by John Buchan
Her tenant was a pleasant gentleman who, she understood, was by profession an insurance agent or a commercial traveller. The room was not easy to let, for it was small, and its outlook was on the blank wall of the new block behind Charity Row. She had two good rooms on the ground-floor, which Mr Utlaw occupied; he needed space, for he had many visitors, and what had once been the best parlour, before Mr Gallop’s decease compelled his widow to take lodgers, was often full of folk who stayed till all hours — Mrs Gallop was apt to be kept awake by their talk. But Mr Milford, for that was her upstairs tenant’s name, was easily satisfied and never complained. He was not often there, so there was little profit from his board, but he kept the room on during his absences. He was a quiet gentleman, very easy and soft-spoken, and he was a friend of Mr Utlaw, so the household at No 3 was a happy family.
Adam’s base was his chambers in the Temple. There for perhaps half the year he lived an ordinary London life. He saw his old friends — few in number now, for the war had cut deep swathes in that group — and he made new ones. He forced himself to move in as many circles as possible, and in the lax post-war society this was easy enough. To his satisfaction he found that he was taken as a newcomer, cumbered with no past. No one associated him with the ancient scandal, and his doings in the war were known to only a dozen or two people who held their tongues. He was good to look upon, still young, apparently comfortably off, and something remote and mysterious about him, his modesty and reticence in an expansive world, gave him the charm of strangeness. He might have been a social success if he had allowed himself to be exploited. As it was, he was a Cinderella who departed before the stroke of midnight; no one saw enough of him to place him, but he had the gift of whetting people’s appetites for a fuller knowledge. Only with Stannix, Shaston and a few others did he put off his defensive armour and live in any intimacy.
With the help of his servant Crabb he made his Temple rooms a starting-point for a descent into a variety of new worlds. He was very clear that to understand these worlds he must live in them as a veritable inhabitant, and the power of adapting his personality, which he had acquired during four difficult years, stood him in good stead. An odd figure often left the Temple whom only Crabb could have recognised as his master, and after a long interval an odder figure would return, sometimes with its fingers flattened and stained with unfamiliar tasks, once or twice very ragged and the worse for wear. It had been easy for him to slip into the bagman of Mrs Gallop’s lodgings — a few Cockney vowels, clothes slightly astray from the conventions of Mayfair, one or two mannerisms unknown to his class; his homeliness and friendliness did the rest.
Utlaw took him for what he professed to be, one of the cogs in the commercial machine, who had a better mind than was usual with his type, and aspired to higher things. Two nights after his first arrival, Adam had been invited to a coffee-drinking in Utlaw’s rooms. There was nearly a score of people there, who made the air solid with cigarette smoke, strained the resources of the establishment in the matter of black coffee, and argued till three in the morning. Most of the guests were young, and about half of them were returned soldiers, while the others had been exempted for bodily weakness or munition work, or had had a stormy conscientious career in and out of gaol. By tacit consent the war was never mentioned, and all were very busy in pegging out claims in the new world. It was an atmosphere with which Adam was familiar, the crude, violent, innocent disputation of bewildered youth. One man he found who was busy educating himself in tutorial classes, reading Plato no less, with a dream of a university far ahead. Another preached the pure Marxian gospel, and there was a heated argument between a group who found their spiritual home in Russia and a League of Nations enthusiast who upheld the virtues of law. All were poor, each had a precarious present, but all believed in a better future which with their hands and brains they would wring out of the reluctant lords of society. Adam had heard it all a hundred times, but he was impressed with Utlaw’s handling of the talkers. He seemed to treat the whole thing as a relaxation from the business of life, an adventure not to be taken too seriously. He would prick a speculative bubble with a hard fact, and reduce the temperature of debate with his homely humour. Once he interposed with a cold douche.
“How on earth can you get Lenin’s workers’ paradise in Britain?” he cried. “For that you want a self-supporting country. We’re parasites and must live by our exports, and that means capitalism until the day comes when we have halved our population and can be independent of our neighbours. We’re as complicated as hell, and for Bolshevism you want simplicity. . . .” “Savagery,” someone suggested. “Aye, savagery,” he said. “You can’t have it both ways. Our job is to make the best of what we’ve got.”
