peace that preceded and should follow the war, spared no space for -dividing or linking frame-work: though I was working in the -transition-period between full war and full peace, I made little attempt -to describe the condition in which we all found ourselves at the moment -when a truce was called. - -To some extent—in these blissful, lazy days, when we had nothing to do -but sleep and eat and smoke and gossip—we filled the blank by -discussing the present and future states of our friends. My battle-piece -was subjected to a more general scrutiny than I had intended; and for -many rather embarrassing days I was challenged to defend myself against -critics who opened wide fields of speculation with the words: - -“_If_, as you think, the old political game is really played out . . .”; -or - -“_If_ you’re right about the redistribution of wealth . . .” - -In the morning, as we idled in long chairs on a glowing marble verandah; -at night, as we sat in a half-circle while Barbara played to us; in -leisurely afternoon walks and occasional peripatetic sessions from one -bedroom to another, we discussed war-literature and war-religion, the -new position of women, the fate of the demobilized soldier and the -day-to-day life which we expected to lead when peace was proclaimed. - -Most of our predictions were unbelievably wild, in their assumption -either that everything or that nothing would be the same as before the -war; and our discussions were so formless that they could never be -summarized or recorded. When we abandoned conjecture for the concrete -plans that each was making for himself, I felt that—in the words used -at a dinner to Eric Lane in New York—‘the convulsion’s as great, when -you turn a soldier into a civilian, as when you turn a civilian into a -soldier.’ Sam Dainton, after ten years’ service, was leaving the army, -“to prey on society”, as he put it. Deganway was saying good-bye to the -Foreign Office; Barbara’s cousin, John Carstairs, to the Diplomatic. -Professionally, the climax in both their lives had been reached and -passed; the first wanted to make money, the second to look after his -estates. - -At this time I began to detect the rise of that adventurer-class at -which history points a punctual finger after every great war but which I -somehow did not expect to see in my own time. When I was called back to -London, I found new men in Fleet Street and the City, new names at -Covent Garden and in the candidates’ books of the clubs; at Cannes I -discerned, in the good-looking person of Violet’s brother Laurence, an -adventurer in the making. As I became acquainted with his friends in the -course of the next three years, I saw the natural, perhaps the -necessary, evolution of a type which has not yet found its place in the -social void. My cousin had been snatched from Melton on his eighteenth -birthday and thrust into the Irish Guards, where his precocious -development as a man-of-the-world had been won at the expense of his -small aptitude for learning. The Hunter-Oakleighs could not afford to -maintain him in idleness; and Laurence, recognizing this, quartered -himself on Loring House and allowed Violet or any other of his relations -to maintain him. In theory, he was reading for the bar; and a text-book -on Roman law was always at hand to rebut the charge of idleness. In -practice, he blandly awaited pecuniary compensation from a society which -had taught him expensive tastes at a time when he might have been -teaching himself the means of gratifying them. The army had paralysed -his initiative; he believed—or affected to believe—that, at -one-and-twenty, his life-work was done; and already he had learned that -personal charm and rich friends were a fair substitute for industry. - -“I wish you’d advise me about Laurie,” said Violet one day, with a -troubled glance down the verandah to the bed of down cushions where her -brother was devoting to _La Vie Parisienne_ the hours demanded by the -institutes of Justinian. “He’s rather a problem.” - -“The whole of his generation is a problem,” I said. “He stands between -Jim, who’s dead, and Sandy, who’s still a child. He and his like have -already borne the burden of the war; now he’ll have to bear the burden -of clearing up after the war.” - -My proposal found less than no favour in the hearing to which it was -directed. - -“I’m not bearing any more burdens till I’ve made myself secure,” -Laurence declared. “Nor’s any one else. Half the men I know have come -back to see another fellow doing their job; the other half are like me -and never had a job to come back to. And, while we were away, you let a -pack of women into all the professions,” he grumbled. - -“Laurie will marry a rich wife,” Sam Dainton prophesied. “I’d do the -same myself, only I’m so precious ugly.” - -“That doesn’t matter when men are scarce,” said Laurence reassuringly; -“but I’d much prefer it if _you_ married the rich wife and let me blow -in as the _tertium quid_. That’s the way all the best marriages are -arranged nowadays.” - -“I wonder what the modern girl will turn into,” drawled Philip Hornbeck -at a tangent. - -“The modern girl is a contradiction in terms,” answered Lucien de -Grammont. “To modernize yourself is to change; and woman never changes, -she only adapts herself.” - -“She adapted herself in the war, good and plenty,” said Sam Dainton with -authority. - -“She was brought up to know nothing,” rejoined Barbara; “she thought she -knew everything. With luck she’ll learn enough to bring her daughters up -better than she was brought up herself.” - -“This from you!,” Violet laughed. - -“It’s only now that I see what narrow squeaks I had,” said Barbara -reflectively. “Whenever a girl makes a mess of her life, I believe it’s -the parents who are to blame.” - -While this theme was developed in the uneasy hearing of my mother, -Violet took a last look at my manuscript before handing it back to me. - -“You say nothing about religion,” she commented in an undertone. “It’s -the biggest thing in life for many people.” - -“For women more than for men,” I submitted. While we were still at -school, Darwin, Huxley and Renan were made accessible to us in cheap -reprints. I have felt, ever since, that, if my salvation depends on -faith in something that ignores ordinary rules of evidence, I would -prefer not to be saved. “And you couldn’t have had a bloodier war, if -we’d all been followers of Anti-Christ. By a paradox, the only people -who tried to live up to their religion were persecuted as conscientious -objectors.” - -“What will you put in its place?,” Violet asked. - -I should only have hurt her feelings if I had suggested that -Christianity might now be given a trial: to her, that faith is -synonymous with the Holy Roman Catholic Church; to me, it is the service -of man, and the Christian churches with their deadening forms and dead -rules, their deferred punishments and rewards, their proscriptions and -feuds and exclusive salvations have gone far to stifle Christianity. - -“If people thought less about the next world,” I answered, “they might -make a more tolerable place of this.” - -And it was in some such words that I ended my criticism of the war. The -folly and suspicion and malevolence of all the nations had made it -possible; when it came, all the nations engaged in it exhibited much the -same endurance, if simultaneously they exhibited much the same savagery. - -“Well, is it ‘the Great War’ or ‘the Great Waste’?,” Violet asked. “Jim -was over age when he gave up the staff. They didn’t want him to go. He -felt that every one who got so much out of England in peace _must_ go. -_I_ felt that, too. I shouldn’t like to think I’d helped to have him -killed for no purpose.” - -If we had taken a poll of the eager disputants at the other end of the -verandah, I doubt if the verdict would have satisfied her. On their own -admission, the mailed fist of Philip Hornbeck, the diplomacy of Lucien -de Grammont and the first-hand experience of war which Laurence and Sam -Dainton had won on four fronts provided no more security than the -religion of Violet Loring that another war, equally or more cruel, -unnecessary and futile, should not break out as soon as the memories of -one generation were grown dim and the exhaustion of one generation had -been repaired. - -“Doesn’t that depend on the people who’ve survived?,” I asked. “Until -the conscriptionists turned a crusade into a hunt for cannon-fodder, the -war had a moral grandeur. Whether Jim’s death served a useful purpose -for any one but himself depends on our power to recapture the spirit of -1914.” - -For this elastic formula I can claim little credit. The cynic is now -sure of his laugh if he mocks the idea of “a war to end war”; but I saw -too much of my contemporaries in 1914 to join the later chorus of -fashionable disparagement. Before their first idealism became jaded, the -young men who had been reared in an atmosphere of war-preparations and -war-scares, who aspired to a world orderly and a life beautiful and who -saw their aspirations thwarted by men too old for hope or faith, -resolved to create from the war a world of which they need not be -ashamed. They enlisted in the service of man. From their deaths I -learned the phrase. One of them, the last and best of my friends, who -was literally and awfully crucified, came back blinded and broken to -tell me that he was unrepentant. - -“_I was in New York_,” O’Rane wrote at this time, “_when the armistice -was proclaimed. If you’d shouted ‘as you were’ from the Woolworth Tower, -you couldn’t have scattered people more quickly. ‘As you were before the -war’ is the general feeling. I expect it’s been the same in England. We -must do better than that._” . . . - -“I’m not sure that I know what you mean,” said Violet. - -“And I’m not sure that I can put it into words,” I answered. “In general -terms, no sacrifice was too great in the war; I want people to feel no -sacrifice is too great in peace. It’s an empty victory if a high -proportion of the victors are diseased, hungry, verminous, discontented. -Any one of imagination must be ashamed of the slums in our big cities; -but we _won’t_ make the effort or the sacrifice to cure them. I want to -fan the crusading spirit of 1914 back to life. . . . Before that, -though, we must make sure that we aren’t going to drift into another -war. That means a crusade covering the whole inhabited world.” - -“I don’t know how you’ll begin.” - -“Nor do I yet. I may be able to tell you more in a week’s time. Have you -heard that the O’Ranes are coming here? He cabled to say that he was in -urgent need of my advice. I cabled back that I was in much more urgent -need of his.” - -Glancing at my manuscript for the last time before sending it to be -typed, I felt that, in a week’s time, I might know better how to paint -my third panel. We had to see now whether those who had failed to avert -war were capable of ending war. - - 5 - -Though I charged O’Rane at the time with disturbing the repose of our -retreat, I can see now that, even before I invited him to Cannes, I was -resigned to moving at least one stage nearer to the heart of politics. -It is true that my uncle Bertrand’s appeal for help in his election was -answered with a lame reference to Barbara’s health; simultaneously I -told Frank Jellaby, without a trace of lameness or indecision, that I -was too little in sympathy with the liberal party to fight a seat on my -own account; all the time, however, I was conscious of a chilling -remoteness. I did not want to go back; I was thankful that Barbara -seemed content to vegetate; but, if I was right in thinking that the -fruits of the war remained to be gathered, I was right in thinking that -they could not be gathered in Cannes. - -I hoped that O’Rane, with his knowledge of other countries, would tell -me whether my derided ‘will to peace’ was practicable or even necessary. -If he shared my misgivings, I wanted his help in planning a campaign -that would be bounded only by the confines of the inhabited earth and -would engage our energies for the rest of our lives. A train of -reasoning is sometimes so persuasive in its premises and overwhelming in -its conclusion that human intelligence rejects it without argument; and -a train of this kind was presented to me on the eve of the armistice, -when Hornbeck declared in succeeding breaths that another war would be -synonymous with the end of the world and that nothing could prevent -another war. His first premise was substantiated by all the evidence of -the late war; his second was at least supported by every soldier and -statesman whose memoirs I had been reading for the last month. The -syllogism could only be refuted by a general strike against war. This -was my revelation and mission; and I had suffered too long from the -revelations and missions of others to trust my own until I had been put -to the question. - -The O’Ranes arrived, with my sister and her husband, a week before -Christmas. It was characteristic of the times that I should first set -eyes on my brother-in-law two years after his marriage. Beryl wrote in -1916 to say that she was engaged to a certain Gervaise Maxwell, whom she -had nursed at the Lorings’ hospital in Scotland. They parted after a -week’s honeymoon: Beryl went back to House of Steynes, Gervaise rejoined -his battalion in Mesopotamia; and they met for the second time four days -after the armistice. - -Now they were coming to exploit my influence in finding work for -Gervaise; and I, knowing the slender proportions of that influence and -recollecting the claims already advanced by Sam Dainton and my cousin -Laurence, wondered helplessly whether the government did wisely in -releasing men from the army before they had found civil employment. For -a week before leaving London my telephone had been agitated by the -voices of anxious friends who assured me that they could be demobilized -at once if I would invent some urgent private business for them. “Good -pay, light work and decent holidays,” they all said. I suppose the army -let them go because the army could not retain them. At Wilminster and -Yareham the troops demobilized themselves and walked home; at Enstaple -and Durncliffe they threatened to mutiny if they were ordered back to -France. It was one thing, however, to kick a uniform into a cupboard; -and something quite different to find civilian clothes that would fit. -Gervaise, I decided, must wait until I had discussed with O’Rane my own -plans. It might be that, within a few months, I should want all the men -I could get; or it might be that I should be cultivating my garden in -Ireland. I must wait, too, until I had heard O’Rane’s proposals. -Eighteen months had passed since I hunted him out to America, nominally -to lecture on the war and really to make a fresh start with Sonia after -her disaster with Vincent Grayle. In that time I had purposely not -enquired how they were getting on, as a fresh start might well be the -fresh start only to more trouble. The woman who jilts two men, marries a -third, runs away with a fourth and returns with his child, all before -the age of thirty-three, has either too much emotion in her nature or -else too little. - -I must confess to a feeling of embarrassment as the train drew in. The -feeling passed as Sonia waved ecstatically from her window and announced -breathlessly that no one would believe what a success she had had in -Paris, that she was insolvent, that this no longer mattered, that she -had the most wonderful news for me, that she was going to have an -unprecedented success in London, that it was heavenly to see me again -and that she was really going to enjoy herself in Cannes. - -A woman who lived only for the moment was not likely to be disturbed by -regrets or fears; and, as Sonia swung down from the train into my arms, -her eyes were as limpid and innocent, her lips were as moistly red and -provocative, as when I took her to supper at her first parties fifteen -years before. Then and now, she was of those who make the world take -them at their own valuation. Then she had babbled of her earliest -ball-room triumphs; now she described the men who had thrown themselves -at her feet from San Francisco to Paris. - -“Then you enjoyed yourself?,” I asked, when she paused for breath. - -“_They_ enjoyed _me_,” she answered complacently. “I don’t think they’d -ever seen anything quite like me before. Oh, George! Has David told you -our news? We met Mr. Stornaway in London; and he wants us to come and -work with him! Say, kid, can you beat it? I asked him what the work was; -and he said it was just helping him to spend money. If there’s one thing -I _do_ know about . . . We’re going to be the new big noise in London. -Collect David; and we’ll tell you all about it!” - -If my embarrassment returned as I went forward to give her husband a -hand, it vanished as he took up the interrupted tale. In voice and -manner there was nothing to hint that he had ever been estranged from -his radiant wife; and I decided that, in a sense, he too lived only for -the moment. When we first met, a small boy without a friend in the world -had decided that he must put himself to school. His father had been -killed, fighting for Greece against Turkey; and David made his way to -England, with enough money for one term, by working his passage round -the world. When he had sucked in all that Melton and Oxford could give -him, he banished them into the past, as he had already banished his -wanderings, and concentrated all his energies on making money; when the -money was made, he turned his back for ever on the oil-fields of Mexico -and devoted himself to English politics until the war imposed on him a -more urgent duty. On the day that he was discharged from hospital, -blinded and maimed, he called to tell me that he had already secured new -work. When Sonia left him, he set himself to get her back; and, when she -returned, I am sure that he set himself with equal singleness of purpose -to forget that they had ever been parted. - -Now he could think of nothing but Raymond Stornaway’s proposal. - -“That’s where I want your advice,” he explained gravely, as though in -all his thirty-five tempestuous years of life he had ever taken advice -from anybody. - -“And I want yours,” I told him. “I’m sorry to find Raymond butting in: I -expect to need your help much more.” - -That evening after dinner, when the others had gone away to gamble, we -talked of the war and of that other evening, when we stood on the -dividing ridge between two worlds. Of the men who dined at Loring Castle -on the last night of peace, he and I alone had survived. We talked of -the war that was over as then we had talked of the war that was coming. -I quoted him the words in which he had described his vision of what the -world might be after the war; and I challenged him to say whether he -still believed in the perfectibility of man. - -“I’ve acquired a lot of patience in the last four years,” he answered. - -Then I tested him with Hornbeck’s prediction that wars would be fought -so long as the human race survived to fight them. - -“I want you to help me organize a general strike against war,” I said, -as I began to blow out the candles. Then I paused to frame a question -which I had kept unasked since our last evening of peace: “D’you -remember blowing out the candles that night?” He nodded. “You left two. -Why?” - -As he hesitated, I saw that he was frowning. I saw also that, like the -rest of us, he had aged in the last five years, though the thin face had -its old passionate vitality and the fine black hair its old gay -disorder. Slight as ever, boyish as ever, he was none the less lined -with the mental and physical tortures of the war. His very hesitation -was a subtle mark of decline, as though for the first time in his life -he doubted himself. - -“I knew in my bones that only two of us would come through,” he -muttered. “I should be one; I couldn’t make a guess at the other.” - -“There aren’t more than half-a-dozen left out of all our generation,” I -told him. “The old club-groups at Oxford. . . . I can’t look at them.” - -“And I couldn’t see ’em if I _did_ look. Not that I need to be reminded -of them.” . . . The unseeing eyes flashed in sudden exaltation. “What -death takes away, George, is very little by comparison with what he -leaves! The men I’ve loved best in the world have been my father and -your uncle and old Burgess and you and Jim. Three of you, thank God!, -are alive: I stayed with Burgess for his last night before he retired -from Melton; but you’re no more alive than my father and Jim. Nothing -can take away the time I spent with them. . . . I shan’t see again in -this world, but nothing can take away all that I’ve seen in the past. I -still see the men I recruited, the men who trained with me, though I -helped to bury more than a few.” - -“Some of them were here to-night,” I said. - -“Yes! And what death has done is just to put their bodies out of action -. . . . That means there are fewer hands and more work.” . . . - -As I led him to the door, O’Rane’s fingers ran lightly down my arm. - -“It’s about twenty years since you first came to stay with us,” I -reminded him. - -“I suppose it must be. Good, full years.” - -“I was feeling middle-aged till you came. Middle-aged and depressed.” - -He laughed and gripped my hand: - -“We’ve no time to grow middle-aged. It’s the next twenty years that will -count. We must pull together. In a sense we _are_ the last two.” - -As I blew out the remaining candles, the room once more seemed to fill -with our friends of other days. We were indeed almost the only -survivors; and I could not tell these ghosts that they had given their -lives, I could not tell O’Rane that he had given his sight, to no -purpose. - -“Think over what we’ve been saying,” I suggested. “Tell me if you can -see any reason why just such another war shouldn’t break out with just -as little reason.” - -“If it does, then this war wasn’t worth while. . . . And it’s our -business to make it worth while,” he answered. - - - - - CHAPTER THREE - - - THE DAWNING OF MORN - - - “‘Rise up, rise up, thou Satan, upon the Earth to go, - And prove the peace of Dives if it be good or no; - For all that he hath planned - We deliver to thy hand, - As thy skill shall serve to break it or bring low.’” - - RUDYARD KIPLING: _The Peace of Dives_. - - 1 - -Average, sensual man is no match for an enthusiast. When O’Rane wrote -that he wanted to ask my advice, vague instinct warned me that he wanted -the costlier, if no more valuable, privilege of my personal cooperation. - -And it was my intention that he should cooperate with me. If I seemed a -doctrinaire to Lucien, a fanatic to Hornbeck and a -‘bolshevist’—whatever that might mean—to Deganway, I seemed to myself -the mildest revolutionary that had ever schemed to carry out a -revolution by deputy. When, at this time, people talked of “winning the -peace” and asked what we meant to do, I felt and said that no active man -or woman who had survived the war was justified in sitting idle. I was -ready to write, speak and subscribe money on behalf of any organization -that would rouse the world to the danger which I saw threatening it. I -would work for my “will to peace” as others worked, in the years that -followed and along lines which I deplored, for the League of Nations. I -lacked the fire and the endurance, however, to inspire a crusade. This, -I felt, was O’Rane’s part. - -Nevertheless, from our first conversation I divined that we were -thinking on different planes. To “make the war worth while”, in my view, -was to secure, first and foremost, that there should be no future wars. -Perhaps because he had spent so many months in America, where by now the -world seemed already to have been made “safe for democracy”, perhaps -because he had seen too much of the late war to fancy that any one -wanted more of it, O’Rane assumed the end at which I was aiming. - -“If the war is to be made ‘worth while’,” he pronounced at the end of -our first night together, “we have . . . in some way . . . to make -England . . .” - -“‘A land fit for heroes’ and what not,” Philip Hornbeck interrupted -flippantly. - -After that, though we conducted our debates in private, I felt that -O’Rane’s enthusiasm was sapping my will to the point when I should be -drawn from my own leisurely crusade and pressed into his. If, at the end -of ten days, he returned to London without me, I can only explain his -failure by saying that in the meantime I had fallen to the assault of a -yet more formidable enthusiast. - - 2 - -“You heard what Sonia said about Stornaway’s proposal?,” O’Rane began on -the second day. - -The rest of the party had disappeared to Monte Carlo; and I was -imprisoned in the shade of a palm-tree until I surrendered or bolted. - -“He made the same proposal to me,” I said. “I turned it down because I -thought there was more important work nearer to hand.” - -“Our work won’t lack in importance.” - -“Then you’ve accepted his offer?,” I asked. “You’re giving up the -House?” - -“I’m committed in principle,” he answered. “Yes, I shan’t stand again: -this coupon business leaves no scope for the independent member. Why the -prime minister wants an election at all, when his position is -impregnable . . .” - -“He wants to keep it impregnable,” I said. “Well, you’re going in with -Raymond to succeed where Deryk Lancing and his father and every -millionaire in history has so far failed? It’s easier to make money -honestly than to spend it wisely, you’ll find. How much is there?” - -“About twelve hundred thousand a year.” - -“You can do a lot of harm with that,” I said. “How will you spend it?” - -“For the first year or two it’s ear-marked for universities and -hospitals.” - -“And after that?” - -“We might make the war worth while,” he laughed. “But you must help. The -trouble with England at present is that we’ve so little sense of -responsibility. Isn’t it about time we educated people up to a civic -conscience? In the war, I admit . . .” - -“You found a hundred men who would die for their country to one who -would live for it.” - -“Because, in peace, we call people ‘good citizens’ if they obey the laws -and pay their taxes. That’s not enough for a civilized state, George! -Good God, when a man commits murder, we hire another man to hang him! -It’s you and I who ought to be hanged for not teaching him our own -reverence for law. We hire people to persecute other people for beating -their wives or neglecting their children or concealing their diseases! -It’s _we_ who ought to be persecuted. Illness, to me, is the wound -inflicted on society by the indifference of the healthy. Poverty. -Degradation.” . . . - -“And your civic conscience . . .?,” I reminded him. - -“Another word for imagination! You’d be ashamed of yourself if your -tenants in Ireland died of want; if the men drank or the women turned -prostitutes. Yet I’ve seen sights in different parts of the world that -would make your blood run cold. Famines and pestilences and massacres. -Things we don’t allow in England: we’ve got _that_ far. Now it’s time we -went farther. If the war’s to be worth while, you must satisfy yourself -that what has been saved was worth saving.” - -“But how on earth are you to do it?” - -In other days I had heard Aylmer Lancing, as he wheeled himself with -slow impatience about his workroom, muttering of a dread project to -corner the raw material of high explosives throughout the world. Some -Central American republic was causing him trouble; and he had decided to -make future wars impossible. Later, I had been present when Raymond -Stornaway schemed to force up the standard of living for manual labour -by paying uneconomic wages in one place and raising a storm of envious -discontent in every other. Both men had been wonderfully convincing; but -they had done nothing. Behind O’Rane’s shining eyes, in a stain of -shadow between two white sheets of sunshine, I seemed now to see -Raymond’s tired face at his luncheon-party on Armistice Day. - -“So far,” said O’Rane thoughtfully, “no one’s gone about it in the right -way.” - -“It was not for want of intelligence. Can it be that the modern world -has grown too fast for any one to control it?” - -If I had not parted with my little monograph on the war, I should have -liked to explore this idea that civilization was bursting like an -overripe fruit. Everywhere, in my own lifetime, I had seen -fourth-dimensional energy collecting in a world of three dimensions. At -a far distance, I had watched the Harrimans and Carnegies and -Rockefellers bowing under wealth too great for a single man’s direction; -and, since we began to raise men a hundred thousand at a time and to -spend money at the rate of millions a day, I was convinced that we were -operating forces which we could not control. For twenty years I had -tried to “think imperially”, but I doubt if Mr. Chamberlain himself -would have recognized the British Empire as I saw it represented from my -window at the Admiralty on Armistice Day: in fifty years it had changed -to something that might become a federation of British states but had -certainly ceased to be an empire. America had ceased to be a nation -without becoming even a federation. When I heard of a gas that would -destroy whole cities, when I read of private fortunes that could buy -whole countries, I felt that the earth was hardly big enough for its -Rockefellers and Hearsts and Fords; the Rockefellers and Hearsts and -Fords themselves seemed hardly big enough for the monsters they had -created. - -“No one,” said O’Rane, “has spent twelve hundred thousand a year to -spread his own doctrines. We’ll buy up derelict palaces like Braye and -Eldridge; turn ’em into schools for the new poor who can’t afford Eton -and the new rich who can’t get in. We’ll stuff them with scholarships to -attract the brightest wits; we’ll have our subjects taught, as we want -them taught, by giving prizes at Oxford and Cambridge. And, when the -best men in every profession, every walk of life, are men who’ve been -through our mill, we can convert the world.” - -What the text-books of a civic conscience were to be I did not enquire -at this stage. If O’Rane aspired to make each man love his neighbour as -himself, that was an aspiration towards which the Christian churches, -usually with relatively greater wealth, often with the power of the -sword and always with a grip on the fears and hopes of the faithful, had -been working for nearly two thousand years. - -“The late war,” I propounded, “was not a good advertisement for -Christian teaching.” - -“Because Christianity has never been brought to men’s doors and into -their lives. - - ‘_What ragamuffin-saint_ - _Believes God watches him continually,_ - _As he believes in fire that it will burn,_ - _Or rain that it will drench him?_’ - -I often wonder what would have happened to Christianity if it had come -into the world with our modern means of communication.” - -We were still arguing when the rest of the party returned; and, until -the brief winter twilight faded, we sat and spent Stornaway’s money for -him. To this day I can see the half-circle of light dresses and the -fire-fly movements of the men’s cigarettes; I can see faces white with -avarice and eyes dark with excitement. - -“Over a million a year . . .,” Barbara gasped. - -“I told you we were going to be the big new noise in London,” said Sonia -complacently. “George, of course, thinks he’s very superior.” . . . - -“I only think it’s a tremendous responsibility,” I defended myself. - -“If the job’s too big, we can turn it down,” said O’Rane. - -“The others thought that, too,” I warned him. - -It was a strange discussion, which ultimately became a monologue of -foreboding. As all the world knows, Aylmer Lancing made his first -fortune by chance and then found that he could not help adding to it; -after buying the site of a burnt city, he had to build a city on the -site; he constructed railroads to feed his city and manufactured -agricultural machinery to pay for the food. Daily, until his breakdown, -he grew richer; and, in the long years of his dying, he was to find -that, while the hospitals, the universities, the museums and galleries -could live on his bounty for a year, after that he must invent new -outlets. - -“If your income’s too big, you can always reduce your capital,” Sam -Dainton contributed. “I’ve been doing it for years.” - -“With a capital of five-and-twenty million?,” I asked. “It’s not a -simple question of dropping bags of gold into the sea.” - -Early in his career, as I told them, Aylmer Lancing had tried to sell -the New-Mexico-Montana Railroad when it was threatened by the -South-Western Trunk. As he unloaded, the price fell; and, as the price -fell, others unloaded too. A panic set in at one moment, to be ended the -next by a rumour that Lancing was selling a bear. Up went the price; and -Aylmer sold his last share on a soaring market, to find himself the -richer by several million dollars. - -In time I tired of my Cassandra prophecies. Unlike his predecessors, -Raymond Stornaway was face to face with a world in which every one would -for many years be trying to pay for the war; and I fancy the annual -income of the trust had been handsomely exceeded before each of us had -explained the best method of spending it. While my sister Beryl, with -her hospital training, launched vague projects for stamping out phthisis -and cancer, Gervaise rebuilt the more unsightly parts of England. -Hornbeck petitioned for an arctic expedition; and Barbara threw the -stock-markets into confusion by paying off the national debt. - -“I don’t say it’s impossible,” I told them in conclusion, “but Lancing -wasn’t the only multimillionaire in history. Other people have faced his -problem, but none of them solved it.” - - 3 - -In the two years that followed, O’Rane and I were to hark back many -times to this first discussion; but we suspended it now before I learned -what part he was assigning me in his moral revolution. The invitations -which I had scattered so impulsively in Paris matured disconcertingly at -the same moment; and we were dragged from our lazy reminiscences and -lazier speculations to disagree fiercely about frontiers of which I had -never heard and which I suspected Lucien de Grammont of inventing. - -As my mother’s villa was by now full, our guests overflowed to the -Regina and came to us only for meals and for a preliminary peace -conference at sundown. Daily, with noses sensitized to the lure of gin -and vermouth, the dark and voluble spokesmen of the new states collected -to redraw the map of Europe. Through indolence or defective imagination, -the rest of us took little part in the earlier discussions: the peace, -like the armistice, would be based on President Wilson’s fourteen -points; and I for one was thankful that it was some one else’s business -to unravel these unpronounceable Balkan combinations and to delimit -these undiscoverable Baltic states. - -“The English are incurably insular!,” Lucien fumed at short intervals. -“If you would look at politics from a _European_ point of view, George -. . .” - -“It was our love for the European point of view,” Hornbeck retorted, -“that made us shoulder a heavier burden than any other power. Our -contribution in money, men, ships . . .” - -Though the claim was inoffensive enough to my “insular” hearing, he was -not allowed to finish. The war, we were assured in spluttering rotation, -had been won wholly and solely by the Belgians in their first defence of -Liège and Namur; wholly and solely by Russian numbers; wholly and solely -by French endurance and strategy. Italy and Rumania had won it by -intervening to prevent a stalemate; the United States by pouring in -money and men at a time when the allies were exhausted. - -For an hour the verandah was like a Tower of Babel attacked by a swarm -of bees. - -“If those who did most to win the war are going to have most voice in -making the peace,” Hornbeck prophesied as we went up to dress, “you’ll -be able to hear their deliberations in London. This dago-parliament is -your remedy against future wars?” - -If I left his gibe unanswered, it was because the tone—still more the -unanimity—of these impassioned voices had disquieted me. I can hardly -say too often that my mother’s villa was a political vacuum: we all -assumed that, when we emerged from it, we should find the armistice -taking permanent form in a peace drawn on similar lines. I had not -dreamed until this night that a new war was to be declared at the -conference-table. Yet the demands of my excited young friends were of a -kind that no signatory of the armistice could accept. Paul Sanguszko, I -think, outdistanced all competitors by demanding a united Poland which -in fact included more Germans than Poles; but Lucien, in his rape of -Alsace, and Boscarelli, in his butchery of the Tyrol, were but a short -head behind him. - -“Aren’t you rather forgetting your old panegyrics on nationality?,” I -asked Lucien. - -“Are you handing back the German colonies?,” he demanded in his turn. - -“That’s for our dominions to say. I don’t know.” - -“_And_ you don’t care!,” Lucien rejoined bitterly. “Now that the German -navy is out of the way, nothing else matters!” - -“With luck, George, this ought to be a peace to end peace,” Hornbeck -whispered. - -Next day, I asked Barbara whether she was feeling homesick for England. -I have been so long indentured to politics that the hint of a new -development sets me fidgeting to be back amid the whispers of the clubs -and the rumours of Fleet Street. Unless I could wholly discount the wild -words of Lucien and his friends, the peace negotiations would develop -very differently from my expectations; and, whether I could discount him -or not, I was realizing for the first time how far we had travelled -since the day when we talked of fundamental understanding and a common -effort for a common cause. - -“Do you mean you’re tired of this place?,” asked Barbara with a smile. - -“I was only feeling we were rather out of things,” I answered. Then, as -the “dago-parliament” collected round the cocktail-table for a morning -session, I caught Hornbeck’s eye. “Are people in England talking the -same kind of criminal nonsense?” - -“Well, the House is not sitting,” he summed up judicially. “On the other -hand, there’s a general election raging. What you lose on the swings, -you make on the roundabouts.” - -“If you _want_ to go back . . .,” Barbara was beginning with a sigh, -when my mother came on to the verandah with a cable in her hand. - -It was from my uncle Bertrand: if we had a bed to spare, might he occupy -it? Otherwise, would we engage a room for him at the Regina? He must see -me at once. A letter was following; but, if we did not know already, he -had lost his seat. - -In so far as any one moment can be separated from all that goes before -and linked with all that follows after, I suppose this moment should be -called decisive. Two minutes before, my wife had shewn me that she -wished to remain abroad; from this moment hung the chain that drew us -back to London. Twenty-four hours earlier I had been bandying academic -crusades with O’Rane; forty-eight hours later I forsook my own crusade -and extricated myself from his in order to join my uncle’s. - -“Bertrand _beaten_?,” I cried. “That’s been a safe radical seat for -fifty years!” - -“Where are the English papers?,” O’Rane asked. - -“It must have been an odd election if _he_ couldn’t get in,” said -Hornbeck. - -Thanks to our isolation, I think we were all taken equally by surprise. -As I read out the strength of the new parties, our tranquil garden -became like a stricken field the day after battle. For a time we tried -to count the dead; then we found it simpler to hunt for the living. - -“Runciman’s gone!,” I cried. “McKenna’s gone . . .” Then the tragedy -changed to farce. “_Asquith’s_ gone!” - -Laurence caught the paper from my hand: - -“Coalition-liberal . . . Coalition-liberal . . . Coalition-unionist.” -. . . - -“The old liberal party’s dead!,” I exclaimed. “There’s a handful of -independents.” . . . - -“Ireland, except in the north, has gone solid for Sinn Fein,” Hornbeck -read out over my shoulder. - -“Labour will be the biggest single party in the House,” said Laurence. - -“You were asking if people in England were talking the same kind of -rot,” Hornbeck reminded me. - -Then we sat silent as he pieced together this amazing election and -rehearsed the battle-cries on which it had been won. As he read, I saw -O’Rane rising slowly and facing north with one hand outstretched for an -instant towards the bleeding and exhausted world on the far side of our -sheltering mountains: from Denmark to Italy, from Ireland to Siberia, -two continents were still fighting for life because one man, nearly five -years before, had flung bombs at another. - -“It’ll take years to undo this,” he muttered. - -Hornbeck read remorselessly on. - -“The Germans themselves couldn’t improve on it,” he commented at the -end. - -“But _we_ can! We _must_!,” O’Rane cried. “In Heaven’s name . . . We -went into this to secure the rights of small nations to a free -existence; no one seems to care whether the big nations have a free -existence or not! Could France and England follow out their destinies in -the days when we lived under the shadow of this war? Can they do it now, -when Europe is being sown with dragon’s teeth?” - -None answered him; but, as I waded later through the rhetoric of the -election, I felt something of the helplessness that came over me four -and a half years earlier, when one telegram after another shewed us that -peace was slipping momentarily farther from our reach. The old -dispensation could not avert war and could not make war; was this the -third panel of my triptych and should we have to admit that the old -dispensation could not make peace? - -We should all of us, I suppose, have been less thrown off our balance, -if we had been given the least warning how the election was being -conducted. Writing four years afterwards, I seem to be claiming an -exceptional wisdom for our criticism at this time: section by section, -the electorate that backed the 1918 coalition has withdrawn its support, -though my old liberal colleagues made no sign of protest at the time. -Little by little, the government itself swallowed its own rash words. -The wildest fire-eater says now what Hornbeck and Laurence, O’Rane and -I—a sufficiently heterogeneous group!—were saying in the last days of -December four years ago. Our views were an accident of geography, for we -were living in a political vacuum; an accident of history, too, for in -our serious moments we based our expectations on the settlement of -Vienna, believing that we in our generation were neither less -magnanimous nor more insane than the contemporaries of Castlereagh. - -“If this is to be the atmosphere of the peace conference . . .” Hornbeck -muttered. - -“These,” I reminded O’Rane, “are the people you’re going to educate up -to a civic conscience.” - -“I must be getting back to London,” was all he would answer. - -I was reminded irresistibly of a similar party, similarly dispersing in -the first days of August four and a half years earlier. We had all said -then that we must get back to London; we could none of us have said what -we expected to do there. - -“You’ll wait till Bertrand comes,” I begged. - -“Yes. I don’t suppose a day or two more or less will make much -difference,” said O’Rane. “After all these years, too . . . It’s a -curious thing, George; we’re both of us Irishmen, both of us men of -peace; and, most of all, we’re reformers. All our working life we’ve -seen the reforms nearest our hearts postponed and postponed by an -eruption in Ireland or by a threat of European war. God forgive me, I -had to stand as a tory and a militarist, because I saw this war coming! -Overboard went all my dreams of making life tolerable for the sons of -Ishmael! And now again!” - -I might have added that it was this feeling of futility which kept me -from standing again for parliament when I lost my seat in 1910. - -“Until these same sons of Ishmael strike against war,” I answered, “it’s -idle to think of improving their lot.” - -“And yet it’s so little I’m asking!,” he sighed. “I only want every man -to have freedom to work . . . and save money . . . and marry . . . and -have children . . . without interfering with his neighbours . . . and -without interference from them. I want him to spend his old age in the -comfort and peace of mind which he has earned. His children must be born -healthy, to work, to save, to marry, to live and die as he has done. If -civilized society can’t give him that . . . And it can’t so long as a -country contains one single prison or workhouse or infirmary or brothel -. . .” - -“I suspect there were brothels in the golden age,” I interposed. - -O’Rane leant forward and gripped my wrist till I winced with the pain. - -“In the golden age,” he answered between his teeth, “there were -hopeless, uncaring cynics, who said that prostitution was the oldest -profession in the world. Slavery was the oldest solution of all labour -problems. Torture was the oldest safeguard of civil authority. The moral -sense of the world must be roused till it sweeps away prostitution and -disease, as it swept away torture and slavery. It was not to keep them -flourishing that we went to war. And we _can’t_ sweep them away while -another war threatens.” . . . - -He broke off, as my mother came into the garden with the day’s letters; -and, as I struggled against the impact of my uncle’s fury, I recognized -that I was being assailed by a stronger enthusiast even than O’Rane and -being asked to save by propaganda a world that I thought had already -been saved by war. - - 4 - -Bertrand’s descent upon Cannes may be likened to the unheralded arrival -of the headmaster in a form-room that has for some time been left to its -own devices. - -“‘_The Theodosian code_’,” Laurence recited virtuously, “‘_was published -in Constantinople on the 15th of February, 438 . . ._’ If Bertrand tries -to find me a job, say I’m suited, thank you.” - -The rest of us, for all our feeling that we were drowsing in a -back-water, looked regretfully at the blazing hibiscus-hedge and -guiltily at one another. - -“We all ought to be going back,” said Barbara, who—six weeks -before—had never wished to see Dover Cliffs again. - -I asked what good we could do; I nearly told her what harm we could not -avoid doing, for Eric Lane had crossed from New York on O’Rane’s boat -and was now in London. Bertrand’s outpouring, however, was beyond the -range of argument. - -“_You will find_,” he predicted, “_that the world is entering on a new -glacial age of materialism. We must fight it._” - -And his method of fighting it was to resurrect our old paper, to set me -in the old editorial chair, to sweep the country with new propaganda and -to create a new political party in the dining-room of Seymour Street. - -Those who have never edited a paper are inclined to compare themselves -with Delane at his most legendary; and the comparison is seldom -favourable to Delane or to _The Times_. Those who have never tried to -influence opinion—as my uncle and I tried in six years’ devoted service -to the Disarmament League—become in their daydreams a rival to Parnell -or Gladstone and convert mass-meetings with a single speech. Hard-won -experience had taught me better, yet this is what Bertrand proposed; and -Barbara, I knew, was seeing herself already as the maker of cabinets and -the adviser of kings. - -“_Read your Balzac_,” my uncle recommended in a disastrous postscript. -“_London, for the next few years of your life, will be amazingly like -Paris in the restoration-period . . ._” - -It was the postscript, I think, that fired Barbara’s imagination; and, -as I watched her big eyes lighting up, I knew that it was empty to ask -if she felt competent to stay a glacial age in its course. For a year or -two before the war, she had occupied a position that, so far as I know, -had never before been accorded in England to an unmarried woman, -certainly to an unmarried woman of twenty. Raised above ordinary laws by -her utter fearlessness, she had imposed a law of her own, in dress and -manners, speech and thought, upon the greater part of her generation. As -a child, Barbara has often told me, she saw that her personality would -be bled white by her father’s. In Ottawa, in Simla and in London her -wings beat unceasingly against the political, the religious and the -social bars of the Crawleigh cage. Then she asserted herself; and, ten -years later, she was known by sight wherever an illustrated paper -penetrated; the first colonial contingents demanded to see Westminster -Abbey and Lady Barbara Neave; and, had she ever paused, she might have -seen herself becoming a legend in her own lifetime, as Bernhardt—on -vastly more bizarre lines—became the heroine of the ‘Sarah myth’ in -France. - -I had my answer to the question which I had asked myself on Armistice -Day, when she gazed into the fire for a picture of what her own new life -was to be. London, in the restoration-period, was marked out for her -empire. - -When my uncle arrived, his mood was made apparent by the sombre opening -statement that nations got the governments they deserved. He added, with -fine public spirit, that the worst result of the election was the lack -of an effective opposition. Then less impersonal feelings broke through: -he charged ministers with treating the fourteen points as ‘a scrap of -paper’ and recommended a strait-waistcoat for all who escaped the -lamp-post. Sitting in a half-circle round his chair, with Lucien’s -international parliament huddled on our fringe, we were castigated with -a fury that would have been better deserved if we had in fact uttered -the vain things with which we were charged: _we_ had promised that there -should be no punitive damages and now _we_ were threatening to squeeze -Germany like an orange; _we_ were pledged to try the kaiser, if not to -execute him without trial; _we_ were to restore our trade by destroying -our best customer. - -“If I’d asked for the kaiser’s head on a charger,” Bertrand thundered, -“you’d have promised me _two_ heads on _two_ chargers.” - -When the first fury had abated, Lucien fanned it to life by a reference -to the peace of Brest-Litovsk, demanding why Germany should be treated -more tenderly in defeat than she had treated others in victory. - -“If England had been _invaded_ . . .” he went on with a kindling eye. -“The mistake your prime minister made was that he didn’t say enough.” - -“You should have thought of all that before you agreed to the -armistice,” Bertrand retorted. - -“Well, say, the terms of the armistice . . .” began Clifford van Oss. - -I have no doubt he was going to say that, if the French quoted one set -of undertakings against us, then America, which had drawn the terms, -would speedily quote another. My uncle, however, who detested what he -called “the American habit of making speeches instead of conversing”, -broke in with a speech of his own: - -“Not that it matters whether he said too little or too much! The -speeches have served their turn. I tell you, Lloyd-George is a better -journalist than Northcliffe in knowing what the public will want the day -after to-morrow! _He_ knew that, when the troops came home to find no -job waiting for them, people would forget they’d ever called him ‘the -man who won the war’. Before they forgot him for high taxation, high -prices, falling wages and a creeping paralysis of unemployment, he had -to make himself snug. _And he has!_ Five years of autocratic power with -the certainty that something _must_ turn up; five years’ support from -the Curzons and Milners who’d never have seen the back-door of office -without him; five years’ support from the Monds and Greenwoods of the -liberal second-eleven; five years’ support from every man who’s lost a -son, every woman who can’t make both ends meet. You need only promise to -hang the kaiser and make Germany pay: England was worth a general -election.” - -Bertrand’s outburst was followed by a long silence; and, as he chewed -his moustache and gathered strength, I fancied that he might be -reflecting how much he had aged since we incubated the Disarmament -League in Princes Gardens and hatched _Peace_ out of a grimy office in -Bouverie Street. - -“You give this lot five years, sir?,” asked O’Rane. - -“Unless they blunder into a new war before then,” Bertrand answered; “or -unless we can make an opposition strong enough to break them.” - -As he swung round on me, I pointed out that he was forming an opposition -before he had anything tangible to oppose. - -“We must _shape_ the peace!,” he cried. “I give you till to-night to -make up your mind! If you desert me, George, I shall fight -single-handed. And I’m getting too old for that. Where’s Barbara? I must -explain what’s expected of her.” - -I capitulated without even taking my hours of grace. When Bertrand -stumped indoors, I knew he was going to depict a shattered and mutinous -army of liberals rallying to our exhortations and reconciled by -Barbara’s diplomacy. I knew, further, that, outside the pages of a -woman’s novel, politics never had been so theatrically arranged. Lord -Crawleigh might dine with his daughter, but he would never vote with his -son-in-law. Frank Jellaby and the independent liberals might, if we -caught them unawares, maintain a civil front to the coalition-liberals, -but they would never serve in the same administration as the men whom -they charged with stabbing them in the back. None of this, however, was -likely to influence Barbara in her present mood of exaltation. - -“Liberalism,” said my uncle in one of his fine, vague phrases, “is -greater than the liberal party.” - -“In the present state of the liberal party,” I answered, “that would not -be difficult. But you don’t _believe_ you’re going to make a new party -of any kind.” - -Bertrand shook his head mournfully and sat with the far-away expression -of an old and tired man who had sampled in his time the liberalism of -Mazzini and Lincoln, Bright and Cobden, Bradlaugh and Chamberlain, -Gladstone and Asquith. - -“If we can bring liberalism back to life,” he sighed, “a party will form -without our help: all we need is a rallying-point. I mean something -bigger than electoral reform and tariff squabbles, George: I mean a -liberal spirit in politics. At the beginning, I should have called this -a liberal war. When Wilson aimed at a peace that should leave nobody too -strong, nobody too much broken, I called that a liberal spirit. I wrote -to you about the glacial age of materialism, because a liberal spirit is -the only thing that can melt it. Every individual, every country will -fight for its own hand: it’s instinctive, like food-hoarding in 1914. -Does Lucien care if Russia’s starving? Does van Oss care if England’s -crippled with debt? Does any one care if the majority get less than the -best out of life? Devil take the hindmost! That’s the spirit we have to -fight.” - -“But can it be done with a sixpenny review?,” I asked. - - 5 - -When our other guests had left us, Bertrand, Barbara and I set ourselves -to collect our headquarters staff. - -“Old men,” boomed my uncle oracularly, “make wars; and young men fight -them. We must be surrounded by the young men.” - -He then sat back, in the attitude which had become characteristic of him -since his stroke, with his hairy, gnarled hands clasped over the ivory -knob of his stick. I saw Barbara’s dark eyes shining as she hurried -indoors and returned to the verandah with a pencil and paper. In her -absence, Bertrand sought to seduce me by describing my room at the -office and hinting at the furniture which he proposed to transfer from -Princes Gardens. He resented my criticism that we were setting out to -convert the world with six dubious Sheraton chairs and less than six -more than dubious phrases; but, as we drafted our programme, I became -ever more gloomily convinced that we were losing sight of the essentials -in a wanton outburst of ornamentation. My excellent and unpractical -colleagues agreed that we could have a delicious meal sent in from the -Greyfriars Tavern for the editorial dinners; Barbara fought gamely for a -weekly cartoon; Bertrand informed us, with an air of originality, that -the youth of the nation were the trustees of posterity; and no one said -a word about our gospel or our prophets. - -“All the conditions are new,” my uncle reminded me at short intervals. -“We need new men, new methods. A new spirit . . .” - -And, while he coined phrases and Barbara designed our front page, I -thought over the young men whom I had met when I was working at the -Admiralty. Spence-Atkins and Jefferson Wright were still on Hornbeck’s -“live register” of unemployed; and I invited them to take charge of our -foreign policy and economics. That their names were unknown seemed a -recommendation to Bertrand, who exclaimed in high glee: - -“New men! To catch the other new men!” - -On that, I presented him with a cynical jack-of-all-trades whom Hornbeck -had engaged for his experience in the deeper waters of undetected -roguery. I have no proof that Triskett’s hands were soiled, though a man -whose friends included the scamps of every race and country must have -lived under constant temptation to blackmail. I did not propose to give -him free scope in what he wrote; but I thought that his curious -information might sometimes illuminate an obscure motive. - -“A new man to catch the other new men,” Bertrand repeated. - -“A thief to catch a thief,” I answered; “but, if it’s youth you want, -these men are all under thirty-five.” - -The average was reduced further when, at Barbara’s suggestion, I invited -a novelist of thirty, a poet of twenty-five and a composer of nineteen -to take our artistic pages under their protection. They were all, she -told me, touched with genius. I was also becoming reckless. - -“And now,” said Bertrand, “can you set them to work in three months’ -time? You’ll want that to get in touch with new conditions. You must -study life in the marketplace, George. Mass-feeling. The great movement -of men. . . . We’ll have our first editorial dinner somewhere about the -end of March.” - -“I should have it,” I suggested, “on the first of April.” - -When my uncle returned a few weeks later, we returned with him; and, -while Barbara made our house ready for party-meetings and drawing-room -conclaves, I carried the dubious Sheraton chairs to Fetter Lane and -passed from the Eclectic Club to my uncle’s study in Princes Gardens, in -leisurely pursuit of the great movement of men. - -I doubt if I have at any time felt more out of my element. I could -understand O’Rane’s contention that, for all they won from civilization, -the vast majority of mankind would be no worse off by taking to the -hills and woods as bandits. I was prepared to work quite reasonably hard -for my rooted faith that, if this vast majority was to be saved, it must -be saved by its own efforts. I could sympathize with the proselytes to -the League of Nations, though I placed no reliance in a league that did -not make disarmament its first condition of membership. What I wholly -failed to grasp was my uncle’s objective in taking an expensive office, -exhuming our old manager from his retirement and entering the name of -our paper once more at Stationer’s Hall. - -London had never, in all my experience, been so little interested in -politics. - -“What’s been happening?,” Sam Dainton echoed when I took Barbara to dine -with his parents. “Well, I’ve awarded myself the order of the -bowler-hat; and I had the hell of a time in Paris after I left you; and -now I’m thinking how I can make a bit of money.” - -“Same here,” added John Gaymer. “If you come across anything, George -. . .” - -“Oh, the family first,” Laurence interrupted. “_Dear_ Cousin George -. . .” - -The conversation at most dinner-parties in these weeks seemed to run on -ways and means. Seizing on the jargon of the times at a moment when -every one else was abandoning it, Lady Dainton described herself -facetiously as “one of the new poor” and denounced every more fortunate -neighbour as a “profiteer”, though I could not see that her novel -poverty compelled her to retrenchment nor that her scorn for profiteers -prevented Sir Roger’s trying to sell Crowley Court, at three times what -he gave for it, to one of “the new rich”. In place of retrenchment I -found a bewildering blend of ingenuity, industry and blackmail on the -part of those who insisted on a life of pleasure and could find no one -to finance it for them. Day after day, Barbara was dragged to new shops, -where her friends sold her hats at exorbitant prices. Other friends -offered to decorate our house. Others, again, begged me to open a -“social” column in _Peace_ and to put them in charge of it. - -“You can’t expect people to take much interest in public affairs,” Lady -Dainton said to me at this first dinner. “There are _so_ many other -things! These children”—she looked benevolently round the table at the -girls she had collected for the approval of her necessitous son—“they -don’t know what society _was_ before the war. They’ve none of them even -been presented, so you can imagine the flutter they’re in. Their first -season!” - -“I shouldn’t have thought any one had the money to make much of a -season,” I objected, with a cast back to her late confession of -universal ruin. - -“The war has only transferred it from one pocket to another,” she -assured me. - -This dark saying was made plain in these first unsettled days before the -rebirth of our paper, when I drifted about London, analysing the -atmosphere of the armistice. Less diplomatically, Lady Dainton might -have said that, if the natives had too little money, the foreigners had -too much; and, without a trace of diplomacy, a number of my -acquaintances seemed to be coaxing it back from the new pockets to the -old. With my own ears I heard the Duchess of Ross demanding a list of -the Americans she could advantageously invite to her house. I listened -with amusement as Clifford van Oss tried to explain politely that the -people on whom she fawned were not received in New York. And I watched -Sir Adolf Erckmann being made a test case for the date at which a -wealthy man with a German name could be received by his less wealthy -friends. - -“The great movement of men isn’t carrying me anywhere in particular,” I -confessed to Bertrand as the day of our first issue drew near. “I’ve met -a number of spongers, lately, and a greater number of snobs. Which are -the more to be pitied . . .” - -“That’s only a phase,” my uncle answered. “London’s only a part of -England; these people are only a part of London. While you were a boy, -you must have seen the Rand Jews agonizing to fill their houses; and you -saw the ‘new poor’ of the Harcourt death duties taking all they could -get.” - -“And we saw the result in the last years before the war,” I said, as Sir -Adolf Erckmann shambled out of earshot. Could we give rein to our racial -prejudices, I never knew whether I would sooner lynch him or the girls, -like Sonia Dainton, who in those days had endured his odious -familiarities for the sake of a string-quartet, a champagne supper and a -free drive home in an Erckmann car. “A whole generation grew up in the -belief that man had a natural right to be amused at some one else’s -expense.” - -“You’d have found the same thing in Rome and Nineveh,” said Bertrand. -“Whenever a conspicuous social position is divorced from the means to -keep it up . . . _That’s_ not a thing to notice. I told you to study the -movement of men because one class is being squeezed out of existence. It -may last my time, but it won’t last yours. It was never a big class, but -in some ways it was the best. Now the sons have been killed; and the -parents are crippled with taxation. Who’s coming to take their place, -George? That’s the riddle for boys like you; and it’s to the newcomers -we must appeal. . . . Is everything ready for our first number?” - -“As ready as it can be,” I answered, “without a principle, a policy or -even a catchword.” - -When I went to Fetter Lane for the ceremony of ordering the machinists -to print off, I was glad to see that my colleagues shewed no lack of -enthusiasm. Headed by Bertrand, we marched to the Clock Tower Press and -stood in a half-circle till he should give the sign. Martin