A Girl Among the Anarchists

by Isabel Meredith

CHAPTER XI. — A CRISIS

The flight of Giannoli, and all the worry and turmoil occasioned thereby, told on my health. I did not admit as much to myself, and I still kept on at the paper as usual through the very thick of it all. For one thing, this was necessary in order not to arouse the curiosity of many of the comrades, and moreover there is no doubt that whatever line of life we may adopt we gradually become the creatures of our habits, however much we may scoff at such a notion. Thus, though I had grown out of the first stage of youthful enthusiasm when I revelled in squalor and discomfort, and sincerely believed myself to be one of the hubs round which the future Revolution and the redemption of mankind circled, and though experience had opened my eyes to much that was unlovely, and not a little which was despicable, in my associates, still I stuck at my post and continued my work on the paper.

On arriving at the office towards nine every morning, my first task was to get Short out of pawn in the neighbouring coffee-shop, where he retired—regardless of the fact that his pockets were but capacious vacuums—in order to regale himself on shop eggs and fly-blown pastry, and where his person was detained as a pledge till my purse redeemed him.

I would then work away, "dissing" or "comping," "locking up forms," or writing a "leader," till some of the Italians, keenly alive to their ownership of stomachs, would call me off to partake of a Milanese minestra, or to pronounce on the excellencies of a mess of polenta. Then would follow an hour devoted to digestion and talk, when Short, if in a bad temper, would smoke abominable shag, and raise the bowl of his clay pipe into quite perilous proximity with his eyebrows, and if genially inclined, would entertain some one member of the company to dark tales and fearsome hints as to the depraved habits and questionable sincerity of his or her dearest friend.

He had of late developed a great interest in my welfare, and Kosinski had been his special butt. He had always hated the latter on account of his vast moral superiority to himself, and seemed specially desirous of discrediting him in my eyes. The Russian came pretty frequently to the office during the months following on Giannoli's disappearance. He was always singularly uncommunicative about his own concerns; his intimate friends were not aware of his address; how he lived or what his home life was none seemed to know; and, indeed, he was one of those men who, without ever saying a word to that effect, make one feel that their private life is no concern of any one but themselves. Short, however, hinted at things he could say if he would, spoke in general terms of the disgracefulness of exploiting the affections of women, referred in an undertone to "that Kosinski's" luck, adding that, of course, one had a right to act according to one's inclination, still Anarchists should set an example, &c., &c. I, of course, took such observations at their true value; I knew Short and Kosinski too well to give two thoughts to the matter. Still when, on top of all this mysterious talk, I received Giannoli's letter, in which he spoke of his folly in trusting his supposed friend, and accused him of being neither more nor less than an agent in the hands of the International police, I felt my brain whirl, and really wondered whether I was the sole sane person in a mad world, or whether the reverse were not the case.

It was now some weeks since I had last seen Dr. Armitage. He had written to explain his absence, alleging stress of work, in which I readily believed; for though I knew his regular practice had been much neglected during the preceding year, I also knew that there was not an Anarchist within twenty miles who did not expect him to attend on himself and family when in illness or trouble, an obligation with which the doctor willingly complied, though not only did he take no fees, but generally had to provide the patients with all their creature comforts. No sort of change had occurred in our relations to each other, but lately he had seemed more than ever preoccupied, absorbed in the propaganda, ever devising new plans for spreading the "movement." He seemed less and less inclined to keep up his West End connection, and confessed that he had but scant patience wherewith to listen to the polite ailments and sentimental troubles of fashionable ladies. He had given much time to the Tocsin, writing many really remarkable papers for it, but lately, since Kosinski had come more to the front, and I had been so much taken up with Giannoli's affairs, he had, perhaps intentionally, kept more away from the office.

