I

Fallaray had been lunching with George Lytham at his rooms in the Albany. There had been half a dozen of the men who backed _Reconstruction_ to meet him. From one o'clock until three every one of the numerous troubles which affected England had been discussed and argued about,-disarmament, unemployment, the triple alliance, Mesopotamia, Indian unrest, the inevitable Ireland, the German chicanery and the hot-tempered att.i.tude of France in the matter of Ruhr; and, as though with an impish desire to invent new troubles, George Lytham had brought up the subject of Bolshevism in the universities. Every one of the men present had, of course, his own pet solution to these questions, and as usual, argument had run about like a terrier out for a walk,-backwards and forwards and in circles. Finally, with his head in a whirl, Fallaray had broken up the party to go along to the House. He was down to answer questions from the critics of the Government, and, according to his custom, to dodge the truth as far as he could. He walked out into Piccadilly with his host and together these two tall men, who were giving themselves up to an apparently abortive attempt to put together again the peace of the world-deliberately and ruthlessly smashed by the country which now whined and squealed and cried out excuses while it hid money and machine guns in secret places-made for Westminster arm in arm.

"Where's your car?" asked young Lochinvar.

"I gave it up," said Fallaray. "The sight of our unemployed going about in processions made the keeping of a car grotesque. I've tried to cut down in every other way too. If I were a bachelor, I would let the house in Dover Street, go and live in two rooms and give the money I thus saved to the fund for out-of-work soldiers. I can't do that. There's Feo."

Lytham nodded and said to himself, "Yes, there's Feo and her old scamp of a father and Gilbert Jermyn,-with nothing back from any of them, not even grat.i.tude." If he had stood in Fallaray's shoes he would long since have brought an action for divorce against that woman and gone in quest of a girl who understood the rudimentary rules of sportsmanship and the art of give and take. He held in utter contempt the old adage that having made your bed it is necessary to lie upon it. What bosh that was.

Wasn't the town full of beds of every size and price? Sometimes, when he thought of the way in which Fallaray permitted himself to be run and worked and milked and used by his so-called wife and her family, by the Government, by all sorts of societies and even by himself, a huge impatience swept over him and he wanted to cry out, "Fallaray, for G.o.d's sake, kick somebody. Don't be so d.a.m.ned fair. Give a little consideration to yourself. Don't always look at everything from everybody else's point of view. Be selfish for a change."

And yet, all the while, different as he was from Fallaray in nature and character-with that strong streak of ruthlessness which permitted him to climb over the bodies of his opponents-Lytham loved Fallaray and would willingly have blacked his boots. There were moments when, looking into the eyes of his friend, he saw behind them a spirit as pure, as unselfish and as merciful as that of Christ, and he stood back, almost in awe. It was all the more galling, therefore, to see his friend hipped and hedged in by the rotten tricks of his party, by the quick shifting changes of his chief and by the heavy blundering of the other old bad men. How could he stand it? Why didn't he give it all up, get out, try and find a corner of the earth where people didn't quarrel and cheat,-and fall in love. He needed, no man more so, the "rustle of silk."

Fallaray was on his own chain of thought. "Hookwood's line about the Irish leaders," he said suddenly, "if based on any truth, makes negotiations with them futile. They have got a great deal of American money in their possession,-every Irish servant girl in the United States has been forced by the priests to subscribe to the Sinn Fein funds. We know that. But if, as Hookwood says, the Irish Republican leaders are afraid of an inquiry as to how they have spent or misspent these funds, it stands to reason that they will continue to fight tooth and nail for something which they know they can never get. It's the only way in which they can maintain a barrier between themselves and disgrace and that brings us back to the beginning. Robert Cecil, Lord Derby, Horace Plunkett, Philip Gibbs and all the rest of us may just as well toss up the sponge. Don't you think so, Lytham?"

"Oh, G.o.d," said Lytham, "I'm sick of the Irish. The mere mention of the name gives me jaundice. A rabble of egomaniacs led by a set of crooks and gunmen who are no longer blessed by the Roman Catholic Church."

