Part 15 (1/2)

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 sportsmans.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+fting 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.