Luther, -printing his own bibles, could hardly have been more impressive; and, as -we marched back to toast Bertrand in tepid champagne, the day seemed -pregnant with fate. - -“All the same,” I said, as we dispersed, “you’ve none of you suggested a -single reason why any one should want to buy this paper. People are -simply not thinking of politics.” - -“They will, when they come out of their fool’s paradise,” answered -Bertrand. - -With a prediction so vague I could not contend. Reconstruction, of which -I had heard so much in the last years of the war, appeared to stop short -when private lives and fortunes had been reconstructed. Employment was -good; money was plentiful; trade was booming; and, after we had spent -five million pounds a day without suffering for it, after we had found -work for every one at his own price, it was not wonderful if the laws of -political economy seemed to have been suspended. My brother-in-law -Gervaise was but one of many whom I settled on the permanent wage-sheet -of the country; during the next few days I was to help Sam Dainton into -an engineering firm at Hartlepool and to be told that the directors -could accommodate as many more of the same kind as I chose to send. - -It was too good to be true; it was too good to last; but, while it -lasted, I felt we could expect little support for gloomy vaticinations -that were being falsified under our eyes. - - - - - CHAPTER FOUR - - - AFTER THE DELUGE - - - Death is the end of life; ah, why - Should life all labour be? - Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast, - And in a little while our lips are dumb. - Let us alone. What is it that will last? - All things are taken from us, and become - Portions and parcels of the dreadful Past. - Let us alone. What pleasure can we have - To war with evil? Is there any peace - In ever climbing up the climbing wave? - - TENNYSON: _The Lotus-Eaters_. - - 1 - -At the end of March, as Bertrand had ordained, our first editorial -dinner took place. It was followed by a reception; and the two events -might have been read, by the optimistic, as an announcement that a new -force was at work in political and social London. Throughout the long -preparations, Barbara told us repeatedly that she had no personal -interest in our organization; but she could not have worked harder if -this had been a battle which she had to win or a lost battle which she -had to retrieve. For the first time since our marriage, she seemed fully -alive; the old love of ascendancy had returned; and I forgot the -futility of my uncle’s crusade in the happiness which it brought to my -wife. - -“Well, I wasn’t going to spoil _your_ life, if I could help it,” she -laughed, when I complimented her on her new radiance. “Whatever kind of -mess I’ve made of my own . . .” - -“It’s early days to be saying you’ve made a mess of your life,” I told -her. - -These first weeks had been less formidable than I had expected. Every -one was too busy with his own concerns to recall the furious -tongue-wagging of the war; and the players in what Barbara counted her -tragedies had obligingly withdrawn from the stage. Jack Waring, the -first of her victims, crossed my path but once in three years: I met him -hurrying out of his tailor’s, and he stopped only long enough to say -that he was breeding blood-stock in the midlands and hardly ever came to -London. Eric Lane, a greater sufferer in a longer tragedy, had -disappeared; I was told that he was in London and I assumed that he must -be at work on a new play. Certainly we did not see him for several -months; and it was only in rare, startling moods of depression that -Barbara seemed to remember him. - -“How much you feel depends on how much you put into life,” she -suggested, a little wistfully. “You can make a mess of your life when -you’re a child, if you go the right way about it. _You_ wouldn’t, -because you let other people live your life for you; but I always had to -make mine a great spiritual adventure, a thing to be squeezed dry, not -tasted! At the end I must feel that I’ve taken a wonderful journey and -that every moment of it has been marked by poignant emotions, vivid -experiences. The whole of myself must go into everything.” - -“When you see a WET PAINT sign, you must make sure that the paint is -really wet?,” I asked. - -“With both hands! Unlike my dear George, who avoids all paint because -some of it is sometimes not quite dry. We’re a strange and wonderful -combination, darling.” - -“The actor and the audience.” - -“You’re content just to look on?” - -“Life is varied enough!,” I said. “And, though I don’t suppose any -period is dull when you know it, I believe our own period is the most -interesting in all history. I believe, too, that we’re in the most -interesting part of the most interesting period. Bertrand will tell you -that our day is over and that the future lies with the new men. I’m -watching.” - - 2 - -My uncle’s opinion was endorsed, perhaps naturally, by one who was a new -man himself and who introduced me at this time to some at least of the -other new men. Nearly four years have passed since I began to watch this -battle of old and new; I am watching still, and the battle is undecided. -It was on the day when our paper was reborn that our old -advertisement-manager called in Fetter Lane to prove that we were -working on wrong lines; and, as he knew enough of mob-psychology to make -a fortune out of it, I listened respectfully to the criticism and -studied the critic. Sir Philip Saltash had travelled far since the -August day when Bertrand paid off the staff—Mr. Saltash included—and -brought _Peace_ to an end by shivering the electros of the headings with -a mallet; he was to travel farther before he entered the House of Lords -as Lord Saltash of Bonde, publicity-expert and political wire-puller. -How much farther he will travel is another of the things I am watching. - -“If _you_ think people will listen to the _stuff_ your old man’s put in -his _prospectus_,” he began with a force and directness that made me -feel the new men were bringing new manners with them, “you’re making the -mistake of your life. You may be right; every one else may be wrong -. . .” - -As he paused with a shrug of contemptuous challenge, I reminded myself -that he was come to offer me publicity for _Peace_ and must therefore -prove that, without publicity, _Peace_ would wilt and die. - -“My uncle feels,” I said, “that it’s bad policy to cure one -Alsace-Lorraine by setting up half-a-dozen others. It’s time _some_ one -made a protest against the last election.” - -“Even if no one pays any attention to it? Mark you, I can _make_ people -listen,” he added, as he rolled an unlighted cigar from side to side of -his loose mouth; and I tried to recall how many million pounds Saltash -had advertised into war-loans and how many thousand men he had ordered, -from his ubiquitous hoardings, into the army. “That’s my job. _Has_ -been, ever since I left you.” - -“How would you make people listen to _us_?,” I asked. - -Saltash caught up a copy of our first number and turned the pages with -loud slaps of an annihilating hand. I have forgotten his technical -proposals, though I remember that he kindled me with his cleverness the -while he was outraging me with his vulgarity. I have not, however, -forgotten his lyrical flights in describing the place of publicity in -public life. I had met “press-secretaries” and heard of “propaganda -sections” in government departments; I had suspected that certain -ministers were raised or disgraced at the bidding of certain -newspaper-proprietors; but I had not imagined that newspaper-proprietors -themselves struck or spared at the behest of men like Saltash, who in -their turn controlled the flow of information from Whitehall to Fleet -Street. - -“It’s a question of spot-light,” Saltash explained; and I learned that, -when Dormer came to grief over food-rationing, it was Saltash’s artful -manipulation of the switches that saved him from public vengeance and -secured him his seat in the cabinet. - -“I never _did_ think Dormer was to blame,” I happened to interpose. - -“I never let you!,” cried Saltash. “Remember the Flying Corps scandal? -_I_ did that. And you soon forgot about Dormer. I told him from the -first he had only to lie quiet. . . . Later on . . .” - -Later on, without prompting, I remembered Dormer’s reappearance. -Discovered by the caricaturists and taken to the heart of the public, -Dormer—with his vast chin and grotesque hat—became a music-hall hero. -“Our Willie” was acclaimed by the gallery with the loyal fervour -accorded in other days to “good old Joe”. The _Snap-Shot_ shewed him -pruning roses with his smiling wife in an “old-world garden” and playing -bumble-puppy with his apple-cheeked children. Finally, in the last days -of a united front against a common foe, his portrait was thrown on the -screen—after those of King Albert and General Joffre, Lord Kitchener -and Mr. Lloyd-George—as the man who had saved England from starvation. - -The cost of Dormer’s apotheosis was one baronetcy and the promise of a -peerage when the more squeamish section of the government was better -used to the Saltash idea. - -“Spot-light,” repeated the wizard. “People can’t look at more than one -thing at a time. Has it ever occurred to you why the old coalition went -and the new one came? The ginger-group were working that way from the -day Asquith carried conscription for them; they didn’t need him after -that, but the public wasn’t ready for a change. Well, it was my job to -_make_ the public ready. I concentrated opinion against certain men and -never left ’em alone; I concentrated in favour of others. The -Dardanelles. Mesopotamia. Shells. Food. You and I know that the new lot -were tarred with the same brush as the old; but we made the public think -they’d been on another planet when all these messes were made. The old -lot were too quiet; they never hit back.” - -“There was a war on,” I reminded him. - -“They would never have fallen if they’d shewn fight,” Saltash retorted. -“A man’s power in politics is what he makes others believe it to be. -‘This war is too big for ordinary folk,’ people were saying: ‘we want -supermen.’ Well, we said the new lot _were_ supermen. When there weren’t -enough to go round, we made so much din that office-sweepers seemed like -supermen. We restored confidence; and we frightened the Germans. Now, -you say you’re reviving the old rag and your slogan is to be ‘a -_lasting_ peace’. You’ll be called pro-Boche. You’ll be told you’re -letting the Hun off. I don’t despair, though. The first thing is to out -the present lot; and I can do that on departmental scandals alone. ’Got -all the papers. Then we must prepare a big peace-boost. . . . Lunch with -me and talk it over.” - -Though I had nothing to discuss, I went with Saltash because Saltash -hypnotized me to come. All the vitality of young America radiated from -him, though he styled himself a Canadian; his features recalled semitic -South Russia, though he dissembled his love for the Jews; in the ten or -twelve years that I had known him I never detected a trace of breeding, -education or principle; and in the next two years I was never to see him -entirely sober. Until he has his first stroke, however, I count him one -of the six most dangerous men in Europe, for the “yellow” press of every -country is an instrument on which he has played himself into wealth and -power. As a purveyor of publicity, he is the logical conclusion from the -cheap press that came into existence when England was taught, -willy-nilly, to read; and England is imperilled by him, as she is -imperilled by every man who, in his daily work and life, has everything -to gain and nothing to risk. - -“_I_ trouble waters,” he explained thickly. “_Other_ fellers do fishing. -No personal axe t’ grind.” - -After a champagne luncheon he talked to me of these others. If the war -unified the British Empire, it also brought to England a number of -adventurous spirits who had made existence unsafe for themselves in -their native dominions and whose claim to a hearing depended less on -their political wisdom than on the number of miles they had travelled to -reach Downing Street. The blatant harangues of Mr. Giles to indulgent -imperial conferences were received with so much respect that hysterical -women petitioned to have him included in the war-cabinet; a country with -population and wealth equal to the city of Glasgow ranked in our -councils as a great power. - -“_I_ did that,” Saltash confided. “Overseas dominions. Young wolves -claiming place council-rock. People here _crawled_ to him. And the -government didn’t dare snub him.” - -“So long,” I said, “as the prophet comes from another country, he has -full honour in ours.” - -“He was a cut above some of them,” said Saltash defensively; and I was -told of one great public man who had dodged the dock in Australia to buy -papers in England, of another who operated in London because he was -threatened with a bullet in his brain if he ventured back to Winnipeg. -Though Saltash did not say so, I think they may have fished in the -waters which he troubled. - -“The revenges of time!,” I said, as I stood up to go. “This is the -remittance-man come home to roost.” - -“A party can’t exist without funds,” said Saltash, beckoning to our -waiter for a third liqueur. “Or without publicity.” - -That I was not prepared to contest; and, as a new-born party had to -collect its funds and build up its organization at short notice, I was -not surprised that the rich men surrounding the coalition were more -numerous and less savoury than the sufficiently dubious candidates for -honours whom I had seen haunting the whips’ office during my active -political career. If I was to believe Saltash, however, London had -suddenly become a hunting-ground for the desperadoes of the empire. -These “new men” were unknown names when the war began; soon I heard of -them whenever a political crisis was being engineered. Their ability was -undoubted; their experience had been gained in rough schools; and their -resourcefulness admitted no limit. Supplying the impecunious with money -and the affluent with advice, they acquired knowledge and influence -which they used to acquire more money; and this in turn purchased them a -further power of unseen interference in the direction of our government. - -That night, as I sat down to our inaugural dinner, I told Bertrand of my -host at luncheon and of his conversation. - -“It’s no new thing,” said my uncle, who in these nights of doubt and -sorrow unmasked an almost irritating resolution to be jolly at all -costs. “The great international financiers have influenced governments -and been influenced by them since banks and governments began.” - -Historically, that may have been true. The new thing, as Bertrand -himself might have said, was the character of the new men and the new -methods which they employed. - - 3 - -This dinner was to be my last frolic as an irresponsible spectator. - -When, as editor and managing-director, I proposed the toast of -“_Peace_”, a vibration from my colleagues’ eagerness troubled my rigid -negations and stirred doubt in my bland assurance. _Was_ Bertrand’s -project so hare-brained as I had thought? I questioned myself in honest -uncertainty as I settled my tie and looked down on the double row of -expectant faces. The old man’s predictions at Cannes were fulfilled as -soon as the conference met and a vague parliament of man reformed as a -quarrelsome committee of ten; the clash between President Wilson’s -fourteen points and Mr. Lloyd-George’s election speeches rang out when -the committee of ten shrank to a camarilla of four; and, if we had ever -doubted the apathy of the British public, our doubt must have evaporated -day by day as the first House of Commons in the new glacial age sat with -hands folded and eyes set jealously on the position each member had -wrested from the war. Twice or thrice in these months a -vigilance-committee of sterner and more unbending new members sent -hectoring telegrams to keep their representatives up to the mark; -President Wilson once ordered his ship to get up steam; and the Duchess -of Ross dined out intermittently on M. Clemenceau’s latest epigram; but -it is substantially true to say that no one in England thought of the -peace-treaty until it was submitted for the approval of parliament. - -In my speech I confined myself to congratulating Bertrand on his staff. -At the end, he hoisted himself slowly to his feet and indicated his own -part in our endeavour: - -“You young men will have to do the work; but perhaps, from a long -experience, I may be able to advise you. No lasting peace can be founded -on a sense of grievance; and, though the heathen are raging furiously -now, they’ll outgrow that phase. Maybe it’s because I had to keep my -mouth shut during the war, maybe old age is making me more radical. This -is not a party organ, it never was; it was an expression of liberal -spirit, and that’s what it has to be again. We were called hard names -when war broke out; but we had the right vision. Labour still thinks -parochially; toryism still thinks imperially, which is the same thing; -radicalism must think internationally. These fierce local patriotisms -are an unconscionable time a-dying; but England is a bigger conception -than the heptarchy, Europe is a bigger conception than England, the -world is a bigger conception than Europe. We depend too much on our -neighbours to blow them out of existence every few years. That truth has -been vouchsafed to those of us who are at this table; we have to get it -accepted.” - -I rang a bell; and we were handed early copies of our first number. -Every man turned avidly to his own contribution. Then Barbara sent for -me to help her receive our guests. - -This first of many receptions might have been arranged, I thought, as a -review of all that the war had left us. Barbara stood at the stair-head -in a white shawl of Chinese silk, with flamingoes in flight and a deep -fringe sweeping to the scarlet heels of her white shoes. One shoulder, -miraculously whiter than the shawl, was bare; a high comb of dark -tortoise-shell proclaimed the astonishing fairness of her skin; and in -the soft light of the chandelier her deep-set eyes shone like huge -sapphires. I stopped in stupefaction to realize that this was my wife; -and Barbara, reading my thoughts, coloured softly and pressed my hand. -As our guests came self-consciously up the stairs, I saw one after -another checking in the same bewilderment; and Raymond Stornaway -supplied the image that was eluding me when he exclaimed: - -“A wand! A wand! You sweet child, with a wand in your hand you’d be the -fairy queen I fell in love with at my first pantomime, fifty years -before you were born.” - -As I had taken little part in sending out the invitations, I have only -an indistinct memory of all who came. A phalanx of perpetually -disapproving relations gave place to a battalion of my old Admiralty -colleagues, headed by Hornbeck; new young diplomats, representing yet -younger, newer states, raised Barbara’s hand ceremoniously to their -lips; _débutantes_ of a generation after mine pressed under the elbows -of old family friends, who blocked the traffic while they retailed -trivial anecdotes of my wife’s or my infancy. Here and there I saw an -actress, whose name in private life always eluded me; time and again I -uttered or received a warning against ‘the world’s worst bore’. I -remember being introduced, after frantic, whispered explanations, to -innumerable authors in tortoise-shell-rimmed spectacles. In my turn, I -remember introducing to Barbara the lost political sheep whom she was to -charm back into their fold. - -“I didn’t know there were so many people in the _world_!,” she exclaimed -in one of the few brief lulls. - -Raymond Stornaway overheard her and sighed: - -“It’s the summer and autumn without the spring.” - -As the brief lull ended, my thoughts went back to the morning of -Armistice Day when I paused on my way home from the Admiralty to reckon -how many of my own generation had survived the war. As Robson bent, -straightened himself and turned at the stair-head, I expected at every -moment to hear him calling out “Captain Dainton” or “Lord Loring” or -“Mr. Arden”; had I shut my eyes to their absence, I could have fancied -that we were living in 1914. Now, as then, Crawleigh was so much -engrossed in a political altercation with Bertrand that he walked -stormily into the drawing-room without noticing us; Sam Dainton trotted -up grinning—as usual—and whispering scandal into Violet Loring’s -reluctant ear; Sir Roger, waiting uneasily for his wife, was -mistaken—as usual—for a hired waiter and urged to tell John Gaymer -where he could get his usual drink. - -“The last time I did this sort of thing was at my coming-of-age ball,” -Barbara murmured. - -“Which you gave for yourself because no one would give it for you?” - -“Well, I hated father’s friends; and he hated mine,” she laughed. -“Besides, I’d been in so many scrapes that I _had_ to see whether people -would continue to know me.” - -“They all came,” I said. - -“Except one. That was the time when Jack Waring proposed to me one day -and quarrelled with me the next,” she explained lightly. “Why he wanted -to marry me when he disapproved of everything I did . . . I invited him -specially.” . . . - -“And he wouldn’t come?” - -“No. Apparently . . . Eric isn’t coming . . . to-night.” - -The announcement fell so tranquilly, it was so long since we had -mentioned Eric Lane’s name that I doubted for a moment if I had heard -her aright. - -“You . . . invited him?,” I asked. - -“Yes. Sonia and David were dining with him; and I told David to bring -him. You don’t mind? I wanted to be friends. Ah . . .!” The sound was -painfully like a sob; but, when I turned, I saw Barbara smiling eagerly -as the O’Ranes came—unaccompanied—up the stairs. “Take David where he -won’t be trampled on,” she whispered. - -I was glad of a moment’s respite after the unintended shock which -Barbara had given me. Eric had left too deep a mark on her spirit to be -quickly forgotten; but I fancied, when her old exuberant joy in life -returned, that she was no longer missing him. An hour before, I had been -stupefied to realize that Barbara was my wife; now I wondered how much -she was my wife. Not all her thoughts were mine; was all her affection? -I was checked, by some question from O’Rane, on the verge of a shameful -jealousy. - -“You want to know who’s here?” I looked down on a seething mass of -heads. “It would be easier to say who’s not. Generally speaking, any one -who was too old or too young for the war; and a sprinkling of people -with charmed lives. The summer and winter without the spring, Raymond -calls it.” - -“It was a slaughter and a half!,” O’Rane muttered. “If you calculate, -among your own friends, the families who’ve been left without a direct -heir . . .” - -“Oh, Bertrand will tell you the old aristocracy is done for. I don’t -know. It weathered the industrial revolution and the Napoleonic wars.” - -“The shock was more gradual; there was a greater power of resistance. -Now the big estates are breaking up; and the great masses are becoming -conscious of their strength.” - -As I looked down the stairs, Crawleigh and Bertrand were finishing their -altercation. I heard Raymond telling them that it was time for old men -to be in bed; and the phrase reminded me of my meeting with Saltash. In -every sense of the term, they were old men, no longer able to hold their -own against the young vigour of Saltash’s recruits; in any struggle of -class with class, the material ammunition had passed from their hands. -Their prestige was weakening before the pressure of those who excelled -them in everything but length of tradition; and that tradition was now -being cut short. - -“I suppose you can call yourself a radical and still believe in the -value of a good strain in breeding,” I said. “That hard-worked creature -‘the historian of the future’ will _have_ to say, I suppose, that the -people of this country carried a heavier burden than any other in the -war? I _think_ he’ll say that, of all our people, those who carried the -heaviest burden were the leaders. In fighting, in directing, in paying -. . . And in being killed: that’s why there are so few of them here -to-night. We shall be the poorer if we lose that strain.” - -“We’ll hope there are still enough of them left to carry it on,” said -O’Rane. - -“The next few years will be a race; there’ll be a fight against time, to -spread the tradition before the people who maintain it are swallowed -up.” - -We talked at random until Sonia came to collect him for another party. - -“I’m sorry we couldn’t bring Eric,” I heard him say to Barbara on -leaving. “Some friend of his had a first night; and he’d promised to -look in.” - -“Did he say if he was coming on?,” asked Barbara. - -“I should think it depends on the time. There was some talk about a -supper-party afterwards.” - -“Then I don’t suppose he will,” she answered with the composure of -complete indifference. “Good-night, David. Good-night, Sonia.” - -When we were by ourselves, I sent the servants to bed; and we sat for -half-an-hour discussing the party. - -“Half-past one,” she sighed at last. “Nobody _can_ be coming now.” - -“If any one does,” I said, “he’ll find an excellent doorstep to sit on. -Come to bed, Babs.” - -“I must write one letter first. You go on and turn out the lights. If -you see my torch, you might put it on the hall-table.” - -I chose a book and went to my room. Only when I was in bed did I -discover that I had brought the wrong book; and, on going downstairs -again, I saw the lights in the hall blazing. Then, as I reached the -drawing-room, I caught sight of Barbara, seated in a high-backed chair -at the stair-head. At first I thought she was asleep; then I saw that -she was staring through the hall to the front door. - -“Is anything the matter?” I asked. - -“He _can’t_ be coming now,” she answered. - -“Who? Eric?” - -My earlier whisperings of jealousy were silenced by her utter -forlornness. I did not care whether her thoughts and affection and heart -and soul were his, so long as I could take the look of pain out of her -eyes. I wanted to tell her that I understood and was sorry for her; but -the name had roused her, and she stood up with languid dignity: - -“Yes.” . . . She was once again the alert and vigilant hostess of an -hour before. “I thought it would look so terribly rude if he came here -and found no one to receive him. After I’d specially asked him, too,” -she added on a higher note. Then her self-possession returned to her. -“It’s two o’clock. As he hasn’t come now, I suppose . . . he’s not -coming . . . at all.” . . . - - 4 - -If “the historian of the future”, whom I have already invoked, have the -microscopic vision and the titanic industry with which his predecessors -credit him, I believe he must find space for a footnote, in brilliant, -to describe our share in forming a critical opposition during the last -four months of the armistice. In the days immediately following the 1918 -election, the government had hardly an enemy; in the months after the -peace-treaty was signed, it had hardly a friend. Even before the -_Economic Consequences of the Peace_, even before the mutual -vituperation of the allies, an independent mood of questioning and doubt -succeeded to the hysterical assertions and demands of the mad election. -How far we fostered that mood by means of open propaganda and private -suggestion, how far we made articulate a frame of mind that was already -struggling to express itself, I cannot say; but that the mood became -contagious cannot be challenged. In these first spring days, Barbara’s -circumspect cousin, Lord John Carstairs, avoided our house for fear of -finding himself described as a ‘defeatist’, a friend of the enemy, a -creature of Caillaux or a hireling of Stinnes. By the end of the summer, -an alert opportunist such as Sir Rupert Foreditch sought publicity in -the columns of _Peace_ or opened his campaign by an attack on Seymour -Street because our paper was frank and fearless and because “the -Oakleigh gang”, as we were unflatteringly called, was too important and, -in time, too numerous to be ignored. - -On the morrow of the inaugural dinner, Bertrand hunted me out of doors -to study “the great movement of men”, while he plotted with Barbara new -days of keeping me on the run. No reference was made to our pitiful -encounter at the stair-head; but I left a note to say that she was not -to be called, and, when I carried in her breakfast, she looked up—with -the eloquent silence of a dog—to thank me for understanding and to shew -that she too understood. At once, after that, she began to discuss the -party of the night before. - -I am not going to pretend that my work for the next three years, though -it left me without an hour, a house or a wife to call my own, was void -of interest: duty compelled me to meet every one, from labour-leaders to -cabinet ministers and from editors to bishops, who might be thought to -influence action or opinion by a hair’s breadth; I had to read the new -books and absorb a mass of papers; I explored different parts of the -country to find what different classes were saying or thinking; and a -New York reporter could not have been quicker to lay hands on the -foreign bankers and diplomats who passed through London. Two or three -dinner-parties were given in each week to these unofficial missionaries; -I met my uncle daily at the Eclectic Club to pool our discoveries in -collective psychology; and on Wednesday nights the staff of _Peace_ -assembled on their spurious Sheraton chairs and helped to hammer out a -new message to mankind. - -If from time to time I harboured unworthy projects for desertion, my -weakness of purpose must be attributed to natural indolence and perhaps -justifiable impatience. Our progress seemed so lamentably slow; our aims -were so exasperatingly vague! Much as I valued Bertrand’s long -experience, greatly as I admired his flashes of intuition, I dreaded his -descents on Fetter Lane in these first discouraging months. From Sir -Philip Saltash or from the spirit of the age he had caught an itch for -supermen; and I went about my work with a shame-faced consciousness of -inadequacy while my uncle clasped his hands over his stick and boomed -oracularly of novel tendencies and strange expedients. - -“We’re becoming precious,” he grunted unamiably at our second number. -“Average opinion; the common touch: you mustn’t neglect that, George. If -you take your friend Dainton as a barometer . . .” - -And I was incontinently pricked into the least comfortable of my clubs, -where I tested average feelings as they were represented in the changing -utterances of one well-meaning and uniquely stupid legislator. The first -experiment was made at a time when the successful candidates of the -December election were uneasily hoping to be saved by the firmness and -idealism of President Wilson from the consequences of their less -temperate speeches. - -“‘Wilson _le bienvenu_’,” Dainton murmured approvingly, as he laid down -a welcoming number of _Punch_. - -A few weeks later, I found the French press excitedly proclaiming that -Germany was being let off too easily. Sir John Woburn demanded with all -the polyphonic energy of the Press Combine why America should be allowed -to deprive the allies of their just reparations; and Dainton assured me -profoundly that the task of winning the war was child’s play compared -with that of winning the peace. - -“Damned obstinate fellow, Wilson,” he grumbled. “If he thinks we’re -going to let him throw away all that our gallant boys fought for, he’ll -have a rude awakening.” - -Later still, he ceased to speak of the president altogether. Remembering -Limehouse, he could not give implicit trust to the prime minister; but -the gossip that floated from Paris to London convinced him that M. -Clemenceau was the only statesman in Europe and he was content to leave -himself in the hands of a man whose rare, sardonic utterances embodied -the ferocity which Dainton had expressed so much less concisely in his -election speeches. Members of parliament, he told me, had duties nearer -home. Labour menaces were more important than quibbles about frontiers: -coal strikes and railway strikes, both leading through nationalization -and civil war to ruin and the disruption of the empire, were the proper -study of political mankind. Sir Roger no longer spoke of the British -working-man as one of “our gallant boys”; and I was invited to penetrate -the disguise that sheltered a Russian communist. Before I could do -justice to this conception, he had found new duties even nearer to the -hand of a patriot. “Bolshevism” was bad, but it soon ceased, in -Dainton’s eyes, to be quite so bad as “profiteering”; and neither, by -the middle of the summer, was so exasperating nor so tenacious of life -as Irish irreconcilability. - -“If I could hold the wretched country under the sea for five minutes!,” -he exploded. - -Fed on political catch-words and instructed by safe cartoons, Sir Roger -Dainton, coalition-unionist member for the Crowley Division of -Hampshire, would explain Ireland on alternate days by reference to the -incurable dourness of the north and the ineradicable savagery of the -south. He was the ‘pendulum voter’, the representative of all that is -unstable, ill-informed and irresponsible in public life. For that I was -prepared; for that Bertrand had sent me to study him. I was not -prepared, however, to be accepted as a disciple and an ally. Dining -weekly in Rutland Gate, I wondered whether the little man had ever -before found any one who would listen to him: obviously, pathetically, -he looked forward to our “good pow-wows”; and, when he saw me to the -door and gave me a fresh cigar, still more when he said, “Then, next -Tuesday as usual?”, I felt that I was being sent back to school with a -sovereign in my hand and being invited to Crowley for my next leave-out -day. My embarrassment was increased by a sense of black ingratitude. Sir -Roger always made these meetings “an occasion within the meaning of the -act”, as he called it, and opened his best champagne for me. When -Barbara deserted me on the plea that we wanted to talk business and she -would be in the way, Dainton redoubled his hospitality and became -increasingly confused in speech. As I watched the clock, I would ask -myself how such a man was admitted to the board of a company or -tolerated in parliament; then, in a flash of revelation, I saw him as -the type of all the class on which Sir Philip Saltash exercised the -wiles of his publicity. Saltash was a logical inference from Dainton. - -“Now you see why I told you to study him,” Bertrand chuckled, when I -announced that I would resign my editorship before I submitted to -another spell of Dainton’s political conversation. - -In despair, I asked how our little office in Fetter Lane was to overtake -and undo the work of Saltash and his forebears of the popular press. To -this, however, my uncle had no answer. - -Though he continued to speak of us as a chosen people, our mission of -enlightenment was established on a paying basis by the success of our -literary editors, who made of _Peace_ the most feared and least loved -review in London. As Hancock confined his criticism to novels and -Mattrick to poetry, they could not be charged with rolling their own -logs or obstructing a rival, though I noticed that Mattrick’s sweeping -condemnations stopped short of “Mr. Hancock’s true lyrical genius” and -Hancock’s devastating onslaughts on modern fiction made an exception in -favour of Mr. Mattrick. My conscience became unquiet when books were -sent out for review and I heard Hancock choosing critics who could be -trusted to “sit on this sort of rot”; but, as the “rot” was usually -written by men who seemed to be making a substantial income, I hoped -that they could afford an occasional attack and console themselves with -the knowledge that, in the Penmen’s Club, fifty yards away, a league of -disgruntled novelists and poets was plotting the destruction of “the -Hancock-Mattrick gang”. - -“All the same,” Bertrand expostulated after a month or two, “we’re not -running this paper so that one ill-tempered young gentleman can read -what another ill-tempered young gentleman has said about a book he -hasn’t troubled to finish. We’re not in touch yet with opinion. You -don’t mix with enough people, George: it’s all the office, or the club, -or Barbara’s parties.” - -“But where am I to find your new men?,” I asked. “You say politics are -no longer manufactured over a week-end party at Woburn. The political -clubs only harbour your Tapers and Tadpoles. Where do men like Saltash -and Wister and Foreditch do their work?” - -“They take their pleasure at the Turf and Stage,” Bertrand answered -sourly. - -“I’m dining there with the O’Ranes to-night,” I said, as we began to -walk home. - -“Then you’ll probably meet them. New men, new meeting-places.” My uncle -laughed mirthlessly. “If Pam or Johnnie Russell . . . It’s the rising -tide of democracy. Agricultural depression and death duties have slowly -strangled the landed classes; their social influence is tottering. -Before the war, Asquith was almost the only prime minister, bar Dizzy, -who wasn’t drawn from them; but the prime ministers of the future will -come from the middle class . . . till they come from labour. And the -stage changes with the actors,” he continued in a deep rumble that -carried from the one side of Fleet Street to the other. “_Circumspice!_ -When the masses had been taught to read, Newnes gave them _Tit-Bits_; -Pearson and Harmsworth followed with the cheap daily press; headlines -took the place of news and arguments. The focus shifts to the newspaper -office.” - -We were passing a flamboyant, white-and-gold building described as a -“Super Electric Palace de Luxe”; and I asked Bertrand if he thought -pictures were coming to take the place of headlines. - -“It’s not the instrument that matters, but the man who handles it,” he -answered. “Does Saltash play on Ll-G. or does Ll-G. play on Saltash? -You’ll know better to-night when you’ve seen the new stage with the new -men on it. Your modern prime minister doesn’t waste his time with -duchesses at Ross House or with dukes at the Carlton. He has suave young -secretaries to feed the press; he has rich friends to provide him -personally with the sinews of war. He has his publicity agent. And, if -he’s wise, he has a chain of intermediaries running through the country, -somebody always knowing somebody who knows somebody else, so that he can -draw any one into his net at a moment’s notice.” As we crossed Waterloo -Place, Bertrand glanced contemptuously at Mr. Gladstone’s old house in -Carlton House Terrace. “There’d be no end to the buzzing if Ll-G. spent -a week-end with Sir John Woburn: he _must_ be trying to collar the Press -combine! But if my Lord Lingfield entertains a few actresses and a -jockey or two and a prize-fighter and if Woburn happens to come along -. . .? That’s how politics are manufactured nowadays; and the Turf and -Stage is the sort of place to see them manufacturing.” - - 5 - -Such a preparation was almost inevitably a preparation for -disappointment; but the unexpected end of my first evening at the Turf -and Stage left me no time to define my expectations nor judge whether -they had been fulfilled. As Barbara had a headache, I entered the -resplendent club-room off Hanover Square under Sonia’s protection; and, -for all the scars that the last five years had left, I could have -fancied for a moment that we were back in 1914 when the “Cottage -Cabaret” and “Blue Moon” were tentatively opening their doors. I -observed the same mirrored walls and plush sofas, the same small tables -surrounding the same polished floor, the same high gallery and beaming, -southern band. From the atmosphere I inhaled the same desolating -quality, only to be rendered by the desolating name of “smartness”. - -I found no hint, however, that my rigidly standardized neighbours were -powers behind thrones. Apart from a passion for dancing that grew ever -more feverish as youth receded, they were severely domesticated. Men -brought their wives to supper, I was told, their sisters to dinner and -their mothers to luncheon; I should not have been surprised to hear of a -nursery upstairs or to see Gaspard, the incomparable manager, devising -quiet games with the children in their parents’ absence. Most of the men -that night were young and exceedingly prosperous financiers; the rest, -exemplified by Laurence Hunter-Oakleigh and Johnnie Gaymer, had at least -the appearance of prosperity. Born to rule, they had all done well in -the war; they were doing well in the peace; and their women dominated -the situation as shrewdly, as calmly and as confidently as the men. Some -trick of memory sent my thoughts back to the “Duchess of Richmond” ball -at Loring Castle on the eve of the war. I remembered standing in the -hall with Puggy Mayhew, watching the lithe girls and hard-trained men -mounting the stairs with their magnificently English self-possession; -and, though Mayhew filled a grave in Mesopotamia, I could hear again his -tone of startled discovery as he murmured: “There’s nothing to touch -them in any country _I_ know.” . . . - -I had been invited to meet a girl who aspired to that career of -mendicancy and private blackmail which is known to women with a friend -in Fleet Street as “freelance journalism”; and, while O’Rane waited in -the hall for the rest of his party, Sonia led me downstairs for a -cocktail. - -“I have a standing invitation from Gaspard to come here at his expense,” -she confided. “He considers me rather a draw. And, as Lorrimer is always -good for a dress if I’ll wear it in public, I can usually kill two -guests with one free dinner. If Johnnie Gaymer would only give me one of -his firm’s cars to be seen driving about in, David would get a perfectly -good wife below cost.” - -As we descended to a more intimate room, with smaller tables half hidden -by plates of oysters, I suggested that the assistant-almoner of the -Lancing millions could afford to buy his wife a car. - -“Then you don’t know David,” she rejoined with a touch of petulance. -“He’s working himself to death; but, if any one tries to pay him for -what he does, he thinks it’s charity. Let’s talk of something else. -You’ve not met this Maitland child? She’s very pretty and very silly, I -should think. Just what I was at her age . . . or at my own, I suppose -you’d say if I gave you a chance. Finished? Then let’s go up,” she -continued with the restlessness that characterized the age or at least -the women of it whom I met that night. - -One and all, they sat down and jumped up again like marionettes that -would collapse if their wires slackened; they looked at one page of a -paper and then tossed it away; they clamoured for cigarettes and laid -them aside. Finding that her other guests were not yet arrived, Sonia -hurried into the dining-room, snatched a youth unknown to me from his -protesting party and danced with him till a voice, peevish with hunger, -cried: “Bertie, you little beast, come back and order dinner.” She then -attached herself precariously to another party, stole some one else’s -portion of caviare and rejoined us in the hall with her booty. - -O’Rane, I thought, was looking ill and overworked. - -“Stornaway’s gone down with pneumonia,” he explained; “so I’ve had all -his work to do. It’s a bigger thing than I contemplated. I wonder . . . -I wonder very much . . .” - -“Whether you can carry out the schemes we discussed at Cannes?,” I -asked. - -“No! Whether we’ve any place in our present civilization for these -colossal fortunes . . . Ah, that’s Ivy’s voice. Come and be introduced.” - -I have never known for certain who constituted our party that night. -Four of us met in the hall; but we mislaid Sonia as we went to our -table; and John Gaymer invited himself to join us until his own friends -arrived. Between the dances, some twenty to forty people surged into our -corner; during them, I was usually left with one compassionate -neighbour. As in a dream, I talked to O’Rane with grave absorption about -shell-shock treatment; then I listened as Sam Dainton was convinced -against his will that he had spent the previous night in the hall of his -hotel, because he could not remember his bedroom number nor his name; -then Sonia plunged me in a morass of domestic finance, demanding how any -one could keep herself, her husband and child on the pittance which -David allowed her. - -“And now I’m going to have another,” she added, as the saxophone uttered -a warning bleat. - -“Dance?,” I asked. - -“No, baby, of course. . . . Do knock some sense into David’s head. . . . -Good-bye-ee.” - -As she slipped away, I found myself alone with a pretty little dark-eyed -girl, precocious and unbalanced, whom I remembered with difficulty as -Ivy Maitland; and for another five minutes we talked gravely of work and -life and careers for women. Ivy must have been younger by several years -than any other woman in the club; and in that setting she seemed a human -note of interrogation, scored by the present on the threshold of the -future. She also seemed sadly out of place. Her friends were too old for -her, most of them were married, some were living apart from their wives -and others were not living far enough apart from the wives of other men. - -At the end of five minutes, forgetting her concern for a career, she -darted off to dance with John Gaymer; and her place was taken by Sam -Dainton, lately returned from Paris and full of gossip about the -conference. The unruffled Gaspard conjured one more chair to our -ever-lengthening table; and a basket of plover’s eggs for Sam appeared -simultaneously with O’Rane’s chicken and my savoury, while heated -revellers lolled over chair-backs with coffee and cigarettes. A warning -of indigestion assailed me as I changed my place for the fourth time; -intellectual dyspepsia had prostrated me from the moment when these -five-minute conversational turns began. - -“You look a bit out of the picture, old son,” Sam told me candidly. - -“I’m a spectator,” I said. “My uncle feels that I should study the great -movement of men.” . . . - -“Paris is the spot for that,” he chuckled, with his mouth full. “They -call it a peace conference, but I should say it was a full-dress parade -for the next war.” . . . - -He broke off as Sonia danced up with shining eyes to whisper her -discovery that one of our neighbours had married a second husband in the -premature belief that the first had been killed. By the time she had -done, Sam had finished his plover’s eggs and was in the thick of a -discussion with my cousin Laurie, which was to enrich them both if they -could only find an out-of-work capitalist to launch them. Ivy concluded -an audible disagreement with Gaymer, who I thought was more sodden than -his wont, and dragged me headlong into a conversation that seemed to -begin as startling indecency and cooled to the temperate obscurity of -psychoanalysis. - -“You should read Freud,” she told me. “Psychoanalysis explains -everything. You _are_ behind the times.” - -From the little knowledge which I had been compelled to acquire in the -hope of understanding the novels and plays of the period, I should have -said that psychoanalysis defiled more than it explained; but I was -chiefly interested to distinguish this night as the first on which the -old reticences between men and women were torn away. - -“Not bored, I hope?,” murmured a voice at my elbow, as Ivy flitted away -for the second time. - -I turned to see O’Rane sitting huddled with fatigue. - -“Bewildered, rather. This . . . this is the generation you’re -undertaking to educate,” I said. - -“You must expect some kind of reaction.” - -“It’s been going on for six months now. . . . However, I’m more -concerned with the shepherds than with the sheep.” - -It was only as the theatres emptied that I appreciated my uncle’s -sardonic wisdom in sending me to study “the great movement of men” in -the Turf and Stage. The government was then represented by Lord -Lingfield, who danced—for exercise rather than pleasure—with Miss Maud -Valance, of the Pall Mall Theatre, and by the Right Honourable Wilmot -Dean, who refrained from dancing on the principle that a man must learn -to walk before he can run and must be in a condition to stand before he -can dance. What weight Mr. Dean and Lord Lingfield contributed to -cabinet councils I am too ignorant to guess; at the Turf and Stage they -demonstrated that ministers, in spite of a nonconformist head, were not -killjoys; and those who did not get many chances of hailing convivial -privy councillors by their Christian names took the opportunity when it -came. - -“It’s about twenty-one years since Gladstone died,” I murmured to -O’Rane. “It’s ‘new men, new manners’, with a vengeance.” - -In strident conversation with Wilmot Dean, I could hear ‘Blob’ Wister -roaring the latest of his political creeds. For three months he had won -consequence by purchasing in succession the _People’s Tribune_, the _St. -Stephen’s Times_ and the _Daily Echo_. No one knew whence the money had -been collected; no one that I ever met could tell me whence Wister -himself sprang. He burst upon London like Sir Philip Saltash, like -Wilmot Dean, like a third of the new men inside the government and on -its outskirts, in response to the prime minister’s known desire for -business talent. I was still watching the unsteady antics of Lingfield, -when Sir Philip Saltash himself rose with a well-remembered lurch and -bore down on us with the customary unlighted cigar swinging like a -semaphore from the one side of his mouth to the other. - -“Come to inspect my bunch?,” he enquired, with a careless nod and a less -careless scrutiny of our liqueurs. Then, as I hesitated for an answer: -“You’re too dam’ superior for these times. When you’ve been in the game -as long as I have . . . Funny thing! The first slogan I ever heard in -the States was that politics was not a job for a gentleman; ten years -later I heard it in Canada; I’ve heard it in Australia; and, from what -I’ve seen of your rag, you’re sighing for the great days of Salisbury -and Pitt and all that lot.” - -“I should hardly expect to find them here,” I said. - -“They wouldn’t be in a state to come here! Old Pitt was a rare one for -the booze. People don’t change much. You remember the old Limehouse -days? Lloyd-George said that an aristocracy was like old cheese; and the -aristocracy answered that Lloyd-George was a dirty little Welsh -attorney: ‘Oh, how _vulgar_!,’ you cried. Was that worse than your old -Salisbury’s nicknaming Joey Chamberlain ‘Jack Cade’?” He looked round -with a fuddled but tolerant smile, as a miller might look when his wheel -stopped suddenly, at the corner where startling silence had fallen on -the conspiratorial, closely grouped heads of Dean, Wister and Lingfield. -“The war opened up a place in the sun for people who hadn’t been brought -up to your kid-glove ideas of public life.” - -The whispering group was joined by Sir Rupert Foreditch, whose chief -claim on his country’s gratitude is that he sacrificed the dilatory -chance of promotion on the staff in order to race home after Neuve -Chapelle and offer himself for a place in the first coalition. It was by -an accident of geography rather than through any lack of zeal that -others were before him; but he and the group that broke the first -war-administration have the comfort of knowing that all decisions at the -Dardanelles were postponed till an embarrassed government could decide -which of their willing swords must be declined. - -“Would you say,” I asked, “that there was a touch of the adventurer -about some of them?” - -“A man,” enunciated Saltash, “is only an adventurer till he arrives; -then he’s a pioneer. Nobody minds new men when they’re like Asquith. -Nobody minds rich men when they’re like Derby.” . . . - -“For one reason, because the Stanleys don’t drift from one country to -another, seeing which they can turn to their own greatest profit.” - -Saltash shook his head incredulously: - -“Don’t try to pull any stake-in-the-country stuff on me. That’s well -enough for your father-in-law. I sat next to old Crawleigh at a city -dinner last week; and he didn’t know what to make of things. I did. And -I told him. ‘The aristocracy,’ I said, ‘has been swamped by the -middle-classes. Well, if the aristocracy couldn’t keep its end up -against men like Chamberlain and Asquith and Lloyd-George, it was best -out of the way.’ D’you mind if I bring Foreditch over here? He’s just -back from Germany; and I want to know how the land lies there.” - -I could not repel such a man at a time when my sole function in the Turf -and Stage was to study the new leaders in our political life. When I -first met Sir Rupert at Oxford, he was an unbending radical; but the -1906 election brought into the world more radical mouths than there was -bread to feed, and, when I took my seat, Foreditch was spaciously -enthroned in the wastes of opposition. As a hired assassin, his tale of -Budget Leaguers’ scalps won him the deputy-leadership of the Die-Hards -when the Parliament Bill came to be fought; and, in the Home Rule -controversy, he preached rebellion in Ulster with a gusto not exceeded -by Mr. Bonar Law, Sir Edward Carson and Mr. F. E. Smith. An incautious -declaration that the kaiser could be trusted to save Ulster from a false -Hanoverian, as William of Orange had saved her from a perfidious Stuart, -kept Foreditch from reaping the reward of his shell-intrigue in 1916; -but, if he missed cabinet rank, he achieved a greater position as the -unofficial plenipotentiary who was always being sent, with the easy -informality introduced by a ‘business’ government, to make overtures and -arrange deals. His ambition, I think, was to play the part of Colonel -House to Mr. Lloyd-George’s President Wilson: in the last years of the -war he was always vanishing mysteriously to Stockholm or Berne; and, two -years after this date, I heard that he was visiting, in disguise, the -leaders of all the parties in Ireland. - -“The present condition of Germany . . .,” he began; but, before I could -hear what it was, an unknown woman bustled up to our table and began to -make notes for an article which informed the world two days later (1) -that anybody who was anybody would be found dining at the Turf and -Stage, (2) that “Lucile”—as she confided to her “darling Betty”—had -seen good-looking Bobbie Pentyre dancing with Lady Clackmannan’s girl, -(3) that Lady Barbara Oakleigh—“Babs Neave, as we must still think of -her”—had been at the table next to “Lucile’s” and (4) that her husband -would certainly stand again for parliament when opportunity offered. In -its slangy pertness and familiarity, the style was the woman; and, as -accuracy was less important to the _Daily Picture_ than snappy diction -or a knowing air of intimacy, it would have been idle to correct her -statements or to reprove her manners. No doubt she had a livelihood to -earn; and those who create a demand have to bear as heavy a -responsibility as those who furnish the supply. When I had recovered -from my first exasperation, I felt that the loud-voiced lady was less to -blame than “Blob” Wister, who owned the paper for which she wrote, and -the two million readers (the circulation of the _Daily Picture_ was -certified by an impeccable firm of chartered accountants) who liked to -think of Miss Murchison as “Lady Clackmannan’s girl” and of Lord Pentyre -as “Bobbie”. Those who had no chance of seeing for themselves whether he -was good-looking must have been grateful to “Lucile” for lifting a -corner of the curtain from the world of beauty, rank and fashion. - -“Another section of the public you propose to educate,” I told O’Rane. - -“And you,” he retorted. “You heard what Sam Dainton said about the state -of Paris. Everybody hating everybody else.” . . . - -I looked round to make sure that we were not being overheard. Lucien de -Grammont, I knew, was somewhere in the room; but I fancied that he was -avoiding me. - -“That’s only these damned French,” I said. “Instead of thanking us for -pulling them out of the mire, they think _they_ won the war -single-handed and our job is just to foot the bill. Hang it all, Raney, -we spent more money and provided more ammunition than any one else; we -raised about five million men; we stayed on to clear the Germans out of -France when it was all we could do to keep the French in the war at all; -and, when our papers were gushing about the splendid unity, the French -government was making us pay rent for the trenches our men occupied to -defend their miserable country. They’re the meanest hounds on earth. -During the war, one couldn’t say these things . . .” - -“Does one do much good by saying them now? The Americans bring pretty -much the same charge against us. You’ve an organization, George, and you -should make it your business to fight the hatred-epidemic.” . . . - -He broke off, as the bland Gaspard presented himself at our table with -the announcement that a lady was waiting outside. When I read Yolande -Manisty’s name, I guessed that Raymond Stornaway was worse; when I met -her, I knew—without being told—that he was dead. As I came back to the -blaze and blare of the dining-room, I felt that this was my first -contact with reality that night. The financiers and wire-pullers and -propagandists, the glittering _corps de ballet_, the punctual scribe who -chronicled their movements, all belonged to a world of masquerade. I -cannot say what lesson Bertrand had sent me there to learn; the lesson -which I carried away was a doubt—the first since 1914—of victory. - -I drove O’Rane to his house in Westminster and left him to think over -Yolande Manisty’s message. By the terms of her uncle’s will, he had—for -better or for worse—inherited unconditionally an estate of more than -twenty million pounds. - - - - - CHAPTER FIVE - - - THE RED ACCOUNT - - - _Countess of Montesquiou_: - - So much for the Congress! - Only a few blank nobodies remain, - And they seem terror-stricken. . . . Blackly end - Such fair festivities. The red god War - Stalks Europe’s plains anew! - - THOMAS HARDY: _The Dynasts._ - - 1 - -Those who had never before heard of Sir Aylmer Lancing or of Deryk are -no more likely than I am to forget the excitement of the week that -followed Raymond Stornaway’s death. That it lasted no more than a week -was due to the number of competing claims on the public attention; but, -between the Bloomsbury cocaine-prosecution and the Dawlish murder, half -the papers were calling O’Rane’s heritage “romantic” and the other half -“sensational”, while the conversation at every dinner-party that I -attended came by divers ways to the unanimous conclusion that Sonia -would now spend twelve hundred thousand pounds a year on feeding her -friends. Before she had recovered from her first shock, I observed that -she was considering bigger houses in other parts of London; on the -morrow, when I dined—for the last time, as I vowed to myself—in -Rutland Gate, Lady Dainton told me that she had never entertained any -idea of selling Crowley Court; and, when I visited O’Rane to enquire if -he needed help, he shewed me a pile, waist-high, of begging letters. - - 2 - -It was my first visit to the offices of the Lancing Trust; and I retain -the memory of a vast, wind-swept barn on the edge of Hampstead Heath, -with an old red-brick cottage and pent-houses of tarred wood attached. -There were a great many box-files, a gigantic set of loose-leaf ledgers, -a fair-sized reference library and a large number of typewriters. On one -wall I recognized the map which Aylmer Lancing used to keep in his study -to remind him of the stages by which his grip had spread over the -earth’s surface. In all other respects, the building might have belonged -to a poor-law relieving-officer; and Sonia, who obviously expected to -find a double row of bankers smoking long cigars at a gleaming mahogany -table, was no less obviously disappointed. - -“I came to see if I could help you in any way,” I told O’Rane, who had -rather frightened me the night before by his air of physical exhaustion. - -We found him now with one of his secretaries in Raymond Stornaway’s -private office, fidgeting with the will. I learned that the money was to -be spent “for the good of humanity”; and in the construction of that -clause he had already received so much contradictory advice that he had -closed his office to chance callers. - -“I didn’t expect Stornaway to die so soon,” was all he would say when I -asked him his plans. - -“I doubt if time will make your problem any easier,” I answered, as I -joined Sonia in front of the tattered wall-map. - -There, from the centre of what Lancing had bought as a burnt-out -town-site, the Lancing influence spread in extending circles. A name and -date in faded ink marked the advance of his railroads, the acquisition -of his forests and mines, the linking of lake to ocean for the -transportation of his grain. Dotted lines, leading to vague infinity, -shewed where Lancing had splashed out of the union into the Atlantic, -the Pacific and the Gulf of Mexico. - -“You must move to a decent office,” Sonia put in. “And we can’t go on at -The Sanctuary if you want to entertain properly. People will expect us -to live up to our position, you know.” - -O’Rane smiled grimly as he ushered us compellingly to the door. - -“Whether that’s for the good of humanity . . .,” he murmured. - -After this single meeting I resolved not to break in on his -contemplation until I was invited. Very soon my attention was to be -claimed by troubles of my own, for I was not satisfied with the state of -Barbara’s mind or body; I, too, wanted to think; and, though I treated -O’Rane to an unsolicited misgiving whenever I remembered his new estate, -I will not pretend that I thought of him much after the feverish seven -days in which every one I met said: “You’ve heard about it, of course? -That’s the sort of thing that _would_ happen to Sonia. What d’you -suppose they’ll do with it?” . . . - -It was in these days that the last touches were being given to the great -peace-treaty which was to make an end of war; and, but for that, I -should have handed Bertrand my resignation and taken Barbara abroad. -Until we saw the terms, however, we could not tell how far his gloomy -predictions at Cannes would be fulfilled nor how far any one could undo -the mischief that was reported from Paris. If we could believe a quarter -of all we heard, the butchery for which Sanguszko and Boscarelli -clamoured in Lucien’s verandah-parliament was taking place in one -country after another; as I warned Saltash, three discontented -Alsace-Lorraines were being created for one that was pacified; and the -mood of the December election seemed to return as the public realized -the helplessness of the defeated enemy. Outside the now notorious -“Oakleigh gang” I found few to admit that any country but Germany had -been responsible for the war; and on that foundation each man erected -his own standard of retribution. My father-in-law went the length of -collecting a party at the Eclectic Club to reason with me and to check -the wrong-headed doctrines that poured forth, week after week, from -Fetter Lane. - -“You really seem to live in a world of your own,” he explained wearily. -“_I_ don’t hope to convince you; but, if you take a poll of your -friends, on a question like indemnities . . .” - -Before he had time to finish or I to answer, John Carstairs put his own -case with alluring brevity: - -“The Boche made the war. The Boche must pay for it.” - -“What would have happened to our colonies if we’d lost?,” pursued -Crawleigh, who seemed to regard the empire as a dumping-ground for the -viceregally-inclined members of his family. German West Africa was below -his dignity, but he had three sons. “These people mustn’t complain if -they’re served in the same way.” - -I recalled and quoted Bertrand’s dictum that no lasting peace could be -established on a sense of grievance. - -“I feel no tenderness towards Germany,” I said, “but aren’t we making -another war inevitable?” - -“You will make it inevitable,” said Mr. Justice Maitland, “if you let -the last war go unpunished. No one will deny that the Germans broke a -treaty, that they robbed, tortured, violated and murdered, not in the -heat of fighting but as part of a terrorizing campaign ordered from -headquarters. If acts like these go unpunished, every nation will know -that it can take ‘frightfulness’ as its starting-point. Rape and -mutilation will become sanctified usages of war. There will be a -precedent.” - -“That’s unanswerable,” I told the judge. “But, if this war proves -anything, it proves that war doesn’t pay. I want to make that the great -contribution of this war to history. If we impose a peace so unendurable -that even war is no worse . . .” - -Maitland interrupted me with a smiling head-shake: - -“I have to try murderers in the course of my duties. Their state would -be no better than that of their victims, if vendettas were permitted. -You might say truly enough that murder doesn’t pay. I should be sorry to -see the death-penalty abolished on that reasoning.” - -“If you could hang every German,” I said, as I left to dress for the -opera, “I might accept your argument. As it is, a punitive peace will -set them thinking of revenge; and, the moment they’re strong enough, -they’ll take it.” - -“A good reason for keeping them weak,” said Carstairs, “which—quite -rightly—is all Clemenceau cares about.” - -I might have multiplied, almost to infinity, the number of similar -opinions, held by the most dissimilar people. I heard them at the club, -I was inundated by them at my office and I wrestled with them at -Barbara’s parties. - -“I wonder whether Bertrand thinks we’re making any headway?,” I asked -that night at dinner, after venting my despondency on my wife. - -I am not sure whether she heard me; her only answer was to look at her -watch and to ask which opera was being played. - -“_Louise?