After which, as this was certainly a conversation stop, there was silence. They walked down St. James's Street into the Mall, through the Horse Guard's parade to Parliament Street and so to the courtyard of the House of Commons. The undercurrent of excitement and activity brought about by the strike was noticeable everywhere. Military lorries carrying men and kit moved about. St. George's barracks was alive with recruits and old soldiers going back. In and out of the Horse Guards ex-officers in mufti came and went. The girls who had served in the W. A. A. C.'s streamed back again to enroll, and through it all, sarcastic emblems of a peace that did not exist, sat the two figures on horseback in their plumes and bra.s.s.

"London enjoying itself," said Fallaray ironically. "There is the taste of blood in the mouths of all our people. Fighting has become a habit, almost a hobby."

And young Lochinvar nodded. Would he ever forget the similar scenes that had taken place away back in that August of '14?

"I'm tired," said Fallaray, with a groan. "I'm dog-tired. If Feo were not at Chilton Park this weekend, I would escape after question time and go down and lie on the earth and sleep.-Well, good by, my dear lad.

Don't be impatient with me. Bring out your numbers of _Reconstruction_, hit hard and truly from the shoulder and see what you can do, you young hot-heads. As for me--!"

They stood on the edge of the courtyard with all its indifferent pigeons struggling for a living, oblivious to the intricacies, secrecies and colossal egotisms of the men who pa.s.sed into the House. But before they separated something happened which made both their hearts beat faster.

A tall, primly dressed elderly man, who had apparently been waiting, sprang forward, a glint of great anger in his eyes and two spots of color on his pale cheeks. He said, "Mr. Fallaray, a word with you, Sir."

And Fallaray turned with his usual courtesy and consideration. "What can I do?" he asked.

"I'll tell you what you can do. You can stop showing sympathy for the Irish murderers and a.s.sa.s.sins. You can stop p.u.s.s.yfooting. You can withdraw all your remarks about reprisals. That's what you can do. And if you're interested, I'll tell you why I say so." His voice shook and blood seemed to suffuse his pale eyes.

"My only son went all through the War from the beginning to the end. He joined as a Tommy because, as an insignificant doctor, I had no pull. He was promoted to a commission for gallantry and decorated with the M. C.

for distinguished work in the field. He was wounded three times-once so severely that his life was given up-but he returned to his regiment and finally marched with it into Germany. He was almost the last officer to be demobbed. After which, failing to get employment because patriots are not required in the city, he volunteered for the Black and Tans. Last Friday afternoon, in the course of carrying out orders, he was set upon in the streets of Cork by a dozen men in masks, foully murdered and hideously desecrated. My G.o.d, Mr. Fallaray, do you wonder that my blood boils when I hear of your weak-kneed treatment of these dirty dogs?"

He stood for a moment shaking, his refined face distorted, his gentle unathletic figure quivering with rage and indignation. Then he turned on his heel and went away, walking like a drunkard.

Fallaray and George Lytham looked at each other and both of them made the same gesture of impotence.

It was a difficult world.

II

Fallaray's position in the Cabinet was a peculiar one. It was rather like that of a disconcerting child in the house of orthodox church people who insisted on asking direct and pertinent questions on the Bible story, especially after having read Wells's first volume of the "Outline of History." How did Adam and Eve get into Eden? If G.o.d never sleeps, isn't he very cross in the morning? And so on.

All through the War, Fallaray had been a thorn in the side of his chief.

His honesty and his continual "why" were a source of irritation and sometimes of anger. He had no patience whatever with shiftiness, intrigue and favoritism, the appointment of mere duffers to positions of high responsibility. He made no bones whatever about expressing his opinion as to the frivolity that prevailed in certain quarters, together with the habit of dodging every grave issue. On the question of the League of Nations too, he was in close accord with Lord Robert Cecil and often made drastic criticisms of the frequent somersaults of his chief.

His definite stand on the Irish question was extremely annoying to the bra.s.s-hat brigade and to the master-flounderer and weatherc.o.c.k, who showed himself more and more to be a mixture of Billy Sunday and Mark Anthony, crying out that black was white at one end of the town and ten minutes later that white was black at the other end. And yet, when it came to results, Fallaray might almost as well have been on the town council of Lower Muddleton as in the Cabinet of the British Government.