It was with a feeling of real pleasure that I saw him enter at last one Saturday evening early in April. I had been feeling tired and depressed, and only by an effort of will had I kept myself at my work. I was struck at the change that a few weeks had wrought in the doctor's appearance. His hair had grown unusually long, quite noticeably so, his tall figure was somewhat bent, and there was an unusual appearance about his dress. He had not yet cast aside the garb of civilisation, but his trousers evinced a tendency to shrink, and he appeared to contemplate affecting low necks in the matter of shirts. His feet were shod in sandals of a peculiar make, and there was a feverish look in his eyes. As he came towards me his characteristic kindly smile lit up his drawn features, and he grasped my hand with friendly warmth. I was delighted to see him, but somewhat shocked at the alteration in his looks. In answer to my inquiries as to his prolonged absence, he explained that he had been very busy for one thing, and that he had also been much preoccupied with his own thoughts on questions of principle and propaganda.

"You know, Isabel," he said, "my habit of silence when confronted by mental problems. I think I must belong to the race of ruminating animals, and it is only by quietly chewing the cud of my ideas that I can digest and assimilate them. It used to be just the same in my student days, and doubtless the habit will stick to me through life. When I have once thought out a point, and settled in my own mind on the right course of action, I am not as a rule troubled by hesitation or doubts, and then I like to talk and discuss, but the initial stage seems to need solitude. Besides, I know you have been very much taken up of late months. I have seen Kosinski sometimes, and had your news from him. You are not looking well; you must have been overtaxing your strength, and need a rest."

"Doctor, cure yourself, I might well say," I rejoined. "There is nothing much amiss with me. I am a little fagged perhaps, nothing more. But you look very much run down. I am sure you have been neglecting yourself very much of late."

"Oh, no, on the contrary," replied the doctor, "I have been giving much thought lately to food and dress reform in their bearings on the social question, and I have been putting some of my ideas into practice in my own person. I have never felt in better health. All superfluous fat has been got rid of, and my mind feels singularly lucid and clear. I have been going on quite long rounds propagandising, often walking as much as twenty and thirty miles a day, and, thanks to my somewhat more rational dress and to my diet of raw oatmeal and fresh fruit, I have found no difficulty in so doing. But will you not come for a walk with me? It is a beautiful evening, and here the atmosphere is so close and stuffy. Do come, I should so enjoy a quiet talk with you. I have much I want to say to you, and I have come this evening in the hope of an opportunity to say it."

I agreed, and we sallied forth. At the entrance to the courtyard we encountered Mrs. Wattles holding forth to a group of gossips amongst whom stood Short (for no scandal-mongering was too trivial to interest him), on the disappearance of Giannoli from her house and her suppositions as to his fate—a theme of which she never wearied. I managed to slip by without attracting her attention, so absorbed was she with the enthralling mystery, only to find myself in for another almost worse danger. For there at the corner of P. Street and the Euston Road stood the Bleeding Lamb, surrounded by a hooting and uproarious crowd. He had, it appeared, interrupted the Gospel-preaching of the Rev. Melchisedek Hicks with some inappropriate inquiry as to the probable whereabouts of Nelson on the resurrection day. This was considered irreverent by the admirers of the Rev. Hicks, who forthwith began to jibe and jeer at the Bleeding Lamb, who, in his turn, exchanging the meekness of the traditional victim for the righteous indignation of a prophet misjudged, had volleyed a torrent of abuse on all present, consigning them unconditionally to hell-fire. As Armitage and I neared the scene a constable was taking the names and addresses of all concerned, and was manifesting his intention of marching off the poor Lamb to durance vile.

Armitage took in the situation at a glance, and, hurrying up, addressed the man in blue. "I know this man very well, officer," he said in an authoritative voice. "I can answer that he gives his name and address correctly; there is no need to arrest him."

"And who are you? I should like to know," inquired the irate policeman; "I think I can answer for your address, Colney Hatch ain't far off the mark."

