



Produced by David Widger from page images generously
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THE DEMAGOGUE AND LADY PHAYRE

By William J. Locke

London: John Lane, The Bodley Head New York

Third Edition

1911

[Illustration: 0009]





THE DEMAGOGUE AND LADY PHAYRE




CHAPTER I--THE ETERNAL FEMININE


“If you are coming my way, Goddard, we may as well walk back
together,” said the Member, putting on his fur-lined coat.

Mr. Aloysius Gleam, member for Sunington, was a spare, precisely dressed
little man on the hither side of forty. He was somewhat bald, and
clean-shaven all to a tightly-screwed fair moustache. A gold-rimmed
eye-glass added a quaint air of alertness to a shrewd, sharp-featured
face.

Goddard acquiesced readily, although on this particular evening his
road lay in a different direction. But democrat though he was, he felt
flattered by Mr. Gleam’s friendly proposal. He was young--eight
and twenty, a cabinetmaker by trade, self-taught and consequently
self-opinionated, yet humble enough before evident superiority of
knowledge or experience. Besides, in coming to take the chair at his
lecture on The New Trades Unionism, before the Sunington Radical Club,
the Member had paid him a decided compliment. A member of Parliament has
many pleasanter and more profitable ways of spending a precious spare
evening during a busy session.

They formed a singular contrast as they stood side by side in the little
knot of committee-men who had remained behind after the audience had
left. Goddard was above the middle height, squarely built, deep-chested,
large-limbed; his decent workman’s clothes hung loosely upon him. His
features were dark and massive, chin and forehead square, nose somewhat
fleshy, mouth shutting stubbornly with folds at the sides; the lip, on
which, like the rest of his face, no hair grew, rather long; altogether
it was a powerful face, showing a nature capable of strong passions both
for good and evil. The accident of straight black hair generally falling
across his forehead, and a humorous setting of his eyes, relieved the
face of harshness. At the present moment it was alive with the frankness
of youth, and flushed with the success that had attended his lecture.

The group walked slowly down the hall through the chairs, and lingered
for a moment at the clubhouse door. It was a new quarter of London. Mr.
Aloysius Gleam had lived in the neighbourhood most of his life, and had
seen it spring up from fields and market-gardens into a bustling town,
with arteries fed from the life-stream of Oxford Street and the Strand.
Its development had been dear to him. There was strong local feeling,
and he was deservedly popular. It was therefore some time before he
could break away from his supporters. At last he did so, and started
with Goddard at a brisk pace up the High Street.

“I have been wondering,” he said, after a short silence, “whether you
would care to take to politics seriously.”

“I hope you don’t think I’m playing at it,” replied Goddard.

“Tut! don’t be so confoundedly touchy,” said Gleam good-humouredly. “By
‘seriously’ I meant entirely, professionally. Would you like to devote
all your time to the work?”

“I should think I would,” replied Goddard quickly; “but I can’t. I have
my bread and butter to earn. I don’t quite see why you ask me.”

“Would you accept a position if your bread and butter were assured to
you?”

“As a paid agitator? Oh no, thanks! I couldn’t stand that. Work of that
sort must be given, not sold.”

“That’s rubbish,” said the Member lightly. “The labourer is worthy of
his hire. The notion is as cranky as Tolstoi’s.”

“It isn’t,” said Goddard. “The paid agitator is a fraud. He pretends to
be a working-man and he isn’t. When I address a crowd I can say, ‘I am
one of yourselves, the real thing. I belong to the Amalgamated Union of
Cabinetmakers, and earn my forty bob a week with the work of my hands.’
Men listen to me, and respect me. What I could not swallow would be for
a fellow to get up and tell me, ‘It’s all very well for you to talk; but
you’re paid for talking, and make a jolly good thing of it. Instead of
helping the working-man, you are simply growing fat on the working-man’s
hard-earned money.’ I’ve heard that said to paid agitators myself.”

“Well, who said I wanted you to become a paid agitator?” asked Gleam.
“I don’t want you to stand on a barrel and address people as
‘fellow-sufferers.’ You are a cut above that kind of thing. What I
wanted to propose to you was work on our new National Progressive
League. Of course, scores of men are giving their services; but they are
men of a certain amount of leisure. They can afford it. The working-man
has no leisure to speak of, and we would give anything for the services
of a few well-educated, clearheaded working-men like yourself. We could
manage three pounds a week--perhaps more. Well, there’s a chance for
you.”

Goddard walked on a few steps in silence. He was young, earnest, a
passionate champion of the great questions on the Progressive programme.
He felt in himself a power to grip the attention of men. He had dreamed
vague dreams of personal ambition. Gleam’s offer was a great temptation.
But the consciousness that it was a temptation made him adhere all the
more obstinately to his principles.

“You are very kind,” he said at last, “and I am flattered