Respected for his faithfulness to duty, he was disliked for his honesty and feared for his utter disregard for personal aggrandizement and the salary that went with it.

No wonder, therefore, that he was tired. He had been under a long and continual strain. In Parliament he found himself still dealing with the men who had suffered from brain anaemia before the War and had, therefore, been unable ever to believe, in spite of Lord Roberts, that war was possible,-that same body of professional politicians who were mentally and physically incapable of looking at the numerous problems of the hour, the day and the week with sanity and with courage. At home-if such a word could be used for Dover Street-there was Feo, who had no more right to be under his roof than any one of the women that pa.s.sed him in the street. He was a tired and lonely man on the verge of complete disillusionment, disappointed with his fellow Ministers and deeply disappointed with the suspicion and jealousy which had grown up between England and her allies. It seemed to him, also, that the blank refusal of the United States to have anything to do with the League of Nations, even as revised from the original draft of President Wilson, the Messiah who had failed to function mainly because of the personal spite of the Republican leaders, jeopardized the future of the world and gave Germany a springboard which one of these days she would not fail to use. In spite of her reluctantly made promises, she was very busy inventing new and diabolical weapons of war and taking out patents for them in Washington, while pretending to observe the laws laid down by the Allies as to her disarmament and the manufacture of war materials under her treaty obligations. Krupps had designed new methods of artillery fire control, new fuses for projectiles, new gas engines, new naval fire-control devices, new parts for airplanes, new chemicals and new radio apparatuses. To what end? In the face of these facts he could perfectly well understand the French att.i.tude, hysterical as it seemed to be. They knew her for a liar, a cheat and an everlasting enemy and whenever Fallaray returned from those interminable conferences in Paris, he did so with the recollection upon him of something in the eyes of Foch and other Frenchmen whose love of country was a religion that put a touch of fear into his soul. What were they all doing, these politicians of England, of the United States, of Italy? Were they not those very same ostriches who during all the years that led up to the War had hidden their heads in the sand,-the same heads, precisely the same sand?

As he entered the House that afternoon to be heckled with questions which he dared not answer truthfully, he wished that he had been born not to politics but to sportsmanship. He wished that he had carried on his undergraduate love of games, had kept himself fit, had joined the army as a subaltern in August, '14, and had found the German bullet upon which his name had been written. In such a way, at any rate, he could better have served his country than by being at that grave moment an impotent piece on the political chessboard. Both publically and privately this man felt himself to be a failure. In the House of Commons he was more or less friendless, regarded as an unreliable party man. In his home he was a lodger, ignored by the woman who ran his house. He was without love, joy, kindness, the interest and devotion of any one sweet person who could put her soft fingers on his forehead and give him back his optimism. He was like Samson shackled to the windla.s.s which he pushed round and round with gradually diminishing strength.

III

Lola spent the afternoon with Ernest Treadwell. Loyalty to her old friend took her to the public library on her way back to lunch to ask him to fetch her for a little walk in the afternoon. The flash of joy that came into that boy's eyes at the sight of her rewarded her well and sufficiently. To tell the truth, she would much have preferred to devote the whole of that afternoon to daydreams, but she knew, no one better, the peculiar temperament of young Treadwell and his hungry need of the inspiration which she alone could give him. But just as the boy arrived, a telegram was handed in addressed abruptly to "Breezy, 77 Queen's Road, Bayswater." It was opened, naturally enough, by John, who, to the astonishment of half a dozen customers, emitted a howl of rage. Getting up from his chair behind the gla.s.s screen, he wobbled into the back parlor where Lola was seated with Ernest, deciding as to whether they should take the motor bus to Wimbleton Common or the train to Windsor.

With an air of comic drama, though he did not intend it to be comic, the watchmaker flung the telegram upon the crowded table. The remains of lunch hobn.o.bbed with kodaks, tissue paper, b.a.l.l.s of string and empty cardboard boxes. The telegram fell on a pat of b.u.t.ter and to Ernest Treadwell's imaginative eye it looked like a hand grenade stuck into a blob of clay. To him, somehow, there was always something sinister about a telegram. Was this one going to ruin the brief happiness of his afternoon?