_” she repeated. “Then we can miss the first two acts. I -suppose you wouldn’t care to go alone?” - -“Aren’t you feeling up to it?,” I asked. - -Barbara turned her back on me and busied herself with the wad of her -cigarette-holder: - -“Oh, I don’t know! Yes, I’m all right! And, anyway, I shan’t do any good -. . . I don’t know what I’m talking about!,” she cried with sudden loss -of control. “I’m going to lie down till we start.” - -“I’ll take you up,” I said. - -“No!,” she answered, with what I can only call a suppressed scream. - -Her look and tone took me aback as though she had struck me in the face. -For some weeks I had fancied that her nerves were disordered; but, as I -finished my cigar in solitude, I felt that this night marked a subtle -change in my relations with her. To this day I cannot tell when it -began. We had been married little more than a year; before that, for ten -years, we had been excellent friends. At first I believe she told me -every thought in her heart; and there were times when I wished for both -our sakes that she would think less and say less about what could not be -mended. As though I had put my wish into words, her manner changed at -the armistice: we were to make a new start, she was to forget her love -for Eric Lane; and, after that, an onlooker would have said that she -belonged to me, soul and body. She and I alone knew that, in some way, -we were becoming strangers. Though she was bored with Cannes after the -first week, she never told me; she might be bored with the life of a -political hostess, but loyalty or lack of confidence kept her silent. -She would not admit that she was ill or unhappy; but something now -tortured her beyond bearing. - -And I was afraid to ask her. In all that touched her soul, I was a -stranger, an amateur and a bungler. Something of this must have revealed -itself in my expression, for on her return to the dining-room she put -her arms round my neck and told me not to look so worried. - -“I’m worried about you,” I said. - -“But I swear to you I’ve never felt better in my life! Come on; or we -shall miss the only act worth hearing!” - -I followed her, more worried than ever. If I said nothing, I should seem -callous; if I said anything, I might inflame her misery. I knew her too -little for any idea what she wanted of me; and she trusted me too little -to help by a hint. At this rate, she would become every day more -uncommunicative; and each unanswered appeal for understanding would -separate her farther from me. - -“If _ever_ there’s anything the matter,” I said, as we got into the car, -“I hope you’ll tell me, Babs.” - -“Everything’s _perfect_,” she answered. “A darling house, a darling -husband.” . . . Her voice suddenly lost its false ring of assurance. -“No, the fault’s in _me_ somewhere. There’s something missing. Don’t -let’s talk about it.” - -At the unexpected quaver, I caught her fingers in mine; and she brushed -away a tear with the back of my hand. Though no more was said, I felt -that something more ought to have been said and that I was a moral -coward for not saying it. In the silence and darkness of the car, I -wondered whether Barbara was unhappy because she had been given no sign -that she was to bear children. For all I knew, she did not want them or -was afraid; for all I knew, she wanted them and could not bear them and -was afraid to tell me. And we were both afraid to confess our fear. - - 3 - -When we reached the opera-house, the second act was over; and, on the -way to our box, we ran the gauntlet of a dozen friends, who invited us -to meals, and of a hundred staring strangers, who turned to their -neighbours and whispered: “There’s Lady Barbara!” with the mingled -triumph and awe which the English display when they recognize any idol -of the illustrated papers. - -“One gets used to anything, even the manners of the well-bred,” I -murmured, as we struggled towards the stairs. - -“If any one else asks us to lunch, I shall say we’ve given up -eating. . . . Oh, I _must_ speak to Marion! You go on.” - -I ploughed slowly into an open space by the entrance to the pit-tier -boxes, then came to an involuntary standstill. Face to face, too near -for either of us to escape, I found Eric Lane smoking a cigarette and -looking over my shoulder to the place where Barbara was talking to Mrs. -Shelley. Unless she had already seen him and was lingering behind till I -had made myself a screen, they must meet in another moment. Eric never -had much colour to lose, but even his lips now seemed bloodless. When -our eyes met, I could not have said which was the more uncomfortable. I -enquired after his father, I believe; and he asked me, as he had been in -Japan at the time of our wedding, to accept his belated good wishes now. - -“When are we to have another play?,” I asked. - -“This autumn, I hope,” he answered. - -“Good for that. Well, Eric, I little thought in the old Phoenix Club -days that we were entertaining a genius unawares.” - -“They were g-good days,” he sighed. - -Then there was a pause; and the cordiality which old habit had brought -to life wilted. As he glanced in Barbara’s direction, I fancy he was -charging her with making our friendship impossible; this second sight of -her seemed to incapacitate him; and we stood stockishly silent. When she -joined us, there was, indeed, a smile on either side, a high and rather -breathless “Oh, how do you do?” Then we hurried to our box; and Eric -strolled across the hall. His hand was shaking as he tried to relight -his cigarette; and the hollow eyes and cadaverous cheeks seemed ten -years older for the ten seconds’ encounter. - -Was it a presentiment of this meeting that had unnerved Barbara? I had -no time to speak before we were surrounded by a new throng. It was her -first appearance at Covent Garden; and from the boxes and stalls we had -opera-glasses trained upon us until I seemed to be looking at a tank of -lobsters; a queue formed outside our door and we were flattened against -the side of the box. The acclamation was not confined within a ring of -our friends: I felt the atmosphere of the whole house warming in the -greatest tribute to personality that I have ever seen. - -“I watched you coming in to-night,” Dr. Gaisford told her at the end. -“It was like the sun breaking through. . . . How are you, my dear child? -As you don’t come to see me professionally, I hope that means you’re -well and happy?” - -“Everything’s _perfect_,” Barbara cried, with a conviction that had been -lacking when she used the same words earlier. As we settled ourselves in -the car, she added joyously: “How sweet every one is! Marion wants us to -choose a night for dining with her next week. And I’ve committed you to -the Pinto de Vasconcellos the week after. And Bobbie Pentyre wants us to -go to Croxton one week-end. Can you remember all that? And will you -come?” - -“Anywhere you like,” I promised. “You seem to have had rather a success -to-night, Babs.” - -“It’s a good world! I’ve got back my grip on life. . . . I feel _free_,” -she went on with a note of wonder; and her hand stole shyly into mine as -though we were composing a quarrel: “George dear, I’m sorry to have been -unsatisfactory, sorry to have worried you. I promised on Armistice Day -that I wouldn’t speak of certain people. You can’t help thinking of -them, but since to-night I’m not . . . haunted. _Seeing_ Eric has broken -the spell. . . . I can meet him now. I’m going to. Madame Pinto said he -was coming to her party.” - -Remembering Eric’s look of anguish when he caught sight of Barbara, I -felt that the greatest kindness she could shew him would be to prevent -further meetings. It was folly, I thought, for her to invite him to our -first reception, it was madness to expect that he would come; and, if I -said nothing at the time, it was for fear she would imagine that I was -jealous. - -“Make things as easy as you can for him,” I recommended. - -“We can give him the opportunity of being friends again.” - -“And don’t be hurt if he doesn’t take it. Men of that kind, imaginative -and highly-strung . . . In his way, he is a bit of a genius.” . . . - -“I gave him that,” she murmured with a pride which I thought ill-timed. -“He had only talent before.” - -To judge by appearances, Eric had paid dearly for his goddess’ kiss. - -“They feel things more intensely,” I continued, “than dull, -matter-of-fact people like me.” - -Barbara made no answer for several minutes; then she looked straight -ahead and asked: - -“Wouldn’t you feel it as much if you lost me?” - -“I should feel it more than anything in the world.” - -“It’s broken Eric. He’ll never be mended. But it wouldn’t break you?” - -Faint though the challenge was, I fancied, for the first time in my -life, that Barbara was trying to drag me into a ‘scene’. - -“We won’t talk about it,” I said. - -“I don’t think anything would break you. And you may take that how you -like.” - -The words may have been her tribute to flint-like resolution or her -criticism of wooden insensibility. The way that I decided to take them -was in silence. Barbara hid her face in the great nosegay of carnations -which she always carried, then held them out, like an impulsive child, -for me to smell. As she walked, slender, tall and radiant, into the -house, I felt that this was the day which I had waited fourteen months -to see dawning. - -“Yes, I had quite a success,” she murmured to her reflection, when we -paused in front of a mirror halfway up the stairs. “You seem surprised, -George.” - -“I don’t know how any one could hope to resist you,” I said. “_I_ never -can.” - -The South American dinner to which Barbara had committed me marked our -grudging surrender to a lady whose hospitality was rapidly breaking the -_morale_ of London. Madame Pinto de Vasconcellos, if her ambitions had -been examined before the judgement-seat, must have confessed a -resolution to force free wine, food and tobacco on a larger number of -victims than had fallen to any other Brazilian. Setting out with an -introduction to the Duchess of Ross and a system of snowball -terrorization for every one else, she secured B for her parties by -playing on his fear of hurting A’s feelings. - -“She is a stranger to London,” the duchess explained to Lady Crawleigh -in a tone that hid natural exultation under less natural pity. “I should -like to shew her a little hospitality.” - -Lady Crawleigh had been caught too often in similar traps to forget -that, while Herrig Castle and Ross House remained unlet, no one was -secure; but, like every one else, she tried to shelter herself behind a -substitute. Madame Pinto, she told Barbara, had heard so much of her -“beautiful daughter”; it would be only a kindness to accept one of her -many invitations. - -When I pointed out that the whole English-speaking world had heard so -much of Barbara, my mother-in-law rejoined wistfully that it was a small -thing to ask, that she did not ask much and that she would not have -asked now if she had imagined we should make difficulties. Remembering -the unsteady concordat which was the best that a heretic and a radical -could ever hope to establish with the Crawleighs, I urged Barbara to -capitulate before I knew that Eric Lane was to be our fellow-guest. Had -I now urged her to refuse, Lady Crawleigh would have had a grievance; -and Barbara might have thought that I had a personal interest in -preventing another encounter. - -Though the dinner passed off pleasantly enough, it had one wholly -unexpected result which changed the course of history for two or three -of Madame Pinto’s guests. Had we refused this invitation, I might not -have seen John Carstairs for another month; had I not seen him, I should -not have asked him to tell me about his recent tour of the Ross estates -in Connemara; had he not told me, I might have contentedly played my -part of absentee landlord for years to come. Carstairs, however, -succeeded in frightening me with his stories of impending Irish trouble. -The precarious peace, he said, might break down at any moment. As -trustee for his half-witted brother, he was anxious to sell at any -sacrifice and advised me to do the same. Whether I sold or not, I should -be a fool if I did not at least visit an estate which I had neglected -since the Easter rising of 1916. - -Our chance conversation was the cause of my first serious disagreement -with Barbara. Before parting with a property that had been in the family -for three hundred years, I told her that we must explore the conditions -of the County Kerry for ourselves. In my suggestion that we should go to -Lake House for Whitsuntide she acquiesced at once, only stipulating that -she should be allowed to stay behind at the last moment if the crossing -threatened to be very rough. Next morning I reserved our sleepers and -arranged with Spence-Atkins to postpone his own holiday and to take -charge of our paper till my return; in the evening she warned me, rather -fretfully, that she might not feel well enough to come. I asked if she -would care for me to send for Gaisford; but, after a night’s rest, she -assured me buoyantly that she was all right. I telegraphed to warn my -agent of our coming; and, when I read out his reply, Barbara exclaimed -with almost hysterical passion that, well or ill, in fine weather or -foul, nothing would induce her to come with me to Ireland. - -“Well, do you mind my leaving you alone here?,” I asked, when I had -recovered my breath. - -“No. Bobbie Pentyre has arranged his Croxton party for Whitsuntide.” - -“But why didn’t you tell me that before? I could have gone another week. -Now I’ve made Spence-Atkins cancel his own plans . . .” - -“Oh, you’d better stick to your present arrangement,” she answered. -Then, for some reason that I could not guess, she broke into wild -weeping. “I’m so miserable! I’m mad! I don’t know what I’m saying! -George, I’m sorry I was rude.” - -“You weren’t rude,” I assured her. - -“I’ve not slept for nights and nights,” she gasped. “You’ve been very -patient with me. Go on being patient, go on loving me! I’m so -miserable.” . . . - -This time I determined to be a moral coward no longer: - -“But why?” - -“Oh, I’ve told you! Because I’m a damned soul. I told you that when you -asked me to marry you.” - -“And I told you that I’d make you happy or die in the attempt. There’s -nothing I won’t do . . .” - -In her first convulsion of grief, Barbara had allowed me to take her -into my arms; but, as she became more composed, I felt her struggling -gently to be free. - -“You really mean that?,” she asked, with her head averted. “If it meant -your honour, your life, your happiness, you’d give all that to see me -happy?” I fancied again that she was challenging me and that, if I made -unguarded reservations, I should be told that I did not love her as Jack -Waring and Eric Lane had loved her. The second, as she believed, was -paying with his life; the first had already paid with his soul. “I don’t -know what I’m saying!” she cried, with her hands pressed to her temples. -“I’m worried . . . No, I won’t see a doctor. You go off as you arranged. -I’ll go to Croxton if I feel in the mood. When you come back, I may be -all right; if not . . .” - -She stared distractedly round the room in a way that reminded me of the -sad, mad time when Eric first went out of her life. - -“But you _will_ be all right,” I assured her. - -“If I’m not, remember you married a lost soul, George; I warned you. I -kill whatever I touch.” . . . - - 4 - -It is hardly to be imagined that I carried a light heart to Ireland. And -the state of the country at this time was not of a kind to cure any -private depression. In 1916 I entered Dublin as an academic nationalist, -who had voted year after year with the staunch, self-effacing -Redmondites; I left as a perfervid Sinn Feiner, when the men who had -played with me as boys five-and-twenty years before were shot off their -crazy barricades or done to death by a mockery of legal forms. Then for -the first time, face to face with a people cheated of its promised -independence, I too said that no trust was to be reposed in English -honour and no sane leadership expected from men who believed in English -pledges. Through weary years we liberals had fought constitutionally for -our Home Rule Bill; it was inscribed on the Statute Book in spite of -intrigues and intimidation; but treason triumphed over constitutionalism -on the day when Germany made war in the belief that an Irish guerilla -would keep Great Britain from taking part. - -Melancholy memories and uneasy forebodings were my companions on the -familiar road to Holyhead. I was dining with my uncle Bertrand on the -night when the Home Rule Act was suspended; he at least had protested -and perhaps he was a little self-righteous, but in 1916 I was to -remember his grim prediction that from the breach of that undertaking, -which every party in parliament helped to repudiate, would follow -inevitably the discredit of the simpleton nationalists and the rise of -Sinn Fein. The rebellion, which he foretold so accurately, was succeeded -by a repression, which he and every one else knew would continue until -the next rebellion. Sinn Fein, in these first months of the armistice, -was penetrating the country peacefully; but even John Carstairs, who -usually advocated the use of machine-guns and aeroplanes against -political opponents, recognized that there would be war if the present -army of occupation interfered. As yet there were only sporadic outrages -on both sides, followed by reprisals, followed by counter-reprisals. As -always happens, the non-combatants, squeezed by both sides, suffered -most. - -On this score, when at last I reached Lake House, I had no personal -complaint to make. My agent told me that certain Sinn Feiners had been -billeted on me and certain stores of food commandeered; my gun-room had -been emptied; but both my cars, after a short period of detention, were -returned with a permit from republican headquarters. This, I believe, -made them liable to seizure by the forces of the crown; but my agent -warned me that any license which recognized the authority of Dublin -Castle would cause the cars to be taken and not restored. And nothing in -Kerry tempted the Castle to send its emissaries so far into hostile -territory. If I abstained from provocative acts or speeches, I should be -left in peace. - -“They like you,” my agent was good enough to tell me; “and it’s what -they’re all saying, that you should be living here.” - -“Are the tenants paying me any rent?,” I asked. - -“They are.” - -I drifted away by myself to see how well the house would suit Barbara. -The lake was like a sheet of glass, in a frame of dense green wood, -hanging from the gardens by the red ribands of the fuchsia hedges. Here -and there I saw thin spirals of smoke: it was turf smoke, though I could -not smell it. From Castlemaine, in the west, the air blew soft and salt -from the Atlantic. I cursed the malevolence of man that disturbed such -peace and desecrated such beauty. I cursed, too, the fate that had sent -me to an English school, because there was none good enough in Ireland, -so robbing me of one home without giving me another. - -“I’m a married man,” I told my agent, “since last I was here. I don’t -care to bring my wife over till things are more settled.” - -That, he assured me regretfully, was what every one said; but I should -be comfortable enough if I did not make trouble. He was himself an -avowed republican, not from any hostility to the king, whom he admired, -nor from devotion to the forms and spirit of republicanism: he wanted -peace; and, whether Sinn Fein would achieve it or not, no other party -had succeeded. Sinn Fein was feared, if not respected; and the English -only remembered Ireland when they were frightened. If Redmond and his -lot had put the fear of God into the English one half as well as the -others, they would be lords and ministers and the rest now, like Mr. Law -and the man who prosecuted Roger Casement. My agent disapproved of Sir -Edward Carson’s politics but admired him as the Irishman who had put -more fear of God into the English than any one since Parnell. - -The one sentimental relaxation that this hard-headed, soft-spoken man -allowed himself was that Parnell was still alive and would come back to -lead Ireland. - -“If I could find a purchaser . . .” I began. - -“An Englishman? The house would be burnt over your honour’s head if the -whisper of it ran round!” - -“Then,” I said, “I may as well be getting back to London.” - -My agent protested with touching fervour, but I was uneasy at being -separated from Barbara. Two days after I landed at Kingston, she -telegraphed: “_Missing you dreadfully hope you arrived safely and are -coming back immediately all my love bless you_”; and, if her language -seemed still a trifle neurotic, she had almost recovered her -tranquillity by the time she wrote to describe the Whitsuntide party at -Croxton Hall. The week-end had been uneventful; and, though Eric Lane -was in the house, I could not read any embarrassment between the lines -that described their meeting. The nervous excitability, however, of -which I had seen too much evidence in London, betrayed itself once in a -comment on a rumour: “_You remember the Miss Maitland you met with the -O’Ranes? She’s here. A pretty little thing! Obviously in love with Eric. -I’d give anything to see him happily married, but I hope he’s not -serious about this child. She’s too hopelessly young, she’d send him mad -in a week. It’ll be too tragic if he lets another woman make a mess of -his life._” The next day Barbara telegraphed again, telling me once more -how much I was being missed and offering to join me at Lake House. - -I returned to London as soon as I had finished my business and was met -at Euston by a shivering form in a scarlet tea-gown and an ermine cloak. - -“You crazy child, you’ll give yourself pneumonia!,” I cried as I hurried -her into the car through a double line of smiling porters. - -“That’s a pretty way to greet me when I’ve stayed up all night for -you!,” Barbara laughed. “I _am_ glad to see you again, George, though -that wasn’t why I came to meet you. It’s your little friend Ivy -Maitland: she’s gone down suddenly with appendicitis.” - -“Well, I’m very sorry, of course . . .” I began. - -“Yes, dear, but we must do something about it. You know she was acting -as Eric’s secretary while his own girl had a holiday? Yes! And this -child has collapsed in his flat. Dr. Gaisford’s attending her; and he -says she’s not to be moved on any consideration whatsoever. When I heard -about it last night, I felt we _must_ offer Eric a couple of rooms till -she can return home. Things being as they are, though . . .” Barbara -faltered and turned away. “It’s all such a muddle that I thought I -couldn’t ask him without your permission.” - -From her consulting me, I surmised that she doubted the wisdom of her -impulse. From my knowledge of Eric, I imagined he would sleep on the -Embankment before he accepted a bed from us. If Barbara wished to make a -sign of friendship, however, I would not check her. - -“You don’t need my permission,” I said. “If you think it will do any -good for us to invite him . . .” - - 5 - -We received our answer before the invitation could be sent. At the end -of breakfast, Lady John Carstairs telephoned to say that she had herself -placed her house at Eric’s disposal, but that he preferred to remain in -Ryder Street till the girl was out of danger. On my way to Fetter Lane, -I left some flowers and a card bidding Eric to let us know if we could -be of any service; but we heard nothing till a week later, when O’Rane -telephoned to catch me for five minutes before I went to bed. - -“I couldn’t get round before,” he apologized, “and I thought you ought -to know. Poor old Eric! He’s getting all his troubles in a lump. Where’s -Babs? I’m afraid she ought to hear this, too.” - -I was under the impression that she had gone to bed half an hour before; -but I heard sounds in the drawing-room, almost as though she had -expected news of Eric and was staying up because it was bad news. - -“What’s happened to him now?,” I asked, as we went upstairs. - -“He’s been ordered abroad immediately,” O’Rane answered. “California. -Lungs.” - -I do not know whether Barbara heard more than the last word; but she -seemed to rise from her chair and cross the room in a single movement. -O’Rane’s expression changed to wonder and then softened to pity as she -caught and gripped his hand. No name had been mentioned in her hearing; -but I think we both realized that he and I and all the world—with one -exception—might be ordered to California for our lungs without striking -an equal terror into her heart. In that moment I knew how far I had -always been from winning her love. - -O’Rane, I feel, atoned for want of sight by keenness of hearing. I -fancied that a little of the pity in his expression might be intended -for me. - -“Is he . . . dying?,” Barbara whispered. - -“Not yet awhile.” O’Rane withdrew his hand to feel for a chair. I -thought I saw his expression changing again, this time hardening -slightly as though to keep the flash-point of her emotions low or, -perhaps, to douse them with a single chilling jet. “He can get all right -if he wants to. You may imagine, he’s rather bowled over at present.” As -he turned to me, I felt that he wanted Barbara to hear his next -announcement without being watched. “It came quite suddenly,” he told -me; “and, but for this, you’d have seen him happily married to Ivy -Maitland.” If Barbara gave any sign of interest, I saw and heard -nothing. O’Rane took time to let his announcement sink in; and I fancied -again that he was tacitly advising her to close her side of an account -which Eric had already closed against her. If she chose to think that he -was still in love with her and that his engagement to Ivy was an act of -despair, no argument would cure her; at least there was now no reason -why this shadow should force its way between us any longer. “It’s rather -a facer,” O’Rane continued, “when you lose your wife and your health on -the same day. I’ve been telling him all evening that no woman in the -world is big enough to spoil a man’s life, but at the moment he’s in the -mood to creep into a corner and die. He’s too good for that. I want you -to see him before he starts, George; and write to him while he’s away.” - -Naturally, I promised without hesitation. If Barbara sent a letter of -farewell, she said nothing to me about it; when I told her next day that -I was going to Ryder Street on my way to the office, she nodded -abstractedly but made no suggestion of accompanying me; and, on my -return, she sat like a spirit of tragedy, refusing to ask me the result -of my mission, till I volunteered to tell her. - -“By the way, I missed Eric this morning,” I said. - -“Oh? Had he gone already?,” she asked. - -“The maid said he was not at home,” I answered; and, mercifully for me, -Barbara did not enquire further. - -A less diplomatic version would have recounted that, as I hurried round -to Ryder Street, I saw Eric getting out of the taxi in front of me. His -front-door slammed as I was halfway up the stairs; and, when I said -something to the maid about being one of his older friends, I was -informed that Miss Maitland was still seriously ill. Divining that Miss -Maitland could not be occupying all the rooms in the flat, I scribbled a -note in which I begged Eric to see me for two minutes. A verbal message -apprised me that Mr. Lane was engaged; and I went away, more hurt, I -believe, than ever in my life before. Since his interrupted romance with -Ivy, the fellow could bear me no grudge for marrying the woman he had -tried so long to win; our friendship went back, sixteen years, to Oxford -and the dinners of the Phœnix. There were not too many survivors from -those days; and, coming to sympathize, I had seen my sympathy flung back -in my face. I made every allowance for his illness and misery; but I -could not write to him, at least for the present and, when a letter from -him, several months later, hurtled like a flask of vitriol from -California to England, I was too nearly blinded to attempt an answer. - -“Will you call again?,” asked Barbara perfunctorily. - -“I don’t suppose he wants to be bothered,” I said. - -There was a long silence; and Barbara’s shoulders moved in a slight -shrug: - -“I don’t suppose he wants to be friends. I tried, when we met at -Croxton; but, when there’s been love, I don’t think you can go back to -friendship.” She looked at me almost guiltily; and for an embarrassed -moment I feared that I was to be drawn into yet one more unwanted -confidence. Then, changing her mind, she walked slowly to the fire and -stood with the dancing flames reflected in her sombre eyes. “I’m . . . -_glad_ he’s going,” she murmured at last. “I’ve not really been myself -since I met him again, whatever I told you about feeling free. When you -wanted me to come with you to Ireland . . . I was mad. I’ll go with you -now, if you like . . . anywhere. We’ve talked so often about a fresh -start: I can make it now. I _do_ want our life to be a success. If -there’s anything I can do . . .” - -“You can’t do more than you’re doing at present,” I said. - -With a sudden turn, Barbara flung her arms about my neck and hid her -face against my chest. - -“Is there nothing more that you want?,” she asked. “Don’t say ‘your -happiness’! I know you want that, darling. Don’t you want anything for -yourself? Don’t you want me to be like other women? Don’t you want me to -have children?” - -“Most men want children,” I said, “but women have to bear them.” - -“Yes . . . I’ve always wanted children and I’ve always been afraid of -them. I’m still afraid, . . . but I’m going to have one now, George, -. . . for your sake. You’re pleased? Hold me tight, darling, and promise -me one thing. If anything goes wrong . . .” - -“But, good God . . .!,” I began. - -“It _may_. If anything _does_ go wrong and one of us has to die, promise -you’ll let it be me!” - -I was dispensed from answering by Barbara’s sudden surrender to -hysterics. When she was recovered, I put her to bed and sent for -Gaisford; as soon as he allowed her up, I took her to Crawleigh Abbey -and left her to recuperate from something which the doctor described -enigmatically as “a nervous breakdown that didn’t come off”. - -“I’ve been expecting this for years,” he told me. “And for years I’ve -felt that she’d be a healthier, happier woman when she had some brats to -look after. This business about Eric Lane must have been a shock to -her.” - -“Well, thank Heaven, that’s all over,” I said. - -“At last,” Gaisford grunted. “If you’re going down to Crawleigh . . .” - -“I shall stay here, except for week-ends, unless I’m sent for,” I -interrupted. “This is going to be a busy time. The peace terms are to be -signed within the next few days.” - -“I wonder what kind of mess they’ve been making out there,” Gaisford -mused. - -“You’re convinced it _will_ be a mess?” - -“My dear George, when two human beings get together, they always make a -big mess,” he answered with more than his usual misanthropy; “and I’ve -known human beings who could make a fair-sized mess with their four -unaided paws.” - - 6 - -The peace of Versailles was celebrated in London with thanksgivings by -day and fireworks at night. - -“I wonder why,” said Bertrand sadly. - -“Lady Dainton wants me to bring you to her party at the Excelsior,” I -said, though, when he repeated: “I wonder why”, it was not easy to find -a convincing answer. - -“Are _you_ going?” he asked suspiciously, as though I were revenging -myself on him for my dinners in Rutland Gate. - -“Yes,” I answered. “I wonder why myself; but I’m a bachelor at present -and I must dine somewhere.” - -“All right,” sighed my uncle; and, on that, we drove to the office and -sat until seven o’clock considering the terms and discussing, with -Spence-Atkins and any one else who drifted in, what the future policy of -our paper was to be. - -For several weeks the dearth of news in Fetter Lane and the claims of -outside interests had brought our fragile bantling to the verge of death -by starvation. Ministers, I thought, revealed a shrewd knowledge of -mass-psychology in denying us all news of the conference. - -“Kid asks for a thing,” explained Sir Philip Saltash, when I loosed a -grumble in his hearing; “you refuse it; kid screams. Go on refusing it; -kid goes on screaming. Go on refusing still; kid thinks of something -else.” - -By July, even the press had almost ceased to scream; parliament had long -been silent; and the country was probably thinking of a prize-fight. My -own record was representative of the vast majority: I went to my office -six days a week, I continued the farce of exploring London to find what -people were thinking, I supported a wall at the parties which my wife -gave to please my uncle; but such intellectual energy as I possessed had -been devoted at one moment to my private affairs in Ireland, at another -to O’Rane’s inheritance and again at another to the havoc which poor -Eric Lane’s return had wrought in my life with Barbara. At our editorial -dinners I was chiefly concerned to see that we had enough readable -matter of any kind to fill twenty-four pages. Like the child in -Saltash’s parable, I was now indifferent; and, when at last the great -secrets which we had screamed to know were flung to us in bulk, we were -mildly bored. - -“I warned you at Cannes how it would be,” said Bertrand; then he lapsed -into unhelpful silence. - -“You heard what they were saying in Paris?,” asked Spence-Atkins. “‘The -seeds of a great and durable war’.” - -“Meanwhile,” I said, “as our first article will be on the treaty . . .?” - -We had reached no decision by the time my uncle and I adjourned for -dinner with the Daintons; if seventy men out of London’s seven millions -understood what kind of peace had been made, I do not believe that seven -men of the seventy cared by now whether it was a good peace or a bad. - -“Indifference! Indifference!,” Bertrand sighed. “If you compare this -night with the day of the armistice . . . We said ‘never again!’; and we -meant it. Now, though half the world’s still in mourning, we’re racing -along a road that will put the other half in mourning.” - -“I suppose you can never repeat your emotions,” I ventured, as I -followed his gaze over the packed restaurant. “The war ended at the -armistice; people say ‘All right! It’s _still_ ended.’” - -“And they’re not interested to see whether the present world is built on -quicksand.” - -“No one can say _we_ haven’t done our best to warn people,” I said -wearily, as the Daintons came into the lounge. - -“No one but a fool would say that any one had paid the slightest -attention to our warnings,” Bertrand rejoined. “The harm’s done now. -That phase is over.” - -As we went in to dinner, Lady Dainton told me that the scene was quite -like 1914. From a long and intimate acquaintance with her no less than -from the ring of pleasure in her voice, I realized that this was her -return from exile: for thirty years she had lived and laboured to enter -what she considered the “right” houses and to secure the “right” people -in her own. The war had thrown her out of work; but she could begin -again now. One of her sons had been killed, the other wounded; her -daughter had disappointed the family by marrying O’Rane and shocked it -by running away from him; for the Daintons, who had worked as hard as -any one, it had not been a pleasant or an easy war; and now Lady Dainton -was dismissing it as a regrettable incident, least said, soonest mended. -She was not wanting in affection for her dead son nor for the son who -would be among the first to die if another war came; but she was by now -too inelastic to remodel her daily life, still less to attempt -improvements on the scene of 1914 when there were no ‘profiteers’, no -‘temporary gentlemen’, no six-shilling income-tax, no bloated wages for -insatiable domestic servants. - -“You think it will last?,” I enquired. - -“I feel sure it will,” she answered. “It’s to _all_ our interests, don’t -you know?, to keep the big houses open, to have plenty of employment, -money circulating. . . . Of course, if the socialists had their way -. . . but I don’t think there’s much socialism in England, George. The -war has thrown people together so much. The agitators simply wouldn’t be -able to make a living if they weren’t paid from abroad. There’s a little -book I must send you on the Jewish peril.” . . . - -A new taste for spreading scares was the only change that I could detect -in my hostess. Whereas she had occupied herself before the war by -sitting on endless committees, she reached a larger public now by -sitting at home and inundating her friends with pamphlets on bolshevism, -prohibition, the white-slave traffic, secular education and every other -danger that threatened, day by day, to sap the security of England. Sir -Roger, I fancy, had changed even less. Whereas he had formerly jobbed in -and out of wild-cat industrial securities, he now dabbled in the more -chaotic of the European exchanges. Sonia danced; Sam had left his firm -of contractors in Hartlepool for a vague “agency-business” of his own in -London; Tom Dainton’s widow had married again; and I believe this single -family could have been reproduced, in every detail of history and -circumstance, in almost every town and county throughout Great Britain -and Ireland. - -“George not being pessimistic, is he?,” Sir Roger enquired genially, as -we settled into our places. - -“I confess I don’t like the outlook,” I said; and for the life of me I -could not imagine how any one enjoyed the prospect of a peace abroad -that was nothing but a silent war. My volatile host had been -sufficiently dissatisfied a few days before when the labour party, -realizing that the government was properly contemptuous of its servile -supporters in the House of Commons, threatened the “direct action” of a -general strike. Dainton knew; and I knew; and every man with a -smattering of economic history knew that the present boom would be -followed by a disastrous slump. “Things seem too good to last.” - -The flow of geniality ran suddenly dry. - -“You’d be the first to complain if they did,” said Dainton; and his tone -surprised me out of a reply till I noticed his flushed face and watery -eyes. “My friend George has great qualities,” he continued, with -malicious jocularity, to the table at large, “but he’s no great shakes -as a prophet. Before the war he told us there would be no war; when it -came, he said it could never end one way or the other; now that it’s -ended, he says it _must_ start again. Cheerful customer, George.” - -I might have reminded him that in the nineties he was prophesying an -inevitable war with Russia, in the nineteen-hundreds with France. I -might have asked him to reconcile the treaty of Versailles with the -fourteen points. I might have enquired whether he would keep his -promises of the December election that the kaiser should be hanged and -the whole cost of the war covered by a German indemnity. In the -interests of a quiet dinner, I said nothing; Dainton, as a political -barometer, was more valuable to me than Dainton as a political -controversialist. I realized for the first time that the class which he -represented would be our most aggressive antagonists when we worked to -secure a sane peace. Thanks to the determination of the French prime -minister and the vacillation of our own, he was enabled to go back -impenitently to the mood of his election address. No longer speaking of -“Wilson, _le bienvenu_”, he had discovered in the president an insidious -agent for strengthening Germany and weakening France. Forgetting his -earlier lip-service to the League of Nations, he paraded comparative -populations and, in my hearing that night, based his hopes of enduring -peace on “bleeding Germany white and keeping her white”. - -I had not, for several months, mentioned the inflammatory fourteen -points: had I done so, Dainton might have retorted that President Wilson -had himself departed from them by throwing his lot in with M. Clemenceau -and Mr. Lloyd-George. I did not discuss the equity of the peace terms. I -discussed very little with Dainton; but I tried, as I had been trying -all day, to envisage the new world which circumstances and the efforts -of the peace conference were labouring to bear. Russia was in the grip -of revolution, civil war and famine; Germany, Austria, Hungary and Italy -might follow at any moment; the map of Europe was dotted with strangely -named, new, self-governing republics, alike only in their complete -ignorance of self-government; as we were soon to see, there was no -European police to restrain the Italian who might be inspired to seize -Fiume or the Rumanian who was tempted to march on Buda Pesht; the League -of Nations had been invested with no power; and the world outside -Europe, from India to Egypt and from Ireland to the Philippines, had -been taught the magic word “self-determination” and had realized its -possibilities more vividly than those who coined it. - -In an unguarded moment I did ask Dainton whether he imagined that the -Germans could ever pay the indemnity which he had so sternly demanded. -He believed it confidently. How, I asked him; but Dainton told me that -he was not in the mood to split hairs: if they could pay it, they should -(and the allies would remain in occupation till the last penny had been -handed over); if the Hun ruined himself in the attempt, as I seemed to -think likely, it would be something to feel that he would never again -menace the world. - -“And if he ruins us too?,” I asked. “Economically, the whole world is -knitted together. If the Russian revolution spreads to Germany?” - -“It won’t spread here,” Dainton answered in happy forgetfulness of -earlier speeches against the corrupting influence of those Russian and -German agents who controlled British trades unions. “Our people are too -sensible. You’re very gloomy, George! This won’t do at all. Drink up -that cocktail and let’s begin our dinner.” - -As I looked round on the scene of peace, now officially proclaimed, I -reflected that five years, all but a few days, had passed since I -strolled on to the valley-terrace at Chepstow, to smoke a cigarette -between dances; it seemed less than five weeks since Colonel Farwell -walked diffidently out of the darkness to say that, while war had not -yet been declared, it was prudent for all officers to be in touch with -their depots. They had gone, those first, in a spirit of routine -enlivened by adventure; they were followed by men who went in a spirit -of bewilderment clarified by sacrifice. The bewilderment passed; and the -sacrifice turned to resignation. Soon the resignation became fatalism: -every one went because every one else was going; none expected to come -back, and, of those who went first, few were cheated of their -expectation. Now we were celebrating the end of a war that dwarfed the -campaigns of Napoleon to so many intermittent brawls. - -I must have spoken the name, for my uncle caught at it eagerly: - -“Seventeen-ninety-three, eighteen-fifteen,” he murmured. -“Nineteen-fourteen, nineteen-nineteen. Napoleon ended the middle ages -and changed the map. Have we begun anything, ended anything, changed -anything? We spilt a paint-box over the atlas; but will the colours -stick? Germany and Russia cancel out; the rest of us have to play for -pennies instead of shillings; but have we ended war, have we ended the -nineteenth century, have we done anything but lose a few pawns in the -first moves?” - -“We’d won _everything_ at the armistice!,” I exclaimed. “The world was -ready and willing to be disarmed, ready and willing to accept -arbitration in place of war . . .” - -“What election-cry has a chance against ‘revenge’?,” Bertrand demanded, -with a glance of contempt towards the end of the table, when Dainton was -arguing heatedly with the wine-waiter. “‘The red account is cast’; and -Germany must pay. You and I know that we shall be the first to suffer. -You and I know that these dolts are laying the foundations of the next -war. You and I know that we have some misty world-vision and that we -must work for a united states of Europe and a brotherhood of man. People -won’t listen to us . . . yet. I shall be dead before you’ve cleared the -first unbelievers out of the temple. _Si monumentum requiris_ . . . -George, George, this is a blacker day in the world’s history than the -fourth of August.” - -I have forgotten almost everything about that dinner except the sense of -depression that grew deeper with every advance to gaiety on the part of -my neighbours. We were spared speeches; but at the end our host called -us to our feet for some toast which I did not hear. As I sat down, a -kite’s-tail of coloured paper floated to us from the next table. A giant -bunch of air-balloons was divided among eager hands. Crackers exploded; -and a blare of tin trumpets punctuated the cheeping of wooden whistles. -Perhaps I had spent too many hours that day in discussion that led -nowhere: I suddenly felt that I was not in the mood for such artless -merry-making. - -“_Si monumentum requiris_ . . .” Bertrand repeated. - -At the table from which that tail of coloured paper had been thrown, I -observed my old ally, Sir Philip Saltash, entertaining a party of -friends. Dainton, in acknowledging a bow, informed us that Saltash had -“done as much as any one to win the war”; and, in examining Saltash’s -guests, I felt that the same tribute could be paid to each. Wilmot Dean, -representing a government of new men and new methods, was resting a -flushed face on the bare shoulder of a beautiful and, I should imagine, -wholly brainless mannequin. Lord Lingfield, whose inclusion in the -cabinet shewed that ministers were not indifferent to rank and lineage, -was deep in conversation with a Balkan millionaire who had been -naturalized in time to become private secretary to the needy holder of a -sinecure. And any one with attention to spare had it unpityingly claimed -by Mr. ‘Blob’ Wister, who had won the war by purchasing papers for the -government. - -I did not know the rest. I did not greatly want to know them. If I had -been asked who won the war, I should have named David O’Rane rather than -Wilmot Dean, Lord Loring rather than Lord Lingfield. Saltash’s guests -may have given body and soul to victory; but their material position was -founded on the war. After fine winnowing, we had arrived—in these ‘new -men’—at the governing class of the immediate future: borrowing the name -from ‘Blob’ Wister, they called themselves “realists”, and the -coalitions of 1915 and 1916 had certainly intrigued the “sentimentalist” -in politics to his extinction. Peace was too welcome for me to complain -if it had been ushered in by ministers with more ambition than scruple. -An obsolescent administration may have needed business brains to fit it -for war; a democratic country cannot ignore its press-man and -publicity-agent; and the rich hangers-on of a government only prove that -bricks cannot be made without straw. Of the men who had won the war I -only felt what Bertrand expressed bluntly: - -“They look as if they’d made a damned good thing out of it.” - -“Seventeen-ninety-three, eighteen-fifteen,” I replied. -“Nineteen-fourteen to nineteen-nineteen. We have changed our rulers.” - -“It’s about all we _have_ changed,” Bertrand rejoined. - -Then we stood up as a waiter begged leave to push our table away from -the dancing-floor. Sir Roger, unexpectedly on his feet, exhibited -symptoms of impending oratory, which was checked, at the instigation of -Wilmot Dean, by a well-directed crust of bread from the hand of the -mannequin. The band, for the first time in several years, played the -national anthems of all the allies. Our host ordered more champagne and -then called for his bill. Sonia led off the dancing with Lord Lingfield; -and I invented an excuse to go home to bed. - -The streets round the hotel were too crowded for driving. I told my -chauffeur to get home as best he could and walked with Bertrand into the -quiet backwaters north of Piccadilly. At the door of Loring House we met -my cousin Violet, who insisted on our going the rest of the way in her -car. - -“I’ve missed all the celebrations,” she told us. “I’ve been unveiling -the memorial to Jim at Chepstow.” - -“You’ve not missed very much,” I answered. “Are you satisfied with the -memorial?” - -“Yes. It’s only a medallion in the chapel; and you can only see it from -the corner where I sit. I have . . . rather a horror of the -war-memorials that are being put up everywhere.” - -“They’re the easiest means of forgetting the dead with a good -conscience,” Bertrand suggested. - -“But not the only means,” I said, as a dishevelled vagrant steadied -himself against the bonnet of the car and invited us to a confession of -political faith. - -Its form consisted of question and answer: “_What’s the matter with -Lloyd-George? ’E’s orl right! And what’s the matter with Winston? ’E’s -orl right. What’s the matter with Beatty?_” . . . - -“That fellow is surprisingly like our friend Dainton,” said my uncle. - - - - - PART TWO - - - - - CHAPTER ONE - - - THE NAKEDNESS OF THE LAND - - - “Nothing except a battle lost can be half so - melancholy as a battle won.” - - DUKE OF WELLINGTON: _Despatches_. - - 1 - -On the day after the peace-treaty had been signed, my uncle sent me to -make a political survey of England. If it brought no benefit to England -or to our paper, it provided me with a pleasant holiday and a welcome -break. - -Looking back on my two years’ labours in Fetter Lane, I feel that the -first six months were given to creating an atmosphere. As Bertrand -proclaimed at our inaugural dinner, no lasting peace could be -established on a sense of grievance; and, until the terms of peace were -published, we tried to deflect public attention from crude thoughts of -triumph and cruder hankerings after revenge to a frank desire for mutual -forgiveness and good-will. For twelve months after the treaty was placed -in our hands, we laboured to demonstrate that it was unworkable. And in -the six months during which the peace coalition was tottering to the -fall I received my answer to the old question whether those who could -neither keep peace nor make war were competent to make peace. - -“It won’t do,” Bertrand declared summarily, when we met to discuss our -public attitude to the treaty of Versailles. “‘Revision’ must be our -battle-cry. Revision of the treaty.” - -I fancy I was expressing what Spence-Atkins and Triskett and all of us -had long felt, when I said: - -“Thank God we have a battle-cry at last.” - -“It will not be popular,” predicted my uncle, with his usual love for -being in a minority. “The fools who shouted that we were ‘letting the -Hun off’ will shout more than ever that we’re making the treaty ‘a scrap -of paper’. . . . And yet, if we try to enforce it, all central Europe -will go the way of Russia.” - -“I’m afraid it will be another unpopular cry,” added Jefferson Wright, -“but it’s time we drew attention to the economic position at home. We’re -pouring out money as though the war were still going on.” - -“Our battle-cry, then,” said Bertrand, “must be ‘Produce more and -consume less’.” - -“We shall be told we’re trying to enslave labour. And there’ll be no end -to unemployment when the ‘consuming less’ begins.” - -“We’re here to tell people the truth, even if it’s an unpleasant truth,” -Bertrand rejoined with stern virtue; and our shorthand-writer looked up -encouragingly to see if this also was to be a battle-cry. - -Then, as Wright and Spence-Atkins had been given their orders, he packed -me out of the office to collect material for six articles on _England in -Reconstruction_. - -“The great pulse of the people,” he ordained as my objective. “London’s -a hot-house: abnormal.” - - 2 - -My last duty, before taking the road, was to attend little Ivy -Maitland’s wedding. - -She had wasted no time, I thought, in consoling herself for the loss of -Eric Lane; but the quick decisions and quicker changes of this period -were a conspicuous part of the “abnormality” which my uncle found -devastating London in the first years of peace. We attended the -ceremony, on O’Rane’s entreaty, to support Ivy, who was out of favour -with most of her friends; and we went on to the reception in the hope of -comforting Mr. Justice Maitland, who was deriving a morose satisfaction -from prophesying the inevitable misery which his daughter was laying up -for herself. I seem to possess an irresistible fascination for elderly -bores; and the first chapter in my survey of England might have been -headed: _Maitland on the Decay of Faith and Morals_. - -“It would break your heart,” he told me, “if you listened to some of the -stories I have to hear in the Divorce Court. If young people thought -less of themselves and more of their elders . . . The churches have lost -their grip. Young people don’t take us into their confidence.” - -“Did they ever,” I asked, “where marriage was concerned?” - -The judge pursued his denunciation without a check: - -“Headstrong children like Ivy rush into it quite cynically. Their -deepest affections are not engaged, so they have little to fear from -failure; as for the scandal, none of their friends think the worse of -them.” - -“It’s a reaction from the cramping discipline of the war,” I answered. -“The people who find their way into the Divorce Court are taking their -revenge, in private lawlessness, for long submission to a machine that -had neither body to be kicked nor soul to be damned.” - -If my explanation was heard, it was not answered. - -“One woman, my dear Oakleigh,” the judge recalled sombrely and -unseasonably as his daughter drove away for her honeymoon, “actually -asked me—in court—what was to be done with a husband who insulted her -in public: it was not, she explained, as if they had not a home where he -could do that. It’s terrible!” - -I agreed; but, as I could suggest no remedy, I took my leave and motored -Barbara to Chepstow for a week before we set our hand on the great pulse -of the people in Scotland. Most of the houses where we stayed had been -closed for five years or turned into hospitals; and, as they opened -their doors, I felt that the interrupted play of 1914 was being resumed -on a stage from which all the old actors had departed. The new avenue at -Loring Castle seemed no taller; if the dogs were older, they were for -the most part the same dogs; but the present marquess was a -four-year-old boy whose father was reported missing some eight-and-forty -hours before he himself came into the world. The terrible emptiness of -those days returned to me when I saw Violet walking by herself along the -valley-terrace, where I had walked with her husband on the last night of -peace. - -I wondered how much of Jim Loring’s world would survive into this -child’s manhood. The servant who unpacked for me confided that he was -marking time till he heard of an opening in the colonies. The -house-carpenter, who had married one of the maids, told me that he was -setting up in business with her savings from a munition-works. The -stud-groom engaged me unexpectedly in a discussion of the Pyramids, -which he had visited since last I stayed at Chepstow. At first I thought -that in his blood, too, unrest was stirring; but I discovered later that -the war had only changed his outlook by convincing him of the literal -truth of the Old Testament. - -“Moses . . . and them Pharaohs,” he murmured to himself, looking -dreamily towards the junction of Wye and Severn as though it were the -Red Sea waiting to pile up its waters and let the children of Israel -through. - -He at least had no desire to roam. Grandfather, father and son, the -family had lived and died in sight of the Castle stables; and he would -have repudiated his king before he defaulted in his allegiance to the -Lorings. In Gallipoli, I gathered, there were frothy, worthless -fellows—the scum of midland factories and the dregs of South Welsh -pits—who were ready enough to criticize their betters. Firebrands and -hot-heads, they maintained that their betters had muddled them into the -war and that, if the politicians and the generals had known their job as -well as the hewers and fitters, the flower of an army would not have -been sent to its death in this way. Their “betters”, according to these -critics, had been found out. - -I suggested that the French, in spite of their scientific training, and -the Americans, for all their democratic upbringing had also made -blunders; so, I added, had the Germans; but I was preaching to the -converted. This criticism was the yapping of town-bred curs; and, if -anything exceeded my friend’s devotion to his feudal head, it was his -scorn and hatred for the thieving upstarts of city streets. - -“Then you don’t think anything will come of all this talk?,” I asked. - -“Not while their lazy bellies are full, sir,” he answered. - -How long that would be was one of the problems that Bertrand had sent me -to solve. - -“So long as the price of wheat stops where it is,” one of Violet’s -tenant-farmers told me, “I can make a living. Of course, if her ladyship -raises my rent . . .” He complained of the wages that had to be paid -nowadays to old men and boys for a third of the work that was done -before the war. “I can’t reduce them,” he added. “Why, d’you know, sir, -what a pair of good boots costs you in Chepstow to-day?” - -I have forgotten the figure; but, when I had occasion to make a few -purchases, the shop-keepers apologized for their charges. The cost of -labour and materials had gone up; but you could not reduce them when -living was so expensive. - -“A loaf of bread nowadays . . .” began the bootmaker who was oppressing -the tenant-farmer’s labourer, who was keeping up the price of bread. - -Then he muttered something about “middlemen” and “profiteers”. - -At the other end of the scale, Violet Loring deferred making any -improvements on the Chepstow estate until her tenants paid a rent -commensurate with the high cost of labour and material. She was a rich -woman, by the standard of gross income; but she had three houses in -England, a palace in Scotland and a derelict barrack in Ireland. The -greater part of her income was derived from coal; and the latest -strike-cloud was being illuminated terrifyingly with lightning-forks -that spelt ‘nationalization’. In one paper I read that some Angevin -king, with more generosity than geography, had granted to Sir Humfrey de -Loringe certain lands that were his by right of seizure alone; the -paper—and I with it—knew of no service by Sir Humfrey to the community -at large that justified this grant in perpetuity; and, if right of -seizure was the basis of the Loring estates in one century, right of -seizure—it was suggested—might be the means of expropriating the -Lorings in another. - -“I don’t think there’ll be any confiscation in my time,” said Violet, -“but I have to think of Sandy.” - -And her surplus income was therefore being invested in various -securities of various foreign countries, in the hope that all would not -default at the same moment. - -As I moved to houses less well endowed than my cousin’s, I found the -uneasiness more marked. The Knightriders, taking early advantage of the -boom in real estate, had sold their house in Raglan to a rich -colliery-proprietor; John Carstairs, when we went to stay with him at -Herrig, said that, after this experimental year, he would have to let -the shooting; and our visit to Philip Hornbeck in Yorkshire had to be -cancelled because his wife had suggested a general reduction of wages -and his servants had left her in a body without notice. - -“_Insecurity is the first, universal quality of the times_,” I wrote to -my uncle. - - 3 - -At the beginning of the autumn, a railway-strike assailed the country -with partial paralysis. - -“_It may help_,” wrote Bertrand from the security of London, “_to bring -people to their senses. They think they’re rich because the -printing-presses keep ’em well supplied with depreciated notes. As -usual, Spence-Atkins prophesies a tremendous slump; and that will be -just as unreal as the boom. If people would think in terms of -commodities and services instead of chattering about money!