"This is my card," answered the doctor, handing one over to the constable with a dignified gesture. The latter seemed somewhat impressed and taken aback, and after grumbling some remarks in an undertone and eyeing the Lamb in a suspicious and unconvinced manner, he told him to be off sharp if he did not wish to find himself in the cells, and then vented his spleen and unappeased zeal on behalf of his country by cuffing, shoving and abusing the corner-boys who had assembled to witness the fun. We availed ourselves of the consequent confusion to make good our escape, dodging the Lamb, who manifested an intention of coming along with us; and soon we found ourselves, thanks to a penny tram fare, in fresher, cleaner quarters. We got down at the corner of Parliament Hill. The sun had just set and the clear spring twilight lent a wonderful charm of serene peace to the scene. The undulating expanse of Heath was growing darker and darker; in the west still lingered the last sunset hues of pink and saffron and green; and overhead in the deep blackening blue of night the stars were just becoming visible. We had strolled on in silence for some time, hushed by the solemn stillness of the evening. At last Dr. Armitage exclaimed, "Ah, Isabel, how I sometimes long for rest and peace, and sweet wholesome surroundings! How beautiful life might be passed with a companion such as you. The earth is beautiful, man is naturally good; why cannot we all be happy?"

I was a little taken aback at the doctor's remark, though I had half expected something of the sort. During the early months of my Anarchist career, when battling with the first difficulties of starting the Tocsin, we had been so constantly together that we had got into a way of divining each other's thoughts and feelings almost without the need of words. We never thought or talked of anything but abstract questions of principle or the immediate needs of the propaganda, yet, as was only natural, an undercurrent of personal sympathy had sprung up between us which I had felt to be somewhat more pronounced on the doctor's side than on my own. However, with him, excess of emotion always manifested itself in renewed and redoubled zeal for the propaganda, leading him to elaborate some quite extraordinary schemes for advancing the Cause, such as, for instance, supplementing his daily work by keeping a coffee-stall at night, as he considered that such a plan would afford an excellent opportunity for quiet personal argument and for the distribution of literature to probable converts; so that he had never broached personalities in any definite style. Then events had followed on one another with surprising rapidity; the advent of the Italian refugees had contributed to change the personnel if not the principles of the Tocsin; a common friendship for Giannoli had brought Kosinski and myself more together and I had, always had a decided sympathy for the Russian, increased perhaps by the instinctive feeling that if there were one man who would refuse to budge one inch from his principles for a woman that man was he. I seemed to have lived ages, my character was developing, a sense of humour was gradually modifying my views of many matters, and during these last few months Armitage and I had drifted somewhat apart.

There was something pathetic in his voice that night as he spoke. His whole appearance told me that he had been passing through an acute mental and moral crisis, and a queer feeling came over me which seemed to warn me that something irreparable was about to take place between us. I felt deep sympathy for this noble nature struggling for the ideal in a world all out of gear; so thoroughly unselfish and self-sacrificing as hardly to grasp clearly the personal side of its sufferings, and slowly and unconsciously, in its very effort to free itself from material trammels, falling a victim to monomania—striving too high only to fall in a world where the sublime is divided by but a step from the ridiculous, and where all are capable of laughing and sneering, but few indeed of appreciating qualities such as Armitage possessed.

"We might well ask 'what is happiness?'" I rejoined in answer to his remark, anxious to steer the conversation clear of personalities. "How vain and trivial all our struggles seem whenever we find ourselves face to face with the serene indifference of Nature. What are we, after all, but fretful midges whizzing out our brief hour?"

"Ah, one is often tempted to think so," answered Armitage—and I confess that I gave vent to a sigh of relief as I realised that he was now started on a discussion—"but as long as injustice prevails we must continue the struggle. I often long for rest, silence, oblivion; but the mood passes and I awake more keenly alive than ever to the greatness of our Cause, and our duty toward the propaganda. Nothing must be allowed to interfere with our devotion to it, and, what is more, Isabel, we must strive to live in such a way as to free ourselves from all considerations that might hamper our action on its behalf. We must simplify our lives; we must not neglect to set an example even in small matters. The material claims of life absorb far too much of our time. We are constantly selling our birthright for a mess of pottage. We shall never be truly devoted propagandists till we have freed ourselves from all care for the morrow."

"You are right," said I, "but such ideas may be carried to an excess. We must live our lives; and as that is so we must attend more or less to our personal wants."