Adam found it hard to see much of Utlaw. The man was furiously busy. There were the weekly lodge meetings and a host of less formal gatherings to be attended. There was the day-to-day work of health insurance, and pensions, and workmen’s compensation cases — work equivalent to that of a solicitor in a large practice. There were endless little disputes to be arranged before they became acrimonious, difficulties with arrogant foremen and with slack workmen, and now and then full-dress diplomatic conferences with employers singly and in combination. There was a daily letter-bag like that of the editor of a popular newspaper. But if he heard little of Utlaw’s work from Utlaw himself, he heard much of it from other people. At the coffee-party a man called Bill Wrong had been present, an official of another Union, and with him Adam struck up an acquaintance, which presently ramified into many acquaintances in Bill’s class. Everywhere he found Utlaw spoken of with a curious respect.
“He’s got guts, has Joe,” said Wrong. “The best kind, for he’ll not only stand up to the enemy, but he’ll knock his own folk about if he thinks they’re playing the goat.”
He had a dozen stories to tell of how Utlaw had fought with the masters and won, and the fights had left no unpleasantness behind them. “He’s got a wonderful gift that way. Learned it in the army, maybe. . . . My varicose veins kept me out of that kind of thing and I often wish to God they hadn’t. Joe can hand you out the rough stuff and you only like him the better for it. If I call a man a bloody fool I’m apt to get a bloody nose, but if Joe does it he gets stood a drink.”
One Saturday afternoon Adam was bidden to tea in the rooms downstairs. There was another guest, a girl in a biscuit-coloured coat trimmed with some cheap fur, who moved away from Utlaw’s side when Adam entered. She was small and slight and pale, with dark hair rather badly shingled. The moulding of her face was fine, and the deep eyes under the curiously arched eyebrows made her nearly beautiful. The impression which Adam received was of ardour and purpose and speed — almost of hurry, for she seemed to have spared little time to attend to her appearance. She was untidy, but she suggested haste rather than slovenliness.
“I want to introduce you to my fiancée,” Utlaw said. “Florrie, this is Mr Milford — Miss Florence Covert. Since we’re all going to be friends, you’d better get her name right at the start. It’s spelt Covert and pronounced Court in the best Norman style. But that’s the only oligarchic touch about Florrie. Otherwise she’s a good democrat.”
Miss Covert, as Adam learned afterwards, was the daughter of a country clergyman of ancient stock. Finding the tedium of vicarage life unbearable, she had broken away to make her own career. The family were very poor, but she had managed to get a scholarship at a women’s college where she had taken a good degree, and she was now a welfare-worker in Eaton’s, the big biscuit factory. Adam was at first a little nervous, for this girl had sharp eyes and might penetrate his disguise, so he was at some pains to accentuate the idioms of his new rôle. He must have succeeded, for her manner, which was at first suspicious and defensive, presently became easy and natural. She accepted him for what he professed to be — one of Joe’s friends of the lesser bourgeoisie, who were to be tolerated but not encouraged, since they could never be of much use to him.
It was easy to pla
ce her. She was devouringly ambitious, first for her man and then for herself. There could be no question but that she was deeply in love. Her protective, possessing eyes followed Utlaw with an ardent affection. He had spruced himself up for the tea-party, and wore a neat blue suit, coloured linen, and the tie of his old grammar-school, but his smartness only accentuated his class. He was the child of the people, and the girl, for all her dowdiness, was clearly not.
“I saw our new Mayor yesterday,” Utlaw observed, “Viscount Armine — ain’t Birkpool going up in the world? I’ve told you about him, Florrie. He commanded my battalion, and he’s given me some fine days fishing on his water at the Court. A good chap, old Sniffy — that was the men’s name for him, for when he gave you a telling-off he would look down his nose and sniff as if he had a cold in his head. — Bet he wakens up some of the frozen feet on the Town Council, for he’s a pretty good imitation of a Bolshie. Half these young lords are, for the war has stirred ‘em up, and being aristocrats and never having had to bother about ways and means, they’re of the spending type and quite ready for a new deal.”