_ - -“_But this is not the worst of the trouble. The triple alliance is a -political engine. Direct action is a political method; the reply of -organized labour to a government that represents no one in particular -and organized labour least of all. This is the first protest against the -1918 election and I’ve been torn in pieces by the tory press for asking -what else any sane man could have expected, when the present House never -tries to control ministers._ ‘Vous l’avez voulu, Georges Dandin.’” - -Barbara and I turned south on the first day of the strike; and, by the -time we reached Crawleigh Abbey, it was over. In the tone of my -father-in-law, however, I detected a new rancour such as I had not met -since the almost daily strikes and lock-outs before the war. Neave had -been warned for duty; and, as he changed out of uniform, I fancied that -father and son were like a pair of reluctant game-cocks, as difficult to -drag out of a fight as to urge in. - -“I regret nothing,” said Crawleigh on the first night, “that shews -labour it can’t hold the country to ransom. If I’d been the prime -minister, though, I’d have recalled every man jack of them to the -colours . . .” - -“And if they refused to come?,” I ventured to interrupt. - -“After being ordered to mobilize?,” asked Neave with the aloof patience -of a Guards officer in teaching a civilian his A.B.C. - -“Yes,” I answered. “In 1914 the regular officer threatened to resign if -he were ordered to put down rebellion in Ulster. That’s never been -quoted, but you may be sure it’s not been forgotten. And if you ever try -to use troops against an industrial strike . . .” - -“I should use troops to protect life and property,” Crawleigh -interposed. “A very few days without trains, and the babies in every -city would die for want of milk. One hopes that these drastic steps will -never be necessary. One hopes the lesson’s been taken to heart.” - -“I hope so too,” I said; but I knew Crawleigh to be only one of many who -regretted that the strike had not been fought to a finish. - -As I began my articles, I noticed sadly that neither he nor Neave, -neither the capitalist press which called our paper “bolshevistic” nor -the labour sheets which damned us with faint, patronizing praise -suggested that strikes and lock-outs ought to be as impossible in a -civilized state as a wheat-corner or that, whoever was to blame and -whoever was punished, the noncombatant majority suffered most. - -“Human nature being what it is . . .” began Sir Roger Dainton, with a -fine affectation of political wisdom, when I put this view before him. - -I had driven Barbara to luncheon at Crowley Court; and throughout the -meal our host droned of high taxation without considering the capital -loss of a strike. - -“Every one’s the poorer for a struggle that has changed nothing and -proved nothing,” I said. - -“In time, perhaps, the agitators will see that,” answered Lady Dainton, -who had been expatiating, from the other end of the table, on -class-hatred and proving in alternate sentences that the man Thomas was -responsible for all this unrest and that Mr. Thomas really seemed the -only person who would stand up to these bolshevists. - -It was at this time that the secret funds on which labour disturbances -throve were discovered—by her—to come from Irish organizations in -America and Jewish societies in Russia; perhaps her brain was tired, but -in the course of one brief conversation the Indian home-ruler, the -modernist in religion, the eccentric in music and the individualist in -dress were all found to be tainted with “bolshevism”. Their -predecessors, I recalled, had all been anarchists. - -“I must send you a little book on _The Soviet Peril_,” promised Lady -Dainton, who at other times and in her untiring search for whipping-boys -had sent me pamphlets on _A Short Way with Profiteers_. - -I refrained from commenting on her husband’s incautious boast that he -had increased his capital twenty _per cent._ since 1914. - -“Are these agitators actually to be found in England?,” I asked. - -Lady Dainton assured me that they were, though neither she nor any one -she knew had actually met one. Not content with fomenting revolution on -earth, they were unseating religion from on high. Communist schools were -springing up to poison youthful minds with secularist literature. So far -as I could make out, she accounted it for enlightenment when her own -friends paraded their scepticism; but, if there had been no god, she -would have invented one for the poorer classes. It was no defence that -the secular propagandist might be a sincere secularist; so long as he -was paid, he stood condemned. - -“By the same test,” I asked, “would you call the clergy of the -Established Church or the officers of the Employers’ Defence League -‘paid agitators’?” - -“Certainly not! Good gracious, why . . .?” she asked in a voice that -faded into the silence of stupefaction. - -The pulse of the Dainton family was the last that I felt before -returning to London and presenting Bertrand with my report on the first -phase of reconstruction. Looking over this review later, I noticed a -_diminuendo_ in the rather robust optimism with which I began. England -was still enjoying superficial plenty; and yet I heard a mutter of -misgiving. Some of the factories were over-producing; finished articles, -of material bought at war prices, had to be sold at post-war prices; -credit became harder to obtain from the banks; and, as the first year of -peace hastened to its close, other people than the Daintons woke to the -unpleasant discovery that income-tax would have to be paid as though the -war were still being waged and that they had for a year, in disregard of -Bertrand’s battle-cries, been producing less and consuming more than -they could afford. - -It was a time to draw in horns. Barbara and I had ordered a new car; and -in a spirit of prudence we decided to cancel the order. Sam Dainton—I -hope, without his mother’s knowledge—gave me £300 for my place in the -waiting-list and made another £300 within two days by selling it to one -of the Jews against whom I was so indefatigably warned. After this one -experience of practical finance and of an “agency-business” as conducted -by Sam, I went back to the unassailable heights of theory; and for the -next six months, until other cares claimed my attention, I watched the -unreal boom of 1919 changing to the unreal slump of 1920. - -The one was no better justified than the other. While the country -clamoured for houses, the building trade clamoured for work; domestic -servants were not to be procured, and the figures of unemployment rose -steeply. Every other country, I read, was working overtime; and our own -exports threatened to dry up. - -“Ever heard of a man called Keynes, George?,” my uncle asked on my -return, tossing me _The Economic Consequences of the Peace_. - -“Yes. I sent my copy to your friend Dainton. It was the least I could do -after the literature that his good lady has been pouring in on me.” - -“What Keynes preaches from inside knowledge is what I’ve been preaching -to you since the armistice.” - -“It’s what our worthy Wright and every other economist would have -preached, if he’d had the figures before him,” I answered. “But have you -seen Keynes’ reception in the press? This country’s still drunk from -armistice night. _People won’t listen._” - -And then I told Bertrand of the psychological discovery that impressed -me most in the whole course of my tour. On the minds of men who had -taken part in the war the printed word had ceased to exert its old -spell. In the first recruiting of 1914 the boys in my old Wiltshire -constituency were forbidden to pluck the blackberries by the roadside, -because a mysterious red car had been abroad, before daylight, -sprinkling the hedges with what was believed to be a strong solution of -typhoid germs. The story was printed in the papers and believed because -it was in print. Five years later the same story—with a Russian or a -Sinn Feiner in charge of the car—might have been believed until it was -published; then it would have been relegated to the teeming limbo of -“newspaper lies”. The captain of the Loring yacht, who had served for -most of the war on an auxiliary cruiser, told me of his amazement on -reading that the _Pelion_, which was at that time his home, had been -sunk by a mine in the North Sea; he was less surprised, though more -aggrieved, to read a year later that his ship, which had lately been -sunk by a torpedo in the Irish Channel, was still convoying troopers in -the Mediterranean. He accepted my explanation that the Admiralty was of -malice aforethought misleading the newspaper-readers of England in the -hope of misleading the German intelligence department; but his faith was -shattered beyond repair. If the press lied to him on matters which he -could check from his own experience, how much more easily it would lie -about defeats and casualties, wages and prices! - -“And in future,” I told Bertrand, “we have to reckon with this -incredulity in addition to all the apathy that’s been breaking our -hearts.” - -“_And_ the misrepresentation,” he sighed with a sensitiveness surprising -in so scarred a fighter to the charge of the Woburn press that he was -selling the French for thirty pieces of German silver. - -“There are times,” I said, “when I feel that only the logic of events -will convince people. Aren’t we wasting our energy, Bertrand? I’ve given -the experiment more than six months’ trial; now I want to get away. -Barbara’s going to have a baby.” . . . - -I could have piled argument on argument if my uncle had resisted me; but -he sat without speaking, his hands crossing and uncrossing themselves -tremulously over the ivory knob of his stick and his eyes set gloomily -on the fire. - -“The logic of events?,” he repeated at length. - -“I don’t believe we shall do any good here till we have a revolution,” I -said, with bitter memories of my battle-piece in its three panels. “A -revolution; or another war.” - -“Our intention was to avert it,” he reminded me. - - 4 - -Because Bertrand made no effort to detain me, I stayed in -London—sullenly protesting that we only bored the converted and -exasperated the inconvertible—till the end of the year. Looking back, I -suppose the autumn brought with it the first signs of returning reason, -though Sir Roger Dainton—more in sorrow than anger—burnt the _Economic -Consequences_ and left me—with anger and sorrow nicely balanced—to buy -myself another copy. It was one thing, however, to concede that the -peace terms were unworkable; it was something quite different to -precipitate a general election in the hope of mending them. The -coalition survived the Paisley election, when Mr. Asquith was drawn to -Westminster through an avenue of cheering crowds; it survived the -awkward questions which the average voter was beginning to frame. And, -so long as it steered clear of another war, it could disregard the -academic questions of sentimental leader-writers who asked if any one -was a penny the better for war and victory. - -“You’ve had a year to get your new heaven and earth into working order,” -said Philip Hornbeck, when I visited him at the Admiralty on the -anniversary of the armistice. “I’ve been tied here so much that I’ve -entirely lost track of the millennium. It’s arrived, I suppose?” - -“A number of people haven’t heard of it yet,” I answered, with my -thoughts on the filibustering expeditions of the last three months. -D’Annunzio had revived memories of Garibaldi by seizing Fiume and -defying the great powers to turn him out; admirals and generals of the -old _régime_ in Russia were being supplied by amateur strategists in -England with arms to crush a revolutionary government in a country that -had never been successfully invaded since the coming of the Tartars. “If -the allies had an agreed policy . . .” - -“You can’t have an agreed policy when you’re not on speaking-terms with -a single one of your neighbours,” Hornbeck retorted. “I invited your -friend Lucien de Grammont . . .” - -“He won’t come if he knows I’m here,” I interrupted. “And I don’t know -that I’m very keen to meet French people at present.” - -It was twelve months, to a minute, since Violet Loring pointed out to -her boy the men who had come from Rhodesia and Japan, Portugal and -Vancouver to die in a common cause. - -“I offered van Oss as a bait,” said Hornbeck with a grin. “If you three -high-minded idealists can’t make a millennium, you mustn’t get impatient -with the rank-and-file.” - -It was a matter for congratulation that a party so rashly collected -could meet and scatter without a scene of violence. Clifford expected, -quite obviously, to be castigated because America would not sign the -covenant of the League; Lucien, no less obviously, looked only for a -chance of castigating me because I criticized the treaty in every issue -of _Peace_. - -“I don’t quite know what we’re celebrating,” he muttered provocatively, -with a morose eye on the gathering crowds in Whitehall. “The loss of the -war?” - -“We haven’t lost it yet,” I said, “but some of us are doing our best. I -wish you’d explain to me, Lucien, how you expect to make Germany pay for -the war when you’re standing with your foot on her throat.” - -“I am sorry if we are keeping you from trading with her,” he answered -with icy politeness, “but security is as necessary to France as trade is -to England. You made _yourselves_ secure when you took the German fleet. -Now, when France is left alone . . .” - -He glanced malevolently at Clifford van Oss and turned again to the -window. - -“But, hell, Wilson had no power to commit us!” Clifford protested. “If -you’d any of you gotten down to the constitution of the United States -. . .” - -“I fancy America signed the treaty?,” said Lucian coldly. - -“We’d best quit talking about bad faith,” Clifford recommended, without, -however, following his own advice. “Clemenceau and Lloyd-George let up -on Wilson over the fourteen points; they let up on the Germans . . .” - -I turned to Hornbeck, whose square face was alight with malicious -enjoyment. - -“What are you supposed to be doing nowadays?,” I asked, as we strolled -up and down the room where we had worked so long together. - -“I’m adviser to the secretariat,” he answered. “What does that mean? -Well, you may say, if you like, that I’m preparing for the next war.” - -“It’s a pity there’s no one to bang all our heads together,” I murmured, -as a new wrangle broke out between Clifford and Lucien. “The German -menace has gone, but there’s a French menace coming. Nine or ten months -ago I told Lucien in Paris that his people were at the top of their -prestige; now they’re the most hated, feared and despised people in -Europe. A mad war, a mad peace . . .” - -“And nothing to prevent another war as mad,” Hornbeck began. Then we -stood without speaking, in a silence that spread over London, freezing -sound and movement. The customary rumble of traffic receded to a -distance and faded away; the blare of horns, the ringing of bells, the -click of typewriters, all the shouting, speaking and whispering that -made up the unceasing drone of a great city now, for two minutes, -ceased. Then, very far away, the rumble of traffic began again. I felt -as if I were recovering consciousness after an anæsthetic. Nearer at -hand I heard voices, then the scuffle of feet; a typewriter clicked -interrogatively, as though wondering if the two minutes were over; then -a telephone-bell rang; and the city heaved and roared its way back to -life. “We’re no better off,” Hornbeck resumed. “Only you sentimentalists -ever thought we should be.” - -I had been indescribably awed by that sudden silence and by the -spectacle of those many thousands all stricken motionless at the same -time. The street was a solid block of devout, bare-headed humanity; from -the Victoria Tower to the National Gallery a single mood of gratitude -and reverence bowed those myriad heads. Far from Westminster, far from -London, the same silence had fallen, the same devotion had risen from a -myriad other hearts. - -“Spiritually?,” I asked. - -“Not in the very least! A great many people were very brave in an -emergency; a great many people always are very brave in an emergency. A -great many people have suffered . . . shall I say, on behalf of -civilization? A great many people always suffer on behalf of -civilization, which is a wasteful and cruel business, George, only one -degree less wasteful and cruel than barbarism. This wasn’t the first war -in history; people like you have always looked for a spiritual -regeneration; you’ve never found it.” - -“I should be content,” I said, “if one man in ten out of all that crowd -would join me in making future wars impossible.” - -“I should be content if one man in all the world would tell me how -that’s to be done.” - - 5 - -I reached Fetter Lane in a chastened mood; and for the rest of the -morning we talked of the year that had passed since Armistice Day. - -There was to be no United States of Europe, still less a United States -of the World. The peace-treaty, to the view of us all, indicated the -swiftest and surest way to another war; and there was no influence, -outside parliament or within, to modify it. Trade depression was -attracting attention to unemployment and taxation; but, of a hundred men -who said “We must cut down expenditure,” ninety-nine added “You can’t -touch pensions, of course; or the army and navy; or the air force.” -. . . And, after nine months, the one political organ that looked beyond -the cheap scores and cheaper promises of the 1918 election was read by a -growing literary public for the sake of its musical notes and dramatic -criticism. - -“Are we addressing the right people?,” asked Jefferson Wright. - -“Any person who’ll listen is the right person for me,” said Bertrand -sententiously. - -“Then why not speak to labour?” - -“Because it’s no more opposed to war than any other class,” grunted -Bertrand. “If it were, there’d have been no war in ’14. When your German -workman mobilized, the British workman had to mobilize against him.” - -“The labour party kept us out of a war with Russia,” Wright interposed. - -“Would the labour party keep us out of a war with France if the French -turned nasty? If you’ve the guts of a louse, it’s human nature to resist -a threat,” said Bertrand with more rhetorical force than biological -accuracy. “How can we stop people putting pistols to other people’s -heads?” - -The discussion, like so many in these inconclusive months, ended with -the evaporating discovery that we were all late for a meal. I drove to -the O’Ranes’ house in Westminster with the now familiar feeling that we -should waste our strength and temper until some force more potent than -our mild and scholarly articles came to rouse the country out of its -drunken sleep. My uncle reminded me that we had been through one period -of incredulous apathy for half-a-dozen years before 1914. Then the only -people to think a war possible were the militarists who, with the best -intentions, precipitated it with their preparations and their talk of -“inevitability”; the Disarmament League alone tried to make it -impossible, as duelling was made impossible, by taking away the -privilege and the means of private vengeance. What we had done then we -must do now. - -“But in 1919,” I said, as we parted, “I am older and more easily -discouraged than I was in 1909.” - -Barbara had come up from Crawleigh Abbey to make the acquaintance of -Sonia’s new baby; and, as I strolled up and down the long library with -O’Rane, I asked him how he enjoyed being the richest commoner in -England. - -“I can’t say I’ve noticed any difference,” he laughed, “except in the -number of people who think they’ve a right to be supported by some one -else.” - -“And the millennium?,” I pursued in a fair imitation of Hornbeck. “The -civic conscience? Man’s natural right to life, liberty and the pursuit -of happiness?” - -“What would you do in my place?,” he asked. “I’m almost certain to -follow your advice.” - -As he spoke without irony, we beguiled the first part of luncheon with -the sort of conversation that is affected by somnolent house-parties on -wet afternoons. As at Cannes, each of us spent his money in dizzy -flights of imagination; but now he brought us to earth with the -criticism that we were not spending “for the good of humanity”. - -“Which was Stornaway’s condition,” he reminded me. - -And, in O’Rane’s hands, it was a condition that we could not fulfil. -When Barbara spoke of the incurable cripples left by the war, he -enquired why humanity should be relieved of its obligations. When I -talked, as so often before I had talked with Deryk Lancing, of -universities and institutions for research, of libraries and museums, of -travelling fellowships and exploration funds, of subsidized opera and -national newspapers, of model cities and a country made perfect, he -applauded my enthusiasm and asked what I was doing to give it effect. - -“I do my modest share,” I said. - -“And, if I take that responsibility off your shoulders, you’ll only have -more money to . . . _waste_ on yourself.” - -I cannot recall that the tone or choice of language was more vigorous -than I had long been accustomed to hearing from O’Rane. Certainly I -should have taken up the challenge without concern, if Sonia had not -rushed superfluously to my assistance. Her indignation, however, in -demanding why personal expenditure should be called waste, warned me -against taking sides in a family quarrel. - -“David’s _impossible_ about money!,” she cried. “So long as I have _one_ -crust of bread, _one_ dress that would disgrace a scarecrow . . .” - -“If this is how the poor live, let’s join them!,” interposed Barbara -pacifically. - -In spite of herself, Sonia laughed as she saw us admiring her frock. The -house was unpretentious, but it was enviably comfortable. I never wish -to be given better food or wine. And, on a lower plane of morality, -whatever she lacked from her husband was made up by the munificence of -her friends. - -“It’s so difficult, when every one thinks you’re rich . . .” she began. - -“But it isn’t our money,” O’Rane objected. - -Another explosion was threatening; and, at a sign from Barbara, I ranged -myself beside Sonia. - -“You’re entitled to pay yourself a salary,” I told him. “As chairman and -managing-director of a trust-company with a capital of twenty-five -millions, I think five thousand a year . . .” - -“I’m pretty sure Sonia will do less harm with it than I shall,” he -sighed. “Is that _all_ the advice you can give me, George?” - -“Well,” I reminded him, “I told you at Cannes not to touch the money -with a pole.” - -“And, as I told you ten minutes ago, I should almost certainly follow -your advice if you repeated it. Sonia won’t let me talk about that, -though . . . Tell me your plans for the winter. The south of France -again?” - -By the time we left, the last echo of discord was hushed. On our way -home, however, Barbara warned me that new trouble would break out if -some one did not create a diversion. I hardly know what difference Sonia -and her friends expected O’Rane’s inheritance to make; but she was -bitterly and undisguisedly disappointed by what she regarded as a life -of wasted opportunities. - -“Get your mother to invite them out to Cannes,” Barbara suggested; and I -sent an invitation that night on my own responsibility. - -It was refused, rather tartly, on the ground that David, as we might -have known, would not leave his work and that Sonia, as we might have -guessed, would not come, “trailing clouds of infants”, without him. I -comforted myself with the reflection that, whatever her provocation, she -would not try to repeat an effect by running away; and then I dismissed -them both from my thoughts till the crisis in my own life should be -passed. - -The word, I think, is not too strong for a moment and an event that were -to test the union of two people who, on any reasoning, ought never to -have married. Good friends though we were, Barbara had never pretended -to be in love with me; I could judge of all that she was withholding -when she forgot to hide her love for Eric Lane. Though he was five -thousand miles away, she was still haunted by him; and I sometimes -wondered whether anything short of his death would cure the obsession. -Then, on the day when she told me that she was going to have a child, I -took hope again; what I had never been able to achieve was to be brought -about by our son. She had decided that it would be a boy; we had even -chosen his name; and I had begun to love him, before he was quickened, -for drawing us together. - -As Lady Crawleigh wanted Barbara in the country, I spent most of the -early spring by myself in London; and at the end of April I went down -for a week to be at hand if I were needed. It was the twenty-first of -the month when I arrived; and, though the date is of no interest to any -one, I am unlikely to forget it; my car crossed the bridge into the -abbey precincts at twenty minutes past seven in the evening, and I am -not likely to forget that either. I shall not forget the eerie silence -in which the abbey was wrapped, nor the scared faces of the servants, -nor the darkness of the rooms, nor the atmosphere of disaster impending. -I hope I am as self-controlled as my neighbour, but I seemed to feel a -hand of ice on my heart as the butler helped me out of my coat and -murmured that he believed his lordship was in the garden. - -“Everything all right?,” I asked as carelessly as I could. - -“Yes, sir. Lady Barbara is in her room. I believe her ladyship is with -her.” - -When I went upstairs, Barbara was in bed. The blinds were down, and a -closing door hinted that my mother-in-law was for some reason hurrying -away to avoid me. As I crossed the room, Barbara told me to stop; and, -as I tried to ask how she was, I was waved into silence. Then she -covered her eyes and turned away: - -“You’ve not been told? It’ll be a shock, but I wanted to tell you -myself. I’m sorry, George . . . I . . . I did my best. You mustn’t be -_too_ dreadfully disappointed. Dead . . . He was born dead. If only it -could have been the other way round!” - -Mercifully, as though she had been listening at the door, Lady Crawleigh -came back to say that my father-in-law wished to see me. Together we -drafted the announcement for the press; and I asked whether it would be -prudent for me to go upstairs again. He said “yes” and “no” alternately, -concluding on a “yes” in the frantic hope of getting rid of me. As I -tapped on Barbara’s door, I heard Lady Crawleigh scuttling through -another; and it was Barbara, undaunted and indomitable, who hid her own -agony under a gentle concern for me. - -“I suppose people will want to sympathize,” she began. “May I have all -my letters sent to you, George? Open them, answer them. I shall have to -be here for some weeks, I’m afraid, but I’ll make up for deserting you -when I come back to London. I’ll give some lovely parties for you. We -shall be so busy we shan’t have time to think. I _want_ to keep busy.” -. . . - -And, on that word, her dead child, her suffering and her disappointment -were banished from Barbara’s life. Three years have passed since that -April evening of 1920 when we made our compact of silence; and, with a -single exception, we observed it with equal scruple on both sides. - - - - - CHAPTER TWO - - - THAT WHICH REMAINED - - - No doubt, there’s something strikes a balance. Yes, - You loved me quite enough, it seems to-night. - This must suffice me here. What would one have? - In heaven, perhaps, new chances, one more chance— - Four great walls in the New Jerusalem, - Meted on each side by the angel’s reed, - For Leonard, Rafael, Agnolo and me - To cover—the three first without a wife - While I have mine! So—still they overcome - Because there’s still Lucrezia,—as I choose. - - Again the Cousin’s whistle! Go, my love. - - ROBERT BROWNING: _Andrea del Sarto_. - - 1 - -Before we settled in London for the summer of 1920, I asked Bertrand -whether he was prepared to run our paper without me if I could persuade -Barbara to dull the edge of her grief by coming round the world with me. - -“You’ll be leaving us,” answered my uncle rather blankly, “just at the -moment when life is becoming normal after the war. We’ve hideous -labour-troubles in store; unemployment . . . From all I hear, there’s -going to be an explosion in Ireland.” - -“And this,” I interrupted, “is what you describe as normal conditions -after the war?” - -Bertrand nodded slowly over his clasped hands: - -“I do. A peace-treaty you may regard as another aspect of war: the last -chapter, if you like. Then you come to that which remains: the bill -that’s still unpaid when you’ve counted your dead and disbanded your -armies and dismembered your empires. All the complications of our -spiritual convalescence are before us. Still . . .” - -I might have spared him my importunity until I had approached Barbara. -With the choice of six months in London and twelve on a steamer, she had -no difficulty in making up her mind; and I soon found myself studying, -in her company and from a somewhat different angle, “that which -remained” in London after eighteen months of armistice and peace. If the -life was a little bewildering and sometimes more than a little -uncongenial, that—as Bertrand would have said—was part of the unpaid -bill. - - 2 - -“One swallow may not make a summer,” said my cousin Laurence, when his -long-suffering sister banished him from Loring House to the admittedly -inferior amenities of Seymour Street; “but one duchess is going to make -a season. Eleanor Ross has decided that London is again to be the -metropolis of England.” - -“For that,” I said, “you must blame the prime minister. It’s one thing -for her to keep open restaurant in Paris, it’s quite another to play -round-the-world-in-eighty-days with an international conference. San -Remo, Hythe . . .” - -In a few months I might have added Boulogne, Brussels and Spa, so -swiftly did one final settlement follow on another. The hangers-on, -meanwhile, had abandoned the pursuit and returned to London. A season, -of some kind, was opening; and poor Barbara was giving the first of -those “wonderful parties” which were to make her forget our recent -tragedy. - -“Any one who ever had any money seems to have spent it,” said Laurence -with irrelevant regret and an appraising glance round the table. “I -suppose _you_ don’t know of a decent job? Something with a bit more -money and a bit less work than the bar?” - -If I had, I told him, I could have filled the position fifty times over -with the men who were being thrown on to the labour-market as the last -regiments returned home and the last war-departments were dismantled. I -hesitate to say how many men like my brother-in-law Gervaise I helped -into lucrative billets in the first six months of peace; I can say -without hesitation that in 1920 I looked vainly for a single position -that I could recommend to the pathetic, unspecialized men and boys who -sent me testimonials beginning: “_Public school and university -ex-service officer_, 1914-1918, _wounded_.” . . . If others received -half the appeals that came to me, the city was packed close with them; -and the only man of my acquaintance who benefited by this congestion was -the enterprising Sam Dainton, who expanded his agency-business into a -colourable imitation of highway-robbery by making a corner in empty -houses. The premiums which he imposed and the commissions which he -accepted light-heartedly from vendor and purchaser would probably have -landed him in the dock if he had remained longer in this kind of -business; but vaulting ambition tempted him to compete with more -experienced brigands in buying surplus stores from the government, and -the blackmail which he levied on the homeless may have been balanced, -with poetic justice, on the day when makeshift houses were erected below -cost-price from the forced sale of his unmarketable stocks. - -“Nobody could want _less_ work than you do at the bar,” Philip Hornbeck -pointed out. - -“I call that mocking a feller’s misfortunes,” replied my cousin with -dignity. “I’ve a good mind not to tell you now.” . . . As we said -nothing, Laurence pulled his chair close to mine and helped me to a -glass of my own madeira. “These devastated areas, George: they’ll need -the hell of a lot of building material. If you’ve any capital lying idle -. . .” - -“My trustees see to it that I haven’t,” I answered. - -“Ready money’s gone out of circulation since the millennium,” explained -Hornbeck; and for once I almost agreed with him. - -In these months I was indeed reminded of the embarrassing first days of -hostilities, before the Treasury began to issue its own notes. Houses, -land, stock-in-trade were visible and tangible; we could have rubbed -along somehow under a general system of barter; but no one seemed to be -blessed with cash. The owners of big fortunes made in the war, so useful -a year earlier in buying unmanageable estates, disappeared as suddenly -as they had emerged: a few, I fancy, were frightened by talk of a -retrospective levy on their profits, but most of them derived their -wealth from industry; and industry at this time was being attacked by -creeping paralysis. Sir John Woburn’s group of papers set up a cry for -economy; the ‘coupon’ system of electioneering was thrown into its first -practical discredit by the success of independent ‘anti-waste’ -candidates; and, when my political barometer told me that all this talk -of ‘reconstruction’ was well enough, but that we must reconstruct the -whole of Europe, I felt that the logic of facts had done what the -pleadings of _Peace_ would never do. - -At my own table, though I had achieved an ingenious double revenge by -placing Dainton, who feared my uncle, within earshot of my uncle, who -despised Dainton, I did not feel justified in pointing political morals; -and it was with outward cordiality that I listened to his diagnosis and -treatment of international prostration. - -“The _whole_ of Europe,” he repeated. “No good tinkering. Take Germany. -Take Austria. _Take Russia._” - -And, with that, he lowered his voice conspiratorially and invited me to -join a concession-hunting syndicate which the alert Sir Adolf Erckmann -was forming. The proposal surprised me, inasmuch as a sense of personal -unworthiness, stronger even than my impatience of Dainton’s politics, -had frightened me away from Rutland Gate since Lady Dainton chose it for -her second blooming. Whenever I failed in an excuse to dine elsewhere, I -seemed to pick my way through the melancholy ruins of fallen European -dynasties. Starting with refugee Russian princes, the Daintons extended -the net of hospitality to catch expropriated Poles and were only waiting -for a change in public sentiment before opening their doors to the -crownless heads of Germany. All were welcomed with the ceremony which -England accords to the runaway scions of a kingly house: Sir Roger -received his guests in the hall with a braver display of decorations -than etiquette warranted; Lady Dainton curtseyed till I felt giddy; and, -if the throne of the Czars remained empty, that was only because Moscow -was so far from London. - -I had heard so much of the coming royalist counterrevolution that I -fully expected to find Dainton smuggling arms into Russia. - -“Your foreign information is better than most,” he began darkly; and -then the plans of the syndicate were laid before me. - -Listening with half of one ear, I seemed—with the other—to catch the -thick tones of Sir Philip Saltash as he discoursed of the waters which -he troubled and of the adventurous anglers who fished therein. My sleek -tempter, I confess, appeared to me at this moment rather in the guise of -a vulture; and, when I thought of the get-rich-quickly schemes that were -discussed daily in my hearing, the heavens seemed to darken with these -birds of prey. Sam, with his options on empty houses; Laurie, with his -plans for holding the devastated areas to ransom; Dainton, with his -gambling in marks and francs: all looked on Europe primarily as a place -to loot. Yet two of these three had offered even their lives so few -years before; and the third had given away his cars and sold his -securities to fit out Red Cross ambulances! - -“Are you shaking the bloody hand of the soviet?,” I enquired, with -shocked memories of Dainton’s attacks on ‘bolshevism’. - -“The soviet? Good heavens, why . . .?” he gasped with much the same -perplexity as his wife had exhibited when I asked if ministers of -religion should be regarded as paid agitators. - -Dainton would have nothing to do with the soviet. Lenin and his gang -would, with the help of God, be brought to book by Admiral Kolchak; but, -without waiting for that consummation, he was ready to help the -commercial recovery of Russia by pouring in goods, machinery and the -material of a new transport-system. As he could not hope to receive -commodities in exchange, he would be content with gold. - -“Then you’re recognizing the revolution?,” I asked, as we moved -upstairs. - -“Recognizing . . .?,” he echoed testily. “This is a business deal; -politics don’t enter into it. And I shall be obliged if you’ll keep it -absolutely to yourself.” - -I promised readily enough for the sake of sparing him the embarrassment -of explaining how he could accept confiscated Russian gold by day and -monopolize the despoiled Russian nobility at night. I did not feel, -however, that Europe had yet been made safe for the amateur financier. -After their last international flutter the Daintons had let their house -in Hampshire; and I imagined that they, like many others, were trying -belatedly to economize, though Lady Dainton gave another reason that -night for their retirement. - -“I honestly find no pleasure,” she told me, “in the life people are -leading in London. Perhaps I’m old-fashioned. The people themselves, -don’t you know? . . . I’m not criticizing _this_ party, of course; but -the tone . . . A gigantic beanfeast.” - -If she had criticized the party in words, as she was criticizing it with -her eyes, I should have been constrained to side with her. Old-fashioned -or no, I was bred in an age of strict formality, when Loring House still -bore its hatchment. When I first stayed at House of Steynes, old Lord -Loring hunted us into smoking-suits at eleven o’clock and assembled us -furtively in the billiard-room, where he plied us with “weeds”, negus -and comments on current yearling-sales. My first London dinner-parties -had the ceremony and pomp of a _levée_. In 1920 we had no time for the -ceremony, no money for the pomp. - -“I suppose a beanfeast is all that people can afford,” I said, as I -contrasted this revel with the gaieties of a vanished generation. - -The opera and the ballet were trying valiantly at this time to make us -feel that we were back in 1914; but there was no public for both. The -Crawleighs and perhaps a dozen others gave their balls and receptions -according to the old tradition; but people who wanted to dance found the -Turf and Stage less troublesome and more amusing. Those who wished to -see their friends could collect them by telephone at the end of dinner -and return from the theatre to see their houses converted out of -recognition. - -“Twenty people can find money to entertain,” said Lady Dainton severely, -“for one who can find time to be hospitable.” - -As we drifted uncomfortably about the house, I found it expedient to -leave at least this charge unanswered. The smoking-room was given up to -bridge, the dining-room to an endless supper; musicians, whom in time I -came to suspect our butler of keeping on a chain in one of the cellars, -were imprisoned on a landing: and both drawing-rooms were cleared for -dancing. “_Solitudinem faciunt: pacem appellant._ I’m off,” said -Bertrand in bewilderment. “Promise you won’t invite me again!” And I -shared his bewilderment. The success of the party, as of the late war, -lay in unity of command. Our butler was _generalissimo_; and Barbara -asked only that I would leave him alone. If the men could not find -cigars, they appealed to Robson; when an uninvited guest strayed into -the hall, demanding who the guy was who was giving this show, Robson -introduced him promptly to his hostess; I saw him supplying powder and -carrying out repairs to torn dresses; and, when our musicians knocked -off work for the night, Robson obliged at the piano, apologizing for the -slow, melodious waltzes of my undergraduate days and regretting that he -had no temperament for jazz-music. - -“I _wish_ I knew his history,” Barbara murmured plaintively. “I daren’t -ask for fear of finding he has a wife. That would break my heart, -because I’m determined to marry him if anything happens to you, George.” - -Lady Dainton, meanwhile, was going from strength to strength of -disapproval. - -“I would sooner give up society altogether,” she announced, “than -countenance its present form. This, of course, is different,” she added -vaguely and without conviction. - -Mentally, I acquiesced in her condemnation. And it was not worth while -to explain that I assisted at these beanfeasts because I believed they -amused Barbara. - - 3 - -“This is what remains,” I told Bertrand, when he insisted on holding a -_post mortem_. - -“These people don’t _amuse_ you?,” he cried. - -“They interest me,” I answered. “Looking on, listening . . .” - -Since I had given up dancing on the outbreak of war and am one of the -three worst bridge-players in London, I was thrown back on the delights -of conversation; and, as every gathering included a contingent of -Barbara’s literary friends, I tried to discover what inspiration they -had won from the war. It was soon, however, made abundantly plain to me -that the dangers of this quest were more apparent than the delights. I -was welcomed at first—I hoped for my own sake—to the little circles of -young writers, who—for want of better accommodation—camped on the -landing and stairs outside my dressing-room. Soon, however, I found -myself being used as a stick to beat my literary editor for having -beaten one or other of my bitter-tongued guests. When I refused to help, -they took the beating into their own hands. The “top-hat school of -fiction” was flayed by the “sham-corduoroy school”, the “high-brows” by -the “pin-heads”, the “best sellers” by every one. Shocking tales of -self-advertising were exchanged for dire revelations of log-rolling; and -critics who had been unanimously condemned a moment before were -unanimously reprieved on condition of their taking service against yet -another school that did not happen to be represented in our symposium. - -“Aren’t you perhaps exaggerating the importance of contemporary -opinion?,” I asked as soon as I could make myself heard. “If the men who -praised and blamed twenty, forty, sixty years ago could read their -notices now, they’d find they hadn’t spotted one winner in five hundred. -If you’re suffering at the hands of irresponsible reviewers, you’re -suffering in the company of Meredith and Hardy.” - -And then I left the rising generation of writers, who had slain more -reputations in half an hour than my staff could hope to scotch in six -months. Truth to tell, I felt rather unworthy of their too -discriminating society. Hampstead was so suspicious of Chelsea; Chelsea -was so contemptuous of Bloomsbury; and all three were so scornful of -Mayfair that I thanked Heaven my house was two hundred yards north of -Oxford Street. The few names that these exotics praised were always -unknown to me; and I was ashamed to admire publicly the work which they -damned so comprehensively. If the war was to produce a new Elizabethan -splendour of imagination, I saw no sign of it at present: perhaps we -should have to wait a generation till the stench of blood and the shriek -of shells had been forgotten. - -“Are your very modern friends doing any good?,” I demanded of Barbara, -when our party had dispersed. “If you were analysing the effect of the -war on art . . .?” - -“D’you get any reaction from their work?,” she asked. “In art there’s no -such thing as absolute good.” - -“I don’t understand it.” - -“And I’m thrilled by it!,” she cried in unaffected rapture. “All the -violence and horror and madness of the war are reflected in the art of -to-day. It’s not pretty, but it’s true. This party, which dear Lady -Dainton hated so much . . . The restlessness, the hysteria . . . Jazz, -in itself . . .” - -“That which remains,” I murmured, in Bertrand’s phrase. - -I was reminded of the days before the war when revues and ragtime first -established their empire in London. Then, as the curtain prepared to -fall, principals and supers, the latest beauty and the last comedian, a -scene-shifter or two and the prompter all jigged and shuffled to the -haunting syncopation of the _Honeymoon Rag_ or _That Ol’ Mason-Dixon -Line_. The audience jigged and shuffled up the gangways; the men were -still humming, the women still working their shoulders when they drove -away. ‘_Oh, honey, I feel funny when dat coon begin to play_ . . .’ Now -they jigged and shuffled through the streets and into the houses; they -could not stop; life was become an endless syncopation. - -I wondered when our friends would settle down. If the art of the day -seemed, in my philistine eyes, epileptic, it was at least faithful to -the epileptic contortions and fitful mood of the times. Reviewing these -stupefying parties, I see men and women in a high fever. The girls all -wear the same short skirts and exhibit the same bare backs; they have -achieved the same flat figure; and, granted an upturned nose, they bob -their hair in the same way. Very young, very pretty and very full of -high spirits, they think the same thoughts and express them in the same -jargon with the same loud assurance. Their sameness makes every party -the same. I see myself talking feverishly of films with some star from -Los Angeles and being told, by little Ivy Gaymer, of the latest divorce; -I see young poets discussing a recent lampoon and young actresses -describing their last triumph. There are financial groups and political -caves; my cousin Laurence, who has cultivated a knowing and shrewd -manner, runs feverishly from one to another, nodding, whispering, waving -a vast cigar and, I fancy, rather modelling himself on Saltash. Sam -Dainton, who is beginning to look dissipated, engages in feverish -pursuit of one woman after another. This fever has infected the women; -the divorce-court does a flourishing trade; no one can remember who at -any moment is allied with whom; and Sam makes overtures to all in the -sure belief that some—and, perhaps, most—will prove to be complaisant. -Sir Rupert Foreditch spreads the fever among the young politicians. - -I can understand that Lady Dainton is too inelastic for the universal -syncopation of these days. I could wish, in this season of comprehensive -toleration, that I were far more tolerant or far less, for many of these -women would not be received by Violet Loring or my mother, many of the -men would be roughly handled if their business records were examined by -unsympathetic counsel. And no one can for long live comfortably in a -state of delirium. The clatter from the dining-room and the din from the -musicians’ corner are unceasing. Every one is moving, talking, smoking -at top speed. And Robson holds all the threads in his capable hands; he -is, to my house in Seymour Street, what Gaspard is to the Turf and -Stage. My house is indeed a small and noisy club. - -It is to be hoped that our guests enjoyed themselves; I believe that -they, like Barbara, were only concerned to be so busy that they could -not think. I should not be surprised to hear that, like Barbara, some of -them broke down before the end. We had intended to stay in London until -I went to shoot with the Knightriders; but early in July Barbara -collapsed suddenly and was ordered to the country. Though there was -nothing organically amiss with her, Gaisford threatened to throw up the -case if she remained in London. - -“When I die, you can tell people I was the only honest leech you ever -met,” he muttered with a frown. “I’m never afraid to say I don’t know; -and I don’t know now what’s wrong with that child. She’s very ill -indeed; and there’s nothing the matter with her. I have my suspicions. -You’ll go with her?” - -“If I can arrange things at the office,” I answered. - -“Office be damned! If she wants you, go!” - -More than a little frightened, I took Barbara to Crawleigh next day and -for a week tried to run our paper by means of special messengers and an -indistinct telephone. Then I returned to London. The explosion which -Bertrand had predicted four months earlier took place at a moment when -the office was entrusted to the learned and wholly unpractical -Spence-Atkins; and I judged—God knows how rashly!—that Ireland called -to me the more urgently. I suppose our lives would have been different -if Barbara’s rest-cure had been postponed till September; if Bertrand -had taken his holiday in August, I a month earlier. - -“If you _must_ go, you must,” sighed Barbara. “Will you open all my -letters, as you did before? I’m not to be worried; and my letters are -always so uninteresting that they send my temperature up two points.” - -“I’ll do anything if you’ll only promise to get well,” I answered. - - 4 - -London, on my return, was in what Bertrand called “its tadpole -condition: all head and no body”. The residential streets and squares -were deserted; the clubs and newspaper-offices were thronged. - -“I had to cancel leave all round,” he explained, as we left our -dismantled house for dinner at the Eclectic. “Now that the -peace-treaty’s out of the way, the government is looking for fresh -triumphs. Happy thought: an Irish policy! I felt it was time for us to -define our attitude.” - -“Hasn’t it been defined for us,” I asked, “by the impetuous gentleman -who invented ‘self-determination’? What’s good enough for -Czecho-Slovakia should be good enough for Ireland.” - -“How do you propose to apply it?,” he asked. - -Literally, I told him: by electing a constituent assembly on universal -suffrage and then by enforcing on all Ireland whatever constitution the -assembly framed. - -“But that,” said my father-in-law, who had invited himself to dine with -us, “means coercing Ulster.” - -As I felt we could hardly have too many opinions in our symposium, I -urged Frank Jellaby and Carstairs to join us; and every party was -represented by the time that Roger Dainton pulled a chair to the end of -the table. - -“I detest coercion,” I said; “but, if it has to be applied, I’d sooner -coerce the few than the many. Because ministers refused to coerce Ulster -in 1913, the rest of Ireland has been coerced ever since. And I never -know why a thing should be called coercion in one country and -‘maintaining law and order’ in every other.” - -Having propounded my own policy, I was free to listen while others -propounded theirs. Our speeches, at this date, would make melancholy -reading, for every one said precisely what was expected of him and -precisely what he had said a hundred times before. Writing now at two -years’ remove, I believe and hope that Ireland is on the road to a -settlement; and this dinner two years ago lingers in my recollection as -one more heart-breaking proof that, if the Irish were incapable of -governing themselves, the English were no less incapable of governing -them. Crawleigh, a former viceroy; John Carstairs, a retired diplomat; -my uncle and Dainton, Jellaby and I, with some hundred years of -parliamentary experience between us, all talked with the white-hot -irreconcilability of Capulets and Montagues. It was this temper, I -reminded myself from time to time, that kept me exiled from the County -Kerry: it was this temper that tore me from Barbara’s side. In the years -that followed, when I tried to mark the rock on which my life split, I -always thought of this fatuous debate and of the pale, angry faces round -our echoing table. - -It was something, I suppose, that no one prayed for a new Cromwell, -though I attribute this moderation to a doubt whether even Cromwell -could now “reconquer” Ireland and to a fear that those who had drawn the -sword might be the first to perish by the sword. In the last six years -Ireland had made the dire discovery that the north had won an advantage -by threats of violence and that, if the south wished to redress the -balance, it must employ the same means. - -“Can’t we cut out ancient history?,” I suggested, as my patience wore -thin. “We need a policy to meet the present position; and the present -position is an evenly matched civil war.” - -As the phrase left my lips, I wondered whether the war was any longer an -even match. Two days before, I heard from Hornbeck that a mail-train had -been held up and the contents of the lord lieutenant’s bag forwarded, -after perusal, with an endorsement “_Passed by the Censor I. R. A._”; my -agent reported that stores were being looted and ammunition seized. If -attacks on private persons and on property were still rare, this was due -to prudence on the one side and to intimidation on the other. Some one, -however, would soon be shot because he refused to be intimidated; the -shooting would be avenged; there would be reprisals against the -avengers; and, worst fate of all, no one would be allowed to remain -neutral. - -“It’s begun already,” said Dainton. “That man they murdered in Limerick -. . .” - -“That spy they shot?,” Jellaby substituted. - -“You call a man a spy for saving British troops from being butchered in -an ambush?,” Crawleigh enquired acidly. - -“You called Flaherty a spy,” boomed my uncle, “from your place in the -House of Lords. He gave exactly similar information to the republican -troops.” - -“Who were in armed rebellion against the king,” said John Carstairs. - -“Whose king?,” asked Jellaby. - -The dialogue tripped on with the ease that comes of practice; and most -of us were tried players in the farce or tragedy of mistranslating an -opponent’s terms. In the interests of peace I begged that we should -avoid the more flagrantly question-begging labels; but by now, grown men -though we were, each owed himself the satisfaction of just one more stab -before he laid down his arms. - -“You know who’s at the back of all this?,” enquired Dainton, carefully -avoiding my uncle’s eye. - -“The bolshevists?,” Bertrand asked indulgently. “You said it was the -Germans in ’16. It was the Americans before that. Good God! I’m old -enough to remember O’Connell: it always _has_ been somebody else! Will -you English never learn that an Irishman’s feeling is for his _own_ -country? The more you’re pleased to call a man ‘loyalist’, the more I’d -call him ‘traitor’, as I’d say ‘traitor’ to a Pole who boasted of his -‘loyalty’ to Russia or Germany.” - -“As your people _do_ say ‘traitor’ to the loyalists who fought for you -in this war,” muttered Carstairs. “You’ll hang them all as traitors, of -course, when you’ve got your republic?” - -My uncle was understood to say that he wished to hang no one; but this -laudable restraint won no favour from the rest. - -“I should hang Carson and Bonar Law,” said Jellaby, as though he were -ordering a well-considered dinner. - -“Then you must hang Asquith and Birrell for not hanging them,” said -Crawleigh, partly from proconsular devotion to firmness, but chiefly -from hatred of liberalism. - -“I,” said Dainton, “should be quite content to shoot de Valera as -Casement was shot. Like a dog. Hanging’s too good for him. President of -the Irish Republic, indeed! It’s treason to the king.” - -“If you’re going to hang for treason, you must hang for constructive -treason, for constructive mutiny and for acquiescence in constructive -treason and mutiny,” I pointed out: “that brings in the covenanters, the -Curragh people and the Asquith cabinet.” Dainton, I knew, was a -covenanter; and I wanted him to see the implication of his wholesale -executions. “Personally, I don’t think hanging or shooting ever does -much good . . .” - -“It would have been a good thing,” Bertrand interrupted, “if you’d shot -the entire 1914 House of Commons.” - -“But as a policy for the government in 1920?,” I asked. - -I have thought over this dinner a dozen times since; and, when ministers -were attacked for permitting the slaughter and reprisals that followed, -I would sometimes ask their critics if they could do better than the -reasonably intelligent, reasonably well-informed and reasonably sane men -who shewed themselves so crass, ignorant and mad at this meeting. - -“For all the good we’ve done,” I told Bertrand, as we walked home, “I -might as well have been in the country.” - -“Don’t leave me yet,” he begged. - -And throughout the late summer and early autumn I was torn between -Barbara’s entreaties that I should come back to Crawleigh and Bertrand’s -reproach that I was deserting him when he most needed me. - -As a study in “that which remained” I suppose these barren passions -claim their place: in our politics, as in our work and play, our -gettings and spendings, our crimes and insanities, we lived more -rapidly, more violently. The growing disorders of Ireland were ascribed -to a “murder-gang”; in the spirit of the age, they were met by irregular -troops, with general instructions to give at least as good as they -received. Under the reign of reprisals, there was inaugurated an -organized terror for which there had been no parallel since the first -French revolution. Burning, looting, killing and torturing were paid -back, with interest, in the same currency. Mysterious and fatal lists of -names were passed up and down the country; the mails were now -intercepted at will; and, when far-scattered, unsuspecting men and women -were done to death by simultaneous blows, a whisper of “spy” and -“counter-spy”—words that had lost their meaning—explained this -opposing secret carnage which no man had power to stop. - -Face to face with this slow bleeding to death, I could not shrug my -shoulders and drift away for a holiday with Barbara. The peace of the -world seemed a madman’s dream when we could not stop this butchery at -our doors. Day after day Bertrand and I wrote and talked, interviewed -and argued. On one set of lips or another, every public man was by now -branded as a traitor who had threatened rebellion in Ulster or a traitor -who had broken faith with the South. - -“If our own statesmanship is bankrupt, we must look elsewhere,” my uncle -pronounced. - -For a week he laid siege to the League of Nations, then to the Foreign -Office. Simultaneously I went as a suppliant to Crawleigh in the hope -that he would forward my petition to the Vatican. On the same day, in -almost the same words, we were told that there was no precedent to guide -a sovereign power in summoning an arbitrator to settle differences -between a government and its subjects. - -“You can’t run an empire on those lines,” said my father-in-law. - -“You’re not running an empire on your present lines!” I retorted. - -He was impregnable. Until the republican leaders came, like the burghers -of Calais, barefoot, in their shirts, with ropes round their necks, he -would not parley with them; and, unhappily for him, no one was strong -enough to compass an unconditional surrender. - -As I walked empty-handed away from Berkeley Square, I met Hornbeck -returning home from the Admiralty. - -“Making a nice, tidy world for heroes to live in?,” he enquired with a -grin. - -Though his tone was bantering, it was free from malice. Philip Hornbeck -had no political predilections and less than no belief in the -perfectibility of man. Government, for him, always came back to a whiff -of grapeshot, which he was always ready to discharge, always without -passion and always without error. - -“The problem’s _not_ insoluble,” I maintained. “We settled Quebec; we -settled South Africa. We could settle Ireland, if we wanted to; but, of -a hundred men who talk of settlements, ninety-nine will only settle on -their own terms.” - -On reaching Fetter Lane, I found my uncle at work on an appeal to the -nation. - -“The Foreign Office,” he told me with frozen rage, “wanted to know what -business this was of mine. Perhaps we can shew them.” - -While he wrote, I hardened my heart to the unpleasantest duty that had -befallen me since my marriage. After the usual enquiries when I was -coming down to Crawleigh, Barbara let fly such a cloud of reproaches -that I was ashamed to finish her letter. A delicate wife was no doubt a -nuisance; but ought I not to have thought of that before marrying her? -Engrossing as my work was, did I—as a matter of academic interest—rate -it higher than her reiterated request that I should come to her when she -was more ill and miserable than ever in her life before? - -I was halfway to the station when my secretary overtook me with an -hysterical telegram: _If you love me destroy letter unread_; and I -should be hard put to say whether telegram or letter was the more -disturbing. Crawleigh and the local doctor assured me that she was -progressing famously; Bertrand urged me to go with a vehemence more -inhibitive than the strongest veto; and, in the end, I lamely begged -Barbara to be patient and promised to come at an hour’s notice if she -really needed me. - -“Peace,” I reminded my uncle, “is only another aspect of war. ‘The last -chapter, if you like’ . . .” - -“Please God it may be!,” he answered with emotion. - - 5 - -And, as we spoke, the last chapter was opening. Though neither of us had -paid much attention to the report that certain political prisoners were -being removed to England, we awoke next day to find that public interest -had been deflected to another part of the battle. As a football match is -suddenly suspended at sound of the referee’s whistle and the players -stand apart to watch one of their number who has been injured, so the -armies in Ireland, the factions in England, the spectators all over the -world now stood apart to watch one man slowly dying. The lord mayor of -Cork, arrested and imprisoned, refused to take food. For a week or two, -while life still ticked loudly, we debated over our dinners whether he -had been rightly condemned, whether the government would let him die of -starvation, whether he and his cause would not be made ridiculous if he -were fed forcibly. Then the contest became more determined: the -government would not yield to a hunger-strike; and Terence McSwiney, -with life ticking now less clearly, would not yield to the government. -It was a question of endurance. - -“_Do come here next week-end if you can possibly manage it_,” wrote -Barbara. “_This business about the lord mayor must be decided one way or -the other by then._” . . . - -I could give no promise. The papers were at this time recording the days -of the fast and hunting for stories of men who had lived for three, -four, five weeks without food. The ticking became feebler; and, one -press-night, when I sat shuffling an obituary, an appeal and a -face-saving leader on McSwiney’s surrender, we heard that the strike was -over. The report was contradicted before I reached the composing-room. A -week later, as the unwound spring stopped, jerked and stopped again, we -were told that the lord mayor was dead. He was still alive next day, -next week. Sympathy flowed and ebbed. The government was entreated to -spare a game fighter; the public grew angrily unhappy at being made an -accomplice in this slow torture. Then a gust of impatience blew against -such crazy stubbornness; there followed a flash of illumination, and -Dainton, who would have shot McSwiney out of hand two months before, -asked dubiously whether an Ireland of McSwineys would be easy to -“reconquer”. - -At length the dying prisoner became an institution. His name was tucked -into inconspicuous corners of the daily papers. There were other claims -on the public attention. At last he died; and we realized that, as the -injured player no longer obstructed the field, the match must go on. - -On the day of the funeral procession I received an unexpected call from -O’Rane, white-faced and enigmatic. In all the years I had known him I -doubt if we had talked of Ireland a dozen times; but this day stirred -passions older than any he could remember, and I felt that the taut, -bare-headed figure who gripped my arm was saluting McSwiney’s coffin in -the name of his father, “O’Rane the liberator”. The Irish of London were -present in thousands; but the English watched or followed in tens of -thousands. Some, I well believe, came to salve a restless conscience; -some in homage to a brave man; most to gratify an idle curiosity. The -republican colours fluttered unfamiliarly in English faces; the way was -lined with English police. - -“In any other country there would have been a riot,” murmured O’Rane, -when I described the scene. - -“There will be all the riots you can use when this is over. . . . You’ve -been lying very low the last few months, Raney.” - -“I’ve been thinking. All Lancing’s money . . .” - -“And ‘the good of humanity’?” - -“Yes. I believe . . . I’ve decided . . . to save humanity . . . from -ever touching it,” he answered slowly. - -At the time he would say no more; and we spent the afternoon strolling -along one embankment and back by the other. In the course of our walk, -we had a good view of St. Thomas’ Hospital, if he wished to heal the -sick, and of the Tate Gallery, if he cared to foster the fine arts; -south of the river we walked through streets that were more sordidly -grimed with poverty than any I wish to see again. There were, I pointed -out, inequalities of wealth for a millionaire to adjust. - -“But is all this for the good of humanity?,” O’Rane asked, breaking -silence for the first time as we pressed into his house. The side-door -of The Sanctuary was like the out-patients’ entrance to a hospital; his -writing-table was submerged in appeals to his charity. “You can begin by -adjusting the difference between yourself and those people outside.” - -There was a sneer in his tone that roused my natural perversity. I -distributed a handful of small change and returned to find him smiling. - -“What did you give them?,” he asked. - -“About a sovereign. Whether they’re deserving cases . . .” - -“They’re more deserving than you, George. And, if I’d given Lancing -money, I should have been handing _you_ a sovereign. That’s my -difficulty. Every time I give to a hospital or a gallery, I’m relieving -prosperous people like you of your responsibilities. If the material -good is outweighed by the spiritual harm . . .” He broke off to stalk up -and down the darkening library with shoulders hunched and head thrust -forward. “There’s still plenty of wealth in the world. Places like the -Turf and Stage stink of it. And, if people want things badly enough, -they’ll pay for them. If London had a smallpox epidemic, we should press -money on our neighbours to get them vaccinated.” - -“But, while you’re saving humanity from itself,” I pointed out, “the -money’s increasing automatically.” - -“I can find outlets farther afield. You wouldn’t let those people starve -under your eyes; but you’ll let people starve to their hearts’ content -if you can’t see ’em.” - -“With a million or two of unemployed here,” I began, “you won’t be -popular.” - -“If I could afford to consider my popularity!,” he broke out with a -joyless laugh. - -As Sonia was in the country, I brought him to dine with me in Seymour -Street. We gossiped until nearly midnight; and, when I had sent him -home, I settled to my daily duty of opening Barbara’s letters for her. -She had been right, three months before, in calling her correspondence -uninteresting; and, until this night, I had not been troubled with any -doubts which letters to send on and which to destroy. - -Now I encountered a problem for which I was unprepared. The first letter -referred to an occasion eighteen months before, when my wife—according -to the writer—had invited him to run away with her. - - - - - CHAPTER THREE - - - AS YOU SOW . . . - - - “. . . The morrow brought the task. - Her eyes were guilty gates, that let him in - By shutting all too zealous for their sin: - Each sucked a secret, and each wore a mask. - But, oh, the bitter taste her beauty had! . . . - - “. . . A star with lurid beams, she seemed to crown - The pit of infamy: and then again - He fainted on his vengefulness, and strove - To ape the magnanimity of love. . . .” - - GEORGE MEREDITH: _Modern Love_. - - 1 - -I hardly remember when the meaning became clear to me. - -I was reading with but half my attention, when I met a reference to -Croxton Hall, followed by familiar names. The letter was badly written, -in pencil, and more than badly arranged. The writer had been ill; he was -so ill at that moment that I could not make out the signature. I -examined the envelope. There a different hand had traced the bold -address; I noticed for the first time that the letter had been forwarded -from the Crawleighs’ house in Berkeley Square; then I saw an American -stamp and understood the faint pencil scratching. - -It was from Eric Lane; and he was dying as he wrote. - - 2 - -The shock numbed me; and I read again with so little attention that I -had to turn back in the middle. Then a second shock drove the first from -my mind. - -Eric was dying: yes, I realized that. He was bidding Barbara farewell; -and, in my first uncaring glance, I had seen so much that I must now see -all. After losing Barbara, he had found little inducement to live; and, -though he had once hoped to marry little Ivy Maitland, John Gaymer had -returned—almost on the eve of the wedding—to establish again his -empire over Ivy’s will. Eric had made his failing lungs an excuse to set -her free: - -“_Two years would have cured me; but I wanted her to choose for herself. -And, when she too dropped out of my life, I didn’t try to get well._” -. . . - -There followed pages of apology, pages of explanation. Eric’s love for -Barbara was consuming him; and, as the flame died to a pale flicker, he -forgot family, friends and self in desperate prayers for her happiness. -Once more the name of Croxton Hall fell like a black shadow across his -mind. There was an agonized reference to some rebuff that he had -inflicted upon her. Then came the reason for the rebuff. - -It was while I was in Ireland that Barbara had gone to the Pentyres. -When the party broke up on the first night—Eric’s apology could not -have been more damningly circumstantial if he had been indicting her—, -she had concealed herself till he came up to bed, then invaded his room, -finally begged him to take her, take her away. Her marriage to me was a -mistake; I should not want to keep her when I realized my mistake; I -loved her enough to forgive her. . . . - -I remembered, I now understood her distraught questions whether I should -be broken-hearted if I lost her, whether I was prepared to sacrifice -life, honour, everything to secure her happiness. . . . - -In the heartlessness and abandonment of that moment, I knew, as well as -if I had seen her, that Barbara was wholly mad. I recalled the telegram -in which she said that she was missing me; I remembered her loving -welcome, on my return; I heard again her promise that she was going to -make a new start. And then I called up any self-control that remained to -keep me from going mad too. The child that lay buried at Crawleigh was -not Eric’s. His letter told me that; and, when I found myself believing -his letter, I felt that I was still sane. Barbara was innocent of -everything but a whole-hearted will and intention to betray me; and Eric -had saved her from that. After he had repelled her, she was innocent of -everything but calculated hypocrisy, sustained triumphantly for fifteen -months. I could never believe her again. - -And what then? - -A lust for revenge blinded me; and, though I could hardly hold a pen, I -addressed an envelope to Barbara and thrust Eric’s letter, without -comment, half inside it. Then I thought of him dying in California, by -now perhaps dead. I burned the envelope. As it crinkled and scattered, I -promised Eric’s letter the same fate; then I hesitated for fear that my -lust for magnanimity might prove more deadly than my impulse of revenge. -Was my life, also, to be a calculated hypocrisy? - -I paced up and down the room till a clock struck midnight. I had lost -the post, I realized. - -Then I looked at the other letters. The first was from Barbara. If I -intended to take a holiday at all this year, would I not come down to -Crawleigh? Thanks to this Irish trouble—how remote it all seemed!