"It is very kind of you," he said, as he took the letters. "Please sit down while I look at them."
The first was dated from the House of Commons:
"_Dear Mr. Maraton:_
"At a committee meeting held this afternoon here, it was resolved that I should write to you to the following effect.
"We understood that you were coming over here entirely in the interests of the great cause of labour, of which we, the undersigned, are the accredited representatives in this country. Since your arrival, however, you have preserved an independent att.i.tude which has given cause to much anxiety on our part. After declining to attend a meeting at the Clarion Hall, we find you there amongst the audience, and you address them in direct opposition to the advice which we were giving them authoritatively. We specially invited you to be present at a meeting of this committee to-day, in order that a definite plan of campaign might be formulated before your visit to Manchester. You have not accepted our invitation, and we understand that you are now staying at the private house of the Prime Minister, notwithstanding our request that you should not interview, or be interviewed by any representative of the Government without one of our committee being present.
"We wish to express our dissatisfaction with the state of affairs, and to say that should you be still intending to address the meeting at Manchester on Monday night, we demand an explanation with you before you go on to the platform. We understand that the residence of Mr. Foley is only sixty miles from London. If you are still desirous of acting with us, we beg you, upon receipt of this letter, to ask for a motor car and to return here to London. We shall all be at number 17, Notting Hill, until midnight or later, telephone number 178, so that you can telephone that you are on the way. Failing your coming, some of us will be at the Midland Hotel, Manchester, from mid-day on Monday.
"I am,
"Faithfully yours,
"RICHARD GRAVELING,
"Secretary.
"For
PETER DALE, Chairman,
ABRAHAM WEAVEL,
SAMUEL BORDEN,
HENRY CULVAIN.
The second one was from Manchester:
"Dear Sir:
"We understand that you will be arriving in Manchester about mid-day on Monday. We think it would be best if you were to descend from the train either at Derby or any adjacent station, as no police force which could possibly be raised in the county, will be sufficient to control the crowds of people who will gather in the streets to welcome you.
"We beg that you will send us a telegram, informing us by what, train you are travelling, and we will send a messenger to Derby, who will confer with you as to the best means of reaching the rooms which we are providing for you.
"Antic.i.p.ating your visit,
"I am,
"Faithfully yours,
"WILLIAM PRESTON,
"Secretary Manchester Labour Party."
Maraton replaced the letters in their envelopes and turned with them in his hand, towards Julia. She had moved a little towards the open French windows. Every one seemed to have made their way out on to the lawn.
Chinese lanterns were hanging from some of the trees and along the straight box hedge that led to the rose gardens. The women were strolling about in their evening gowns, without wraps or covering, and the men had joined them. Servants were pa.s.sing coffee around, served from a table on which stood a little row of bottles, filled with various liqueurs. Some one in the drawing-room was singing, but the voice was suddenly silenced. Every one turned their heads. A little further back in the woods, a nightingale had commenced to sing.
"You are tired," Maraton whispered.
She shook her head. The strained, anxious look was still in her face.
"No," she replied in a low tone, "I am not tired."
"There is something the matter," he insisted, "something, I am sure.
Won"t you sit down, and may I not order some refreshment for you? The people here are very hospitable."
Her gesture of dissent was almost peremptory.
"No!"
The monosyllable had a sting which surprised him.
"Tell me what it is?" he begged.
She opened her lips and closed them again. He saw then the rising and falling of her bosom underneath that black stuff gown. She stretched out her hand towards the gardens. Somehow or other, she seemed to grow taller.
"I do not understand this," she said. "I do not understand your being here, one of them, dressed like them, speaking their language, sharing their luxuries. It is a great blow to me. It is perhaps because I am foolish, but it tortures me!"
"But isn"t that a little unreasonable?" he asked her quietly. "To accomplish anything in this world, it is necessary to know more than one side of life."
"But this--this," she cried hysterically, "is the side which has made our blood boil for generations! These women in silk and laces, these idle, pleasure-loving men, this eating and drinking, this luxury in beautiful surroundings, with ears deafened to all the mad, sobbing cries of the world! This is their life day by day. You have been in the wilderness, you have seen the life of those others, you have the feeling for them in your heart. Can you sit at table with these people and wear their clothes, and not feel like a hypocrite?"
"I a.s.sure you," Maraton replied, "that I can."
She was trembling slightly. She had never seemed to him so tall. Her eyes now were ablaze. She had indeed the air of a prophetess.
"They are ignorant men, they who sent you that letter," she continued, pointing to it, "but they have the truth. Do you know what they are saying?"
Maraton inclined his head gravely. He felt that he knew very well what they were saying. She did not give him time, however, to interrupt.
"They are saying that you are to be bought, that that is why you are here, that Mr. Foley will pay a great price for you. They are saying that all those hopes we had built upon your coming, are to be dashed away. They say that you are for the flesh-pots. I daren"t breathe a word of this to Aaron," she added hurriedly, "or I think that he would go mad. He is blind with pa.s.sionate love for you. He does not see the danger, he will not believe that you are not as a G.o.d."
Maraton looked past her into the gardens, away into the violet sky. The nightingale was singing now clearly and wonderfully. Perhaps, for a moment, his thoughts strayed from the great battle of life. Perhaps his innate sense and worship of beauty, the artist in the man, which was the real thing making him great in his daily work, triumphed apart from any other consideration. The music of life was in his veins. Soft and stately, Elisabeth, standing a little apart, was looking in upon them, an exquisite figure with a background of dark green trees.
"When you faced death in Chicago," Julia went on, her voice quivering with the effort she was making to keep it low, "when you offered your body to the law and preached fire and murder with your lips, you did it for the sake of the people. There was nothing in life so glorious to you, then, as the one great cause. That was the man we hoped to see.
Are you that man?"
Maraton"s thoughts came back. He moved a little towards her. Her hand shot out as though to keep him at a distance.
"Are you that man?" she repeated.
Her thin form was shaken with stifled sobs.