“It won’t last,” said the girl scornfully.
“I don’t say it will — with most. With some, maybe. When they get down to rock facts, most will be scared and run away. But I daresay one or two will finish the course. You see that class of fellow is accustomed to take risks — loves ‘em — the sporting instinct you’d call it, while the middle-classes play for safety. So if you’re going to have a big experiment you’ll always get one or two of the old gentry to back you. Their fathers were shy of the working man apart from their own folk, for they knew nothing about him, but this generation has lived four years with him in the trenches and is inclined to make a pal of him. No, it isn’t patronage. It’s a natural affinity, just as a pedigree hound will make friends with a tyke and both combined will maul a respectable collie. If you set Armine down among our boys, in half an hour they’ll be calling each other by their Christian names, whereas a man like Tombs will be ‘sirred’ till the end of time.”
“I don’t think these public-house affinities count for much,” said Miss Covert. “Charles Tombs is a stick, but he has a wonderful mind. What has your Lord Armine to give to the world?”
“Oh, I don’t say that Sniffy is much of a thinker, but he’s a human being, which is something. The world could do with more like him to-day. He’s very friendly to yours truly. He wanted to know all about my work. You haven’t to tell him a thing twice, for he’s very quick in the uptake. He asked if I was married, so I told him about you, and he said he must meet you — said his wife would like to know you. I’ve never seen Lady Armine.”
“I have. She was pointed out to me the other day in Bertram Street. A lovely lady with Titian hair, who walks as if she knew she was somebody and expected people to make way for her. Don’t let’s have any nonsense, Joe dear. I’m not going to be taken up by Lady Armine, and I won’t let these grandees make a fool of you. There’s no more contemptible figure than a Labour leader who allows himself to be made a lap-dog by the enemy. We’re a class army and we must stick together till the battle is won.”
Utlaw laughed. “Good for you, Florrie. You would have made a fine tricotreuse in the French Revolution.”
The girl neither assented nor demurred to any of Utlaw’s generalities; what attracted her was the technique of the game. Adam drank his tea and listened in silence to a discussion on Utlaw’s prospects, for it appeared that Miss Covert accepted him as a loyal friend of her lover’s, though not a friend who could be of much use. At any rate his advice was never asked. There was the question of a seat in Parliament. Not just yet, perhaps. There was no chance of a vacancy in Birkpool, and a constituency in the North, where his Union was powerful, was too rich a prize to be had at the first time of asking. Besides, the present Parliament was hopeless, and to be a member of it would only compromise him. . . . But he must keep himself before the public. He must speak at Mr Twining’s big meeting next month, and he must be ready for a great effort at the next Conference. Who were his real friends? Deverick was no use, but Judson, and Gray, and Trant himself were friendly. Trant had said to someone who had told a friend of hers. . . .
Adam had the impression that Miss Covert was suffering from inverted snobbery. She was contemptuous about the Armines, and would have Utlaw stick to his class, but she was determined that he should be high in that class’s hierarchy. She pronounced the names of Labour notables with an almost sacramental reverence. She retailed what she believed to be the gossip of the inner circle as an aspiring hostess exults over the doings of Royalty. Trant, the party leader, Gray with his wizard locks and wild eloquence, Judson with his smashing repartees were all to her creatures of romance, as fascinating as a duke to a novel-reading shopgirl. . . . Well, that was no bad thing. If the woman who adored Utlaw had this minor worldly wisdom, she would keep his feet on the ground. The danger was that he would think too much of ultimate things and forget the gross and immediate facts.
Yet Adam felt that he had not succeeded with Miss Covert. She had held him at arm’s length, not because she was suspicious of him, but because she considered him negligible. An incident a few days later did not help matters. In the street he met Jacqueline Armine.