—I -had refused all my shooting invitations; but now that the McSwiney -chapter was closed . . . - -I knew, unreasoningly, that I could not meet Barbara. Whatever happened -to us later, I must have time to think. I telephoned to O’Rane and asked -him to accompany me on a motoring tour. I believe I told him—I, of all -people!—that he seemed overwrought. - -“No holidays for me, old man,” he answered with regret. - -“I doubt if you’ll find it a holiday,” I said. “I want to discover what -the great public’s thinking about.” . . . - -“I wish I could manage it . . .” - -And then my self-control left me: - -“Raney, you must!,” I said. “I’m going through the worst time of my -life, something more awful than I thought could ever happen to me. If -you _knew_ . . .” - -“You can lend me some pyjamas, I suppose?,” he interrupted in a changed -voice. “I’ll have my gear sent round in the morning. I’m sorry, George. -To the best of my poor ability, you know I’ll see you through to the -grave and beyond.” - - 3 - -As I waited in the hall, I drafted a telegram to explain that I was -being called away from London on business. O’Rane arrived in the middle; -and I led him at once to his room. I could not unburden myself yet; and, -as we drove out of London next day, I found it necessary to pretend that -I was enquiring into unemployment. - -“Bertrand’s afraid the men will get out of hand,” I explained. - -I might have said that in some parts of England the men were already out -of hand. It was at this time that the “Homes for Heroes” campaign was -launched: as the government failed to provide sufficient houses, a -homeless band of Welsh quarrymen seized a public hall and announced that -they would stay there until cottages had been built for them. They were -led by a man, then unknown, named John Griffiths, who followed up his -first success by organizing similar raids on any convenient unoccupied -land. No one was paying much attention at present; as Bertrand said, we -were resigned to unemployment in London, but danger would march -hand-in-hand with winter, when the government declared its -housing-policy and when the official leaders of labour indicated whether -they supported “Griffiths’ landgrabbers.” - -“Where are you making for first?,” O’Rane asked. - -Until that moment I had not thought of any destination. - -“We’re half way between Reading and Hungerford. I don’t know. . . . I’ve -had a bit of a shock; and you’ll find me rather disjointed. . . . God! I -don’t know what I should have done without you!,” I broke out. - -O’Rane’s fingers rested for a moment on my arm: - -“Old man, you knew I was always at hand if you needed me!” His unseeing -eyes softened; and his voice fell to a whisper: - - “_‘I cannot come to you—I am afraid._ - _I will not come to you. There, it is said._ - _Though all night long I lie awake and know_ - _That you are lying waking even so:_ - _And all the day you tread a lonely road_ - _And come at sunset to a dark abode._ - _Yet, if so be you are indeed my friend,_ - _Then, at the end,_ - _There is one road, a road I’ve never gone,_ - _And down that road you shall not pass alone;_ - _And there’s one night you’ll find me by your side—’_” - -He paused; and I waited for the rime that should complete the couplet: - -“How does it go on?” - - “_‘And there’s one night you’ll find me by your side—_ - _. . . The night that they shall tell me you have died.’_ - -It’s . . . Chinese, I was told. Two or three hundred years before -Homer.” - -I drove on, staring drowsily ahead of me at the broad, unfolding ribbon -of black road and the monotonous water-meadows on either hand. The -tender warmth of the little poem made me forget for a moment the -bleakness of the Kennet valley in late autumn; and, after a sleepless -night, the rushing wind drugged my brain. - - “_Though all night long I lie awake and know_ - _That you are lying waking even so.” . . ._ - -I murmured the lines to keep myself from falling asleep. What had -Barbara’s thoughts been when I lay waking the night before? Suddenly my -sight was dimmed with a curtain of blood; and I stopped the car in twice -its length because I could not see the road before me. If indeed I had -fallen asleep, I had looked for a moment, through this red curtain, on a -sun-washed verandah, where a dying man was gasping for breath. - - “_And there’s one night you’ll find me by your side—_ - _. . . The night that they shall tell me you have died._” - -The vision faded before I could make out whether Eric was speaking to -Barbara or listening for her voice. - -The unexpected jolt had flung O’Rane out of his seat; and, as he pulled -himself back into place, he could hear me stopping the engine. - -“Is anything the matter?,” he asked. - -“Eric Lane’s just died.” - -“Good God! When?” - -“This moment. I . . . pulled up to avoid him,” I answered without -knowing what I was saying. “He’s gone now. Poor devil! Oh, poor devil!” - -If I was shaken, O’Rane was in no better case: - -“Those lines . . . I had them from him.” - -“I know.” - -“You’d heard him . . .?” - -“I heard him then . . . At least I think . . .” The road was once more -stretching firmly ahead of me to a belt of leafless trees. In the -meadows on either side I saw deliberate cattle splashing up to their -knees in muddy water. “It’s ten to two, Raney. Shall we see if we can -find a place for lunch?” - -“That’ll wait. You’re not fit to drive any more at present. . . . You’d -. . . better tell me everything, old man.” - -“But I’ve told you! I knew Eric was dead or dying because I had . . . I -saw a letter from him quite recently. My nerves are rather jumpy.” . . . - -“It’ll break poor Lady Lane’s heart,” he murmured. “And it’ll be a shock -for Ivy.” - -Slipping his arm through mine, O’Rane led me into a field by the -roadside. Though he must have guessed that Eric’s letter had something -to do with my frantic appeal the evening before, I could not speak at -present for fear of breaking down. ‘_Boyish to cry—can’t help it—bad -fever—weak—ill._’ For many moments my head sang with Mr. Jingle’s -clipped phrases. A shock for Ivy? Some one had told me her marriage was -all the failure that Mr. Justice Maitland had predicted. It would have -been better if she had married Eric: she might have kept him alive. It -would have been better if Barbara had married him, better if he had -never left America, best of all if he and she and I had never been -born. . . . - -“Babs can’t be ill,” O’Rane murmured as though he were thinking aloud; -“or you wouldn’t be here. Sit down and smoke a cigarette.” - -When he returned with the basket, I was able to tell him. I wondered at -the time, I wonder still, whether I did right; but I know that I could -not help it. He let me talk myself out, only asking dispassionately at -the end: - -“What are you going to do about it?” - -And I talked myself out a second time, until the fever left me and I lay -back on the rug, almost too much exhausted to move or think. Physical -infidelity, committed in a moment of passion, stood in relation to this -long infidelity of spirit as a blow struck in hot blood stands to a -calculated and artfully concealed murder. Had Barbara left me and come -back, as Sonia left and came back to Raney, I believe I could have -forgiven her. After deceiving me once, she could deceive me again; to -get what she wanted, in her own way, she would sacrifice me as she had -sacrificed Jack Waring and Eric Lane. - -It was all over. And I wanted her desperately. And it was all over. - -Hitherto, I had always pretended that there was something I did not -understand in her tragic entanglements: Jack and Eric were straight as -the day; if they both fled from the woman they both loved, I wished to -think that they were parted by a lover’s quarrel which both were too -proud or obstinate to heal; I refused to believe that they had run from -her in disgust. - -“I’m here because Barbara will soon be coming back to London,” I told -O’Rane. “I . . . couldn’t divorce her if I wanted to; but I can let her -divorce me.” . . . - -“She won’t be very . . . happy alone,” he answered reflectively. “When -Jack Waring disappeared, she turned to Eric out of sheer loneliness and -misery; when Eric went, she turned to you. If you go, George, she’ll -turn to some one else. A married woman without children, without a -husband, more lonely and miserable than ever before . . . Well, you -won’t have long to wait for your divorce.” - -Four-and-twenty hours earlier, I should have called my best friend to -account if he had warned me that Barbara needed watching. Now she had -convicted herself and robbed me of all temptation to defend her. - -“I don’t see much difference,” I said, “between the woman who runs away -with a man and the woman who only stays at home because the man won’t -run away with her.” - -“There’s still a difference between the woman who keeps her reputation -and the woman who loses it. When women become reckless . . . It’s a big -responsibility to give them the first push down the slope.” - -The short sunlight of late autumn was fading; and I busied myself with -packing our luncheon-basket. As I had not asked for sympathy, I could -not complain if none was offered. - -“If I give her the chance of divorcing me,” I said, “I’m not accountable -for anything she does after that.” - -There was a long silence. Then O’Rane asked: - -“What will you do?” - -I had not thought; but, in that moment, I had a vision of the blue -water, the close-packed green woods and the vivid fuchsia hedges of Lake -House. - -“Go back to Ireland, I expect.” - -I was making enough clatter with plates and knives to convince the least -attentive that my patience was exhausted; but O’Rane lay with his hands -clasped behind his head, frowning a little at his own thoughts and -wholly unmoved by my demonstration. - -“Will divorce make for Barbara’s happiness?,” he asked in a maddening -drawl. “You can’t quite wash your hands of a woman you’ve married. You -weren’t content, you see, with somebody of your own mould. Your wife had -to be brilliant, beautiful, romantic, tragic. . . . You married Babs -when you knew she’d been shaken to the depths of her soul by Jack -Waring, when she’d been broken to the bottom of her heart by Eric Lane.” - -“I thought she’d had so much romance and tragedy that she’d be glad to -settle down quietly.” - -“When she wasn’t in love with you? Has any one settled down quietly -after gambling with death for nearly five years?” - -“I’d have forgiven anything if she’d told me!,” I cried, as we went -back. - -We must have driven for an hour before he spoke again: - -“Well, George, if you want my advice, I should recommend you to burn -Eric’s letter and pretend you’ve never seen it. Then begin again at the -beginning.” - -“You imagine I can forget it?,” I asked. - -“If you think more of her and less of yourself. The bigger the crime, -the more she must have been tempted: try to understand that instead of -counting up the things a man has a ‘right’ to expect of his wife. Rights -here, rights there! _Every one’s_ thinking too much of his individual -rights, George! Every group of nations, every nation, almost every man -and woman.” . . . - - 4 - -After two years I can appreciate O’Rane’s patience better than was -possible at the time. I know now that he was distracted by a civil war -of his own; but I was too much preoccupied to enquire why Sonia and the -children were in Hampshire; I should have been aggrieved if any one else -had presumed to be unhappy. - -“I suppose it’s all the same to you where we spend the night?,” I asked, -several hours later, as we paused at a sign-post. - -In the gathering dusk I could distinguish nothing but the gloomy -contours of Stonehenge and the sharp, black outline of innumerable -government huts. Then I saw O’Rane prick up his ears at the tramp of -weary feet. - -“Anywhere you like,” he answered, as a white-faced army advanced into -the glare of my lamps. “I was in camp here in ’14. It’s a dam’ bad step. -Recruits, I suppose. We should have been given hell if we hadn’t been -smarter than that.” - -As the column approached, I saw fifty or sixty men in tattered civilian -clothes. Two or three wore medals; the rest had a brave line of ribbons -on their coats. At their head marched two standard-bearers with the -adequate device: “_Wanted in 1914. Not wanted now._” - -“They’ve had their hell; and they’re not through with it yet,” I said. - -It was the first time that I had encountered the searing reproach of -that device; and, as I described it to O’Rane, I recalled—as in a dream -of some other life—that I was the editor of a political review and that -I had been sent to study unemployment. There was an external world, -then. At this moment my uncle was probably taking the chair at our -weekly dinner. - -As the tramp of feet grew fainter, O’Rane half rose in his seat and then -subsided with a groan: - -“No, I _can’t_! It’s _not_ my business to pay other people’s debts. The -state turned these men into soldiers, in a moment of blue funk; the -state must turn them back into civilians. Sometimes I see so red that I -want to hold this country to ransom. ‘You’ve no use for these fellows,’ -I want to say. ‘Well, now I’m going to shew you what would have happened -if they hadn’t come forward when they did.’ After a week of Belgian -atrocities, there’d be a marked increase in popular gratitude! And I -thought this war would produce a . . . spirit of fraternity!” - -I had hoped for it, even if I had not expected it after the first months -of 1915. Quick conversions are never permanent: and permanent -conversions are never quick. Our drive that day, past great estates and -big manufacturing towns, might have been chosen as an object-lesson in -the aggressive competition that strangles fraternity at birth. - -That night, when we lay at Gloucester, and next day, as we drove through -the soul-searching loveliness of the Stroud valley, we talked of -education and the gospel of humanity, as we had not talked since our -Indian summer at Cannes; and once or twice, for ten or fifteen minutes -at a time, I forgot to think consciously of Barbara. H. G. Wells, after -years of criticism, was turning teacher on his own account; and _The -Outline of History_ was conspicuous in every house and railway carriage -I entered at this time. One man at least was pleading for the universal -spirit; and his plea gave food for thought to the people who had shouted -for blood and gold in the 1918 election. The havoc which Keynes had made -in the economics of the peace-treaty was completed by the havoc which -Wells made of its history and its spiritual trend. - -“And yet,” I exclaimed in sudden reaction, “those books have left things -where they were!” The treaty, which could not be enforced, had to be -modified: the British representatives had to explain why their crazy -election-pledges could not be fulfilled. At regular intervals Germany -threatened to default; France retaliated with a threat of further -occupation; a flustered knot of prime ministers collected at the first -convenient watering-place; and a punctual press announced that the -results of the conference were wholly satisfactory. “I sometimes despair -of education. . . . And, damn it, Raney, you haven’t told me what to do -when I get back to London!” - -“You’ve not yet told me what you want to do. . . . It’s strange how -people can hold mutually destructive opinions at the same moment! Lucien -de Grammont talks piteously about German ‘revenge’ at a time when the -French are pouring Senegalese troops into the occupied area!” - -“Roger Dainton will tell you that a restored Germany means a new war and -that an unrestored Germany is losing us our best customer.” . . . - -At O’Rane’s skilled prompting, we argued our way farther west and -farther until, at the end of a week, we stalled the car and strolled on -foot, because we had reached Land’s End. Surrounded by water, in the -spray and wind of the last rocky outposts of England, I felt my sanity -and self-control returning to me; but a single day without the -distraction of driving brought back the obsession. I flung myself into a -voluminous report on _Unemployment and Public Feeling_, only to discover -that my four folios might have been compressed into the single word -“indifference”. There was no question of class or party: every one -flabbily deplored the breakdown of industry, flabbily pitied the -unemployed, flabbily felt that somebody should do something. Accent and -idiom might change, but the stale thought and worn expression changed -only by becoming more stale: the wayside tap echoed the slipshod -reasoning of an Atlantic liner; a benighted book-maker in a forgotten -Cornish village talked of trades unions in a way that I had thought only -possible in my father-in-law; and there were Roger Daintons manipulating -beer-engines in every bar. - -I reminded O’Rane of his scheme for endowing schools and buying papers -till the education of an entire people proceeded from a single pair of -lips. - -“I still believe a press-monopoly is possible,” he answered, “but who’s -to be trusted with it? Horatio Bottomley is a political messiah to -several millions; but I’d never give a messiah the power of a messiah -unless he were ready to die as a messiah.” - -“Talleyrand’s advice to those about to found new religions,” I said. - -“‘Get yourself crucified’? Wasn’t he right? Since people began to doubt -the old heaven and hell, the churches have been losing their power: they -had less to offer, less to threaten; and their ministers became -officials instead of martyrs. Christianity was born of one martyrdom; -and it will only die when there are no more martyrs. There were martyrs -in the war, if we could only make people remember them . . .” - -“But the war’s over,” I interrupted. “How can you keep that exaltation -alive in time of peace?” - -The question was unanswered when I turned the head of the car, next day, -towards London. We were both shirking our private difficulties; and, -though we argued endlessly about the world as we wished to make it, the -shadow of our own narrow troubles darkened that free, generous concern -for humanity which we talked so eagerly of inculcating in people whose -narrow troubles engrossed them no less blindly. - -“I’d better tell Sonia we’re on our way back,” said O’Rane. “If you’ve -any idea where we shall be to-morrow morning, I’ll say she can wire to -the post-office.” - -“Is she at Crowley Court?,” I asked. - -“Yes. Remember taking her down there the night Tom’s death came through? -She’d put her eyes on sticks for you over that, George.” - -“She was at her wits’ end, poor child,” I began. - -Then, whether or no he was spreading a snare for me, I thought of -Barbara by herself at the Abbey, reading of a “well-known playwright’s -death” and stumbling blindly through the dim, panelled rooms in vain -search of some one to comfort her. - -“We can go back by way of Crowley Court,” I said. “I’ll send Babs a -telegram. If she’s still at the Abbey . . .” - -“I’m entirely in your hands,” said O’Rane. - -That night we lay at Exeter; and next day we headed for Southampton. As -we got into the car, I was given a telegram from Barbara: - - “_All well here hope you are enjoying yourselves can you - possibly return by way of Crawleigh I need you._” - - 5 - -Only when I was committed irrevocably did I realize that I had not -decided how I was to meet her. - -“I can’t pretend for five minutes,” I said. “I never could.” - -“She’s . . . entitled to see her own letters,” O’Rane suggested. “You -opened this at her request . . .” - -“But, good God, man, she’s my wife!,” I broke out; and, remembering the -sustained deceit of these fifteen months, I could not trust myself to -say more. - -We drove our last stage with heavy hearts. Southampton was shrouded in -the first fog of the year; and, when it lifted on the confines of the -New Forest, I saw bare trees, dead leaves and all November’s decay. -Every few minutes O’Rane asked me what point we had now reached; and I -knew that for him too every turn of the road was marked by a memory and -guarded by a ghost. Through eyes half-closed I could see Jim Loring and -the Daintons striding, three abreast, on a leave-out walk from Melton to -Crowley; I could see Eric Lane piloting me through Lashmar village to -call on his father. . . . Strange! Though he was now dead, though I had -almost loved him and though we had both been punished for trying to play -a game according to its rules, I could not forgive him for flinging this -last shadow across Barbara’s life, I could not whisper his name without -a shudder. - -As we drove through a country that was haunted with the shades of our -dead selves, I fell to thinking whether a man was happier in the -discontent of eighteen or the disillusion of thirty-eight. I no longer -aspired to Westminster Abbey and a nation’s gratitude; but, like other -men on the threshold of middle-age, I made the discovery, -incomprehensible to a schoolboy, that I had no heir to shelter himself -under the trees which I had planted; and love seemed almost to have been -left out of my life. - -In Crawleigh village, my nerve broke and I headed for London; then, for -very shame in the reproach of O’Rane’s silence, I turned, though I knew -that no love was awaiting me here, and splashed through the floods to -the Abbey. Neave was fishing perfunctorily by the bridge and volunteered -to take the car up to the house if I wanted to look for Barbara. - -“The guv’nor’s in London for this Unknown Soldier business,” he -explained. “So it’s only the four of us. Just right for a nice game of -cards.” - -“How’s Babs?,” I asked, as unconcernedly as I could. - -“Oh, fit as a flea,” he answered. “She’s wandering about the park, -waiting for you.” - -I made a pretence of hurrying forward as the car shot ahead; then, as it -passed out of sight, I leaned against the parapet of the bridge till the -low grey line of the refectory wall deepened to black and was gradually -lost in the oncoming tide of darkness. I was still there when the first -rare lights twinkled at the windows and paled as the curtains were -drawn. Then I heard a distant whistle and turned to the house before my -impulse to hurry away got the better of me. - -I was halfway to the gardens when I saw the white coil of Barbara’s -furs. - -“Darling! I was expecting you hours ago!,” she cried. “Did you have a -breakdown? I hope I didn’t upset your plans by asking you to come here, -George: I wanted you most awfully.” - -I could not see her face clearly; but her voice thrilled me till I had -to bite my lip and look away. I wondered how I had existed without her -all these weeks. The long rest had given her back her old vitality. Her -eyes, when we entered the hall, were shining; and for a moment I fancied -that I was seeing her in a vision or that I was emerging from twelve -days’ delirium. - -“My _dear_!,” I cried; and she laughed with childlike exultation at my -joy in her. - -“Pleased to see your deserted and ill-used wife?” - -“Babs . . .” Her cheeks were pink from the biting cold outside; her hair -and eye-lashes were spangled with tiny raindrops. As she flung her coat -aside and twined her arms about my neck, a familiar, faint, warm -fragrance rose from the carnations at her waist. As she clung to me and -our lips met, I could have fancied that no other man had ever made her -heart beat so quickly. “I’ve never _seen_ you like this before!,” I -cried. - -“I’ve been getting well . . . for _your_ sake, sweetheart. I’ve been so -patient, so good. And I _did_ miss you so.” - -“I’ve been thinking of you day and night,” I answered truthfully enough. - -“The next time you go away, I’ll tell your secretary to send me a daily -telegram: ‘_Missing you dreadfully best love George._’ You’d never do it -on your own account. What’s the matter, darling?” - -Unconsciously I must have drawn away from her embrace. The delirium was -returning; and I could only think of the telegram which she had sent me -the day after she asked Eric Lane to run away with her. - -“Some bad news, I’m afraid. I didn’t want to spoil our first moment -together, but you’ll have to be told some time. I’ve not seen any papers -. . .” - -Barbara’s hands fell from my shoulders; and she walked slowly to the -fire. - -“I . . . _have_,” she whispered; and her head drooped as though I had -struck her. - -“You mean . . . what . . . what _I_ mean?,” I stammered. - -As she turned, her eyes were blinded with tears; and her hands groped -for support. - -“Darling, if it had been any one else, should I have had to say ‘I -_need_ you’? . . . When I saw the great cruel headlines, I hoped and -prayed that I might die . . . till I knew you were being sorry for me. -You’re all I have; and I promised myself I’d repay you for all your -patience.” She could go on no longer; and her terrible tearless sobbing -shook her till I feared that her heart must break. “I _can’t_ be brave -any longer.” As she once more hid her face against my chest, I could -feel her whole body trembling in the last vain effort to restrain her -weeping. “When . . . when . . . when did you hear?” - -“Twelve days ago,” I answered, as I led her to a chair. - -“The day he died. You . . . didn’t tell me, George. Did you think I -shouldn’t see?” - -“Strictly speaking, I didn’t hear for certain. I knew he was dying -. . .” - -“There was a long article in _The Times_. Oh, so _cold_! . . . I knew he -was terribly ill. That’s what made _me_ so ill this summer, though I -couldn’t tell you before. I thought you might guess; the doctor did. -I’ve been going up and down, up and down, as he got better or worse. The -afternoon he died I fainted; and they all thought I was dead too. Now -you understand why I wrote such horrid letters: as he slipped away, I -couldn’t bear myself. I _did_ try to keep it all to myself. I knew how I -hurt you by talking about him. But no one told me anything! . . . I -couldn’t ask Lady Lane for fear she’d say I’d killed him. And he died -before I could ask him to forgive me.” - -Barbara was no longer trying to control her tears; and I was no longer -thinking of anything but a means of comforting her. - -“He didn’t feel there was anything to forgive,” I assured her. - -“Ah, that was the way he talked!” - -“It was the way he thought, Babs.” - -“Then he might have spared me this!,” Barbara broke out. “Just one -word!” - -As her head fell forward, I knelt down and chafed her hands. - -“He may have been too weak,” I said. - -“A message, then! I can’t _bear_ it! I didn’t think he _could_ be so -cruel.” - -In furious self-scorn, I remembered telling O’Rane I could not pretend -for five minutes that I had not received Eric’s letter. Very little more -than five minutes had passed since Barbara and I met. - -“In justice to him,” I said, “there _was_ a message. I was paraphrasing -it. He never dreamt you needed his forgiveness, he was begging for -yours. He loved you as much at the end as he’d ever done. His last -words—so faint I could hardly read them!—were ‘God bless you’. And we -must assume that he died at peace. You’d forgiven him so often, he said, -that, if God was disposed to judge him, he believed you would -intercede.” - -In her agony of spirit, Barbara’s thoughts were reflected as clearly as -if she had spoken them. Her eyes lightened for a moment in unutterable -relief; they clouded as she looked suspiciously to see if I was -inventing this opportune comfort; then she stared through me and past me -to Eric’s death-bed six thousand miles away. - -“He . . . wrote to you?,” she enquired after a long silence. - -I half nodded; but, with Barbara’s eyes on mine, I could not put a lie -into words. - -“The letter was to you,” I said. “I opened it with the rest.” - -There was a single piteous whimper. Then she looked at me in perplexity: - -“Where is it? Why didn’t you tell me?” - -“It’s in my despatch-box. . . . I didn’t want to harrow you, darling. I -think he was delirious part of the time.” . . . - -“Will you get it for me?” - -“I’ve told you all that matters. It will only make you miserable to read -it.” - -She seemed not to have heard me; but a strangled laugh, more terrible -than her crying, shewed the worth of my comfort: - -“D’you think anything can make me more miserable than I’ve been these -last twelve days?,” she asked. Then she tore herself from me and stood -with her hands pressed to her temples, staring at me in mingled -bewilderment and rage. “All the time . . .? And you . . .? The last -thing he ever wrote . . . oh, I might have reached him while there was -still time! When did you get the letter?” - -“Just before I left London.” - -“While he was still alive . . . Ah, God, the cruelty of kind people!” -With the tears still wet on her cheeks, she forced a smile. “And you’ve -been carrying it about ever since? George dear, you’ve punished me for -all the crimes I’ve committed and all that I shall never have time to -commit if I live to be a thousand. . . . May I have my letter?” - -For an instant, as she stood limply drying her eyes, I thought of -telling her that I had destroyed the letter; then I saw that this would -never be forgiven me, even if I had not already told her that it was -with my other papers. - -“It will only hurt you to read it,” I said. “Forget it! Forget _him_, if -you can. I’ve told you he had nothing but love for you . . .” - -“Then why mayn’t I see it? George, I don’t understand! I’m not a child; -and, if I didn’t know you were trying to spare me, I could almost kill -you for your ghastly kindness. Pocketing it for twelve torturing days, -as though it were a bill! Pretending he was too weak to write! Saying it -was a _message_! You’ll send me mad if you’re not careful!,” she cried -hysterically. “For the last time, please give me my letter.” - -“For the last time please try to forget there ever was a letter. I’ve -told you he must have been delirious when he wrote. I won’t answer for -the consequences if you read it. All this time _I’ve_ been trying to -forget it.” . . . - -My voice told her all that I was trying to hide. Her eyes were startled, -then compassionate, then defiant. I thought I heard a whisper of ‘Poor -George’. She raised her eyebrows as though to ask what I was minded to -do. Getting no answer, she shrugged her shoulders and turned wearily to -the fire: - -“Was that why you left London?” I said nothing. “You told me it was on -business. And you’ve been . . . sitting in judgement on me ever since.” -. . . - -I took a step forward and tried to catch her hand: - -“It has made no difference.” . . . - -“Put it down to my curiosity!,” she taunted. “It’s not pleasant . . . to -be . . . _condemned_ unheard; but I couldn’t _bear_ to be acquitted. -Your despatch-box, you said?” - -“Babs, I implore you!,” I cried, as she moved to the bell. - -“You’re afraid of being certain?,” she interrupted scornfully. “I’m only -afraid of sheltering myself behind a dead man. . . . Oh, Henry, Mr. -Oakleigh wants his despatch-box. And will you see that there’s a good -fire in the tapestry-room and have his things moved in there? The . . . -peacocks make so much noise on my side of the house,” she added. - - 6 - -As I finished dressing, Barbara tapped at my door and came in with -Eric’s letter in her hand. - -“If you want this, I must give it you back,” she began. Her voice had -almost left her; and the radiant vitality of an hour before had flown. -“I hope you won’t have to quote it, because these things are so terribly -vulgarized in court. Do I . . . have to be unfaithful? I wasn’t . . . -with Eric,” she added carelessly. - -“I know you weren’t.” - -“I meant to be, . . . if I must use that . . . unclean word. For one -moment I had a vision of perfect happiness, I forgot everything -else. . . . It would be generous of you to say you won’t use this. -Eric’s dead. And people would think he was to blame.” - -“I certainly shan’t use it. Barbara, why are you talking like this?” - -Before she could answer, the letter had to be thrust into safety. Then, -with one hand clutching it to her breast, as though Eric’s heart were -beating against hers, she looked up and forced her mind on to my -question: - -“Because father’s coming down to-morrow, and we must decide what we’re -going to do. We had to fight him pretty hard to get married, but we -shall have to fight much harder to get divorced.” - -“But no one has mentioned divorce.” - -“_I_ have. You said you could never forget that letter. . . . It was a -great risk for us to marry; but you were so sweet and I was so -miserable. . . . I see now that the thing never had a fair chance while -Eric was alive. I heard his voice in the streets, wherever we’d been -together, when I knew he was the other side of the world; and, as soon -as I had a chance, I rushed to him. When he wouldn’t have anything to do -with me, I _did_ try once more to make a success of our life. You wished -for a son; and I did my best, though Eric was the only man I wanted as -father of my children. Perhaps that’s why I . . . couldn’t keep him -alive, poor mite. . . . It’s funny that little things should cause such -big troubles. If I hadn’t asked you to open my letters, we _should_ have -made a success.” . . . - -There was a moment’s break in her terrible composure; and she turned -away with a single dry sob. - -“Why didn’t you tell me, Babs?” - -“You wouldn’t have understood; you don’t understand now.” - -“If I hadn’t understood . . . a little, should I have come?” - -Unwittingly, I moved a step forward; and she held up her hand against me -as though I were assaulting her: - -“If you’d understood, you wouldn’t have waited twelve days.” - -I was goaded beyond discretion by the scorn in her voice. I had -understood and forgiven too little, it seemed, when I fancied that I had -forgiven and understood too much. - -“It was . . . a startling letter,” I answered in her own measure. -“Whenever you told me you’d try to forget Eric . . .” - -“You wondered for twelve days whether you could ever trust me again.” -She did not trouble to look at me, but I felt myself flushing. “As -though any other man could tear my heart out of me as Eric did! Why -_did_ you come?” - -“Because _I_ needed _you_.” - -Barbara’s lip curled in derision: - -“Your servant’s too useful to discharge, so you pretend you haven’t -caught her stealing! When we met to-night, I noticed a difference. I -thought you must have seen in the papers about Eric’s death. When you -kissed me so tenderly, my heart leapt; and I thought you really -understood. Now I know . . .” - -The incisive scorn cut deeper as her failing voice died away. - -“Well?” - -“You _need_ me because I’m a woman. That’s why you insult me with your -forgiveness. And that’s why you must divorce me, George. We’re divorced -in spirit; and we should both be dishonoured if we put your _need_ in -the place of love.” - -In the distance I heard the gong booming for dinner. Neave’s door opened -and slammed. A cautious footfall, accompanied by a warning whistle, told -me that O’Rane was making his way downstairs. - -“I shall not divorce you,” I told Barbara, “even if I could. And I -can’t. You’ll be as independent of me in Seymour Street as if you were -on a South Sea Island. But we mustn’t do anything irrevocable till we’re -more cool-headed.” - -“But . . . this is impossible!,” Barbara cried. - -“If we find it impossible, I shan’t try to keep you.” As I followed her -down to dinner, I wondered whether we either of us realized what we were -saying. “Coming here to-day,” I told her, “I was thinking that life only -becomes intolerable when there’s no love in it. If I can get back to the -state we were in a fortnight ago . . .” - -“You’ll never do that. You’ll be very kind and attentive, as you always -are; but I married you because I thought you understood. Now you’ve -become like any other man who puts a cushion at my back or tucks a rug -round my knees. I’m utterly, utterly indifferent to you!” - -On this, the first night of what she called for two years our “life in a -gilded cage”, I was chiefly concerned that her indifference should be -concealed from the sharp eyes of Neave and the abnormally sharp hearing -of O’Rane. With the same intention or in her usual reaction to an -audience, Barbara sparkled her way through dinner in a manner that set -me wondering whether I had not waked from another nightmare; but, when -we looked for her afterwards, she had disappeared; and, when I went—as -a matter of form—to bid her good-night, she answered me through a -locked door. - -Neave had asked me at dinner how long I was staying; and, when I reached -my room, I found a note from Barbara: - -“_If I am to come at all, I had better come to-morrow. Mother has a big -party this week-end._” - -I sat down in front of the fire and tried to picture our life on the day -after to-morrow. Could Bertrand direct my paper if I found it necessary -to live in Ireland? Was Ireland tolerable or even safe? Could I afford -to keep two houses in commission if my wife refused to live with me. And -how long would Barbara endure this spiritual starvation? - -“_Utterly, utterly indifferent._” I had never been the romance, the -passion, the great love which she still demanded as of right; even with -Eric Lane out of the way, I could not deck out my humdrum self as a -fairy prince. If I failed in the “understanding” for which alone she had -married me, how was her indifference ever to be overcome? The whole of -our life must be such an evening as this, when she donned a brilliant -mask of gaiety for dinner and discarded it when she locked her door -against me. - -A sudden thought urged me from my chair and sent me pacing up and down -my room. How many other masks did Barbara employ? She dramatized her -life so richly that, though her grief for Eric was unfeigned, I doubted -if she could resist the temptation to make a romance out of his death. -Had she been still unmarried, she would have cast herself for a part of -inconsolable bereavement; as I obtruded awkwardly into her scene, she -chose a blend of remorse for the injury she had done him and of heroic -endeavour to forget him in her devotion to me. Unconsciously, in that -queer childish brain that could never separate sincerity from pretence, -the phrases had formed themselves; the emotion that fed the phrases had -been fed by them. Instinctively she had changed her attitude and -improvised a new part when she heard of Eric’s letter; and this trick of -dramatizing her life was now so much ingrained in her nature that within -half an hour she was perfect in her lines, her expression and her whole -reading of the part. Henceforward she would continue to regard herself -as “a damned soul”, with the added damnation of being tied to a crass, -unsympathetic husband and of conspiring with him to deceive her -neighbours as she had deceived O’Rane and Neave at dinner. - -I readily believed that Barbara had forgotten half the agony of Eric’s -death in the joy of playing her new part. - -“But how long is it to go on?,” I asked myself in despair. - -The new part had in some sort been forced upon her; she could not -relinquish it without abandoning her attitude of moral superiority to -one who already believed her to be morally in the wrong and would -believe her to be yet more deeply in the wrong if she admitted that even -her grand romance had been a piece of play-acting. And play-acting it -had been for half the time! She could have married Eric if she had dared -to admit that Jack Waring was tired of her, instead of pretending that -she was pledged to him. . . . - -Next day the Crawleighs arrived in time for luncheon; and we returned to -London in the afternoon. Our departure was on the border-line between -farce and tragedy. Muffled in furs and bathed in the warm fragrance of -her beloved carnations, Barbara took her place by my side; her eyes were -shining as when I came back to her the day before; and her -undemonstrative mother was stirred to exclaim: “My dear, you really _do_ -look very lovely.” Crawleigh, who had recently met my uncle at dinner -and was overcharged with repartees that had not occurred to him in time, -stood with one foot on the running-board and emphasized his endless -rejoinders with excited cutting movements of a tremulous forefinger. In -the background stretched the low grey walls of the Abbey, unchanged -since the days when the first marquis criticized the treaty of Vienna, -unchanged since Lord Chancellor Neave cavilled at the peace of Utrecht, -unchanged since some nameless political abbot pointed the significance -of Crécy and attacked the staff-work at Poictiers. I can no more -reproduce my father-in-law’s arguments than I can reconstruct those of -his predecessors; but I remember being told that now, two years after -the armistice, we were in a more parlous state than when the war was -still raging. - -“That’s what my uncle always tells me,” I answered, though it was not -worth while to remind Crawleigh that this was what I had been preaching -in despised _Peace_ for fifteen months. “If you sow the wind, you must -expect to reap the whirlwind.” - -The reply probably bore no relation to the argument, but I wanted to get -away; and I had not listened to the argument. - -As the car turned out of sight, Barbara flung aside one mask and pulled -another into place. Her eyes lost their colour; her whole body seemed to -grow limp. Appearances no longer needed to be maintained. - -So we returned home, to reap a whirlwind. My trite phrase haunted me. I -wondered who had sown the wind. - - - - - CHAPTER FOUR - - - IN A GILDED CAGE - - - For remember (this our children shall know: we are too near for that - knowledge) - Not our mere astonied camps, but Council and Creed and College— - All the obese, unchallenged old things that stifle and overlie us— - Have felt the effects of the lesson we got—an advantage no money could - buy us! - - . . . . . . . - - It was our fault, and our very great fault—and now we must turn it to - use; - We have forty million reasons for failure, but not a single excuse! - So the more we work and the less we talk the better results we shall - get— - We have had an Imperial lesson; it may make us an Empire yet! - - RUDYARD KIPLING: _The - Lesson_. - - 1 - -My return home from Crawleigh Abbey brought to my mind the reappearance -of the small boy in _Punch_, who, finding his running-away unremarked at -the end of one whole day, drew attention to it by observing that his -parents had the same old cat. For a single moment, as O’Rane and I -reached Salisbury Plain, I had remembered that the world was revolving -in sublime unconcern at my private tragedy; then a starless night of -misery enveloped me once more. In London, a fortnight later, I was -amazed to find letters and messages, proofs and manuscripts from people -who seemed still interested in unemployment or reparations, in the fate -of Ireland or the coalition. - -Now and for many weeks I thought only of new means to win back a woman -who had become a stranger to me. After her first declaration of -“indifference, utter indifference”, Barbara never weakened the effect of -her action by talking about it; when I had influenza, she nursed me as -she would have nursed any man who had the misfortune to fall sick in her -house; when she caught my influenza and aggravated it with pleurisy, she -allowed me to take her abroad to recuperate. No two acquaintances, -sharing the same house, could have lived in greater harmony; and no -woman could have devised a keener torment than by treating lover, -husband or friend as an acquaintance. - -Meanwhile, the external world was still revolving. . . . - -“_I want to see you about these articles of yours_ . . .”, wrote -Bertrand. - -“There’ll be a general election within six months,” Sir Philip Saltash -predicted. - -“_I hoped to find you had knocked some sense into David’s head_,” Sonia -lamented. - -“‘I see you have the same old cat’,” I whispered to myself in -astonishment. - - 2 - -It is a tribute, I think, to our loyalty in public that my marriage to -Barbara was commonly quoted at this time as one of the very few -successful unions in an age of confessed failures and desperate escapes. -Had I imagined at the beginning that our unreal separation could drag on -for two years, the myth of our blissful harmony would soon have been -exploded. As it was, we drifted. I thought by day, I dreamed by night, -of a romantic reconciliation that never came. There were moments when I -fancied that Barbara, with her passion for dramatizing life, forgot her -boredom in the excitement of martyrdom. On some plea, which I do not -remember, she gave up entertaining; and, while the young “London of the -restoration”—in Bertrand’s phrase—went leaderless, she had the barren -pleasure of feeling herself wasted. - -By degrees which I cannot recall I was driven to spend more and more -time at my office and to dine more and more often at a club. Her -indifference spread beyond me to all the men and women who in other days -had interested her; it culminated in her dispassionate efforts to -interest her husband in some other woman. I returned home one evening to -be told that Ivy Gaymer had fled to us for sanctuary and that Barbara -was waiting for me to say whether we should send her back to her husband -or communicate with Mr. Justice Maitland or wait helplessly for -something to turn up. As Ivy was already in bed, we could hardly prick -her into the street at midnight; and next morning she ruled out our -first two courses by declaring that she would never again enter the -house of a man who intrigued with other women under her nose and that -her father’s advice and sympathy were limited to the triumphant -question: what else could any one expect? - -We decided to wait for something to turn up. I did not want to be -inhospitable, but I wanted still less to hear Barbara talking about my -“little _protégée_”. After a week or two I suggested that there were -hotels in plenty and that Ivy was not without money. Barbara confined -herself to saying that, as I had insisted on the creature’s staying on -in the first instance, it was now my delicate task to evict her. -Following the cowardly expedient of writing what I was afraid to utter -by word of mouth, I sent a note to Ivy’s room one night, asking what her -plans were; we should, I said, be going down to Crawleigh for Easter. By -ill luck, she was still up; and her reply was delivered from the foot of -my bed, where she sat, smoking cigarettes, in scantier clothes than -women usually wear in public. If we kept the house open, she would not -in the least mind staying on by herself; her solicitors were advising a -divorce; it was saintly of us to take her in; and she would not have -troubled us if she had not been in fear of her life. The interview was -ended damagingly by Barbara, who came in to insist maternally that, if -Ivy and I wanted to talk, she must put on a warm dressing-gown. - -Though my door was locked against similar conferences in the future, my -next attempt was no more fortunate. Ivy agreed that she must go and then -broke into piteous weeping. I comforted her as well as Barbara’s -expression of scornful amusement permitted; and, when the weeping broke -out afresh as Ivy began to pack, I recollected an overdue appointment at -my office. On my return, our guest was still in possession. - -“She’s cried herself sick,” Barbara told me. “You can say she must go, -George, or you can say she may stop on; but it’s cruel to keep making -her cry.” - -“I want her to go,” I said, without enlarging the field of debate. - -“It was a pity you asked her in the first place, if you were going to -turn her out.” - -“I fancy she asked herself.” - -“I thought she was a passion of yours,” said Barbara in faint surprise. -“You made me go to her wedding, when I hardly knew her.” - -“At O’Rane’s request: because her father was being so difficult.” - -There was a pause; then Barbara shrugged her shoulders. - -“I think she’s rather in love with you,” she murmured. - -“That’s very flattering,” I said, “but it doesn’t make things any -easier. Her affections are quickly aroused. First it was Eric, then -Gaymer; now . . .” - -“You don’t believe it? George, you’re sometimes rather unobservant. Why -d’you think she came _here_ of all places?” - -“I should think she was banking on the softness of your heart or of my -head,” I answered. - -I hardly knew whether to be surprised or not when I found Ivy still with -us next day, but I made no further attempt to dislodge her. At the end -of the week Barbara went to Crawleigh and I telephoned for a room at the -Eclectic Club. New developments in Ireland kept me tied to the office at -the last moment; and I did not choose that my wife or Ivy’s husband -should be able to say that the two of us had been alone together. After -four-and-twenty hours’ solitude Ivy discovered that it was possible to -live in an hotel without being tracked by her drunken and homicidal -lord; and the incident closed when Barbara came into my room, on the -night of her return from the Abbey, with a brief letter of thanks. - -“You’d get tired of her very soon,” she said judicially, as though I -still needed to be saved from myself. “So would any man. That’s why I -begged Eric not to marry her. I believe you’d be happier, though, if you -found some woman who really interested you.” - -“That advice is more suitable for a bachelor than for a married man,” I -pointed out. - -Barbara walked to the door in silence, then paused with her fingers on -the handle. - -“And how long is this going on?,” she asked with a sigh of utter -exhaustion. - -“You alone can say that,” I replied. - -The tragic farce had been running for six months and was to run for -another eighteen before the farce was eliminated and only the tragedy -remained. Without regular employment, I should have gone out of my mind; -and I am thankful that my uncle’s increasing infirmities threw ever more -and more of our work on my shoulders. - -It was in the spring of 1921 that he despaired openly and finally of the -existing government; it was in the summer that he called for a change. - -“Though, mark you, there’s not another man who could have done what -George has!,” cried Bertrand with the generous appreciation that Jack -Sheppard might have exhibited towards Dick Turpin. “After two years of -power he’s made a tumbledown peace that satisfies no one. He _hasn’t_ -hanged the kaiser; he _hasn’t_ made Germany pay for the war. The League -of Nations, which we were promised, _isn’t_ functioning; he calls a new -conference every few weeks to settle finally the problems which were -finally settled at Versailles. If that isn’t an achievement . . .” - -“Oh, admitted!,” I said. “I’m thinking about the day of reckoning.” - -We were walking slowly along Knightsbridge on our way to one of the -weekly editorial dinners; and, as we approached the French Embassy, I -crossed the road for fear of encountering Lucien de Grammont. My -shoulders were not broad enough to support the load of obloquy which he -kept in reserve for our few, uneasy meetings; and, though I stated -candidly that the French were now the chief obstacles to peace, I could -not persuade Lucien that it was the prime minister and not the humble -editor of an obscure review who had coaxed the French to open their -mouths and shut their eyes at Versailles. Now that no sweetmeats were to -be had, the French were threatening to undertake the search themselves. - -This was the first bill to be met on the day of reckoning; but I was not -prepared to say that it would be the last or the heaviest. In Ireland, -the practice of wholesale murder and destruction was being met with -reprisals in kind. Of India and Egypt it is enough to say that we knew -very little, that all we knew was bad and that we were not allowed to -print all we knew. - -“That’s my point,” said Bertrand with cynical complacency. “Any one of -these things would have brought down a government in old days. Take -taxation! Take unemployment!” - -“My one consolation,” I broke in, “is that _no_ man, even if damned -fools call him a ‘little wizard’, can cope with all that at the same -moment.” - -“I’ll write you an article on _The First Duty of Government_,” Bertrand -promised. “And that, some of these gentry may be surprised to hear, is -. . . to _govern_.” - - 3 - -My most vivid memory of my uncle’s subsequent diatribe was that I -declined to publish it. In Ireland or France, where irony is understood, -it would have gone with a swing; but we were unpopular enough already -without assailing the cherished conviction of the English that they have -a natural talent for self-government. And this is what Bertrand -attempted with artful citations from any convenient speech in which an -English publicist had asserted that Dervishes, Hottentots, Andaman -Islanders or even Irishmen were unfit to govern themselves. Could -darkest Africa shew such a record of misrule as we had at our doors? Had -Egypt plunged to bankruptcy with greater recklessness than we displayed? -By the standard of our Indian crimes and blunders, was not Abdul the -Damned unjustly damned? The English were mistaken, but it was not too -late to repair the mistake; and my uncle proposed in conclusion that the -United States should lend Mr. Herbert Hoover for six months to organize -and run the British Empire Protectorate. - -“It won’t do, Bertrand,” I said. - -“But isn’t it true?” - -“It’s too true.” - -That, however, was not to say that the English had enough detachment to -relish the truth underlying the irony. Roger Dainton, on the eve of -signing the Ulster covenant, told me—as an Englishman—that the Irish -would never be fit for independence till they had acquired respect for -law; I had seen Violet Loring whiten to the lips at the report of a -lynching in some southern state and then regain her colour in a spasm of -indignation that a Quaker had not been shot for refusing to enter the -army. Collectively, I had watched the people of London—and, for all I -know, the people of England outdid them—exhibiting, at the time of the -Pemberton-Billing case, a ferocious credulity that was not exceeded by -the French in the Dreyfus trial. - -“Well, write your own damned article,” said Bertrand. “If you think you -know these people . . .” - -I believe that in one respect I understand the English, among whom I was -brought up, better than Bertrand, to whom they were always a race of -despised aliens. What they lack in imagination they make up in a queer -political instinct. Every one at the Eclectic Club was sublimely -indifferent, in these days, to the case of Egyptian autonomy; the -Amritsar sentences only provoked a desultory discussion whether “damned -black men”, as I heard them described by Sir Roger Dainton, would not be -all the better for “an occasional dressing-down”. When, however, -national bankruptcy was threatened, I encountered an instinctive -preference for solvency; and, when refugees from all parts of Ireland -flooded England with tales of assassination and counter-assassination, -the British liking for order at home grew clamant. I remember carrying -back to Seymour Street an official poster in which recruits were invited -to “_Join the Royal Air Force and_ _See the World_”; an unofficial hand -had appended the grim warning: “_Join the Royal Irish Constabulary and -See the Next World_.” - -“It’s beyond a joke: that’s what it is,” said Robson, on whom I tried -the last of my experiments. - -For soul-deadening years, my butler’s sentiment had been expressed, from -different angles, by Crawleigh and Bertrand, by O’Rane and Dainton, by -_Peace_ and the _Morning Post_. I believe, however, that no change of -heart can be effected by one man or one paper. England accepted the -reformation and acquiesced in the decapitation of Charles the First when -the Robsons of those days—inarticulate and irrational, for the most -part, but numerous and determined—decided that the unreformed Catholic -Church or the divine right of kings was “beyond a joke”. - -“I’ve written my own damned article,” I telephoned to Bertrand. “I think -it’s an improvement on yours.” - -“You _would_,” he replied. - -“I don’t think this government has very long to live,” I added. - -The oldest trick in the bag of a political journalist is to find out -what policy is going to be followed, to insist vehemently that this -policy must be followed and to take credit for having forced his own -policy on a vacillating and apathetic government. During the war, Sir -John Woburn preached conscription from the moment when his chief spy in -the cabinet had revealed that ministers were agreed to bring -conscription in: the Press Combine advertised itself for months as the -mouthpiece of that opinion which demanded conscription; and, when the -first military service act was passed, Woburn stood forth as the giant -who had forced the government, in his own phrase, “to give Haig the -men”. I have to guard against the temptation to employ this trick in -writing of our campaign in 1921. Independently of our prompting, every -one was saying that ministers must govern or go; and I only realized how -far opinion had swung, when I met the lately ennobled Lord Saltash at a -public dinner. - -“Well, things are moving,” he began darkly, as he led me to the Turf and -Stage and pointed from an unobserved corner of the gallery to Lord -Lingfield’s customary table. - -I needed a few minutes to penetrate the familiar externals. My cousin -Laurence Hunter-Oakleigh was entertaining a party of American revue -actresses; Sam Dainton was dancing with Ivy Gaymer; and the inscrutable -Gaspard was watching and ministering with his wonted resourcefulness and -address. It was like going back to a play at the end of a long run. I -felt that they must all of them have been frozen in the same attitude -since last I looked down on the top of their heads a year before. The -band, which played unceasingly from the moment we arrived to the moment -we left, might well have been playing for twelve months on end. It was -impossible to think of these sleek heads and slim figures without their -Turf and Stage frame, unless you thought of them as the brilliant, -glossy chorus of mannequins and salesmen in a musical comedy at the -Hilarity in old days. Had they homes? Had they private lives? - -“I see Wister is withdrawing the support of his papers from the -coalition,” I said. - -“Yes, he’s out for an all-conservative ministry,” answered Saltash. -“Foreditch put him up to it; and you can see they’re trying to nobble -Wilmot Dean for their new ginger-group. The rank-and-file tories don’t -want to drive Ll-G. out, though, till they’re sure of keeping him out. -And Lingfield, who’s leading the rank-and-file, doesn’t believe they can -do it yet, unless Bonar comes back. That’s why he wants a centre party, -to include Birkenhead, Winston and that lot. It’s interesting, devilish -interesting! The dying lion ain’t dead yet.” - -“What line are you taking yourself?,” I asked. - -“A wise man wouldn’t commit himself till the dying lion was much nearer -his last kick,” Saltash answered with refreshing candour. “If -Lingfield’s centre party falls down, he and Birkenhead and Austen won’t -get any mercy from Foreditch and the men who want an all-conservative -ministry; and, if Foreditch wounds Ll-G. without killing the coalition, -his die-hard tories needn’t look for office from the centre party. It’s -too early to say. When I give you the hint . . . I’m here most -evenings,” he concluded with an affability that rather disquieted me. - -“I’ll remember that,” I said; and, when the last of many political -crises ended fifteen months later in the prime minister’s resignation, I -made it my business to dine nightly at the Turf and Stage. I was never a -member; but Sonia, who also was not a member, introduced me to Gaspard; -and Gaspard, bowing from the waist, assured me in the French of the Midi -that Mrs. O’Rane’s friends were always welcome. - - 4 - -She was not at the club on the night when Saltash took me to observe the -signs of the times; but I found her husband talking to Barbara when I -arrived home. He was armed with the notes of an article and wished to -use my paper for an attack on the entire English system of inheritance -and property. - -“We’re hypnotized by 1914,” he broke out stormily. “We treat the old -world like a vast Pompeii, which we’re uncovering bit by bit. People -won’t see that we’re repairing from copies of old models.” . . . - -“I’d sooner live in old Pompeii than in new Turin,” Barbara murmured. - -“If Pompeii had been paradise in 1914, it would be an outworn paradise -now!” O’Rane, I thought, looked tired and old, as though perpetual -opposition was gradually wearing him down. “The world changes in seven -years, especially if the inhabitants have spent four of them -withstanding a stream of molten lava. Can you tell me a single idea -we’ve put forward, a single effort we’ve made to improve on 1914 so that -Pompeii shall not be buried again?” - -I left Barbara to wrestle with his question while I glanced at the -manuscript article. O’Rane’s own contribution to the ideas of the new -age seemed to be that the hand of every man must be against his -neighbour so long as unequal wealth made the one arrogant and the other -envious. As human capacities were unequal, wealth must continue to be -unequally amassed for a single lifetime; but to perpetuate this -inequality was to perpetuate the friction that ultimately lead to -revolution and civil war. - -“You’re at least consistent,” I said. “On the night Stornaway died, you -told me there was no room in the modern state for these gigantic -fortunes.” - -“I doubt if we have room for private transmitted wealth of any kind,” he -answered. “It debilitates the individual, it demoralizes society. I’m -seeing that every day in my own work.” - -The subject was too big to discuss at midnight; but, as his article was -avowedly the preamble to a declaration that he was bent at all costs on -saving humanity from the poison of the Lancing inheritance, I warned him -that the unemployed might break his windows if they heard that a million -a year was going to feed distant Russians when they themselves had not -eaten a square meal for twelve months. I asked whether his wife approved -of the article, but received no answer. Finally, I returned him his -manuscript with a reminder that I could not stultify my weekly -predictions of insolvency by proclaiming of a sudden that we were all -suffering from too much money. - -“I’ll try elsewhere,” said O’Rane without resentment. “I’m sorry, but -I’m not surprised. You’re hypnotized by 1914, too, and you think you can -avert another eruption by treaties and boards of arbitration. They -didn’t stop the war in ’14, George; they never _have_ stopped wars, they -never will. If you’d change the course of history, you must change the -heart of man.” - -“The more I study the heart of man . . .” I was beginning. - -“It changes daily,” O’Rane cried. “It changed when man turned sick at -gladiatorial shows and slavery and torture. It will change again when -men find that cooperation is more comfortable than competition. But -you’ll have competition always—the competition of the rich with the -poor, among individuals and nations, the inevitable forerunner to every -revolution and war—so long as you crystallize an unequal distribution -of wealth.” - -“Write me an article on that theme,” I said, “and I’ll publish it -gladly.” - -My invitation and promise were forgotten by O’Rane, I imagine, as -quickly as I forgot his demand that I should find a new spirit moving on -the face of the waters. When I reached Fetter Lane next morning, I was -greeted by Spence-Atkins with news which made Saltash’s predictions -obsolete and O’Rane’s researches premature. With or without our reminder -that the business of a government was to govern, ministers were hatching -a new Irish policy. Like most Irish policies, it could be guaranteed to -divide England even if it failed to unite Ireland; and I felt then and -later that the decay of the coalition set in on this day. Like all new -moves in the Irish game at this time, it was certain to keep me in -London when I wanted to take Barbara to Scotland. - -The result of the new negotiations has passed into history; and from -first to last I was narrowly preoccupied with their effect on my own -fortunes. If the south-west of Ireland became habitable again, I was -resolved to make it my home; and, at the end of many months’ parleying, -I was wakened by a telephone-message from my uncle to say that a -settlement had been reached. After threatening reconquest, the -government had ascertained that to “reconquer” Ireland would cost as -much and take as long as the last South African war; those who had -preached coercion changed their text to conciliation; and, as I passed -through Inverness, the king’s ministers were meeting the ministers of -President de Valera on equal terms. - -“The treaty,” Bertrand’s message ran, “was signed in the small hours. -Outside a portion of Ulster, Ireland is to be a Free State.” - -“And now,” I answered, “and now . . . now perhaps we may see home-rule -for England.” In 1906 I had brought a young man’s ideals to Westminster; -thirty years before me, my father had done the same; and ten years -before him, though he might now call his ideals illusions, Bertrand had -entered parliament with hope and vision. One after another, each in our -generation, we had seen our vision clouded and our hope deferred by the -shadow of Ireland. “May I go home now?,” I asked. - -“I can’t spare you yet,” Bertrand sighed. “The trouble’s not over. There -are thousands of Irishmen who’ve taken a solemn oath of allegiance to -the republic for which their fathers and brothers laid down their lives. -There are thousands of English who will say in every passing difficulty: -‘I _told_ you so! Ireland is unfit for self-government.’ We must preach -patience, George. We must try to sweeten the bitter taste that all this -blood has left on our lips. Lake House can get along without you for the -present.” - -“I was only thinking Barbara and I should be the better for a change,” I -answered with deliberate vagueness. - -If I kept my disappointment to myself, I could not help being -disappointed. This talk of peace had suddenly opened an unexpected vista -of escape from the “gilded cage”; and my single glimpse of freedom -convinced me that I could not continue the armed neutrality which -Barbara had been imposing on me for a twelvemonth. We must be reconciled -or divorced. If we could separate even for a short time, we might be -able to decide what we wanted. I therefore told Bertrand that he must -not count on me indefinitely; and the old man shewed the wisdom to give -me my change by sending me to America for the Washington Conference. - -“One of us ought to be there; and I’m too old,” he explained. “I don’t -know what stuffing the new president has inside him; but this is the -first serious effort to undo the harm of the Versailles treaty, and -Harding is the first responsible statesman to say frankly that we’re all -committing financial suicide. You’ll go?” - -“I will,” I promised. - -“And you’ll take Barbara?” - -“I’ll talk to her about it.” - -And that night I told her of my decision. - -“Are you expecting me to come with you?,” she asked. - -“It will be better for us both if I go alone. When I come back, you’ll -have had time to think quietly . . .” - -“I can picture you talking to your clerks like this,” Barbara mocked. -“‘Your last chance, remember!’ . . .” - -“To think quietly,” I repeated, “whether you would prefer me to live in -Ireland. Conditions are becoming normal there . . .” - -“You must _really_ decide for yourself where you want to live,” she -answered, without hinting whether she wished me to live alone. - -A week later I sailed from Southampton. - -If I had expected to find any striking change on my return, I should -have been disappointed; but I fancy that I had by now ceased to look for -the romantic reconciliations of the film-world. There was little enough -change anywhere. My father-in-law had given me a farewell dinner on the -night before I sailed; he gave me a dinner of welcome on the night that -I returned. Tempers, I thought, were a little shorter; nerves a little -thinner. The vague feeling that something decisive must soon happen -reminded me of 1914, when the world expected a cataclysm and almost -hoped for it. - -“And certainly the conference has done nothing to avert it,” I told -Bertrand at the end of dinner. - -“Not the French show-down?,” he asked. “After this, we can talk frankly -instead of gushing about our gallant allies. We all made grievous -mistakes at the peace conference, George, but it’s the French who are -keeping us from repairing them.” - -“Which will coerce which?,” I asked. - -The question, I could see, was not palatable. - -“They’ve the best air-force in the world and could lay London in ruins -within a week,” Bertrand growled. “It’s immeasurably superior to -anything we saw in the war. They can hold Germany down with aeroplanes -and niggers; and, when you ask them why they won’t reduce their -submarines, you don’t get a satisfactory answer. I can give it to you. -They’re going to make themselves masters of Europe before any one has -time to stop them. They worked against us in Poland, they’re working -against us in the near east.” - -“How do you propose to make use of this knowledge?” - -“It may lead to clear thinking. Why _we_ should pay six shillings in the -pound to relieve them of an income-tax, when they’re amassing armaments -. . .” - -There was very little change anywhere. Lady John Carstairs hoped vaguely -that we were not going to desert our late allies; Violet Loring -whispered that it was all very well for dear Phyllis to preach at us, -but America had deserted every one. I provoked a passing storm by -asserting that all international debts would have ultimately to be -forgiven; and, had any one asked wherein the world was safer or happier -than in 1914, he must have waited long for an answer. - -An hour later, as we drove home, Barbara enquired expressionlessly -whether I had enjoyed my holiday from her. - -“I wanted _you_ to have a holiday from me,” I answered. “No, I missed -you horribly. I should like to think you missed me.” - -“Oh, why say that?,” she exclaimed with sudden petulance. “If I could -have a holiday from myself so that I didn’t see how my life has been -wasted, if I could lose my memory . . . Dear God, if I could only die!” - -There was no change in her; and I was driven to issue my ultimatum: - -“If you’d like me to go away again, I will. And this time I shouldn’t -upset you by coming back. I’ve done my best; and I’ve failed. We can -part friends. If you want a divorce, you can have it now.”. . . - -“Somehow, I don’t see you in the divorce-court,” Barbara murmured half -to herself. “I feel you’d bungle it. When I wrote and begged you to come -back, you _would_ . . . by special train.” - -“Well, the matter is now in your hands,” I said. - -“I think you’ve a finer collection of worn-out phrases than any man I -know,” she cried, again without answering my question. - - 5 - -“No change of any kind!,” I told my cousin Violet when we dined with her -a fortnight after my return to England. - -Barbara had not mentioned divorce again; and I believe we were summoned -to Loring House with a view to mending the latest breach between Sonia -and her husband. He, unchanging in stubbornness, had published the -article which I rejected and was threatening to follow it with others; -Sonia, unchanging in tactics, had announced that she would walk out of -the house unless he yielded. Bertrand, unchanging in the beloved formula -which he applied indiscriminately to cigarette-smoking, Christianity, -_vers libre_, welfare-work, side-whiskers and “self-determination”, -explained that this was only a phase, which one or other or both would -outgrow. And Violet, whose kindness of heart nothing could change, was -playing counsellor and friend of all parties. - -“We, I suppose,” said Barbara, “are to be the object-lesson in domestic -felicity. When women have married the wrong men, as Sonia and I did, -it’s rather a waste of time for any one to patch it up.” - -“If there’s been a fair trial,” I said, “you should end what you can’t -mend. Armed neutrality is intolerable.” - -From Barbara’s thoughtful look I fancied she was wondering whether I -wanted a divorce in order to marry some one else. - -“The trouble is,” she continued, “you never know who is the right man -till you’ve married him. I always thought you had more perfect -understanding than any man I knew . . . Funny!,” she added, as I made no -answer. - -No answer seemed possible. There was now no change in our rare private -passages, though I thought the reference to my want of understanding was -dragged in to close the subject of divorce. There was no change in the -atmosphere of this party. Nearly seven years had passed since Violet and -I last dined together at Loring House. The noble line of portraits had -been reinforced by a black-and-white sketch of Jim in uniform; Sandy was -old enough for his mother to consult me about schools; but we were -arguing now in the very mood and terms that we had used in 1914. - -“I wish people wouldn’t talk so much about ‘the next war’,” Violet -muttered with a frown in the direction of Philip Hornbeck. “I’ve lost my -husband; I’m not going to lose my son if I can help it.” - -The big, softly-lighted room reminded me of my interminable discussions -with Jim and of his own admission on the outbreak of war that the old -governing classes were played out. I was reminded, too, of the question -that had haunted me in the first weeks of the armistice: if the order -that was represented at this table could not keep peace or make peace, -would it have to give way? - -“We talk about the next war,” I said, “because the combined wisdom of -the world has done nothing in the last three years to prevent it.” - -“I suppose the prime minister _is_ the only man . . .?” she hazarded. - -“Every prime minister is indispensable,” I answered, “till he finds -himself on an opposition bench, watching his successor taking command. -Five minutes after George goes, every one will ask why he didn’t go -before. Every one will discover then the vice of all coalitions: which -is that there’s no one to oppose them. You don’t expect Curzon to admit -that Lloyd-George’s foreign policy is dangerous?” - -“Can nobody do anything from outside?” - -“The press does its best, but this government is stronger than the -press. Otherwise, Woburn and his combine would have had George out in -the street a year ago. Your best hope is an intrigue from inside. Ll-G. -was at least equally responsible for the shortage of high explosives in -’15; yet he put the blame on the others and broke the Asquith -government. It may be done again.” - -My voice carried to Bertrand’s side of the table and roused him from one -of his now periodical lapses into slumber. - -“If the House of Commons contained anybody one half as clever, Ll-G. -would not now be prime minister,” he answered. - -No change; and no prospect of a change until it was forced upon us by -another cataclysm. It was the public temper that alarmed me more than -any concrete problem of unemployment or proved blunders of policy. On my -first appearance in Fetter Lane I asked young Triskett for a sketch of -the political position; and the tone of his reply reminded me -disquietingly of the recklessness and exasperation of 1914. - -“The prime ministers of the allies,” proclaimed Triskett with the pomp -of a toast-master, “have been meeting in discord and parting in harmony, -without settling anything. The public, however, me lords, ladies _and_ -gentlemen, has by now ceased to expect settlements. We have had a new -policy once a week to bring Russia back into what the poet so -felicitously calls ‘the comity of nations’; a protest once a fortnight -against bolshevist propaganda in the far east; and winged words from the -labour party once a month, when it thinks Winston has a new scheme for -invading Russia. Reparations, my dear Oakleigh, are rather _vieux jeu_: -we don’t remind Ll-G. of his promises to hang the kaiser or ‘make the -Huns pay’; if we did, the French might try to catch us up for an -invasion of the Ruhr. We’re rather short with the French since the -Washington Conference. At home, you’ll find the prime minister has got a -new wind, but everybody’s very sick of him. Gawd, and I’m sick of -everything!,” he added with his first approach to sincerity. - -The bitter, neurotic voice reminded me of a night, some eight years -earlier, in my old room, a quarter of a mile away in Bouverie Street. -Van Arden and Jack Summertown then burst in with the announcement that -they were bored beyond endurance; we must break windows or light a -bonfire in Trafalgar Square. “Sick of everything!,” they repeated at -short intervals. I could not join in whatever debauch they arranged: it -was press-night, for one reason; and, for another—unless my memory be -at fault—, this was the Thursday following the Serajevo assassinations, -when universal dissatisfaction sought practical expression. Arden and -Summertown were now dead; but Triskett stood in their place. And -Trisketts, multiplied to infinity, furnished the atmosphere, the fuel -and the spark whereby the world was periodically set ablaze. The -Triskett of an earlier generation had told his friends in Paris that a -bit of a revolution would at least liven things; he had urged Lafayette -to fire on the mob at Versailles “just to see what would happen”. - -I mentioned this fancy to Bertrand and O’Rane at the end of dinner. - -“It’s the revolt against peace, after the incessant excitement of war,” -said my uncle, who had been loudly regaled with private mutinies for the -last hour. Ivy Gaymer was now in the precarious legal region “between -the _nisi_ and the absolute”; Sam Dainton had scandalized his parents by -opening a cocktail-bar in Swallow Street; and Barbara was contemplating -a volume of autobiography. “I’m afraid we’re drifting . . .” - -“We’re refusing to admit there’s been a war,” Raney struck in. “You -can’t expect anything to be the same; and it’s because I’m afraid to -drift that I’m carrying out a new idea with this money.” - -We were not encouraged by O’Rane’s tone to break the rather embarrassing -silence that followed. I had noticed before dinner that he and his wife -had not merely—in the language of stage directions—“come into the -room”; they had “entered, conversing with animation”. As we drove home, -I asked Barbara whether Violet had effected a reconciliation. - -“If he publishes any more articles, Sonia will repudiate them,” she -answered. - -“And if he repudiates her repudiation?” - -“She’ll repudiate him.” - -“Um. I rather hoped, when I saw them together . . .” - -“Husbands and wives who get on well in public always arouse my worst -suspicions,” said Barbara. “No, there’s no change.” - -I was still pondering our hard-worked phrase when we re-entered our -“gilded cage”; and Barbara had slipped away to bed before I could ask -her whether a man erred more grievously by doing everything that his -wife demanded or nothing. - - - - - CHAPTER FIVE - - - “UN SACRIFICE INUTILE” - - - “. . . They say, the tongues of dying men - Enforce attention, like deep harmony; - Where words are scarce, they are seldom spent in vain; - For they breathe truth, that breathe their words in pain.” . . . - - SHAKESPEARE: _King Richard II_. - - 1 - -“On the turf,” expounded my uncle Bertrand, “races are won by the -intelligence of the individual backer. It is only when you lose that you -divide the responsibility between the breeder, the trainer, the jockey -and the horse. That is why the sporting tipster is the happiest of men. -Why shouldn’t we call ourselves ‘the Brigadier’ and run a sporting -column in _Peace_? You and I, George, get neither pleasure nor profit -from seeing our political forecasts being fulfilled.” . . . - -“Perhaps, if we’d backed our fancy . . .” I began. - -“I’ve backed _Peace_,” said my uncle grimly, “to a tune that would make -an unsuccessful racing-stable seem like a safe investment. I pay tens of -thousands a year for the privilege of casting myself for the part of -Cassandra. We _can’t_ be so much cleverer than other people . . .” - -“If we were,” I interrupted, “we might make them believe what we tell -them.” - -“The world believes what it wants to believe,” said Bertrand. - -“And is quite unabashed when it’s proved wrong,” I added, as I pocketed -the article which I had brought to Princes Gardens for my uncle’s -_imprimatur_. - -Many months had slipped away since we discussed the day of reckoning -that awaited an opportunist government and an indifferent country. In -the last four months of 1921 and the first eight of 1922 every storm -that we had foretold blew against our doors or broke through our roofs. -By the time that the peace coalition fell, the great powers were at -loggerheads, war was at a day’s remove and the mutter of social -revolution was heard in England for the first time since the Chartist -riots. No one heeded our jeremiads; and there is little satisfaction now -in recalling our prescience. Indeed, before presuming to lecture the -public, I might well ask myself what hearing I won from my friends and -what attention I paid to my own warnings. Did O’Rane listen when I told -him that his stubbornness had already alienated his wife and would, as -likely as not, encourage the unemployed to break his windows? Did I -listen when I told myself that, though I had sworn to have no scene with -Barbara, the armed neutrality could not last? - -Did I really believe that the conditions created by the Versailles -conference could only be changed by another war? - - 2 - -I am writing so near to the times which I am trying to describe that I -must occasionally invoke the judgement of posterity. I may be told that -my facts are wrong, that I have distorted them by unintended omissions, -above all that I worked in a false perspective. My only answer must be -that I have written the truth as I saw it, that I have no thesis to -maintain and that my conclusions have been reached without bias. At the -armistice I believed that we had done with war; when peace was signed, I -believed that another war was being made inevitable; and, when the -peace-coalition fell, I believe that the sense and conscience of the -country rose in revolt against a system that threatened it with another -war. From this standpoint, the general election of 1922 closed the -chapter that began in 1918 and the book that opened in 1914. If it did -not answer my question whether the old governing classes could make -peace, it gave an unmistakable answer to those who demonstrated that -they could not. So far as the people of England are concerned, I feel -that the diplomatic moves and counter-moves of this period, the division -and regrouping of political parties, the influence of the party and -press managers and the historical significance of the Irish settlement -or the unemployment problem were all leading to the upheaval of 1922. If -history admit of beginnings and ends, a system ended with the end of the -1918 parliament. In using the word “revolt”, which Louis XVI favoured, I -wonder whether I should not use the word “revolution”, which de -Liancourt substituted. - -According to my uncle, the first responsible attack on the peace-treaty -was delivered by President Harding; a counter-attack was opened by the -French, when they stultified the Washington Conference; and an attack, -in reply to the counter-attack, was launched by the Balfour Note on -inter-allied indebtedness. - -On the day after it was published, Clifford van Oss called in Fetter -Lane to enquire whether the note was an overture to repudiation. - -“I should rather call it our reply to the French _non possumus_ at -Washington,” said Bertrand. “If we pay our debts to you, the French must -pay their debts to us instead of building submarines against us.” - -“From what I know of the French,” said Clifford, with the detachment -that some of us found irritating in a country which had so -disconcertingly washed its hands of European problems, “they won’t take -it lying down.” - -The assertion was so intrinsically probable that I did not contest it; -but, if I spent little time wondering what the French reply would be, -that was chiefly because I was watching the fulfilment of another -prophecy. The controversy that raged for six months over O’Rane’s -articles in the _Democratic Review_ is now public, if not ancient, -history; and my chief memory is of his victory by silence. If one of his -million critics had troubled to study his argument, he would have seen -that the flamboyant gifts of embarrassed millionaires were attacked for -their demoralizing effect on the recipients. Those who wrote to the -papers or passed unanimous resolutions of protest laid emphasis on the -crying needs of hospitals and the like; they assumed an almost -impertinent right to tell other people how they should spend their -money; but they did not meet O’Rane’s contention that every university -could be endowed, every laboratory subsidized and every great work of -art purchased for the nation from the money that was spent on luxuries. - -I paid less attention to those who lectured O’Rane from expensive -addresses than to those who heard, on the authority of a millionaire, -that a great many people had a great deal too much money. - -“Any windows broken?,” I asked him on one of the rare occasions when we -met in these months. - -“Not yet,” he laughed. - -I did not dare to enquire whether any wives had been running away -lately. Sonia’s threatened repudiation had not yet been published; but -this, Barbara told me, was only because he had not yet stated in public -that he would renounce his inheritance. The controversy imparted a -transient heat to the chilly summer of 1922; and no doubt I should still -be printing letters of protest if O’Rane’s theories of property had not -been drowned in the thunder of a more urgent conflict. In August I took -Barbara to stay with the Knightriders; and I had only reached -Northumberland when my uncle recalled me to London with a telegram that -revived for many days the agonizing fears and uncertainties of 1914. - -I returned alone to find Bertrand breakfasting in bed. - -“You’ve asked me more than once what we’ve done to prevent another war,” -he began. “Here’s your answer: nothing.” - -In the last week I had seen but a few provincial papers; I had almost -forgotten the diplomatic moves that led to this check. With all the -suddenness of those August days eight years before, however, I stepped -out of the train at King’s Cross to learn that Great Britain was being -left to fight, single-handed, for the freedom of the Straits, against a -restored and rejuvenated Turkey. - -“This is the French reply to the Balfour note,” I said; “their revenge -for our refusing to accompany them into the Ruhr.” - -“If you’ll be good enough to tell me what it’s all about . . .” Bertrand -thundered; then he lay back, spent and very old, until I suggested -calling in Fetter Lane to see the latest telegrams. - -There was nothing to be learned there; almost nothing to be learned when -I invited myself to dine with the Crawleighs, though I remember this -night with pleasure as the only one on which my father-in-law and I -looked on any political problem with the same eyes. Halfway through -dinner, Neave entered in service-uniform. His battalion had received its -orders for Chanak; he did not know why he was going; we could not tell -him. - -“Harington’s a cool-headed fellow,” said Crawleigh to keep his own -courage up. “If he _can_ avoid a conflict . . .” - -I remembered the days eight years before when Jim Loring and I kept our -courage up by telling each other that Sir Edward Grey would prevent war -if war could be prevented. - -“I _still_ don’t understand,” muttered Lady Crawleigh, as though we were -conspiring to keep some discreditable secret for her. - -“No one does, ma,” Neave snapped and then left his father to reach the -same conclusion in less few words. - -War was again at our gates; and we had not willed it, we did not want -it. Stalking across Europe from that country which had been most -completely vanquished, it hammered at our gates within four years of the -war that was to have ended war. Whenever in the last three years I had -urged that the incorrigible and blighting Turk should be forced into the -hinterland of Asia Minor, Crawleigh had annotated my articles with the -red-ink comment that we should pay for a peaceful Europe with a hostile -India. Now, though he knew better than most men that Mohammedan India -was not bound to us by ties of love, we awoke to find that, while the -victorious allies were quarrelling at a distance, Turkey had set herself -quietly to recover all that she had lost in the war. When British troops -went unsupported to uphold the Treaty of Sèvres, they were to find their -old enemies equipped with the arms which we had shipped to Russia and -restored to fighting form by officers of the French army. - -“But . . . but _why_ . . .?,” Lady Crawleigh kept repeating with -pathetic helplessness. - -Parliament, as represented by Crawleigh, the services, as represented by -his son, the press, as represented by me, were not allowed to know all -that was involved in this apparently aimless squabble about distant -waterways. - -“Nobody knows and nobody cares,” Neave cried in ungovernable -exasperation. - -And this was all that I could report in answer to Bertrand’s request for -news. - -“The first shot fires the magazine,” he predicted; “and we know from the -Balkan wars that people can fight when they’ve no food and no money. -Russia and Hungary will come in search of pickings. One will bring in -another.” . . . - -For once, however, my uncle was at fault. The political instinct of a -somnolent people was again expressed by my butler in his favourite -formula that another European war would be beyond a joke. - -“If they can’t do better than that,” he decided, of the coalition -ministers, “they’d better let some one else have a try.” - -I handed on this opinion to Bertrand next day, with the rider that he -looked like winning an old bet on the life of the coalition. Before I -went north again to bring Barbara back to London, the Lloyd-George -government was under sentence; and, had Bertrand been at hand in October -to claim his wager, I should have had to entertain him at dinner. - - 3 - -Mindful of Lord Saltash’s invitation, I called without delay at the Turf -and Stage to hear the latest movements of political parties. Now, as -before, there was no one to turn the prime minister out if he could hold -his cabinet together; now, as before, the insurgents were thrown into -confusion by their cross-divisions. While Rupert Foreditch ran up and -down in search of a conservative leader, the centre party counted its -big guns. - -“_It is hard_,” the Lingfield press stated, “_to imagine a conservative -administration without Lord Birkenhead, Sir Robert Horne and Mr. -Chamberlain, all of whom, it is well known, have promised their -allegiance to Mr. Lloyd-George_.”. . . - -“_Recent events in the near east_,” retorted the Wister papers, “_have -signed the death-warrant of the coalition_.”. . . - -The organs of both parties combined to ignore the existence of liberal -ministers; and I judged that the political wire-pullers on all sides -were estimating whether the old but awkward conservative organization or -the new but efficient coalition would be the harder to split. - -As I failed to see Saltash, I deduced that the tocsin was either not to -ring yet or else had rung already in some other place; and my nearest -approach to a party-manager was the trim and ill-informed Frank Jellaby, -who demanded without preamble what line my paper would take in the -election. - -“What line are the independent liberals taking?,” I asked in my turn. -“And how many seats can you be sure of winning? I’d support the devil -himself if he promised a homogeneous majority.” - -“_Our_ line . . .” he began eagerly; and, as I turned from the things he -had forgotten to the things he had never learned, I classed him -unhesitatingly with those who—in O’Rane’s phrase—would not admit that -a war had taken place. - -“I suppose a political whip can’t live without an abnormal endowment of -optimism,” I said, more to myself than to him. - -Jellaby forged ahead with growing enthusiasm. The local associations -were solidly in support of the Asquith wing, solidly opposed to the -Lloyd-George renegades. Much capital could be made out of the -Safeguarding of Industries Bill (“which is pure protection; you’d have -thought the tories had had enough protection in 1906”); more from the -Black-and-Tan reprisals in Ireland; most of all from the unpopularity of -the coalition. - -“But have you considered why it’s unpopular?,” I broke in at last. “Not -because its policy is faintly protectionist—the electors to-day don’t -care tuppence about free trade—; not because it tried to put down -murder with more murder. What people care about is taxation and the cost -of living and unemployment and, above all else, my dear Frank, security. -We’re in sight of another and a bloodier war.” - -“With a man like Lloyd-George . . .,” he began with a kindling eye. - -I did not wait, however, for the end of the tirade. No one beyond -Jellaby’s immediate circle of colleagues cared about the internecine -feuds of exasperated factionaries; and I look back on this night as the -time when so temperamental, congenital and impenitent a liberal as -myself had to realize that there was at present no hope for liberalism -in the liberal party. So far as the roar of his indignant rhetoric -allowed me, I tried to formulate the demands of all who shared my own -feeling of insecurity. The country was demoralized by the war and by the -paralysis of government that followed it; instinctively the country -wanted to be put into training, to have its muscles hardened and—still -more—its nerves steadied. Though the heat of civil war had died down in -Ireland, it had been replaced by the fitful blaze of individual -assassination; the chief of the imperial general staff was done to death -this summer on the steps of his house in London; the commander-in-chief -of the Free State army was ambushed in Ireland. It was idle to bandy -figures of murders and reprisals, when the country demanded a cure for -its own demoralization. - -“People feel it’s time to pull up, take stock, overhaul,” I said. “It’s -the spirit of 1914, when the war did for us what we could not do for -ourselves.” - -“And that security is just what the liberal party offers,” said Jellaby. -“Standing midway between a tory reaction and socialism . . .” - -“If you’re going to be the safe, middle party,” I interrupted, “go -all-out for that. In 1918 you had no policy; you have no living policy -now. The only thing you’ve learnt since 1914 is that you have a score to -settle with the coalition-liberals. While you’re settling that, the -country will look for a government that will tackle unemployment before -the unemployed get out of hand, a government that doesn’t bring us as -near war as we are to-night.” - -We argued inconclusively until the theatres emptied. As there was still -no sign of Saltash, I judged that—in his favourite phrase—he must be -troubling the waters to some purpose; and I was preparing to leave when -Sam Dainton hurried up to demand why I had not yet patronized his -cocktail-bar. He was followed—at an interval of time and space -calculated to disarm the king’s proctor—by Ivy Gaymer, who told me that -she expected her decree to be made absolute the following week. - -“These six months have been hell,” she cried viciously, as she danced -away with Sam. - -Marking her difference of outlook and appearance since she first sought -from me an introduction to journalism, I felt that we were threatened by -a worse spirit than that of 1914 and that we stood in need of harder -moral training. Ivy’s reputation was hanging by a thread; her fingers -and Sam Dainton’s were itching equally to snap it. - -“A mad world,” I said, as I parted from Jellaby. “A mad world,” I -repeated, two days later, when I went north to bring Barbara home. “A -mad world face to face with its madness,” I thought to myself, on -reading an announcement, sandwiched between news of now greater moment, -that Mr. David O’Rane was withdrawing the funds of the Lancing Trust -from England. - -On reaching Seymour Street I found a telephone-message from Sonia, -begging me to see her at once. I replied that I would come; but, as I -walked to Westminster that afternoon, I felt—as in the similar -atmosphere of eight years before—that the individual had shrunk in -importance. Barbara, shaken out of her usual aloofness, now only cared -to know what chance of life I would give her brother; and, though I felt -for Sonia as I should feel for a popular actress who married a country -curate, I was mildly aggrieved that she should absorb my time when I -wanted to explore the last frantic hopes of peace. - -The case which I prepared for O’Rane was, I fancy, not unpersuasive; but -I had no chance of putting it forward. If the inheritance three years -before had been a nine-days’-wonder, the news of the renunciation seemed -likely to cause, in some quarters at least, a nine weeks’ consternation. -I blundered into the wake of a deputation and entered the library in -time to hear the venerable Bishop of Poplar pleading for men and women -whom O’Rane had kept alive for more than two years. Thousands, the -bishop asserted, were on the verge of starvation; before the winter, -they would be reckoned by tens of thousands. While Mr. O’Rane’s -arguments might be unassailable in normal times, the aftermath of an -unprecedented war demanded abnormal remedies. - -“From half-a-dozen abnormally long purses?,” O’Rane enquired wearily. “I -want _every one_ to give and _every one_ to feel it. If your few rich -men go on strike, what will happen?” - -The bishop was too old a controversialist to be trapped: - -“You would like me to say that some one will come forward in their -place. I wish I could believe it. When the pinch becomes unbearable, the -government will provide relief out of the taxpayer’s pocket. But, before -that relief comes, many people will be dead; there will be rioting -. . .” - -“It’s a nice question already how long we can keep ’em sweet,” -interposed an anxious voice on behalf of the National Unemployment -Committee. - -“It’s a nice question whether you’ll get anything done till they turn -nasty,” retorted a small man with a Cardiff accent. - -The bishop smiled and explained that, to make his deputation -representative, he had included his friend Mr. Griffiths, with whose -well-known bolshevist views we were no doubt already acquainted. - -“What would you think, Mr. O’Rane,” he continued, “if I threw the bread -of London into the Thames on the plea that it would be better for the -people to eat cake? You are pronouncing sentence of death on the weakest -section of the community.” - -In the silence that followed I turned from O’Rane’s tortured eyes to the -apostle of “bolshevism”. This was certainly my first, though not my -last, meeting with the organizer and leader of “Griffiths’ Heroes”. I -had expected a figure cast in the heroic mould, for there was a touch of -the genius in the originality of his ideas and a hint of the commander -in the obedience which he secured in carrying them out. Most strongly -marked, however, was the fanatic; and his blended passion and cruelty -made him something less than human. In thinking of him after all these -months I am always reminded of an angry ferret. He was very small, very -hirsute, very quick; though his eyes were brown, they seemed to shine -red; and, as he looked scornfully round O’Rane’s warm library, I felt -that his little teeth were seeking a hand to bite. - -“There’d be less talk of bolshevism, if people knew what they were -talking about,” he announced with a bluntness that was in painful -contrast to the bishop’s courtly patience. “The government says it -doesn’t know what to do; let’s see if any one else does. When folk are -starving, they know what to do.” - -There was a threat in his tone; but he did not explain it, as Sonia came -in at this moment and motioned me into the corner by the tea-table. -Griffiths, to the credit of his consistency, refused tea: the men whom -he represented had been out of work for eleven months; he lived as they -lived and, if need be, would starve as they starved. - -“We’re first on the list for looting, when the revolution comes,” she -whispered cheerfully, while he examined her clothes as though he would -have liked to strip her. Then, for a moment, she forgot to think of -herself. “Oh, George! Babs has just telephoned for you. I’m so sorry, -I’m afraid there’s bad news. Your uncle . . .” I stood up; but she -pulled me back, as the deputation filed out. “She’s sending the car -here; she thinks you ought to go to him at once. If there’s anything we -can do . . .” - -I shook my head. At Bertrand’s age, there was little that any one could -do. - -“Have you told Raney?,” I asked. - -“I hadn’t a chance. This deputation . . . Oh, David, what did you tell -them?” - -O’Rane dropped into a chair and pressed his fists against his temples: - -“I said . . . I’d think the thing over. It was really out of politeness -to the poor old bishop. Nothing can make any difference.”. . . - -“Even when everybody tells you you’re wrong? People simply won’t believe -it. I had four reporters within half-an-hour.” - -“I don’t know what they want to worry us for,” he broke out. “What did -you tell them?” - -Sonia weighed each word of her answer before launching it: - -“I said you hadn’t made up your mind. If you want to shew that you care -for me . . .” - -O’Rane walked to her with his hands outstretched in an attitude of -entreaty: - -“If this accursed money had never come to me, you couldn’t have said -that.” - -The attitude of entreaty won no hint of yielding. - -“Of course, if you _won’t_ be warned . . .” Sonia muttered, as she -walked with me to the door. - - 4 - -As I got into the car, I was first frightened and then touched to find -Barbara sitting half-hidden in her corner. - -“I’m afraid he’s very bad,” she whispered. “It’s not a stroke this time; -but something’s broken inside him and he’s had terrible hæmorrhages. If -he has another . . . I’m so sorry, George.” - -“It was good of you to come.” - -In the darkness I heard a sigh; and Barbara laid her hand on mine: - -“We’ve always been good friends, even if we _have_ made rather a mess of -our lives.” . . . - -I could not hear what she said after that, for I had been caught -unprepared by Sonia and was realizing now for the first time that it was -a toss-up whether I saw Bertrand alive. My uncle was a man of almost -fifty when I was born. For ten years I was frightened out of my wits by -his huge stature and bellowing voice; for another ten I was humiliated -by his brutal jests and blasting disparagement; then, as a young man, I -rose in exasperation and trounced him till he roared with delight at my -beating. From that unlikely beginning sprang a friendship in which -Bertrand played the part of father, elder brother, political mentor and -fellow-conspirator in my most impressionable years. - -“I . . simply can’t imagine life without Bertrand,” I told Barbara. - -“If you want me . . .”, she whispered. - -Did even she know how the sentence would have ended? I was stunned by -the thought of losing Bertrand; I clutched at any one who would take his -place, clutching literally with both my hands about Barbara’s wrists. -And she, for the first time in my acquaintance, was frightened. - -“Does this mean . . .?,” I began. - -“I won’t come into his room, of course,” she continued, in a superb -recovery. “If you want me to fetch some one for a second opinion . . .” - -“Does this mean that we’re going to make a new start?,” I persisted. - -“I’ll do all I _can_ . . .” - -Though it was Bertrand’s imminent death that broke my self-control, I -forgot him and forgot that we were driving to his death-bed: - -“The only good you can do is to tell me this ghastly farce is played -out! Two years!” - -“We all make mistakes,” she answered with composure, though she had -winced at that word “farce”. “I can’t help you _much_. In these two -years I’ve grown used to doing without love. I’ve lost everything, -thrown everything away.” The silence that followed seemed to daunt her; -and I felt my hand being pressed. “You know as well as I do all you’ve -done for me. I’ll be your wife, I’ll bear you children if I can; but I -can’t give you a love I don’t feel.” - -As though I had stepped aside, I saw myself lurching forward to demand -satisfaction for the unuttered reproaches and contemptuous suspicions -that had masqueraded so long as patience. - -“Did you ever feel it?,” I heard myself asking. “Have you _ever_ loved -_any one_? You’ve been curious about many people; but it’s always been -in your head and not in your heart.” - -“I don’t let _myself_ off!,” she moaned. - -“I wonder! You have tragic scenes; but, when other people are broken, -you survive. If your heart had been brought into the play . . .” - -I broke off in stark horror. Never before had we held such language; and -we were almost within earshot of Bertrand. Barbara was dumbfoundered at -first; then she rallied and threw herself into the duel as though I were -at last giving her an opportunity of which she had been unfairly -deprived ever since our marriage. - -“I never pretended to be in love with you,” she taunted me. - -“You’ve never been in love with any one. If you’d ever known the meaning -of the word, you wouldn’t have married me on those terms.” - -Barbara turned away and covered her face with her hands. - -“That’s the way Eric said good-bye to me!,” she gasped. “George, I asked -you to divorce me two years ago.” - -“And I wanted to make sure, for your sake. Well, let’s face reality for -once! Imagine me to be dead.” . . . - -With another unexpected turn, Barbara clung to me convulsively and laid -her hand over my mouth: - -“Don’t talk of death!,” she whispered. “I’m so frightened of it! And -it’s very near at hand now. I’ve been ill so often, I’ve had to fight it -so often. My dear, my dear, if I ever heard you were ill, it would bring -back all my love: I’d nurse you; I’d shew you I _could_ sacrifice -myself. Never say that again!,” she cried hysterically. - -My fit of bitterness passed as quickly as it had come; and I tried to -apologize. Then it returned; and I asked myself whether this talk of -“sacrifice” meant more than that Barbara was living, as ever, in a world -of emotional romance. Then the car stopped; and I stumbled up the steps -of my uncle’s house. - -In the hall Violet Loring told me there had been no further hæmorrhages. -Only a few more hours of life could be expected, however; and this -Bertrand realized. - -“I didn’t bother you before,” he began in his normal voice, “because I -didn’t know whether I was going to live or die. I’m going to die, it -seems; and I can tell you, George, it’s the most interesting experience -I’ve ever had.” - -His grim chuckles rumbled till the vast Victorian brass-bed creaked. -Involuntarily Violet shivered; but I felt that the last and least -service I could do was to make my mood chime with my uncle’s. - -“I’m glad I’m in time to thank you, Bertrand,” I said. “You’ve been my -best friend ever since we first set up house here together, nearly -twenty years ago.” - -Though I knew the room of old, I was struck for the first time by the -uncouth masculinity of a vanished era. - -“Odd business,” he grunted. “I always dropped a generation. I’m your -_great_-uncle; but I always put you in your father’s place. You’ve kept -me young. . . . And now this is the end, the moment we wait for all our -lives. The heart’s weak, thank goodness, so I shan’t make a fight; but I -swear to you I expect to wake up again to-morrow morning! I’m not afraid -of going out, but I can’t believe it. That’s why people persist in -fabricating a future life. I’ll tell you one thing, George, that’ll -comfort you: death’s only a terrible thing if it comes before you’re -ready, and you’re only ready when you’re worn out. That was the terrible -part of the war.” The leonine head turned with an effort that left him -breathless. “Violet my dear, I bow humbly at the thought of boys like -Jim who were killed before they had time to find the grasshopper a -burden. I can’t believe I shan’t wake up to-morrow, but I don’t want to -. . . here or anywhere. A silly old woman of a parson came here -yesterday. . . . It cost me a hæmorrhage to get rid of him. Good God, -I’ve outgrown _that_ phase! Life eternal. . . . I’m much more interested -in the brief life that is our portion here. I’ve had nigh on a century -of it; and I know less about it than I did when I was born.” - -He paused as the nurse came in to say that O’Rane was waiting -downstairs. - -“Good of the boy,” he murmured. “Ask him to come up.” Then his eyes -shone with their last gleam of mischief: - -“‘_Never seen death yet, Dickie? . . . Well, now is your time to -learn!_’” - - 5 - -The fit of coughing that followed caused my uncle to examine himself for -injuries. The nurse made signs to Violet, who slipped noiselessly from -the room; O’Rane came in, and I guided him to the bedside. Bertrand -shook hands with difficulty; and his heavy eyes lightened. - -“You’re another of them,” he panted. “Always think of your father when I -see you. I wonder what he’d have made of it all if he’d lived. . . . -George there?” - -“I’m here,” I answered, as I pulled a chair to the bedside. - -“I’ve been thinking over what you said the other day about our -prototypes in history. Triskett’s great-grandfather firing on the -Versailles mob just to see what would happen. . . . I’ve known a good -few historic figures: O’Connell; Mazzini; Lassalle. The great -unspeakables. I believe I went to them for fear of being told by boys -like you that I and my spiritual forefathers had been on the wrong side. -Dam’ conceit! I hope I’ve outgrown that phase now; but, when that ass -Crawleigh spluttered about rounding up conscientious objectors in the -war, I felt that his ancestors had burnt heretics. Your friend Maitland -sentenced a man to the cat the other day: he said it was the only remedy -for crimes of violence. I asked him why he didn’t break the fellow on a -wheel, as his forebears had done. Damn it, I gave up shooting for fear -of finding myself in the same dock as the old cock-fighters. Conceit, if -you like. I’ve been a radical because I couldn’t let posterity charge me -with the savagery and intolerance which we throw up against our -conservative predecessors. Time was on my side. I recorded my protest. -What _good_ it’s done . . .? That’s why you’d better keep the paper on, -George. It’ll shew the next generation how superior you were to this.” - -The advice was rounded with a cynical, deep chuckle; and he lay long -without speaking. - -“The world’s a gentler place than when you were a boy, sir,” O’Rane put -in. - -Bertrand looked at him in silence for a moment and then shook his head -slowly: - -“You say that, with your experience of the late war? _Does_ human nature -change? . . . We shan’t have that dinner, George, but I wasn’t far out -in my date. The present government is falling to pieces.” - -“And what’s going to take its place?,” I asked. - -Bertrand ruminated in silence for some time; then his face lighted for -the last time in a reflective smile: - -“A restoration government! We’ve given a million men and heaven knows -how many thousand million pounds to keep things . . . _just as they -were_. Nurse says we’re shipping troops again to the Straits: to defend -the graves we’ve already filled there, I suppose. In ten years the great -powers will be balanced as they were ten years ago; there’ll be the same -competition in armaments, the same scares, ultimately the same universal -war . . . on a vastly different scale. At home we’ve fallen back into -our old social and financial grooves.” Bertrand’s eyes turned fixedly to -the ceiling in a strained effort of concentration. He was speaking very -slowly now and studying his articulation. “We’re . . . going on . . . -from 1914 . . . without break of thought . . . or mend of heart.” - -As he paused, O’Rane stood up and walked cautiously to the bed. - -“I’ll leave you now, sir, unless you want me,” he said. “I expect you’d -like to talk to George. I . . . want to thank you.” . . . - -“You’ve nothing to thank me for. Don’t go unless I’m depressing you.” - -“It’s not encouraging,” O’Rane laughed. “You remember Anatole France’s -story of the woman who tried to save her lover in the Terror? She gave -herself to one of the judges and was told afterwards that she had . . . -rather misunderstood his assurances. _On fera le nécessaire_, yes; but -what then? ‘_Je t’ai dit, citoyenne, qu’on ferait le nécessaire, -c’est-à-dire qu’on appliquerait la loi, rien de plus, rien de moins_.’ -Most unfortunate misunderstanding! ‘_Elle sentit aussitôt_’,” he quoted -slowly, “‘_qu’elle avait fait_ . . . _un sacrifice inutile_’.” - -As Bertrand looked from O’Rane’s scarred hands to his sightless eyes, I -saw that he had no answer ready. I do not know what answer either of us -could have given such a man at such a moment. - -Until the nurse came in with the doctor, my uncle lay silent and, I -think, half-asleep. Towards midnight he roused with a start and seemed -at a loss to explain why we were there. Then he remembered that he was -dying; and, with the slow effort of failing strength, one hand was -dragged painfully from under the bed-clothes. I led O’Rane to him and -then shook hands myself. - -“That place of yours . . .” he muttered. - -“Yes?” - -“Lake House. I heard you were selling it. Don’t . . . unless you must. I -was brought up there. Your grandfather and I . . . You’re too young to -remember the orangery . . . When I was twenty, our nearest neighbour was -a girl called Cathleen Nolan . . .” He paused for breath, and I tried to -find out if he wanted to send her a message. “She’s been dead for more -than sixty years,” said Bertrand with a twisted smile. - -If that was his romance, he could tell me no more of it; and the smile -gave place to a quick contortion of pain. I sent O’Rane for the nurse; -but, before he reached the door, my uncle gave one long sigh and the -slight movement of his breathing ended. - -O’Rane carried the news to Barbara and with it a note to say that I -should stay at Princes Gardens until the funeral. On the heels of the -first letter I sent a second to beg her forgiveness for my mad words in -the car. She replied that she had forgotten everything. - - - - - PART THREE - - - - - CHAPTER ONE - - - TO-MORROW AND TO-MORROW . . . - - - . . . In the dark there careers— - As if Death astride came - To numb all with his knock— - A horse at mad rate - Over rut and stone. - - No figure appears, - No call of my name, - No sound but “Tic-toc” - Without check. Past the gate - It clatters—is gone. . . . - - Maybe that “More Tears!— - More Famine and Flame— - More Severance and Shock!” - Is the order from Fate - That the Rider speeds on - To pale Europe; and tiredly the pines intone. - - THOMAS HARDY: _A New Year’s Eve in War Time._ - - 1 - -The days that followed my uncle’s death stand out in my memory as a -vivid and wholly disconnected dream between two normal periods of -waking-life. At one moment I was living in the midst of vast, -conflicting noises; there followed complete calm, during which I was -indeed as busy as ever—as busy as one seems to be in a dream—; then -the tumult broke out afresh. Though nothing had in fact been suspended, -though nothing had greatly progressed in my short spell of -unconsciousness, I felt at the time that I had two personalities, one on -either bank of the dividing stream. - - 2 - -I believe Bertrand’s death saved my life or at least my reason. I -remember feeling almost bitterly that I could not support his illness in -addition to my work for our paper, the hourly exasperation of my life at -home and the storm of calamities that were bursting on us from the four -corners of heaven at the same moment. The shock of losing him gave me -the break I needed. When I awoke in an unfamiliar bed, I recalled that -we were overshadowed by a new war, that a general election was imminent -and that unemployment was a problem which we could not solve “by pulling -long faces”. Then I recollected the venomous, red-eyed author of that -phrase; and the scene in O’Rane’s library was flashed on my brain like a -scene in a film. I remembered Sonia’s jejune sympathy. I remembered -finding Barbara in the car. I wondered dully how we stood after that -bitter, mad outpouring; and, despite her note, I was thankful that we -should not meet for a few days. Then I realized that for a few days I -should have a respite enforced: from the paper, from war and -unemployment, from everything that seemed at the moment more than I -could bear. - -My first duty was to arrange for the memorial service at St. Margaret’s; -and, as I watched the congregation arriving, I felt that the respite was -extending, for an hour, to all of us. The obituary notices, the memoir -which I was writing for one of the quarterly reviews, most of all this -solemn tribute to a man, perhaps great, of an undeniably great past -turned our thoughts backward to a time when France lived under a -citizen-king and disunited Germany declaimed ineffectually at Frankfurt. -Of the two former prime ministers who attended the service, both were -hardly more than boys when my uncle first entered the House; the oldest -head of a foreign mission had found “old Bertrand Oakleigh” an -established institution when he was first accredited to the Court of St. -James; and the journalists, the lawyers, the men of business, the bees -and butterflies of society who moved sombrely to their places could not -remember a time when the truculent Johnsonian figure had not been one of -the familiar sights of London. - -“A great landmark gone,” whispered Dainton, as I waited for Barbara to -arrive with the Crawleighs. “I didn’t always agree with him. Indeed, if -you took a poll of the people here he _hadn’t_ quarrelled with . . .” - -I turned to watch the cars emptying and the new arrivals dodging or -seeking out the reporters. My mother had come over from Cannes; my -sister and her husband, Violet Loring and Laurence represented the -family; and, if we had all tingled from the old man’s lash, that was -long ago and inextricably in the part he chose to play. The older -generation in the House of Commons and the younger generation in Fleet -Street—men who won his respect by standing squarely up to him—came -unurged to prove their regard for his fighting qualities and his -generosity. - -“I deplore his politics,” said Crawleigh, “but he was a great public -servant.” - -At such a time I refrained from suggesting that Crawleigh’s father had -deplored the politics of Bright and Cobden. It is one curse of the -party-system that an opponent must be dead before we admit that he may -possibly not be damned. I was brought up to regard Lord Salisbury as a -monster wherewith to frighten naughty children; my father, if he had -been required to expose the Antichrist, would have pointed his finger -unhesitatingly at Lord Beacons field. - -I thought over Crawleigh’s belated tribute as I took Barbara to our -places. This imminent election might purge the House of those to whom -the war—as Saltash told me frankly—had come as a god-send; but, if the -adventurers into public life were not sent back to their counting-houses -and newspaper-offices and bucket-shops, I feared that, with Bertrand, -there would die an unparalleled tradition of integrity and devotion. My -uncle had prepared himself for politics by half a lifetime of study, as -Gladstone and Salisbury, Morley and Rosebery prepared themselves; of the -men under thirty who entered the House with me in 1906, hardly one had -not tried to equip himself by travel, by settlement-work, by experience -in business or by the management of an estate. There seemed to be fewer -servants of the public in 1918. - -“If he had scoffed less,” said Lady Dainton, “he would have done more.” - -I agreed privately, though I think his cynicism covered a disappointment -of soul: he had come to England, as a brilliant, ambitious and sanguine -boy, to reform the world; and the sluggish-witted, slow-speaking English -had worn him down. To begin as an O’Connell and to end as “a great -public servant” would have roused him to savage merriment. - -“How he would have despised all this!,” I whispered to Barbara, as the -people whom he would not admit to his house hurried importantly into the -more prominent seats. - -Ministers of the present and past, divines and pressmen, authors and -diplomats poured in till every place seemed to be taken. A crowd began -to collect at the doors; there was rather more noise than I thought -seemly; and I was glad when the organ began to play. - -Sixty years of public life. I was trying to remember whether Bertrand -had known Westminster before the new Houses of Parliament were built, -when Spence-Atkins, who was acting as an usher, touched my arm and asked -if we had room in our pew for two more. I made way for Sonia, who -crushed past me with scarlet cheeks, and for O’Rane, who allowed himself -to be guided by a verger. His face, I thought, was white and set, with a -suppressed anger which I had seen more often at school than in later -years. I asked if anything was amiss; but he would only reply -“Afterwards.” Then I relapsed into the past and forgot my surroundings -until the last notes of the Dead March throbbed into silence. - -Outside I was surrounded by sympathetic friends; but, in the complete -detachment of my anæsthesia, I was thinking only that I had time to see -my solicitors before luncheon, when I found Sonia the centre of an -agitated little group which O’Rane was trying alternately to soothe and -to disperse. - -“No, I insist on telling George,” she proclaimed. “Did you hear what -happened when we arrived? I don’t like being called a murderer!” - -The word—and, still more, the tone in which it was uttered—disturbed -my dream of past days. - -“Who . . .?” I began. - -Then O’Rane, with mounting irritation as some queer sense warned him -that a crowd was collecting, felt for my arm and led me away. - -“We don’t want a scene,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, George: I wouldn’t -have come if I’d thought for a moment. . . . Our excellent friendship -the Bishop of Poplar is unintentionally at the bottom of this. You -remember his saying something about my condemning innocent people to -death if I stopped the money I’ve been giving him the last few years? -Well, that’s been taken up by Griffiths’ gang. We’ve had sandwichmen -patrolling The Sanctuary all this week: O’RANE’S SENTENCE OF DEATH or -something of the kind. I didn’t care; I wasn’t going to be blackmailed. -Then, to-day, one of the reporters at the door asked my name; and -somebody in the crowd overheard it. A few idiots thought it would be -amusing to shout ‘murderer’. . . . Where’s Sonia? It’s time we got -back.” - -As I led him to his wife, I observed that her cheeks were no longer -flushed; she looked, indeed, unpleasantly scared, and her eyes were -fixed on the avenue of loiterers between whom she must pass on her way -home. - -“We’ll drop you,” Barbara suggested, with a quick movement towards the -car. - -Sonia hurried gratefully to her side. - -“Thanks, Babs, I’ll walk,” said O’Rane obstinately. - -“Then I’ll walk with you,” I said. “This business is frightening your -wife,” I added when we were alone. “Why don’t you tell the police to -clear these sandwichmen away?” - -“I really haven’t had time. This is going to be the worst winter of all, -George; we must raise every penny we can.” His lip curled contemptuously -at the booing which greeted us in Palace Yard. “I’m free to beg now; if -people want to know what I’m doing myself, I can say I’m giving every -last shilling I can spare and they must do the same. We’re _all_ -responsible for relieving this distress; it’s part of the war, and we -must volunteer as freely as we volunteered in ’14. And, if that doesn’t -bring the money, we must try other means. The smug, secure people were -glad enough to have conscription of men. Their money’s less than a man’s -life; we must have conscription of wealth if they won’t volunteer. If it -amuses the people I’m working for to call me murderer . . . Will you -come in?” he asked, as we reached The Sanctuary. - -“I’m already overdue at my solicitors’,” I answered, though I made time -to call at the Admiralty on my way to the City. - -I thought that Philip Hornbeck, who amassed “intelligence” of all kinds, -should have a first-hand account of this ugly little scene; and I wanted -to hear his opinion of Griffiths. Though he promised to keep on eye open -for the O’Ranes, he clearly considered the temper of the country less -dangerous than in the big strikes after the war. The unemployed were -numerous enough, but they were kept scattered; Griffiths had the ability -and the will to make mischief, but he was disowned by the official -labour-leaders. - -“The people of this country have no experience in revolutions,” said -Hornbeck. “When you have a riot, it’s always the rioters who need -police-protection.” - - 3 - -The tumult, which had seemed to be so mysteriously suspended, broke out -anew on the day when I sent my memoir of Bertrand to the printers and -walked out of Princes Gardens into the traffic of Knightsbridge. -Clamorous contents-bills at the street-corners reminded me that I was -come back to a world where new wars were imminent; the Guards had sailed -for Chanak; a general election could no longer be averted. - -My ultimate duty to Bertrand was fulfilled when I persuaded my staff to -carry out his last wishes for _Peace_. Though he mocked the empty -conceits of recording protests and demonstrating moral superiority, he -was not scheming to stand well with enlightened posterity when he lay -murmuring: “_Un sacrifice inutile? Un sacrifice inutile?