It was from Feo and ran like this. "I shall need you at six o'clock.

Sorry. You had better be at Dover Street at five-thirty. Am dining in town."

Lola read these words over again and again. Windsor was impossible. Even the trip to Wimbleton Common could not be made. But how was this going to affect the Carlton at seven-thirty? She longed above all things once more to get into the clothes and the proper social surroundings of Madame de Breze, and hear people talking what had become her own language and listen to the music of a good orchestra. She felt that she deserved another adventure with Chalfont. This erratic twist by Lady Feo, whose movements seemed that week-end to resemble those of the woodc.o.c.k, shattered all these plans. At least,-did they? Not if she knew it.

"Well, there it is," she said and gave the telegram to Ernest Treadwell, who had been watching her face with the most painful anxiety. "She who must be obeyed. I'm afraid this means that all we can do is to wander about for a couple of hours and that our little jaunt to Windsor must be postponed. And we never went to Hampton Court to see the crocuses, did we? Bad luck."

But while she was speaking, her brain was. .h.i.tting all its cylinders and racing ahead. She would go to the Carlton, Lady Feo or no Lady Feo. She would get her dress from Mrs. Rumbold, with her shoes and stockings, and take them to Dover Street. She would have to dress at Dover Street, bribe Ellen to get her a taxicab and slip down at twelve o'clock to let her in to the area door. That must be the plan of action, whatever the risks might be.

She sprang to her feet and flung an arm round her father's neck,-her disappointed, affectionate father who had looked forward to a merry evening at the local music hall and to one of the old-time Sundays when he could march out in his best clothes and show off Lola to the neighbors. "It's life, Daddy," she said. "It can't be helped. You have your wrist watches. I have Lady Feo. What's the good of grumbling? Tell Mother when you get the chance. At the moment she is busy and mustn't be disturbed. Come on, Ernest, let's go."

But Ernest had other views, now that the country was impossible. "I've got something in my pocket I want to read to you," he said. "Might we go up to the drawing-room, do you think?"

That was excellent. That made things ever so much easier. She could give Ernest until four o'clock or a little after and then get rid of him, go round to Mrs. Rumbold and get eventually to Dover Street in time to have everything ready for Lady Feo on her arrival.

And so they went upstairs and opened up the aloof room, with its persistent and insular odor of the Sabbath and antimaca.s.sars, and drew up chairs to the window. The row of houses opposite, which had been converted into shops, was bathed in the afternoon sun. A florist's windows alight with flowers looked like a line from Tennyson in the middle of a financial article in a newspaper. Traffic roared in the street below but did not quite succeed in drowning a weather-beaten piano accompanying a throaty baritone singing, "She dwelt amid the untrodden wiys.-And h'oh the differ-rence ter me."

With a thoughtfulness that seemed to Ernest Treadwell to be exquisite, Lola shut the window so that she might not miss a single word that she was about to hear. Without any preliminaries and with the colossal egotism that is part and parcel of all writing, the young librarian took from his pocket a wad of ma.n.u.script, and in a deadly monotone commenced to read his epic. It was in blank verse and ran to about sixteen pages.

It retold the old story of Paola and Francesca, not in the manner of Stephen Phillips and not in imitation of Masefield or any of the younger poets, but in the Treadwell way,-jerky, explosive and here and there out of key; but for all that filled with a rough picturesqueness and pa.s.sion, with a quite extraordinary sense of color and feeling which held Lola breathless from beginning to end. It was this boy's greatest effort, on which he had been working for innumerable months, burning the midnight oil with the influence of Lola upon him, and his great love which lifted him into ecstasy.-And when he had finished and ventured to look into her face, he saw there something that crowned his head with laurels and filled his heart with tears.

"Oh," she said. "Oh.-Ernie, you've done it. It's beautiful. You are a poet. However far behind them all, you are in the line of great singers." And she reached out for the ma.n.u.script and saw that on the first page, in angular boyish writing, were the words, "To Lola,-of whom I dream."

Simpkins, Treadwell, Chalfont,-but, oh, where was Fallaray, her hero, the man who needed love?

IV