“Carry this puppy for me, Adam,” she cried. “My car’s parked at the Town Hall and I’ve mislaid my chauffeur. I had to bring the little brute to the vet, for he has damaged his off hind paw. I won’t ask what you’re doing here, for Ken says that is what I must never ask. You’re very shabby, my dear. Have you come down in the world?”
“The Court!” she exclaimed in answer to his question. “Ken is there, and half a dozen young couples who have planted themselves on us uninvited. What is to be made of the youth of to-day? They’re all penniless, and they all want to get married at once. When their parents frown they fly for refuge to me, because I’m believed to have a large heart. I can tell you it’s no fun having your house made a rendezvous for amorous paupers. The chaperone business is beyond me, so I don’t try. They’re scarcely out of the nursery, you know. What is to be done about this craze for child marriage? It’s worse than India. Why couldn’t we adopt a good Indian custom when we were at it? Suttee, for example. The world is cluttered up with superfluous widows.”
Just before they reached the car Miss Covert passed them. Adam lifted his hat with difficulty owing to the puppy, and to Jacqueline’s hand, which at the moment was affectionately laid on his arm. He received a curt bow and a surprised glance from the deep eyes.
“Who’s that Charlotte Corday?” Jacqueline asked.
“The girl Utlaw is engaged to. You’ve heard Kenneth speak of him.”
“Rather. I want to meet him. Her too. We’re going to take our Mayoral duties very seriously. Hullo, there’s Simpson. Give him the puppy and thank you so much, Adam dear. Can’t you come on to us and see our Abode of Love? Oh, by the way, brother Frank is coming here soon to preach. If you’re in Birkpool, go and hear him. It’s an experience.”
If Miss Covert remained aloof, Adam found that he was moving towards a closer friendship with Utlaw. His silent ways made him a good listener, and presently he became the recipient of the other’s confidences. Utlaw was one of those people who discover their own minds to themselves by talking, and often he would ascend to Adam’s little room before going to bed and unburden himself of some of his cogitations of the day. The man had an explosive vitality which carried him through the roughest places. His maxim was that you must always be, as he phrased it, “atop of your job.” Once let it crush you or tangle you, and you were done. But it was not always easy to keep this pre-eminence, and he had often in Adam’s presence to argue himself out of moods which inclined to lethargy or depression. His humour was his salvation, for he had a pleasant gift of laughing at himself. “Life’s a perpetual affair of going over the top,” he said; “and it doesn’t provide a rum ration. You’ve got to find that for yourself. Mine is a jack-in-the-box elasticity. If I’m sup
pressed I can’t help bobbing up. Also my feeling about the comedy of it all. Once I can see the idiocy of a fellow and laugh at him I know I’ve got him in my hand.
“Florrie tells me she saw you with Lady Armine,” he said one evening. “I didn’t know you knew her.”
“I don’t know her very well. She asked me to carry her lame pup. She’s a sister of a parson called Frank Alban who’s coming to preach next month in St Mark’s.”
“Alban! You don’t say! I met him in France. I don’t trouble Church much, but I shall go to hear him. He used to have fire in his belly.”
One morning a strange figure presented itself in Adam’s room. It was that of a short elderly man who was nearly as broad as he was long. He must have been over sixty, for his mop of hair was white and his square face was deeply lined. His eyes under bushy eyebrows were a steely grey; his chin and portentous upper lip were clean shaven, but hair like a fur muffler enveloped his cheeks and throat. His name was Andrew Amos, and in the war he had been a pillar of a service so secret that the name of no one of its members and no one of its reports ever appeared on paper. Adam had been sent to him by Scrope and had lodged with him during some illuminating months on the Clyde. Amos was as inflexible in his politics as he had been in his patriotism; he was a Radical of the old rock and no Socialist, but his class loyalty was as vigorous as Miss Covert’s. He had a conception of the rights of the wage-earner which he held as stoutly as he held his own creed of militant atheism, and he would never deviate one jot from it as long as he had breath in his body. Eighty years earlier he would have been a Chartist leader.