_” O’Rane’s -question was an affront to him; he was wishing himself fifty years -younger, to make an answer that would satisfy him; and we must take up -the burden which his hands could no longer hold. - -As soon as I had their promise of support, I left my colleagues and set -out for Berkeley Square to learn the secret history of the -long-threatened conservative revolt. - -This menace of war had done what the grotesque treaty of Versailles, the -organized anarchy in Ireland, the paralysis of government in every limb -had so far failed to do. Others, besides my butler, were saying that the -long record of misrule was beyond a joke; and the party-managers, in -concert with the independent wire-pullers who were now an established -part of our public life, had decided to wreck the coalition. ‘Blob’ -Wister had already spoken; and Saltash told me that Woburn and the Press -Combine would speak next day. - -I found my father-in-law engaged on a letter to _The Times_, protesting -against the exclusion of peers from the Carlton Club meeting; and for a -long spell he reiterated like a sulky child that he could tell me -nothing because he was allowed to know nothing. Then he relaxed and -informed me that the fight was taking place over foreign policy in -general and, in particular, over the prime minister’s dictatorial habit -of conducting his foreign relationships through his own secretariat over -the head of the Foreign Office. - -“If I’d been Curzon, I’d have thrown the whole thing up years ago,” said -Crawleigh with that eagerness for resignation so often exhibited by men -who have not been invited to hold cabinet office. - -“He may feel he’s more useful as a brake on the prime minister,” I -suggested. - -“If the prime minister goes, the foreign secretary must follow . . . -unless he precedes him, when he sees how the cat’s jumping,” said -Crawleigh with ill-concealed malice. “Well, it’s quite simple; -Chamberlain has pledged himself to support the coalition; Birkenhead and -Horne are with him; and the rump is meeting to see if it can overthrow -Chamberlain.” - -“Who’s to be put in Chamberlain’s place?,” I asked. - -“No one knows yet. No one has the least idea how the meeting will turn -out. If I were in the confidence of my party . . . Nowadays the unhappy -accident of being a peer . . .” - -Feeling that I should hear no more, I drifted to the Turf and Stage, -where Frank Jellaby thickened the mist in which Crawleigh had enveloped -the Carlton Club. After a denunciation of the coalition-liberals which -reminded me of Cato’s punctual fulminations against Carthage, he -explained that the new crisis had been engineered by ‘Blob’ Wister and -that its outcome depended on Wister’s success in finding a leader: - -“He had no difficulty in persuading people like Dean and Lingfield to -come out for an all-tory government when his papers were marching ahead -to cover their advance. If he can get Bonar Law to stampede the meeting -. . .” - -“I hear Lingfield and the rest of George’s tory ministers are swearing -allegiance to him with one hand,” I said, “and writing him letters of -resignation with the other.” - -“_They_ don’t know anything . . . except that some of them will be badly -left.” - -“But no one,” I encouraged him, “will be left quite so completely as -your coalition-liberal friends.” - -Jellaby’s face darkened: - -“They sold the pass in ’16, they’ve had their reward; if there were -another pass to sell, they’d sell it; and they mustn’t complain if they -can’t find one.” - -“You won’t join forces,” I asked, “to keep the tories out?” - -“After 1916 I could never trust a coaly-lib again,” he answered. “Now, -if your paper would help us into a position where we could hold the -balance . . .” - -“That,” I said, “is simply overturning one coalition to make way for -another. And you’ve no more programme to-day than you had in 1918, when -you let Ll-G.’s mad promises pass without a protest. We’re paying for -your silence to-day, at Chanak and wherever the French can hit us.” - -Before Jellaby had time to answer, we were hurried one stage farther -along the ever unfinished road of contemporary politics. Lord Saltash, -whom I had observed moving from table to table with the manner of a -conspirator rather far gone in wine, raised his eyebrows suddenly as -‘Blob’ Wister hacked his way across the dancing-floor. There was a quick -nod; and Saltash lurched towards the telephone-boxes, only pausing to -whisper thickly in my ear: - -“He’s going! Bonar, I mean. Meeting to-morrow.” - -“Are you betting on the result?” I asked. - -“He’s not coming back politics sake being losing side,” Saltash answered -telegraphically, laying a squat index-finger against one side of his -nose. “Last kick dying lion. Wash-out George. Number up.” - -Jellaby was silent for a few minutes; then he smiled as one who had -waited patiently by the mills of the gods. - -“Had Zimri peace, who slew his master?,” he demanded at large. - -“This is the end of the liberal party for a generation,” I said; which -was not the answer expected of me. - -And then I stood up to say good-by. There is little difference of age -between Jellaby and myself; but he has been nurtured more strictly on -the official hatreds of a whips’ office. I was born and bred a liberal, -whereas Jellaby embraced that faith as he embraced agnosticism, the -poetry of Arthur Hugh Clough, the painting of Manet, the æsthetics of -Pater and, for a time, total abstinence. They were all fashionable among -the members of one coterie at Balliol in his day. - -“For some years . . .” he conceded with regretful solemnity. - -“And,” I pursued, “what happens to liberalism, which is more important -to me than the liberal party?” - -Jellaby had no answer ready; and, if he had not been my host, I should -have asked him whether a liberal whips’ office cared for these things. - -Next day the conservative wing of the coalition seceded, after a brief -debate, on the strength of a single, brief speech. The prime minister -resigned; and the king invited Mr. Bonar Law to form a government. As -soon as the conservative party had accepted its new leader, the date of -the election was announced. Those of my friends who were nursing -constituencies became, of a sudden, very important and excited; I -received invitations to speak from people who must have forgotten, if -they ever knew, how bad a speaker I am; wagers were offered freely; and -all parties predicted confidently that they would return with increased -numbers. - -I spent much time at the Eclectic Club in these days, wondering what -line my paper should follow in the election. No new policy was being put -forward; and, if the old policy stood condemned, I did not understand -why ministers who were responsible for it were kept in office. Nor, at a -season when everybody speculated how long the patience of the unemployed -would endure, did I understand why the order of the county was entrusted -to a man who had preached the sacred right of rebellion so few years -before in Ulster. I wondered, too, what would happen to the floating -wreckage of the coalition; and, more bitterly than ever before, I missed -old Bertrand’s caustic humour in the hours when he sat with me here in a -window of the smoking-room, defaming the passers-by and pretending that -we were studying trends of opinion and “the great movement of men”. - -He it was who said that politics were desocialized when Mr. Asquith left -Downing Street. For six years the political stage had been occupied by -statesmen, demagogues, shy scholars, blatant adventurers, -advertising-agents, unemployed millionaires, newspaper-proprietors, -dukes, international Jews and merchant-princes. Cabinet control had been -replaced by the personal domination of one man who miraculously held -this heterogeneous company together; considered policy had yielded to a -succession of brilliant and incongruous improvisations. On no day could -an outsider foretell who next would pull a wire; and, as I looked round -the crowded rooms of the Eclectic, I wondered what all these long-faced, -out-of-work pressmen and financiers, these confidential secretaries and -hangers-on would now do for a living or a career. - -Then, as the ministry was completed and the first election-addresses -appeared, I recalled Bertrand’s last verdict. - -“_Without break of thought or mend of heart . . ._” - -_Were_ we going on from 1914? Had the war, in which most of my -generation perished, really achieved nothing? - - 4 - -As we slid noiselessly into the least passionate general election of my -experience, I wondered whether we were going on from anything so good -even as 1914. If the German peril was at an end, no man could say what -new trouble might come out of the east, when demoralized Russia and -Austria joined hands with resentful Turkey and Prussia. The mark had -collapsed; and, unless it could be rehabilitated, the trade of central -Europe must come to a standstill. - -After that, it was a toss-up whether famine or revolution came first. -Against this tidal wave of hunger, disease and the reckless savagery of -hopeless millions, the only powers with strength and means to build a -rampart were France, America and Great Britain. - -If Lucien de Grammont and Clifford van Oss fairly represented the first -two, the simple faith of the French—embodied in M. Clemenceau—was -being betrayed by every one else at the very moment when M. Clemenceau -was betraying the simple faith of President Wilson. Recalling that the -world was to have been made safe for democracy, I wondered if another -war must be fought before democracy was made safe for the world. -According to one or other of us, it was the greed and bad faith of Great -Britain, America and France which was wholly and solely responsible for -our present perils. - -In these days of misgiving the most persistent optimist of my -acquaintance was my father-in-law. To him—in common with most of my -conservative friends—public life had been a bad dream from the moment -when Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman and his _sansculottes_ usurped power. -Crawleigh was genuinely convinced that all electors, at all times and in -all places, were conservative born and bred; and, to him, a liberal -victory could only come by low cunning. Now that the spell had been -broken, he looked forward to “going on from 1906”; and, in listening to -him, I understood, as Saltash had never made me understand, the -all-conservative movement in the late coalition, the Carlton Club -meeting and the loathing of the party for those who still tried to keep -it in bondage to its old associates. So a Bourbon might have felt -towards a legitimist who took office under Napoleon. - -Sir Roger Dainton, when I dined with him on the night after the polling, -was even more outspoken. Some one had taught him the word “impeachment”; -and he was for impeaching the fallen members of the old cabinet as -light-heartedly as his wife, in other days, had consigned “agitators” to -the nearest firing-party. - -“You think there are further depths they can still reach?,” I asked. The -brush of a professional moralist would be needed to paint the difference -between this election and the last, between the power of a prime -minister in being and that of the member for Carnarvon Boroughs. “Come -and see the results.” - -By its rules the Eclectic Club is constituted a “place of social -intercourse for officers and gentlemen, irrespective of politics”. Any -demonstration, other than occasional groans when a labour victory was -announced, would have been ill-received; but I was struck chiefly by the -absence of all desire to demonstrate except when objects of personal -venom appeared at the bottom of the poll. Dainton thumped my back with -furtive violence when two rich and rather questionable private -secretaries, from his own party, were at last “put out of harm’s way”, -as he expressed it; and Jellaby became almost hysterical as one -coalition-liberal after another was edged into the cold; but it was left -to my father-in-law to express the rapture of his associates in a series -of satisfied grunts. Without looking at the board, I could recognize a -conservative gain by Crawleigh’s long “A-a-ah!” - -“The entry of the first French troops into their recovered provinces,” I -murmured to Jellaby. - -“And yet . . . they don’t seem as much pleased about it as I should have -expected.” - -“Perhaps these fellows feel that it’s the same board, the same problem, -and that it becomes no easier by a shuffle of the pieces. Perhaps -they’re wondering what more they can do than the coalition to prevent a -world-revolution or a new world-war.” - -Jellaby looked contemptuously at the lengthening tale of ministerial -successes: - -“Perhaps they realize that these results don’t represent the true -strength of parties.” - -“You mean it’s a moral victory for you?,” I asked. “I said the same -thing to you when I was beaten at Cranborne in 1910. With respect I -think the feeling of the country is admirably represented in this club -to-night: nobody cares.” - -With that I left him. Seven men, I think, said good-night to me as I -crossed the hall; six of them added: “Well, thank God _that’s_ over.” - -There was a further spasm of excitement as the new parliament met; and -for me, though I was preoccupied with Barbara’s return, a stab of regret -when the liberal party had to surrender its historic claim to lead the -opposition. Then one of the shortest sessions on record opened and -closed; the foreign secretary set out for Lausanne to find an escape -from the threatened war in the near east; and the country gave its -undivided attention to the most popular murder-trial of the year. - -Save for a moment after Bertrand’s memorial service, I had not been -alone with Barbara since our scene in the car. I fancied that she was -hardly less embarrassed than I was, though she talked easily enough of -her plans for being painted by Edmund Wace and of my work on Bertrand’s -papers. We both felt that nothing could be quite the same after that -explosion; but I at least had no idea what she wanted. - -“There was a touch of brutality about your uncle,” she said after dinner -the first night, in criticism of my sketch. “I’m not sure that you bring -it out. Any one who disagreed with him was treated with such obvious -contempt.” - -“Unless he happened to like the person,” I said. “I can’t imagine a -single point on which he agreed with you or Violet or Amy, but he was -devoted to you all. On the other hand, I’ve heard him trouncing poor -Sonia for holding exactly the same views, simply because he thought her -second-rate.” - -“He thought all women second-rate. So do you, George,” she rejoined -without malice. - -So sweeping a misstatement I could not allow to pass unchallenged. - -“I’ll leave you out for fear of embarrassing you . . .,” I began. - -Barbara laughed sadly and turned, with a shrug, to the fire: - -“No, my dear, you’re leaving me out because you despise me. Not -_cruelly_, but just in the Oakleigh way: as a tolerant Turk would -despise me. In your eyes, we’ve never grown up; and sometimes you shew -us the tenderness you’d shew to a child. You think we’re creatures -who’ve failed to be men; you don’t imagine that we’ve never tried to be -men. . . . You smile benignly on our little foibles and follies and -frailties just as I smile at a kitten chasing its own tail. ‘Kittens -will be kittens,’ I say; ‘women will be women,’ you murmur to yourself.” - -“The trouble is that you speak the same language . . .” - -“But we don’t think the same thoughts. D’you remember my telling you I’d -forgotten certain things you’d said?” - -As her eyes turned slowly to meet mine, I thought I could see a gentle -new light of friendship. - -“I wished at the time you’d said you had forgiven them,” I answered. - -“There was nothing to forgive. You were right, from your point of view. -May I speak of it?” - -“If it will help us.” - -Barbara turned once more to the fire and sat with her cheek resting -against her hand: - -“It’s just two years since Eric died. You think I’m not in love with him -and never was. Well, I’m not now, but I was once; and the _whole_ of my -heart went into it, George. Do men ever realize that women can be in -love with them and yet know all the time that it’s a mistake? When he -left me, Eric thought I’d been taking all his love for my own selfish, -greedy enjoyment. I hadn’t. I took it because I couldn’t help myself; -but I always knew it would be a mistake for us to marry. We were too -much alike, too highly-strung. If you can imagine two great musicians -marrying . . . If only I’d been strong enough to refuse his love! I -couldn’t help myself . . . It was wrong of me, by any standard, to do -what I did at Croxton. If I’d told you at the time . . .” - -“I should have thought nothing of it, I hope.” - -Barbara laughed mirthlessly and crossed to my chair, where she seated -herself on the arm. - -“That’s what I feared,” she whispered. “I knew I was wrong, I knew it -would have been hell for us all if Eric had agreed, I’d had the worst -rebuff that can come to a woman, I was still in love with him. All that, -you’d have said, was nothing. A perfect Oakleighism! . . . Yet I wish -now I _had_ told you. Eric’s letter must have been a cruel shock.” - -Her hand stole timidly to mine; and I raised it to my lips: - -“That’s all over now; but, Babs, I did _not_ spend twelve days wondering -whether you would run away with any one else. What hurt was that you’d -pretended to love me when you didn’t.” - -“And that’s what you’ve been urging me to do for the last two years.” - -Silence fell between us. Then I said: - -“I’ve been hoping that you could love me without pretending. I forgot -those twelve days the moment I set eyes on you.” - -“Yes. You were as much in love with me as I was with Eric. But love -didn’t give you much understanding, dear. For two years you’ve been -waiting for me to confess that I did something very wrong: you’d then be -able to commit another Oakleighism by forgiving me. You’ve been waiting -for me to say I’ve outgrown my love for Eric, so that you could tell -me—Oakleigh-fashion—that you’d always known time would cure all -things. Well, I _was_ wrong; and I _have_ outgrown my love. Does it help -you to know that? The difficulty is, George, that I don’t want to be -forgiven. I’m not a child, I’m not an unsuccessful attempt to be a man; -I’m a woman.” - -“And being a woman . . .” - -Barbara laid her hand over my lips: - -“Shall I say it for you? ‘Being a woman, you don’t know what you _do_ -want.’ It’s quite true, even though all the Oakleighs in history have -said it. I know you so much better than you know me.” - -“And better than you know yourself?” - -“I know myself better than I can explain myself. Women feel so much more -and express so much less than men. Words are clumsy. When a man frames a -sentence, he imagines he is shewing a thought to the world; a woman -feels that the thought is being imprisoned, perhaps mutilated.” . . . - -“Do you know why you married me?,” I asked. - -Before she could answer, Barbara stared long at the fire. - -“Yes. But I’ve never put it in words. I couldn’t now. I wasn’t in love -with you, but you gave me something that I needed. . . . Women marry -sometimes because they’re frightened of themselves. Sonia did. And I -remember how my beloved aunts gloated over Jack Waring, as the one man -who could keep me in order. Strange to say, I didn’t want to be kept in -order; and I wasn’t frightened of myself. I’m only frightened of death -and of waste: a wasted life, with all the love and the beauty left out -of it. You gave me the feeling that you had something I needed to keep -my life from being wasted.” - -“And do you feel that no longer?” - -“Have I needed you these last two years? I’ve ceased to look for -happiness.” - -“And you’re not yet thirty!,” I groaned. - -Barbara glanced at her watch and stood up: - -“It’s time for me to go to bed. I’m afraid I’ve talked a great deal -about myself. It was thinking about Bertrand that started it. The world -is divided into men, women and Oakleighs.” - -“I believe you’ll find, as you go on, that every husband begins as a man -and ends as an Oakleigh. That is one of the major tragedies of life.” - -For the first time in eighteen months, Barbara bent to kiss my cheek. - -“To marry an Oakleigh and find him a man would be the greatest romance -life could offer,” she laughed. - -“Then I’m afraid you must look elsewhere for your romance,” I sighed. -“You can only give out what’s in you. I’m sorry our marriage has been a -failure. I’ve honestly done my best.” . . . - -Turning at the door, Barbara came slowly back and kissed me again: - -“I know you have. And I’ll do mine. I told you the day poor old Bertrand -died that I’d be your wife, I’d bear you children if I could . . .” - -In spite of her kisses, in spite of the strange new light in her eyes, I -had to be told in words that our two years’ tragedy was over: - -“My dear one, you said we should be dishonoured if we put anything in -the place of love . . .” - -I waited to hear that terrible verdict reversed. Barbara looked at me in -amazement and then gave a single tearless sob. She regained her -composure immediately and walked again to the door. - -“You have a good memory, George,” she threw back. “Have you saved that -up for two years? Do you want me to say that I’ve suddenly found you -irresistible? The Oakleighs are very true to their own type.” - - 5 - -As the door closed, I saw my last chance being shut from me. The house -was in darkness when I went into the hall; there was no answer when I -called to Barbara, though I could see a light in her room. I came -downstairs again to brood of men, women and Oakleighs. - -I tried next day to explain, but Barbara refused with cold courtesy to -understand what I was trying to explain. I had been patient, too -patient; in her turn she was trying to meet me. She was ready to give -anything I asked, if she had it to give; and the false sweetness of her -complaisance was a deadlier bar than any refusal. - -“I feel I was ungracious,” I said. - -“Ungracious? You?,” she mocked. “I must go now, or I shall be late for -Mr. Wace.” - -“Shall I see you after the opening of parliament?” - -“But of course! For another eternity! Good-bye.” - -The rest of that morning I spent in Fetter Lane, reviewing the -achievements of the peace-administration. The only visible traces of the -war, when I walked down to Westminster, were the cenotaph in Whitehall -and the long army of unemployed that was trying to get past it to the -precincts of parliament. While I waited for the crowd to disperse, I -heard a familiar voice asking my neighbour what was happening. - -“Raney! Here, you’d better let me see you home,” I said. “There’s an -appalling mob everywhere.” - -“Thanks, I’ve had to acquire a sixth sense,” he answered. “What are you -doing here?” - -“Looking on and thinking of that week-end in August when the -Anti-Intervention people pursued me down to Loring Castle. I’ve been -wondering if we shouldn’t have done better to keep out of the war at all -costs.” - -“We should have been dishonoured if we’d let Belgium down,” he answered. - -“If we’d told the Germans we would stop the moment Belgium was -evacuated, the war would have been over in ’14. And we shouldn’t have an -unemployed army marching through London to-day,” I added savagely. - -We squeezed our way forward till a sudden thinning of the crowd enabled -us to escape into the park. - -“I think we’re individually the better for the sacrifices we all of us -made,” he answered slowly. “For one moment there was a real spirit of -fraternity; and, when the reaction has run its course, I hope to see -that again. I’m recruiting people now, with quite fair success: -reminding them what they did once and asking them to give up everything -for one month or six or a year for the service of their country. I’m -only asking them to do what I’ve done myself. I tell them, as I tell -you, _that’s_ the new idea that we must capture from the war. Fraternity -. . .” - -“Your new idea is at least as old as Christ and Buddha,” I objected. -“Will you succeed where they failed?” - -“Had they ever such a chance as we have? We’ve seen the quality of -modern war. We know that, if there’s another, it will bury civilization -under a sea of lava. Men, women, sheep, cattle, the very blades of -grass. Another war is synonymous with the end of the world.” - -“But how does one set about being fraternal?,” I asked. - -O’Rane walked for some distance without answering; and I thought he had -not heard my question. Then he laughed and gave my arm a squeeze: - -“By realizing the alternative, as every one’s had every chance of doing -in this war. By seeing that, if we trample on people weaker than -ourselves, there’ll be people stronger than ourselves to trample on us. -When I first saw ‘fraternity’ shining in front of me like Constantine’s -Cross, I was a very small, very young, very miserable boy. I went -through hell till I learnt how to defend myself. And then . . . many -years afterwards . . . I began to think . . . about the poor devils who -couldn’t defend _themselves_. I saw that we must make a world in which -man wasn’t always measuring his strength. Yes, I admit Christ had made -the discovery before me,” he ended with another laugh. - -I forebore to ask whether the second discovery was likely to change the -hearts of men more than the first. The rule of force, I pointed out, had -to be repudiated by every one at the same time: - -“If we’d been fraternal when the Germans were marching on Calais . . .” - -“If we’d been fraternal rather earlier, perhaps they’d never have -marched there. Some one has to make a beginning. That’s one reason I had -to give up this money. Fraternity can’t exist side by side with vast -differences of wealth, among nations or individuals. It’s our sense of -possession, George, that stands between us and our souls.” - -“Unfortunately, ever since man appeared on this planet, it’s been the -instinct that keeps soul and body together. Will you be the first to -strip for the plunge?” - -“_I’m_ ready.” - -“If you take that dive, Raney, your wife and children won’t follow. They -also are a part of humanity, which I think you sometimes forget.” - -“‘Who is my mother?’,” he murmured. . . . - - - - - CHAPTER TWO - - - THE TEST - - - _King Henry_: - - The sum of all our answer is but this: - We would not seek a battle, as we are; - Nor, as we are, we say we will not shun it . . . - - SHAKESPEARE: _King Henry V._ - - 1 - -Since the first tragedy cast its shadow on the first man, philosophers -have taught, in the jargon of their choice, that the past is -unalterable, that it is no use crying over spilt milk and that it is a -waste of time to job backwards. Unphilosophic man has then returned to -the twilit dreamland of might-have-beens. - -Daily, since the tragedy that darkened my life in the last weeks of -1922, I have asked myself whether I could have done anything to prevent -it. I am sane enough to realize that I contributed nothing by what I -did; the philosopher blandly assures me that questioning comes too late; -and, in spite of all, I continue to wonder what would have happened if I -had made a firm stand here or a graceful surrender there. If only, as I -walked with O’Rane to The Sanctuary after the opening of parliament, I -had thrown my weight into one scale or the other . . . If only, at any -time subsequently, I had shewn myself to be what nature failed to make -me, a man of action, strong and silent, rapping out decisions like -Napoleon disposing an army . . . - - 2 - -I had not intended to come into The Sanctuary, but O’Rane insisted that -Sonia would be disappointed if I turned back at the door. We found her -in the nursery, playing with her elder boy, while the baby was packed -protesting to bed in the next room. I had not often been privileged to -catch Sonia in a domestic attitude and was ill-prepared for her -efficiency. This child in her lap was a beautiful creature, in radiant -health and exuberant spirits, with his mother’s brown hair and eyes. -There was a lusty crow of delight when O’Rane came into the room; and, -as I shook hands with Sonia, the child demanded shrilly that the -interrupted tale of the day before should be resumed. - -“Will you say good-night to David junior?,” she asked me, as Daniel -surrendered to the spell of O’Rane’s story. - -“If he’s not asleep,” I said; and she conducted me into the presence of -a wide-awake and fierce Japanese doll, who gripped two of my fingers and -demanded truculently what I was doing in his nursery. - -At three years old, the child had his father’s flashing black eyes and -imperious manner. Sonia added that he had also more than his father’s -indomitable obstinacy. - -“Is he equally fearless?,” I asked. - -For answer she pointed from a green bruise on the child’s forehead to a -padlocked grille over the window: - -“David had a fire-escape fitted the other day. He went down it himself -just to learn the way; and this infant must needs follow. He’d never -been on a ladder in his life, but he climbed cheerfully out of the -window . . .” - -“Trusting to the special providence that looks after all O’Ranes,” I put -in. - -“By the mercy of heaven a policeman caught him; but if he behaves like -that now . . .” - -“He looks like keeping you fully occupied.” - -“I can do what I like with him at present,” she answered, “because he -realizes I’m only a woman, and I can get on the soft side of him. When -he’s old enough to see that women can be more easily bullied than men, -more easily hurt . . . I don’t envy his wife. I don’t envy any wife.” - -“Yet if all marriages were dissolved by act of parliament . . .,” I -began, as she led me downstairs. - -“Should I take David on again? I wonder! He’s the only man I’ve ever -loved. . . . What fools we women are! And what fools men are! They don’t -want a woman to have a will of her own; and, when she echoes their will, -they find her insipid. And what a fool I’ve always been! Once I thought -it would be wonderful to run away . . . as I did. But that was only a -wonderful fit of bad temper,” she added with the candour that she always -employed in discussing herself. - -“And one that you’ll never repeat.” - -“No. In those days I was so hungry for children that I thought myself -quite immodest: if I’d had my first one earlier, we should never have -had our great tragedy. Now that I’ve got two, you need never be afraid I -shall run away again even if David ties me to the bed and beats me. I -honestly, honestly don’t think of myself any longer except through them. -I want them to have the best chance in life: all that you and Jim and my -brothers had. They must go to the best schools, the best universities; -they must never be driven down the wrong road like so many boys because -they haven’t the money to go by the right one. They must be _secure_.” -. . . Her face darkened; and she turned to the fire. “David won’t -promise me that. My father can’t afford it.” . . . - -I believe that, if her husband could have seen Sonia at that moment as I -saw her, he would have compromised with his insurgent conscience. Once -before, when he came back from France, I had seen her, as now, on her -knees; pleading, as now, for the privilege of serving him and, as now, -wholly forgetful of her too insistent self. - -“He’s not easy to move when he’s made up his mind,” I said, with -memories of our conversation earlier in the afternoon. - -Sonia shook her head ruefully: - -“Don’t I know that? You remember when that unemployment deputation came -to see him? We’ve had about three a day ever since. Does that influence -him? The press camps on our doorstep. He’s besieged in his office. This -afternoon that man Griffiths came here again.” - -“What did you do with him?” - -Her patience suddenly deserted her: - -“I sent him to Hampstead. This _is_ a private house, when all’s said and -done. I don’t suppose he got any satisfaction there, but I thought the -walk would be good for him. Odious little creature!” - -It was now that I feel I might have done some good by speaking strongly. -Neither Griffiths nor any other grown man deserved to be sent on a -fool’s errand; in cooler moments Sonia would have been ashamed to play -such a trick. Her answer, I suppose, would have been that Griffiths and -her husband were too much for any one’s coolness; and I feared—no -doubt, weakly—that I should lose my slight influence over her if I -sided with her husband. When he came down from the nursery, she was -still indignant enough to retail Griffiths’ visit and to ask O’Rane -whether the deputation had reached Hampstead in time to find him. - -“I had to say I could do nothing for them,” he answered a little -wearily. “I’ve given all I can spare of my own money; and I’ve collected -as much as I can from other people. If they come again, you might tell -them that.” - -“You must tell them yourself,” Sonia replied stiffly. “_I’m_ not going -to make myself responsible.” - -“I only wanted you to save them a useless journey. When you sent them to -me, you gave them some sort of hope; and that makes it so much harder -when I have to turn them down.” - -“Perhaps in time you’ll find it so hard . . .” she muttered. - -“I can’t go back on what I’ve said. It’s only unkind to give them a long -walk for nothing. Promise me you won’t do it again, Sonia.” - -“Let’s hope they won’t come again. If they do, I shall _again_ send them -to you.” Then, without disguise, her temper broke. “I’m not consulted -about what you do with this money, so I wash my hands of it. This is not -your office; and you can’t blame me if you refuse to give them anything -for their trouble.” - -“I can only repeat that you make my task more difficult,” O’Rane -answered patiently. - -“Before I’ve done, I hope to make it impossible,” Sonia retorted -defiantly, as she hurried out of the library and up the stairs. - -I had a second opportunity of speaking strongly, this time to O’Rane; -and I failed to press it. The papers that night gave long accounts of -the opening of parliament and longer, less hackneyed descriptions of the -demonstration by the unemployed. I detected for the first time a note of -uneasiness as, for the first time, unemployment passed out of the realm -of abstract statistics and incarnated itself in ragged armies of hungry -men. I remembered Philip Hornbeck’s blithe assurance that Griffiths -could do little harm so long as the armies were scattered; well, their -banners shewed that they were scattered no longer. One nervous -leader-writer compared this march with the advance of the Marseillais on -Paris and asked angrily how the police had allowed it; another, more -valiant, rehearsed the history of the Fascismo movement in Italy and -warned the proletariat at large—without considering whether the -proletariat was likely to read such a paper—that England would never -yield to mob-violence. A third, mentioning O’Rane by name, exhumed the -controversy of the summer and enquired whether those who had voluntarily -undertaken a national responsibility could abandon it at such a time in -satisfaction of a “doctrinaire whim”. In less blunt terms than the -sandwichman had displayed, O’Rane’s ‘sentence of death’ was brought up -against him; and it was with some muddled, premonitory feeling of an -isolated conflict between Griffiths and the O’Ranes that I uttered my -warning. - -“Suspend your sentence,” I said, “until the new government has declared -its unemployment policy.” - -O’Rane replied with the entirely logical and utterly irrelevant thesis -that unemployment was a consequence of the war, that the community had -called the tune and must pay the piper, that one government had imposed -conscription of men’s lives and that another could impose conscription -of their wealth. The state had turned prosperous civilians into -soldiers; the state must turn these soldiers back into prosperous -civilians. - -His cold reasoning and neat phrasing reminded me of a speech at some -undergraduate debating-society. - -“I can only hope,” I said, “that you won’t have to say ‘no’ again.” - -Hungry men had no time for debating-society arguments. I hoped, too, -that Sonia would not be forced to say ‘no’ again. Hungry men had no -taste for being ordered to walk from Westminster to Hampstead as a move -in the game with her husband. I said no more. And, amid my -self-reproaches, I find a barren comfort in the knowledge that neither -Sonia nor her husband would have listened, though one rose from the dead -to warn them. - - 3 - -Thereafter, like every one else, I waited to see the policy of the -government proclaimed. The debate on the address gave rise to some -acrimonious passages between the two front benches; a programme of -rather remote public-relief work was fluttered in the face of the labour -party; and the prime minister ostentatiously reestablished departmental -responsibility and dissociated himself from the improvisations of his -predecessor by refusing to receive a deputation of the unemployed. - -Then the interest of the public sought a new stimulus. - -I am inclined to think that modern journalism, with its craving for -daily excitement and its acquiescence in the superficial, has -incapacitated us for patient study. Few subjects unconnected with sex or -bloodshed can hold the attention of a newspaper-reader for more than -three days; and, when the men with schemes for employment had been -photographed as they walked to Downing Street and when a popular -novelist had protested passionately that the unemployed were not really -bolshevists, the eyes of the nation were allured by pictures of Lord -Curzon entering his train for the Lausanne conference, and -controversialists with uncertain memories enquired rhetorically the name -of the last woman to be hanged in England for complicity in murder. Like -the peace negotiations, like the war, like the domestic and -international unrest before the war, like the Irish problem, this -unemployment business became a bore: the public was accustomed to the -variety of a “continuous performance” in its cinematograph theatres, it -expected a “new programme weekly” for its political stage. - -I myself was compelled for professional reasons to study problems of -public policy even after they had ceased to be fashionable. The only -excuse for continuing our paper was to be found in my uncle’s warning -that, after four years of peace, we were in at least no better position -than at the outbreak of war; at his death, we had cut our last -party-ties and were standing behind the government as friendly critic. -If the new administration shewed no improvement on the old, we should -have to consider—as I told my colleagues—whether we were to throw in -our lot with labour, whether we should lay our paper in its overdue -grave or whether we must extend to our own country the verdict of -revolutionary Russia that the old machine of national and international -government had broken down. - -That verdict was pronounced in my private hearing by Griffiths himself, -with a warning that he would repeat it publicly if the government failed -to give him instant satisfaction. Our second interview was no more of my -seeking than the first. When the House rose without curing unemployment -then and there, he made it known—first of all at a mass-meeting in -Trafalgar Square and then in handbills which were distributed about the -streets—that he would instruct ministers in the meaning of unemployment -by confronting them with the unemployed. This, in the vague phrase which -he favoured, would “put things to the test”. The demonstrations at the -opening of parliament had been hardly more than a parade. “Hunger -marches” were now to be organized in every part of the country, -converging on London at the same moment. After that . . .? I noticed -that Griffiths carefully refrained from saying what would happen when -fifty, or a hundred, thousand disappointed men found themselves -empty-handed, empty-bellied, foot-sore and resentful at the closed door -of an impotent office. And I pointed out this sinister omission in the -next number of _Peace_. - -There was nothing, Hornbeck told me at this time, in the speech or the -manifesto to justify police interference; but any one who remembered -Griffiths’ share in organizing the land-grabbing campaign could imagine -how this new demonstration would be conducted and how it was likely to -end. I went farther than most of my _confrères_ and denounced the -manifesto as deliberately provocative. Griffiths called to inform me -that, if I chose to print lies, he could not stop me, but that, if I was -interested in the truth, I might perhaps be not too proud to hear it -from him. - -I professed a prompt eagerness for truth in any form, though I was more -interested to know what amusement or instruction he derived from so -painfully academic a journal as _Peace_. I wondered how he came to -associate me with its direction and why he visited me in Seymour Street -rather than in Fetter Lane. My curiosity on this last point was -satisfied when he ran a practised eye over the dimensions of the house -and asked me how many the establishment comprised. - -“You? And your wife? And six servants?,” he recapitulated. “No kids? A -car and a man to drive it? Four meals a day? You don’t call _that_ -provocative?” - -“If we had fewer servants, you’d have more unemployed,” I pointed out. - -“It takes three men and four women to keep the two of you alive. The -house is half empty. You waste more food in a day than my people eat in -a week. You drive about in your jewels and fine clothes among people -who’ve been cold and hungry for months. And then you tell me not to be -. . . ‘provocative’!” - -I reminded him that we were supposed to be discussing unemployment. - -“I shan’t remedy that by going about in rags,” I said, “or by shutting -up half the house.” - -“If you were in Germany, you wouldn’t be allowed to have empty rooms. -And, if you were in Russia, you wouldn’t be allowed twenty coats when -the next man has nothing but a shirt between him and the rain.” - -I reminded him that we were in England and that he had called to -demonstrate how little provocation his manifesto contained. - -“If the government orders me to find accommodation for people without -homes,” I said, “if I have to clothe them and feed them, I’ll do it to -the best of my ability. I put obedience to the law above all things.” -The little red eyes glowed in anticipation of an attack. “My criticism -of you is the criticism I’ve brought before now against the people who -preach a general strike for political objects. That’s not the way to -proceed in a constitutional country. There’s no end to it short of -revolution. You object to the word ‘provocative’. . .” - -“Did you _read_ what I said?,” he interrupted. - -“Every word. It was admirably phrased. A single letter more would have -had you prosecuted. You’re careful not to provoke anybody in words; but -I tell you that you’re inciting people to violence by your actions. You -know their temper far better than I do. You know what you’ve taught them -to regard as the minimum standard of housing, feeding, wages and -out-of-work pay. Do you believe you’ll get it by bringing a hundred -thousand men to London?” - -Griffiths hesitated perceptibly. If he said “no”, he condemned himself -for inflating his followers with false hopes; if he said “yes”, he was -confessing himself the prophet of intimidation in its crudest form. - -“In time,” he answered at length. - -“Do your men realize that they’ll have to wait?” He hesitated again for -fear of admitting that he had taught them too well or not well enough. -“No government in the world can submit to the dictation of a -mass-meeting. You know that. If it surrendered to-morrow, you’d have -another mass-meeting the day after. I think you know that too.” - -“And still they wouldn’t have all they’re entitled to,” he murmured. - -“That’s another question. My charge is that you’re bringing thousands of -men to London on false pretences. They’re probably not in the sweetest -of moods; and small blame to them. They won’t get what you’re promising -them; and they’ll turn on you.” - -The red eyes flashed defiantly: - -“I can look after myself.” - -So far, we had kept fairly free from personal attacks, but something in -Griffiths’ manner or voice exasperated me. I had not admitted him in -order to be lectured about the number of servants who were needed to -keep me alive; the angry, ferret’s eyes gave me a curious feeling that I -must bite before I was bitten; and, seeing him—perhaps quite -unjustifiably as a vindictive, treacherous little animal, I fixed a -quality of untrustworthiness on the man. - -“You will look after yourself,” I prophesied, “by putting the blame on -the government and rousing your people against law and order instead of -telling them there was never a hope of their getting any of the things -you promised.” - -Though my antagonist betrayed his feelings in an angry flush, he -affected to dismiss my prediction as something unworthy of his notice: - -“They said that at Woolhampton,” he answered, “when we seized the Town -Hall. I’m always stirring people up, it seems . . . Provocative . . . -because I put the blame where the blame should go! You haven’t called me -a paid agitator yet.” - -“I’ve no intention of doing so. I say to your face, as I said in print, -that you’re provoking something which may end in a revolution. I take -the purity of your motives for granted. You’ve volunteered to tell me -the truth and to shew that you’re not organizing constructive -revolution.” . . . - -Despite the dislike which I could not help feeling, there was no -doubting the man’s passionate sincerity. He felt for the people he -championed the same frenzied protectiveness and lust for revenge that I -should have felt if my sister had been hacked to pieces before my eyes. -Argument was out of the question; warnings were idle. I reconsidered the -phrase I had used in likening him to a spiteful ferret, for he was -touched with the greatness that is inseparable from fanaticism. -Self-advancement and self-advertising had no place in his thoughts, -though he was arrogantly confident of his authority as a popular leader -and of his power to cut knots that had baffled every other hand. In a -conversation that extended over two hours I learned nothing of his -private history; at the end I realized no better than at the beginning -why he had singled me out for his aggressive apologia. The resonant -blows of our blunt swords echoed emptily on our impenetrable harness; -and, when I saw him to the door, I was saying for the fiftieth time: -“You’re trying to stir up a revolution”; and for the fiftieth time he -was retorting: “If your precious government can’t do anything, some one -else had better have a try.” - -As we crossed swords for the last time, Barbara drove up to the door. -She had been giving another sitting to Wace; and her appearance, in an -ermine coat and a diamond star, was not wasted on Griffiths, who bowed -ironically and looked her up and down as though he were assessing her in -terms of daily meat-meals. - -“Well, I must be off,” he said; and I know he was recapitulating again: -“_You. And your wife. And six servants . . ._” - -“I’m glad to have had this talk,” I said, “even though we’ve not -convinced each other. If you think I’ve misrepresented you, I can only -offer you equal space in our columns to put yourself right with our -readers.” - -“I shan’t have time,” he answered. - -“You can do it in two lines. If you’ll answer my charge that you’re -working, consciously or unconsciously, for a revolution . . .” - -“I’m answering it now,” he interrupted. “From here I go to King’s Cross -and from King’s Cross to the north. Putting things to the test. I shall -be back again in just the time that it takes us to walk here.” - -As he disappeared from sight, Barbara commented admiringly on his exit: - -“For a third curtain, it was unsurpassed. I _do_ want to know what’s -going to happen in the last act.” - - 4 - -If I did not know then, I had a strength of conviction that amounted -almost to knowledge. There was going to be public excitement; there was -going to be loose speaking; there was going to be bad blood. And, after -that, there might well be rioting. - -I have replayed the game a hundred times since that day and asked myself -what I could have done to change the issue. Before the war I should have -talked to Bertrand; and, if he had shared my apprehensions, he would -have spoken a word to the responsible ministers. With this new -government of men unknown to me, with this new House no longer even in -session, there was no one I could approach. During the war, when we -broke down most of the interdepartmental walls, a telephone message from -the Admiralty would have stirred sympathetic chords in Scotland Yard or -the Home Office. Now I had long severed my connection with the public -service; Philip Hornbeck was my one remaining link; and, if I bothered -him again, I ran the risk of being told that Griffiths was become a bee -in my bonnet. - -This notwithstanding, I did ask Barbara to arrange a dinner; and I am -only sorry that I did not make the invitation more urgent. - -“Is anything the matter?,” she asked in some surprise, for Hornbeck had -dined with us only two or three nights before. - -“Not at the moment; but there may be trouble if some one doesn’t spike -that fellow Griffiths’ guns. In his way, the man’s right: as the -government _has_ no remedy, you can’t find an answer to people who say -they’ll take the remedy into their own hands. But the common sense of -the world won’t allow that. Griffiths will be refused a hearing; the mob -may break a few windows; and then the police will clear the streets. -It’s not worth marching an army three hundred miles to learn that old -lesson.” - -“Until they’ve learnt it, they’ll go on believing in men like -Griffiths,” said Barbara. - -“But it will be a more costly lesson than they realize. With the best -intentions in the world, he’s marching them into a trap. I want Hornbeck -to stop the march and break up the units before they can collect in -force.” - -We telephoned to the Admiralty; but Hornbeck had left. When I got in -touch with him next day, he was engaged for several nights ahead. Rather -shamefacedly, I told him my fears; and he promised to enquire what steps -were being taken, though I felt I had wholly failed to communicate my -dread of the wasted little fanatic Griffiths. In the middle of the -following week I read that the great “hunger-march” had begun; and, when -Hornbeck dined with us, he explained that Griffiths was being given -enough rope to hang himself, but no more. One army had reached -Nottingham, a second was on the outskirts of Coventry and a third was -halting on the east side of Newbury; but they would not be allowed to -reach London. Since my interview with him, the leader and spokesman had -abandoned his former caution; and Hornbeck told me that the police were -waiting to prosecute him for inciting to crime. - -“It’s a pity to wait,” I said. - -“What else can one do?,” asked Hornbeck. - -Perhaps my memory is biased by the events of the following week, perhaps -my instinct was right in warning me that Griffiths was one of the most -dangerous firebrands that I had ever met. He haunted me, as the shadow -of Marat must have haunted the well-to-do citizens of Paris; and I felt -an equal, unreasoning impatience with the departments that ignored him -and with the papers that advertised him. For two or three days the great -march was reported mile by mile, with a list of the victories won by -“Griffiths’ armies” over the powerless custodians of such county halls, -municipal libraries and public baths as they occupied on their way. For -the same period the government maintained a calm and dignified silence. -Then new interests demanded attention and space. - -By the time that the various units joined forces in the open country -beyond Neasden, hunger-marching commanded no price in the ever-changing -tariff of news-items. London was shopping for Christmas; the Lausanne -conference was becoming every day more firm and ineffectual; Signor -Mussolini was in England; Germany had defaulted again; and the prime -ministers of the late allies were discussing with their financial -experts new and final methods of settling the problem of reparations. - -I only learned that the army was at hand when I read that the government -policy for combating unemployment had been fully explained and that, in -the opinion of one private secretary, “_no useful purpose would be -served by a meeting between the Minister and the leaders of the -unemployed now collected in Wembley Park_.” - -“This is the moment I’ve been dreading,” I told Barbara. “Griffiths has -made fools of these people; and he can only recover his authority by -fighting the government.” - -I read next day that the leaders of the unemployed insisted upon sending -a deputation to the minister of labour. A public demonstration was -announced later; and from an evening paper I learned that, while the -police would not interfere with an orderly march through the streets, it -must not be conducted in the neighbourhood of Westminster. As I walked -home that night, I was given a handbill in which I read, over the -signature of Griffiths, that the hunger-march would be resumed next -morning and would be directed first to Buckingham Palace, then—as a -concession to constitutionalism—to the Home Office and finally—for a -reason I could not guess, since parliament was no longer sitting—to the -House of Commons. It was not for Scotland Yard to say who might or might -not have access to the king or his responsible ministers; and the -problem that chiefly vexed the spirit of Griffiths was to discover who -in fact was responsible. - -“Now,” I told my colleagues when I reached Fetter Lane through a double -line of police, “there’s going to be trouble. The only thing that can -stop it will be a downpour of rain.” - -“And there is in fact a hard frost,” yawned Triskett. - -“This fog may do as well,” said Jefferson Wright. - -“It’s pretty serious,” we all agreed. - -Did any of us believe in the warnings and predictions which we uttered? -I cannot say. Everything that happened in these days is coloured by the -memory of what happened afterwards. I may conceivably take credit for -explaining before other people that these demonstrations were on a -different plane from the coal strikes and railway strikes that aroused -our uneasiness after the war; on the other hand, I may only have been -suffering from disordered nerves. It was the end of the year; I wanted a -holiday; and the self-control which I had to exercise at home sometimes -deserted me when I was at my office. Accordingly I claim no praise and -feel no shame in saying that I was nervous. The long lines of -police-pickets had not been stationed about the streets without some -purpose; and the news that trickled in throughout the morning was not of -a kind to allay anxiety. - -Philip Hornbeck did indeed repeat by telephone his customary assurance -that Griffiths could be discounted. When the marchers entered Regent’s -Park, they were warned that they would not be allowed to approach -Downing Street; and, as Hornbeck walked to the Admiralty, he passed -half-a-dozen columns of dejected, leaderless men who were standing easy -or trudging slowly under banners of ineffectual protest. Even the bands, -he said, were dispirited. After one glance, the passers-by paid no heed -to a sight that was now wearisomely familiar; and, in Hornbeck’s eyes, -the gaunt, ragged army found its best friends among the constables who -tramped in a protective and restraining cordon. - -“Did these fellows seem disappointed?,” I asked. - -“I think they were too tired, poor devils, to feel anything. If it -hadn’t been for the bobbies, you might have thought it was another -retreat from Moscow. I believe there _was_ some plain speaking when they -found their Napoleon had left them, but I hear he’s only gone to see -about billets. The police are helping him all they can. That’s the way -we stop revolutions in England,” he chuckled. - -I was reminded again of the day now long distant when O’Rane and I had -stood in a crowd of many thousands to watch the body of Terence McSwiney -drawing through the respectfully silent streets of London. The English, -I felt, behaved sometimes like characters in a comic opera: consistent -only in their inconsistency, they could not rise to a revolution. With a -longer leap into the past, my memory fastened on a moment in O’Rane’s -first year at Melton, when he watched a half-hearted attempt at a May -Day demonstration and, in disgust at the apathy of the demonstrators, -instructed them in the Marseillaise. I wondered if he recalled that day, -which was also nearly his last as a scholar of Melton. I wondered if he -and Hornbeck were right in discounting this threat of revolution. - -Then I thought of the weary crowds that were pouring into London. - -“If you’d put a spoke in his wheel at the beginning . . .,” I began. - -“You can’t stop peaceful pedestrians from walking along the king’s -highway,” Hornbeck rejoined, “and Griffiths arranged that the armies -should only _become_ armies when they were too big to turn back.” - - 5 - -I had intended to lunch at the Eclectic in the hopes of hearing what -steps the government was taking to house and feed the hunger-marchers, -but, when I was halfway to St. James’ Street, I turned north and walked -home with a vague feeling that I must see how Barbara was getting on. - -When Spence-Atkins asked me point-blank if I thought there would be any -outbreak, I had replied with conviction that I did not. That, however, -was in the office; and, as I walked west, I was disquieted by the sight -of these silent columns, marching aimlessly, halting and dissolving into -little knots of stragglers too weary to march longer. In Waterloo Place -and Regent Street, the police imposed an order which the men themselves -had been unable to maintain; but from Hanover Square to Park Lane the -army split into its elements. Through the settling fog I saw men sitting -on the kerbs and clustering on the island-refuges; they dropped in a -shapeless heap on the first convenient doorstep; and the good-humoured -constables who said “Now then, you must move along” found themselves -addressing ears that were already deaf with sleep. - -“Half of them are no more than boys, sir,” one policeman pointed out to -me. “Tired out, that’s what they are. They don’t mean no harm.” - -By a damnable irony, the men had chosen for their collapse a moment when -Brook Street offered a tantalizing blend of warm, savoury smells. I, who -had never known the meaning of hunger, found my appetite quickening. - -“They’re tired out and _hungry_,” I said. So far as I am a judge of -accents, some of these boys had come from the Black Country, others from -Lancashire, others again from Northumberland. “I live near here. Is it -any good trying to raise some soup . . .?” - -The constable shrugged his shoulders and waited while an old man, who -had fainted, was lifted on to an ambulance. - -“If once you begin, sir, you’ll have the whole lot of them at your door. -It’s more than one man can tackle.” - -I walked on to Seymour Street with a growing sense of despair. All this -had been prophesied to Griffiths in forcible language ten days before; -but my meagre powers of imagination and description never came within -miles of actuality. I had not realized the dishonour to humanity which a -man commits when he no longer hides a broken spirit; I had forgotten the -disfigurements of starvation and the sickly stench of neglect. The -policeman was entirely right: half these fellows were only boys; and I -felt the blood mounting to my head when I thought of the way they were -victimized and their ignorance exploited. During the war I had seen them -and their elder brothers trotting obediently to the slaughter-house and -bemusedly offering their lives for a cause that was never explained and -for objects that they never understood. Now, no less obediently, they -trotted in answer to a voice that promised them a quick millennium. - -I should have caught some hope, for all my denunciation of violence, if -they had torn Griffiths limb from limb; but the patient credulity that -collected them under his leadership accepted uncomplainingly the fate to -which he led them. Griffiths, as he had boasted to me, could look after -himself; providence, the police or the devil might look after his -followers, who sprawled about the misty streets like slumbering cattle. - -If I had expected to find Barbara sharing my own anxiety, I might have -known better than to expect any sign of it. She greeted me with faint -surprise because I had not warned her that I should be lunching at home; -then the surprise turned to relief as she recollected that she was a man -short. - -“It’s a family party,” she explained. “Father and mother and Charles. I -asked the O’Ranes; but David can’t get away, so you must take his -place. . . . You’re not ill or anything are you, George?” - -“Oh, no, thanks. _Depressed_, if you like. London’s a horrible sight -with all these hunger-marchers dropping down on every side from sheer -exhaustion. I don’t know what’s to be done about them. I only hope there -won’t be a scrap.” - -Barbara looked out of window; but the fog was now so thick that she -could not see across the street. - -“Was that why you came back?,” she asked with her head averted. - -“I wanted to see that you were all right.” - -“Thank you.” . . . As though afraid that I might take advantage of her -curt gratitude, she broke into a laugh. “Some one—I think it was -Jim—once said that, when the revolution came, there’d be keen -competition between Sonia and me for a place in the first tumbril. If it -begins to-day, we shall be able to drive down together. I suppose we -_are_ two of the most useless human beings in creation. . . . I hope the -mob doesn’t break in while father’s here: I know he’d struggle with the -executioner, and I think it’s unfair to hinder a man who’s simply trying -to do his duty.” - -“I feel Robson would probably save us,” I answered. “He’d tell the mob, -very patiently, that it was out of the question for them to have a -revolution in Seymour Street.” . . . - -“You don’t really expect any trouble, do you?” - -As I believed Barbara to be entirely fearless, I did not mind speaking -frankly: - -“It all turns on what’s likely to happen in the next few hours. The men -are too tired at present even to feel hungry. When they wake up, they’ll -be like ravening wolves.” - -On Crawleigh’s arrival, I was distantly comforted to find that he shared -my own view and had indeed spent an hour trying to get it accepted in -Downing Street. During his viceroyalty he had been ultimately -responsible for the relief-works in two famines; and, for once, I found -him pregnant with constructive proposals. Three or four of the biggest -catering-firms, he urged, should set up kitchens in the London parks; -every public hall should be turned into a dormitory; and, if supplies -ran short in the shops, there must be a house-to-house visitation to -collect bread and blankets. - -“I’d punish the ring-leaders without mercy,” he added, “but we must do -one thing at a time. This is December, these men are starving; and for -the next forty-eight hours we must simply suspend our ordinary laws. Why -the government ever _allowed_ such madness . . .” - -We were still discussing emergency measures when Sonia came in very late -and apologetic. Every approach to Westminster, she reported, was barred -with lines of mounted police; St. James’ Park was closed, Whitehall and -Victoria Street were barricaded. She herself had crossed the river at -Lambeth and come by tube from Waterloo. - -“Are things still quiet?,” Lady Crawleigh enquired nervously. - -“I should think so; but the fog’s so thick that you can’t tell. . . . -Did David find you?,” Sonia asked me. “He wanted to talk to you about -soup-kitchens or something.” - -“He hadn’t come when I left the office,” I answered. - -As we went in to luncheon, Charles Neave, who had come up from the -country the day before, contributed some first-hand observations on the -march from Cumberland. It had been peaceful and orderly from the moment -when the marchers convinced their potential antagonists that they meant -to have what they wanted. Private property was scrupulously respected; -but, on the principle that churches and public buildings belonged to the -community, Griffiths’ ‘armies’ took possession of them as lodgings for a -night. I was given to understand that there had been one or two sharp -conflicts; but Crawleigh was expressing more than his own opinion when -he reminded us that this was December and that the men were starving. -Barns and warehouses were offered voluntarily as soon as their owners -were satisfied that they would not be damaged. - -“How did they manage for food?,” I asked. - -“The workhouse people did what they could. I think the rest was voted by -the different town-councils. There wasn’t enough to go round anywhere, -but a whole lot was given privately.” - -“Were there any speeches or demonstrations?,” asked Crawleigh. - -“I didn’t hear any. Everybody seemed to be on the side of the marchers. -They felt it was jolly hard lines and something ought to be done. Any -ass who calls it bolshevism doesn’t know what he’s talking about.” - -“If we can only get them back as quietly as they’ve come . . .” -Crawleigh began and left his sentence unfinished. - -I wondered whether he too was reflecting that the most dangerous -revolution is the one in which popular sympathy goes out to the -revolutionaries. In the last years of the eighteenth century the history -of the world would have been changed if Louis had not forbidden the -Swiss Guard to fire from the windows of the Tuileries; it was in fact -changed—and revolution died in giving birth to Bonapartism—when -Napoleon cleared the streets of Paris with a whiff of grapeshot. I would -more readily have turned a machine-gun on my own dining-room than have -harassed the spent men whom I saw collapsing on the doorsteps of Brook -Street; but I wondered how far the sympathy of the onlookers and the -kindliness of the police would paralyse vigorous action if the spent men -rose and had to be coerced. - -“Is anybody in _fact_ taking any steps?,” I asked Crawleigh. “We’ve food -in the house, we can buy more.” . . . - -“They’re collecting food and money as it is,” added Sonia. “Just before -I came here, that little red-eyed Welshman called to see David . . .” - -“D’you mean Griffiths?,” I asked in surprise. - -“Yes. That’s another reason why I was so late. He wouldn’t go. I told -him I’d nothing to give him.” - -“Did he come alone?” - -“Oh, no! There was a queue stretching farther than I could see. He told -me he was sure Mr. O’Rane wouldn’t refuse to help when he realized what -these men had been through to bring their grievances before the -government.” Sonia’s expression grew suddenly hard. “I told him we -weren’t the government; and I should be very glad if he’d take his army -to Hampstead and let me get to my taxi.” - -Before I had time to warn her against such trifling, I was called to the -telephone and informed that O’Rane himself was in Fetter Lane and wished -to see me at once. - -“Hullo? This is a private wire, isn’t it?,” he began. “Good! I came to -see you on quite other business. Then one of your people came in with -the latest news, and I felt I should have to borrow your eyes for the -afternoon. I’m afraid Griffiths’ people are getting out of hand. There’s -a certain amount of damage being done . . .” - -“Whereabouts?,” I interrupted. - -“In Hampstead. I’ve warned the police; and, of course, Hampstead is a -big place; but I couldn’t help wondering if they’d taken it into their -heads to loot my office. I’m afraid they won’t find more than about five -pounds in the till; but there are a lot of young clerks there, and I -don’t want them to have a scare. If you could pick me up here and come -to inspect the field of battle . . .” - -“I’ll be with you as soon as I can get across London,” I answered. - - 6 - -As I hung up the receiver, I saw Barbara standing in the doorway. One -hand gripped the moulding of the frame; the other was pressed to her -side. I jumped up in sudden alarm and helped her to a chair, for her -lips were moving without giving forth any sound. - -“Babs! Darling heart, what’s the matter?,” I asked. - -“That’s what I came to find out,” she answered with an effort that -almost choked her. “George, you’re not going!” - -“Not till you’re all right,” I promised. “Are you feeling faint? I shall -have to go out for a bit: a man who’s waiting to see me at the office -. . .” - -“But you’re not going!,” she repeated frantically. - -“It’ll only be for an hour or so . . .” - -“It’ll be for all eternity! George, if you go, you won’t come back! -Can’t you _feel_ it? I know when death’s at hand! Have I ever been -wrong? Uncle Bertrand. Eric . . . Oh, before the war! Jack Summertown -and the other boys in Jim’s last party! I know, I _know_! You think I’m -mad . . .” - -“But, my dear, who’s going to kill me?,” I asked. “I’ve been in too many -London fogs to fear them much; and, if you’re thinking of the -hunger-marchers, I’m afraid the poor devils couldn’t do any mischief -even if they wanted to. I made an appointment with a man . . .” - -“With David. You put him before me?” - -I was at a loss to think of anything that would calm her. - -“He is my best and oldest friend,” I said. - -“You always _have_ put him before me,” she cried. - -“My dear, you speak as if you were jealous! It’s absurd . . .” - -“I heard what you said to him.” - -“Then you couldn’t have heard more than about six words. I said I’d be -with him . . .” - -“And wasn’t that enough? Wasn’t it enough when I knew he wanted you? I’m -not jealous; I’m terrified! Don’t I know what he said to you? He’s in -trouble and he wants to drag you into it. But he shan’t, he shan’t!” - -I sat down by Barbara’s side and told her, so far as I could remember, -word for word all that O’Rane had said to me. - -“You know what Fleet Street rumours are,” I ended, though I felt it was -unfortunate that this rumour of rioting in Hampstead had followed so -disquieting soon on Sonia’s jaunty account of her meeting with -Griffiths. - -“If there weren’t danger, you wouldn’t think it necessary to go. It’s no -good lying to me, George. I’ve lived with you too long not to know -something about you. I ask you to stay.” - -“If Raney could see for himself . . .,” I began. - -“Let some one _else_ go!” - -Though I could not tell Barbara, I remembered vividly the night when I -had sat alone in that room, begging O’Rane to come and keep me company. -I remembered, too, his characteristic promise that he would see me -through to the grave and beyond. - -“He’s never asked me to do anything for him before. I’ve promised; and -I’m afraid I can’t go back on it.” - -Barbara stood up as though she were going to rejoin her guests. -Physically she was in control of herself and could walk without -difficulty or apparent pain; mentally she seemed to be on the verge of a -collapse. - -“Four and a half,” she muttered at the door. - -“Four and a half what?,” I asked. - -“Four and a half years since _you_ made certain promises to _me_. Four -and a half years since we were married. David has only to raise his -little finger . . .” - -“This is hardly the time to hold a _post mortem_ on our marriage,” I -said. - -“And I’m hardly the person?,” she taunted. - -“I didn’t say that.” - -“You wouldn’t! You made up your mind to be patient with me at all costs. -You just _wouldn’t_ lose your temper! Dear God, why didn’t you, George? -I deserved it. We could have been friends if you’d dropped your hateful -superiority for a moment, if you’d ever become human! You _can_ be! You -were marvellously sympathetic when all was going well; but, after the -crash, you behaved like a stone god. I was wrong. I _told_ you I was -wrong. You didn’t blame me. You know I’m jealous through and through, -but you wouldn’t punish me by falling in love with some one else. You -didn’t even complain of this ghastly two years’ imprisonment. Won’t you -ever meet me half way? I told you my love for Eric was dead; you know I -never loved any one else. What more do you want? Must I apologize? I -will! I’m sorry. I love you, I need you! I wouldn’t say it the other -night, because I was trying to hold together the rags of my pride. Isn’t -that enough? If you’ll stay, I’ll make up for all my wickedness and -cruelty. You’re all I have in the world. I didn’t know it before; but -now I can feel death hovering over you like some great black bird. If -you go . . . If you go . . .” - -Suddenly turning, she clung to me, laughing and crying. I stood without -speaking because her intensity of feeling overwhelmed me. I remember -stroking her hands. I believe I told her that I should be back before -she had time to miss me. - -“But you’re not going _now_?,” she cried. - -“Darling, I must. I shan’t be in any more danger than I am now; but, if -it were a question of bombs and machine-guns, you wouldn’t ask me to let -Raney down. He wouldn’t have asked me if he didn’t need me.” - -Barbara’s hands disengaged themselves from mine and rose to draw me into -her embrace. As our lips met, I felt that she belonged to me, at last, -heart and soul; but, when I looked into her eyes, I read her frantic -certainty that we should never kiss again. - -“I’m coming back, sweetheart,” I promised her. - -“Good-bye,” she whispered. Then, still gripping my shoulders, she looked -wildly about the room as though to face and drive away this black -presence of death that was haunting her. “It’s . . . come too late. -Good-bye . . . and forgive me.” - -“I’m coming back,” I told her again; but Barbara was now kneeling with -eyes closed and folded hands. - -If she heard me, she made no sign; I fancy she heard nothing but her own -passionate prayers. As I stumbled into the choking fog, the door slammed -behind me; and for the first time in these bewildering five minutes I -realized that I was awake. - - - - - CHAPTER THREE - - - TWO IN THE FIELD - - - “The one shall be taken, and the other left.” - - _S. Matthew_: XXIV, 40. - - 1 - -In Seymour Street I could not distinguish the houses on the far side of -the road; at the Marble Arch I was unable to see from the one side of -the pavement to the other; and I made my cautious way to the tube -station chiefly by sense of touch. - -A London fog can be the completest insulator in the world. Paralysing -sight and muffling sound, it separates the individual from his fellows -in the densest part of a crowded street. As I walked up Great Cumberland -Place, there was no sound but my own faint footsteps; the whole city -belonged to me. - -“‘_Dear God, the very houses seem asleep_’;” I murmured involuntarily: - -“‘_And all that mighty heart is lying still._’” - -Then, I am not ashamed to confess, I felt suddenly frightened, for I -knew that the mighty heart was beating, the houses which seemed asleep -were full of people peering into the darkness of the street as I peered -through the darkness at their windows. The street was full; at any -moment I might trample on the unseen; and the unseen that watched and -listened for my faint footsteps might spring out on me. I walked on -tiptoe . . . and could have sworn that some one or something laughed at -my futile caution. - -At an unattainable distance, a haze of dirty-lemon light smeared the -darkness. I hurried forward six paces and bruised my knees against a -lamp-post. Pausing to pick up my hat, I saw a knot of motionless bodies -tangled on the doorstep at my feet. There was no word, no more laughter; -perhaps I had imagined that earlier laugh. The fog insulated me again as -though I had been thrust under an airless bell-glass with a pile of -dead. I dared not move for fear of treading on one of them. The lemon -light grew dim, as a thicker wave of fog floated silently from the -unplumbed reservoir in the park. I felt my fingers tightening round my -stick. Then one of the crumpled bodies moved in its sleep and broke the -spell. I walked on—slowly, because I was out of breath—and steadied my -nerves by speaking to the policeman on duty at the corner. - -He too, I found, was insulated by the fog. Some one should have relieved -him hours ago; but every man in the force was required to regulate the -traffic and to shepherd the hunger-marchers. What had happened to them -he could not tell me. Whenever the fog lifted, he saw groups of them -drifting aimlessly about or camping wearily in the first resting-place -that they could find. As armies, they had either ceased to exist or had -transferred themselves to another part of London. I asked whether he had -heard of any trouble. - -“Haven’t heard nothing, sir,” he answered. “Wish I had. No, there won’t -be no trouble. These chaps are too tired; and they’re all of them -strange to London.” - - 2 - -When I reached the light and warmth of the tube, I could analyse calmly -my curious surrender to panic on my way up Great Cumberland Place. A -London fog, as I had told Barbara, was no new phenomenon to me; apart -from its dirt, I rather enjoyed one for its mystery and romance. If the -order of interrogation had been reversed, I should have assured the -policeman that I anticipated no trouble and that the hunger-marchers -were too tired, too ill-acquainted with London to provoke a riot. I -believed every word that I had said to my wife; I am not more nervous -than most short-sighted and unadventurous men of forty; and yet for a -moment I had entirely lost my head. Was this due to Barbara’s sudden -collapse? Were my own nerves cracking? - -In the familiar long car, staring up at the well-known advertisements, I -was myself again. I could dismiss all thoughts of imminent death, -hanging over the house like a bird of doom, as lightly as they would -have been dismissed by my stolid neighbours in the train. Barbara, for -some reason, was overexcited. In my uncle’s last illness she had -felt—or said she felt—the presence of death; she added then, with -something of the same terror, that, if she ever heard my life was in -danger, she would be dragged out of her indifference. We had been -talking, throughout luncheon, of possible riots; I had arrived -unexpectedly because I was anxious for her safety; a cell in her -unconscious mind might well have retained our conversation as I drove to -my uncle’s death-bed. Was it necessary to probe deeper than that? - -What mattered, what I could not yet begin to realize was that Barbara -and I were at last one flesh and spirit. When I returned to her . . . - -I wondered whether I had done wisely in leaving her. When I remembered -the last poignant attitude in which I had seen her, kneeling upright -with closed eyes and praying distractedly, I felt unforgivably callous. - -“For a casual promise to a friend,” I told myself indignantly; “when -I’ve assured her he’s in no danger . . .” - -As the train ran in to Oxford Circus, I rose from my seat. Then I sat -down again; rose again; sat down again . . . till the conductor called -sharply: - -“Now, make up your mind, sir.” - -I made up my mind and went on to Chancery Lane. I must keep my word to -O’Rane. Had I wished to break it, I could not; and, with this sense of -impotence, something of my old anxiety returned. Raney would not have -summoned me for a trifle; if he needed me, there was danger; yet I had -told Barbara that I should be as safe with him as if I stayed in Seymour -Street. . . . - -From Chancery Lane I stumbled to my office at a pace that left no time -for morbid fancies. O’Rane was in my room, sitting by the fire and -slapping a stick lazily against his boot. I have never seen any one less -like a figure of destiny, urging me to an unknown doom. At the vaguest -hint, he would have insisted on my going back to Barbara. - -“Is there any more news?,” I asked. “I came as soon as I could.” - -“It’s very good of you. No, I’ve heard nothing since that first rumour,” -he answered. “If I had, I wouldn’t have bothered you; but I’ve been -trying for two hours to get through to my secretary, and the girl at the -exchange tells me every time that there’s no answer. I expect the -hunger-march has disorganized everything; and I can smell a pretty thick -fog even if I can’t see it. . . . Shall we start, or is there anything -you want to do here first?” - -As we set out, I realized that in the darkness of night or the greater -darkness of a fog the blind man has an advantage over those who are -guided by their eyes. With a murmured “Chancery Lane Tube; and then -change at Tottenham Court Road”, O’Rane piloted me more surely and far -more quickly than I could have found my way unaided. The contents-bills -outside the station proclaimed—rather superfluously—“_Fog-Pall over -London_”; but, beyond one or two collisions and an accident with a -runaway horse on the Embankment, I could find no news. “_Griffiths’ -Armies_” were given a headline of no more than medium size; and their -progress had been followed less far than Philip Hornbeck had carried it -that morning. The peaceful encounter with the police in Regent’s Park -was briefly described; but of the barricades which Sonia had seen at -Westminster there was no mention. - -“By the way, you know Griffiths has turned up again?,” I said. “Your -wife was lunching with us; and I gathered that he’d called on you at The -Sanctuary. That was just before lunch.” - -“What’s happened to him?,” O’Rane asked. - -“Sonia told him you weren’t at home.” - -“Did she send him to the office?” - -“I believe she did.” - -O’Rane’s face grew grave; but he only muttered a hope that he would be -in time to meet the deputation. - -“This is a moment for desperate remedies,” he explained. “That’s why I -came to see you in the first place. Most of these fellows will starve, -and a fair number will go berserk if we don’t do something for them. -I’ve had leave to turn Millbank Gardens into a canteen; so we can look -after any one who comes to The Sanctuary. Only a few, though, will -penetrate into the heart of London; the main armies are still in the -suburbs; and if we can set up relief-camps at Wimbledon, Hounslow, -Hampstead, Epping . . . I wanted you to help me with the plans . . . Are -we nearly there yet?,” he enquired with sudden impatience. - -“It’s the next station,” I answered. - -On the high ground of Hampstead, the fog lay whiter, with a tantalizing -promise that it would clear at any moment. As we came out of the lift, I -could read without difficulty the shop-signs on the opposite side of the -street, though the higher ground of the Heath alternated patches of -afternoon light with pockets of mist as impenetrable as anything I had -seen at the Marble Arch. Of hunger-marchers I could find no trace; but -here, as everywhere in London, the police seemed to have been multiplied -a hundredfold. - -“Take my arm,” O’Rane ordered. “I can shew you a short cut.” - -Leaving the main road, I followed him through devious alleys until a -sense of open spaces hinted that we must be near the Heath. After the -noise of the train, the silence of these empty lanes was unearthly; -after the thronged street by the station, we seemed to be alone in the -world. - -“This reminds me of a raid-night in the war,” I said, as we plunged into -a belt of fog. “Pitch-dark. Deserted. And all the time you feel there -are thousands of people within touching-distance of you.” - -Before he could answer, we had come again into a broad street and were -within touching-distance of a crowd that seemed to number thousands, -though I could only see the first three or four ranks. - -“Is this one of the armies?,” O’Rane asked, as he turned, almost without -checking, down a footway between two villas. - -“Spectators, I think. It was more like a football crowd than a -demonstration.” - -“What the devil’s a crowd doing here?,” he asked with the first note of -anxiety that I had heard in his voice. “There’s nothing to see, except -my office. . . . Hold on a minute while I find the key. I’m going to -take you in the back way.” - -As we halted, I observed that the footway had brought us to a high brick -wall with a wooden door in the middle. O’Rane was fitting the key into -the lock when the door opened from the inside and a constable flashed -his bull’s-eye into our faces. - -“Now then, what are you up to?,” he demanded truculently. - -“This is my office,” O’Rane answered. - -“Sorry, sir. My orders are not to let any one in.” - -“But you can’t keep me out of my own house. Where’s the inspector?” - -The constable levelled the beam of his lamp on us again, this time with -marked indecision. O’Rane’s voice had a ring of authority; and the key -which he held was superficial evidence of good faith. - -“Are you Mr. O’Rane, sir?,” asked the constable. “The inspector’s been -trying to get hold of you. Maybe . . . you haven’t heard, sir?” - -“Haven’t heard what?” - -“The place has been smashed about, sir. Them hunger-marchers . . .” - -“Any one hurt?” - -“None of your people, sir; but we had to take our truncheons to the -others. If you’ll see the inspector, sir . . .” - -O’Rane bent his head and passed through the doorway, dragging me behind -him by the wrist. Our path lay through an overgrown clump of evergreens; -and, when we came into the open, on a strip of blighted lawn, it was my -turn to catch O’Rane’s wrist while I surveyed the damage. So far as I -could see in the uncertain light, there was not one whole pane of glass -in the place; a door, torn from its hinges, lay athwart one of the -trampled flower-beds; and under the boarding of the penthouse that did -duty for a waiting-room there trickled a thin stream of black water. The -lawn was carpeted with files and ledgers; the doorways were blocked with -broken chairs; and the air was heavy with the smell of wet ashes. - -“The place is wrecked?,” O’Rane broke in on my description. “That’s -enough for the present. Find me the man in charge.” - -In a corner of the main office we came upon a group of three constables, -one inspector and two unexplained men in plain-clothes. They were -talking in undertones round a table on which O’Rane’s secretary lay in a -dead faint. Another clerk, white-faced and tremulous, sat in another -corner with a telephone; a third wandered distractedly about the room, -tidying books into place and sobbing gently to herself. - -“This is Mr. O’Rane,” I told the inspector. “We understand no one’s been -killed. That’s all we know.” - -“It’s not the fault of those others that some one _wasn’t_ killed. -Excuse me, sir, she’s coming to,” he added in an undertone. “Don’t hurry -her! Stand back there and give her room.” - - 3 - -Five minutes later we began to build up a composite explanation from the -inspector’s report and the evidence of the three eye-witnesses. Shortly -after one o’clock a man had called to see Mr. O’Rane; he gave no name, -but said that he had been sent to the office from Westminster. On -hearing that Mr. O’Rane was not yet arrived, he explained that he was -spokesman of a deputation and would like to wait for an interview. The -one clerk who was on duty during the luncheon-hour then tried to make an -appointment for the next morning on the ground that Mr. O’Rane had said -he would not be at the office until late, if indeed he came at all that -day. The spokesman of the deputation replied that he had heard that -story before and enquired sarcastically if he should lead his men back -to Westminster. - -“He said he’d come all the way from the north,” interposed O’Rane’s -secretary. “I guessed then he was one of the hunger-marchers; and I -. . . didn’t like the way he spoke. So, when he turned to call the -others, I gave him a push and slammed the door behind him. Then . . . -then . . . then . . .” - -O’Rane patted the girl’s hand while the inspector resumed his narrative. -Barred from one entrance, the rioters attacked the other and succeeded -in wrenching the door down. Inside, their conduct at first was orderly: -some stretched themselves on the floor, others collected round the -fires; when the police arrived, however, one or two got out of hand: -tables were overturned, drawers ransacked and the safe bombarded, -ineffectually enough, with sticks and stones. Then two arrests were -made; and the crowd settled down to fight in earnest. Those who were -outside shattered the windows with every missile that came to hand; -those within overturned the furniture, flung the books from their -shelves and kicked burning coals into the midst of the wreckage. When -the truncheons came into place, the attack collapsed; but, with -half-a-dozen exceptions, the invaders had made good their escape. - -“Which way did they go?,” asked O’Rane. - -“Every way, sir, as far as we could see. They were lost in the fog -before they were out of the garden.” - -“I understand. Well, they’re not likely to come back, but I suppose -you’ll leave some one to look after the place. I shall be here first -thing to-morrow morning, but I’ve rather a lot to do now. Can you -arrange for some one to take these ladies home? I don’t like them to -wander about unprotected. George, I want you.” - -As I followed him into the ruins of his private office, he asked me if -Sonia had mentioned where she was going that afternoon. - -“I imagine, to The Sanctuary,” I answered. “She had tickets for a -private view, but I heard her say it was too dark to do anything except -go to bed.” - -“And the best place too. Will you get hold of the other telephone and -tell her to bar the door and put the shutters up in the library? All the -ground-floor rooms without shutters must be locked on the outside. She’s -not to go to the door on any pretext; and there must be no lights in any -window. If I want to get in, I’ll use the fire-escape; so she must leave -the nursery-window open. Tell her—without frightening her, if -possible—that I’m asking the police to draft some additional men into -the neighbourhood . . .” - -“You think this gang has gone back?,” I interrupted. - -This was the first time that I had engaged in any adventure with O’Rane; -and I began to appreciate some of his qualities of leadership. Always -knowing what he wanted, he made his followers want it with equal -intensity; fearless himself, he subdued fear in others. I felt that he -would stand back to back with me against an army corps; and it was only -natural that I should wish to stand back to back with him. - -“It’s more than likely. They’re out for blood now . . . thanks to -Sonia’s damned folly in sending them here when I told her I shouldn’t be -near the place. I should want somebody’s blood myself if I’d had a trick -like that played on me.” - -I sent O’Rane’s message in his own words, not caring greatly whether I -frightened Sonia so long as she obeyed to the letter. Then I telephoned -to Seymour Street to give a similar warning. I would not speak to -Barbara for fear she should try to argue; but I instructed Robson to put -the house in preparation for a siege. Griffiths had honoured me with one -call; in his mind I was intimately associated with O’Rane; I did not -want him to call a second time until I had prepared a suitable reception -for him. - -“Tell her ladyship that there’s a certain amount of rioting,” I said, -“and it is my urgent wish that she shall not go out of doors. Mr. -O’Rane’s office has been damaged, though—fortunately—no one has been -injured. I’m going with him to his house in Westminster, just to see -that everything’s all right there. Then I shall come straight home.” - -As I finished speaking, O’Rane came into the room and asked if I had -sent his message. - -“Then I needn’t keep you, old man,” he added. “It was good of you to see -me through. One’s sometimes extraordinarily helpless without one’s -eyes.” - -“I’m coming back with you,” I said. - -“Why?” - -“Because . . . one is sometimes extraordinarily helpless without one’s -eyes.” - -“But this isn’t your show. Sonia set the match to the fire; and I must -put it out.” - -“I may be able to lend a hand.” - -O’Rane stood silent for a moment. Then he shook his head and turned to -the door: - -“I’m not going to let you in for this. You have . . . other -responsibilities.” - -“It’s as bad as that?” - -“It may be. You’ve never seen a mob out of temper.” . . . - -“If you’re right, I may see one to-day. I’m not going to let you go -alone, Raney.” - -“It’s . . . good of you; but I think you’re a fool.” - -“Well, that’s as may be,” I answered. “Come on.” - - 4 - -As we hurried to the station, I told O’Rane that the approaches to -Westminster had been barricaded earlier in the day and suggested that we -should make for The Sanctuary by way of Waterloo and Lambeth. He nodded -without speaking; and, after that, I left him undisturbed. I am not, I -never have been, anything that could be called “a man of action”; I did -not know whether we were hastening into the vortex of a revolution; and, -if I had known, I should have had no idea what to do. - -“I’m simply waiting for your orders,” I reminded him, as we struggled -out of the lift. - -“And I’m waiting for you to tell me what’s happening. How’s the fog?” - -“I really believe it’s thicker than ever.” - -“Good. Take my arm and come for all you’re worth. There’s no difference -to me between night and day or fog and sunshine; but there’s all the -difference in the world to these other fellows. I figure out that -Griffiths’ gang ought to be arriving just about now, if they’ve come on -foot. And if they’ve come at all. The police ought to be there before -them, with luck. We’ve no idea of numbers on either side; but one -policeman, attacking or defending, is a match for quite a few people who -haven’t made up their minds how far they want to go. And it’s a trained -against an untrained force. On the other hand, the police can’t go to -extremes until they’re driven.” - -“And in pitch darkness,” I added, “numbers and training and the majesty -of the law don’t count for much.” - -“I’m banking on that. This may be a one-man show. Me. The fog’s still -holding everywhere? Good again. We’re all blind for this evening, but -I’ve had more than seven years’ start of the others. I haven’t bumped -you once so far? I can _feel_ when people are near. And I’m coming to -know London like my own bedroom. There’s a crossing here, with rather a -high kerb. Left incline to the refuge! There’s a lorry feeling his way -along . . . and getting tied up with a south-bound tram. We can go on -now. People aren’t frightened of a fog nearly as much as I should have -expected. When I remember the agony of fear I went through when I was -blinded . . . The helplessness . . . Here’s Westminster Bridge, but I -don’t think it’s the least use trying that.” - -We hurried along the south bank of the river and only crossed when we -were safely in the rear of all possible pickets. - -“What happens if we get separated?,” I asked. - -“Look after yourself as best you can, but don’t call me by name. D’you -know _Lilliburlero_? Well, pretend you’re Uncle Toby and whistle that -when you get a chance, just to shew me where you are. If you want help, -whistle _John Peel_. I’ll get to you if I can . . . Of course, we _may_ -find everything as peaceful as the grave. If we do, I think I shall -still take the precaution of moving Sonia and the boys to some other -part of London.” - -“Bring them to Seymour Street,” I suggested. - -“I will, thankfully. If we find there’s a scrap in progress, we must -arrange a retreat. There’ll be nobody on the west side of the house, -because there are no windows for any one to break on the ground floor; -and there’s a fairly high wall round the stable-yard. If you’ll keep -_cavé_, I’ll slip in there and go up the fire-escape. I’ll give you the -first line of _The Campbells Are Coming_ to know if the coast’s clear; -if you’ll reply with _Over the Hills and Far Away_, I shall know I can -unlock the door. From there, the way is by Smith Square, Great College -Street and Dean’s Yard. The gates will be shut against us; but the -police will open them. . . . Are you feeling at all nervous?” - -“A bit keyed-up. This damned fog . . .” - -“You may live to bless it. If for any reason we don’t both get through, -we’ll say good-bye now. Slow down a bit; we can’t be more than fifty -yards from the corner.” - -Though I fancied we were still half a mile away, I discovered—by the -abrupt change from stucco to brick—that we had indeed reached the south -side of the house. So far as I could see or hear, the neighbourhood was -deserted; but a single distant thud, followed by a sharp tinkle, told me -that some one on the other side of the house had broken a window and -that the missile had been stopped by a shutter. I heard hurried -footsteps and pulled up within an inch of colliding with a young -policeman. His truncheon was drawn; and he had lost his helmet. - -“You gentlemen had best keep out of this,” he warned us. - -“What’s happening?,” I asked. “Are these the hunger-marchers?” - -“I reckon so. And they’re out for mischief. If you could see them, it -wouldn’t be so bad . . .” - -He broke off as a fusillade of stones rattled against the house. A -hollow ‘plump’, like the sound of a weight dropped into water, indicated -another broken window; and in the moment’s silence that followed we -heard another tinkle of glass. - -“The house will stand a good deal of that,” O’Rane murmured. “They’ve -had no luck with the door?” - -“Two or three got in by the area window,” stated the constable. “Now -they can’t get out again. There are two men waiting for them.” - -O’Rane broke into an unexpected laugh: - -“I’m afraid they’ll have a long wait. That’s the cellar; and the door’s -sure to be locked. I hope they’ll find the wine to their taste.” - -“Is this your house, sir?,” asked the policeman. “You’d best not let -them see you, then. They’re after you.” - -“So it seems,” O’Rane answered, as a new volley of stones rattled on to -the pavement and a series of short scuffles gave place to the sound of -running feet. - -The battle, we were told, had been raging for half-an-hour. At first the -assailants had concentrated on the front door; when that refused to -yield, they began to break every window within reach until the police -scattered them. Then the attack was transferred to a distance. On the -Embankment twenty yards away, where the road was under repair, lay -miscellaneous heaps of stones and granite blocks. By these the -hunger-marchers collected and bombarded both the house and the newly -formed cordon. It was a difficult attack to meet at any time, but the -fog made it impossible. When the police charged, the assailants slipped -between and round them, to reassemble in flank and to continue their -bombardment of the house at close-quarters; when the police charged -back, the hunger-marchers returned to their ammunition-dump and reopened -a long-range fire. The present lull in the fighting was due to a change -of tactics: half the police were stationed in open order round the -house, while the other half encircled the granite piles to cut off -supplies. Their numbers, however, were insufficient to hold either -position effectively; and, though further reinforcements were reported -to be on their way, there were enough stones lying loose about the house -for a long spell of irregular practice. - -“Is that fellow Griffiths in charge?,” asked O’Rane. - -“I’ve heard so,” answered the constable. - -“I want to get hold of him. This must be stopped, but it’s no good -breaking heads and putting people under arrest. We must stop it before -the reinforcements come up and the whole thing starts again. There’s a -lot to be said for these fellows: they’re hungry, to begin with, and -they’ve been fooled by everybody, Griffiths most of all. The first thing -they need is a meal; and I’m going to promise them that, if they’ll stop -this stone-throwing business. And after that we must find ’em a place -for the night; but I must promise them there’ll be no arrests. Where’s -the inspector?” - -“He’s guarding the area window, sir.” - -“I hope to God I can make my voice heard,” O’Rane muttered, as he -vanished from my side to be swallowed up in the fog. - -I waited with the constable because I had been given no orders. He had -been on duty for little more than half-an-hour and could tell me nothing -of the battle’s beginning. On the other hand, he told me much about the -rest of London: my premonition of a duel between Griffiths and the -O’Ranes had come true; in every other part, the hunger-marchers were -being peacefully conducted to makeshift kitchens and dormitories; -Hampstead was quiet again; and this brawl, between unknown numbers on -either side, was the nearest approach—as Philip Hornbeck might have -said—to barricade-fighting. - -Only a brawl, but an unpleasant brawl. I do not remember feeling -unusually frightened, though I was more than usually helpless. From time -to time a stone hurtled over my head or skated along the pavement at my -feet; of all futile precautions, I pulled my hat over my eyes and turned -up my coat-collar; also, I heard a sustained cursing of this Egyptian -darkness and was surprised to recognize my own voice behind it. I could -not see my watch; I have no idea how long it was before the next -fusillade was followed by the now inevitable scuffling rush. Then came -the sound of O’Rane’s voice from the front of the house. He called -several times for Griffiths; and, when no answer came, he began to talk -to the crowd and at their leader in the same breath. - -Only once before had I heard O’Rane address a mass-meeting: that was in -the early days of the war, when he came to gather recruits and wagered -light-heartedly that he would stampede the meeting in five minutes. He -won his bet; but then he had been able to see his audience, and his -audience yielded to the double hypnotism of his voice and eyes. Now he -was talking to a blind tent of darkness. I could not watch the effect; I -could not tell how many heard him nor how many were present to hear. It -was something that they listened in silence; but, until the speech was -over, neither he nor I could tell for certain whether any one was in -earshot. - -There was little more in what he said now than in what he had rehearsed -to me. After telling the crowd his name—which was received in -silence—, he explained that, when the deputation called earlier in the -day and at the moment when it was marching on his office in Hampstead, -he had been taking steps to procure food for men whose only fault at -that time was that they had listened to promises which could not be -kept. If they did not know that, Griffiths did; the government had -stated a dozen times that it would not receive their leaders; and the -sympathy which the hunger-marchers had aroused on their way to London -would vanish in a moment if they destroyed houses and helped themselves -to private property. Though it was too late to undo the harm already -done, it could be overlooked. If the rioting stopped instantly, no steps -would be taken against the rioters, with the exception of Griffiths -himself, against whom the police already held a warrant for inciting to -crime. Further, immediate steps would be taken to provide shelter and -food; but the stone-throwing must stop. Those who came forward -empty-handed would be marshalled and led to Millbank Gardens, where -supplies had already been collected. - -The speech was over in three minutes; but twice that time passed before -any answer came. I moved round to the front of the house, but the place -from which O’Rane’s voice had issued was occupied by a single policeman. -There was no more stone-throwing, but I could see nothing of the -besieging army. Once I whistled a few bars of _Lilliburlero_, but they -passed unacknowledged. Then I walked in a wider compass towards the -battlefield on the Embankment. Everything was silent, every one was -still; and each man suspected his neighbour. I could see neither -policemen nor rioters until I was within a yard of them; then a face -would leap at me out of the grey fog. Usually it was frightened, -sometimes it was angry; always it seemed thin, hopeless and bewildered. -The stench was oppressive; the sense of silent numbers suffocating. - -As I turned back towards the house, I felt a slight tremor among the men -who surrounded me. Perhaps my own aimless movement had given them the -lead they were awaiting. Those ahead of us were pushed forward; those -behind hurried to catch up. Suspicion seemed to die down; and I heard a -hoarse murmur of conversation. Finding myself alone, I tried -_Lilliburlero_ again; and with an answering whistle O’Rane slipped like -a snake through the intervening ranks and stationed himself at my side. - -“You all right?,” he whispered. - -“Yes, thanks. It’s over, Raney. What d’you want me to do now?” - -“Let’s be sure first that it _is_ over. . . . I don’t like the sound of -_that_.” - -Taking my arm, he led me in the direction of a voice that seemed to be -answering his own speech. I could not hear the words; and, if I -suspected the voice to be Griffiths’, that was only because a curious -snarl, passed from lip to lip, was taken up as a cry. - -“They’re saying it’s a trap,” I told O’Rane. - -“Trap . . . Trap . . . Trap . . .” came the snarl; and those who were -nearest the house turned headlong till we were almost swept off our -feet. - -“Trap be damned,” shouted a voice; and in place of the mutters and -snarls came the roar of two opposing armies. - - 5 - -It was very much as I had foreseen; very much as I had predicted to -Griffiths himself. His men were turning against him. - -When hunger first became unbearable, they soothed their anger with a -dose of wholesale destruction. If Griffiths had not urged them to it, I -have never heard any one suggest that he tried to restrain them; I -should be sceptical if any one told me that he had marched them from -Hampstead to Westminster with another thought than to offer them a -further dose of the same sedative. By this time, however, the men were -realizing that broken windows brought satisfaction to no one but the -fortunate two or three who had dug themselves into the wine-cellar. I -hoped they would remain there. In a lull between two bursts of shouting -I heard a subterranean bellowing; one or two bottles were flung up and -promptly smashed by the inspector of police. I did not want our -complications to be increased by the madness that comes to starving men -who have inflamed their aching stomachs with strong liquor. O’Rane, if -he aimed at dividing the enemy, could not have chosen a happier moment -for exposing Griffiths to his followers. Their resentment of that day’s -leadership became lost in a greater resentment of the leadership that -had dragged them to London. Fear sharpened the antagonism of those who -had heard a moment before that they were being incited by Griffiths to -crime; the police were still very near; and O’Rane had promised an -amnesty to all who threw down their missiles and came forward -peacefully. - -Amnesty and immediate food. The collective cry of hunger was less than -human; but, as I had predicted, the disappointed mob had vengeance to -wreak on the author of its misfortunes before it could eat in comfort of -mind. As though a barrier had fallen, there was a rush towards the -corner of the street where an excited voice could still be heard -haranguing of ‘traps’. - -“That fellow will be lynched if we don’t get him away!,” O’Rane cried. - -“You’ll be lynched yourself,” I answered, “if you get mixed up with his -gang.” - -Even as I spoke, the tide hung and turned. As I might have foreseen, as -Griffiths himself had told me, he could look after himself. Again I -could not hear his words; for part of the time I fancy he was speaking -in Welsh; and he held his audience. The opposing clamour dwindled and -died away. The hoarse cheers of his supporters spread until they were -taken up all round us. There was a pause of perfect stillness, like the -moment when a gigantic wave gathers before breaking; then the mob turned -as one man upon the house. - -Griffiths had won that round. - -“I imagine this must be something like the storming of the Bastille,” -O’Rane murmured coolly. - -“They’re absolutely out of hand. The police are using their truncheons, -too,” I added, as the sickening smack of hard wood on human flesh and -bone was followed by yelps of rage and whimpering moans. - -“I haven’t heard anything of our precious reinforcement . . . There’s a -most awful reek of whisky.” - -“They’re looting the cellar. Once _that_ begins . . .” - -“If they’ll get drunk quietly, it will be the best thing in the world -for everybody. . . . D’you smell burning?” - -I sniffed; but my duller senses told me nothing till I saw a distant -orange glow fainter than the reflection of a winter sunset. - -“They’ve started a fire. I can’t see where.” - -“Is it making any difference to the fog?” - -“No, but I believe the fog’s lifting. I can see . . . oh, ten yards. -Come out of the way: I think the police are going to charge again.” - -Though I dragged at his arm, O’Rane stayed motionless. - -“If the fog’s lifting . . .,” he murmured slowly. Then, for the second -time that evening, he gripped my hand. “We must go while the going’s -good. The stable-door. And afterwards by Smith Square and Great College -Street.” - -I found myself suddenly alone. The fog was certainly lifting, for I -could see the concerted rush of the police, though I was not in time to -get out of their way. It was a truncheon, I think, and not a stray stone -that brought me down. I remember excruciating pain at the side of my -head; I remember my knees giving slowly beneath me; and then, for a -time, I remember nothing more. - - 6 - -When I came to, the fire was invisible; but the battle was still raging. -My glasses were gone; my head ached savagely; and an ungentle foot had -trodden my left hand to a bleeding pulp. I felt overpoweringly sick; and -I wanted to crawl away from all this din till I had recovered my nerve. -I did not know why I was there at all. - -Then I remembered O’Rane and the stable-door. - -During the war, I was told by many of my friends that, in the first -moments after being slightly wounded, they became wholly demoralized: -they might have been facing intensive fire for several hours on end -without undue discomfort, but, when once they had been hit, they dodged -and cowered their way back to the clearing-station as though the heavens -were raining shrapnel upon them. My own demoralization, as I slunk away -and made for the stable-door by the other side of the house, was more -complete than I care to remember: I ducked, I sidestepped, I ran, I hid, -everywhere pursued by the reek and roar of struggling humanity, -convinced against all reason that I alone was visible in the darkness -and that every missile was deliberately aimed at me. - -The stable-door was locked; I could see no one near it; and I sank to -the ground till I should faint again or be trampled to death. There was -some challenge, some pass-word for me to remember; but, when I heard a -whistle, I forgot my orders and called out: “Here I am! All clear.” - -There was a precautionary pause before the door was opened. Then O’Rane -pushed a small, muffled figure towards me and stepped into the road with -a second figure, slightly larger and equally muffled, in his arms. - -“Shut the door quietly and follow me,” he whispered. “It locks itself.” - -“Where’s Sonia?,” I asked. - -“I must go back for her. She’s rather rattled.” - -I cannot say whether my recovery was the natural result of time or -whether I was infected by O’Rane’s unruffled calm. His companionship -meant much; his air of authority more; and, if I was still frightened, I -hope at least that I did not shew it. A very few steps, moreover, -brought us into comparative quiet; and I could forget the red-hot pain -in my head. - -“The fog _is_ lifting,” I told O’Rane. - -“The deuce it is!” He stopped suddenly and lowered his burden to the -ground. “You must take Daniel as well, while I go back. Sonia wouldn’t -face the fire-escape; and I must carry her down. There’s no time to -lose, because these fellows have been filling up on neat spirit; and I -came across a dud incendiary-bomb . . . which doesn’t look like clean -fighting. You’re in Smith Square now. Feel your way round the church -railings, then straight ahead, then to the left as far as you can go. -Knock up any of the Abbey people and say these children must be taken -in. Give them _your_ address and beat it for home. We shall join you as -soon as we can. Go carefully,” he added in a whisper. “There’s some one -coming. Oh, it’s only a woman. _She_ won’t hurt you.” - -As he turned back to The Sanctuary, I gave Daniel my undamaged hand -while I hoisted little David half on to my shoulder. I had heard no -footsteps, but somewhere in this bewildering darkness I heard a woman’s -light cough. Then a voice said: - -“Don’t look round! I’ll take the baby as soon as we’re safe, but I want -to keep my hands free just in case . . .” - -Then we came into a narrow circle of lamp-light and I saw Barbara in -tweed jacket and trousers. She had tidied her hair away under one of my -hats; and the fingers of her right hand gripped a service revolver. - -“When you didn’t come . . .” she began. - -“You’ve no right to be here,” I exclaimed in horror. - -“Just as much right as you, darling. I drove the car here in case any -one was . . . hurt. It’s in that street by the Church House.” - -“Then will you shew me the way and take these infants to Seymour Street? -Raney will follow as soon as he can bring Sonia down.” - -“And you?” - -“I’m going back to give him a hand.” - -“Must you?” - -“There may be other people in the house. Servants.” - -Barbara lifted the child off my shoulders into her arms and hurried down -a side street. The fog was lifting rapidly, too rapidly; I could see -across the street and I wondered how much could be seen on the -battlefield outside The Sanctuary. - -“If you _must_ . . .” Barbara murmured. “George, I told Robson I was -coming to see if I could help you; but . . . I brought the car to take -back your dead body.” - -“I’ve no intention of being killed,” I said, “but we can’t leave people -to be burnt alive.” - -“Well, . . . take the revolver,” said Barbara helplessly. - -When we had put the children inside the car, I went back at a run down -Great College Street to Smith Square. The fog lay in pockets so that I -could see thirty yards at one moment and less than three at another. I -fancied, as I neared The Sanctuary, that the noise had diminished; I -could see neither fire nor smoke; and, though my own road was deserted, -I thought I could hear the patter of running feet. It was more than time -for the reinforcements to have arrived; it was more than a likelihood -that, with the increasing light, experience and discipline were -favouring the police. I was halfway through Smith Square when I heard a -sound of crying and saw a woman’s figure cowering against the railings. -As I went forward, I was greeted with a scream of terror; the figure -turned to run, and I recognized Sonia. - -Calling her by name, I started in pursuit and brought her back from the -scene of riot for which she was blindly heading. Her nerve was gone; and -I had dragged and carried her halfway to the car before she could speak -coherently. Then I learned that the battle was over, the fire out and -Griffiths’ army in full flight; but all this was nothing to the -unforgettable agony of the bombardment, and she sobbed hysterically as -she tried to describe her own sufferings from the moment when she -received my message from Hampstead to the moment when her husband -climbed through the nursery-window. - -“Where _is_ Raney?,” I asked. - -“He’s following. He said it was dangerous for us to go together; and I -should get along quicker without him. Oh, George, it was so awful! I -believe I’m going to faint.” . . . - -Though I tried to comfort her, I should have had an easier task if she -had composed herself wholly or wholly collapsed. Though I had not shared -her ordeal, I felt that Sonia was making rather a pitiful exhibition of -herself. She was frightened, but so was I; so—under his Gasconnade—was -O’Rane; so—without disguise—had Barbara been. When, however, an -emergency wrested the direction of her daily life from her own hands, -Barbara behaved as tradition and inherited instinct taught her. Though -her body might play her false, the dauntless strength of breeding came -out in her spirit; she might break down in private; but, once on the -public scaffold, she shewed an Elizabethan daring and feared death less -than the ague which might make her enemies think she feared death. Alone -of us four, Sonia was more concerned for her personal alarms than for -the dignity of the order in which we had been brought up. - -“It’s only a few yards to the car,” I told her. “Barbara will look after -you. And you’ll find the children quite safe. . . . D’you know which way -David was coming?” - -“No. . . . I just ran for my life. He said he’d follow.” . . . - -I handed her over to my wife’s keeping with no more comment than that -she was badly shaken in nerve. There might have been a noticeable -contraction of sympathy if Barbara, who had superfluously ventured into -this maelstrom through loyalty to me, heard that Sonia had run for her -life and left her blind husband to extricate herself from the danger in -which she had involved him. - -“I’m just going to meet Raney,” I said. “He’s expecting us either in -Dean’s Yard or Seymour Street.” - -“If we’ve gone before you come back, it’ll mean that he’s found us -first,” said Barbara. “Then you’ll come home independently. Take care of -yourself.” - -“It’s all over now. Even the fog’s almost gone.” - - 7 - -As I returned to The Sanctuary for the last time, I could see—even -without my glasses—from one lamp-post to the next. The narrow streets -north of Smith Square were almost empty; and I could hardly blame a -routed enemy for shying from such sinister avenues of escape. There were -more and more people as I drew nearer to the Embankment, all of them -rather dazed and many wounded. I saw no dead, though stretchers were -being hurried up as I came in sight of The Sanctuary; and of the battle -there was no other sound than a rapid scurry of feet towards Westminster -Bridge and Vauxhall. - -At the corner of Sanctuary Road I was challenged and stopped by a -policeman. - -“I’m looking for the gentleman whose house has been attacked,” I -explained. “I’ve got his family in a car near by; but he’s unfortunately -blind, and I don’t want him to miss them.” - -I was allowed through; and, a moment later, I stood in the midst of one -of the strangest scenes that I have witnessed. To see, to smell and to -touch, it was a blend of shambles and distillery under the combined -influence of earthquake and fire. The ground was in places waist-deep -with stones; for twenty feet round the house I heard the glass crackling -as I walked. More than once I slipped in an ominous pool of blood; and -the air was sickly with the smell of whisky and singed clothing. - -I whistled and called O’Rane’s name, but there was no answer. Every -approach was now guarded by police; and on either side of the cordon I -heard scuffling as the last unyielding attackers were put under arrest. -In the middle of the open square, the wounded were laid out to await the -ambulances. I borrowed a lantern and flashed it down the lines, but -there was no one remotely resembling Raney. - -“I’m going to try the house now,” I told the policeman nearest the -stables. “If you’ll give me a leg up, I can get over the wall and up the -fire escape.” - -There was no one in the yard, no one in the house. As a last hope, I -interrogated two or three of the constables; but, if any of them had -found time to notice anything my description did not help to identify -one half-seen figure in a surging crowd of many thousands. - -“Well, if he turns up,” I said to the inspector, “will you tell him that -all’s well and that his family has gone to Mr. Oakleigh’s house?” - -Then, handing him a card, I bent my steps in the direction of the Church -House. - -The fog had lifted; and only a faint haze remained. For the first time -in many hours I looked at my watch to explain what seemed to be stars. -It was nine o’clock; and I became suddenly conscious of great hunger, -great fatigue and almost unbearable pain in my head and hand. At the -same moment I began to see the events of the afternoon in their -perspective. - -Nothing quite of this kind had happened for a hundred years. Barbara had -confirmed what the policeman told me: this outbreak was isolated and -unique. Within the next day or two I was to meet men who had driven -unsuspectingly across the battlefield from luncheon-parties an hour -before the battle; I was to meet others who drove across the same ground -an hour after the surrender and only imagined that the road was under -repair. It was local, it was brief; but it was new. Had I seen the -beginning or the end? Sardou, I remember, makes one of his characters -say: “_An_ émeute _is when the mob is conquered; then they are all_ -canaille; _a revolution is when they are victorious; then they are all -heroes_.” The _émeute_ of to-day, however, becomes not infrequently the -revolution of to-morrow. I felt that, in history, this outbreak might -mark a turning-point: it would be the first active step towards a social -revolution, or it would be the last demonstration of turbulence before a -great and orderly people, with a genius for self-government, adjusted -itself slowly, pragmatically and irrationally to the new conditions. - -I know now, I knew next day, that the collision which loomed so large to -me would escape the notice of the most vigilant historian. The average -headline in the average paper said no more than: =Disorderly scenes -in westminster. Feared loss of life.= Then and now I felt and feel -that what I witnessed was more than a “disorderly scene”. Little more -than eight years had passed since the threat of a European war shook us -to the foundations of our being. The ardent among us had vowed that, if -we won, we would have an order of civilization for which any man would -be proud to die. After eight years, the danger of a new war lowered more -menacingly than in the summer months of 1914. And the civilization which -we had set up to commemorate the war was to be judged on that -afternoon’s encounter. Had the association of one human being with -another, in his national and international grouping, grown so complex -that no one could control it? Had the world become like the Roman Empire -in its last days, when—for no reason that a statesman of the day or an -historian of later days could enunciate—the mighty machine ceased to -revolve? If the aim of government was to secure the life and liberty of -the governed and to lead them towards prosperity and happiness, -government had palpably failed in victorious England and France, in -defeated Germany, in revolutionary Russia. My uncle warned me on his -death-bed that we were back in 1914; had he been with me now, I must -have told him that we were sunk to something incredibly lower than 1914. -After the events of this afternoon I did not believe that even O’Rane -would dispute that. - -Of all the ironies that had chequered his life, I knew of none greater -than that his should be the house to be attacked by the most downtrodden -and hopeless section of the community. If their salvation could have -been helped by his death, he would have given his life for them as -lightly as another man might toss a coin to a beggar. Now, if any one -had indeed been killed, he would be held indirectly responsible. - -I had come to a halt till the pain which every step sent shooting -through my head should abate. Looking again at my watch, I saw that I -must hasten. By Great College Street, O’Rane had told me, and then into -Dean’s Yard. As I turned the corner, I had to step aside to avoid an -obstacle. Glancing back, I saw that it was a man. He lay stretched on -his back, with his arms flung out, midway between two lamp-posts; and I -could not be sure whether he was wounded or drunk. I called out to find -if he wanted help; but there was no answer. Then I struck a match. - -As it flared, I saw what—in some way that I shall never understand—I -had been expecting to see. It was this that had sent me back to his side -again and again; this, maybe, that had brought Barbara with her car; -this, for all I know, that appeared to her in the semblance of black -wings beating a prophetic message over the house. O’Rane’s hands were -cold as ice; the back of his head was brutally smashed. His black eyes -stared up to heaven in mild perplexity at the insoluble enigma of death -and the eternal paradox of life. - -He looked a boy of twenty. - -I covered his face and mounted guard over my last and best friend. . . . - - WALTHAM ST. LAWRENCE, - Berkshire, 1923. - THE END - - - - - TRANSCRIBER NOTES - - -Mis-spelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple -spellings occur, majority use has been employed. - -Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors -occur. - -Page numbers have been removed due to a non-page layout. - - - - - - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TO-MORROW AND TO-MORROW *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. 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