"That I do not deny, Isabel," answered the doctor; "what I aim at is to simplify them as much as possible. Thanks to my new diet I shall never have to waste time to procure the wherewithal to fill my stomach. Nuts and raw fruit are easily procured, and contain all the elements essential to physical health. I am sure you will agree with me on this point when you have considered it at length. Then again in the matter of dress, what could be more hateful or harmful than our modern costume? It is awful to think of the lives wasted in useless toil to produce the means by which a so-called man of fashion contrives to make himself hideous and ridiculous in the eyes of all sensible people. Besides there is no doubt that we are all the creatures of our surroundings, and so the influence of food and dress on character must be inestimable."

"Oh, doctor, do not harp so on this dress and food question!" I could not help exclaiming. "Really, seriously, I think you have let your mind run somewhat too much in a groove lately. Talk of vegetarianism and dress reform! why, what you need, it seems to me, is a steak at the Holborn and a starched shirt collar! Seriously, it grieves me to think that you should be giving yourself up so entirely to such notions. I consider you could do far more good to the Cause by keeping up your practice, pursuing your studies, and working on the lines you used to be so successful in."

Hardly had I spoken than I regretted the hastiness of my remark. I could see at a glance that my friend was pained, more at feeling that I was out of sympathy with him than at my actual words. He suggested that we should turn homewards. We were nearing Fitzroy Square when he exclaimed—

"You know, Isabel, that I have always had a great admiration for you. I have thought you would prove one of the great figures of the coming Revolution; I still think so, but I see that our ways are parting. You laugh at me; yet I feel sure that my position is right. I am sorry I have not your sympathy in my work. I had counted on it; I had come this evening to tell you so. Perhaps some day you will understand my views and agree with them. Till then, good-bye. I am due at a comrade's house at Willesden; he is going in for the No Rent Campaign, and I have promised to help him move to-night, but first I must go home and get out of these cumbersome clothes into a more rational dress; coats and trousers impede one's every thought and movement. Good-bye," and he grasped my hand and was off, walking with a rapid, almost feverish stride.

On reaching home the servant informed me that a gentleman had called for me, and that on hearing I was out he had expressed his intention of returning. The girl could not remember his name, but I gathered from her description that he was a foreigner.

Just then a ring at the door interrupted her remarks, and I was surprised to see Kosinski enter the room. He walked straight up to me with an unwonted look of perturbation about him.

"Could you come with me at once?" he said in low, hurried tones.

"Where?" said I, feeling quite alarmed. "What is the matter?"

"With me, to my room. I need the help of some woman, but there is no time to waste. I will explain en route. Will you come?"

"Certainly, at once," and I walked out with him.

I had not chanced to see him since Giannoli's last letter in which he was denounced as belonging to the ranks of the Italian's false friends, since when I had only heard the insinuations of Short, which, as can easily be imagined, had not deeply impressed me, coming from such a quarter. Still I should not have been surprised had I felt a momentary embarrassment at finding myself suddenly in his company, and under such decidedly unusual circumstances, but such was not the case. No one could look into Kosinski's steady grey eyes and earnest face, pale with the inward fire of enthusiasm, and not feel conscious of standing face to face with one of those rare natures who have dedicated themselves, body and soul, to the service of an ideal. I walked on hurriedly, keeping up with his swinging stride, wondering where we were going, but not liking to break in on his reserve by probing questions. Suddenly he seemed to wake to a sense of reality, and turned sharply round to me.

"We are going to my room in Hammersmith," he said. "I want your assistance, if you care to come; there is a woman there dying, a friend of mine. You are the only person of whom I should care to ask such a favour. Will you come? I hardly think it will be for many hours."

So then Short was right; there was a woman at the bottom of Kosinski's life; and simultaneously with this idea there flashed across my brain a feeling of shame at having for one instant entertained a mean thought of my friend. "I will come," I answered; "you did well to count on my friendship." We hurried on for several minutes in silence. Then again Kosinski spoke:

"I had best tell you a little how matters stand," he said. "I am not fond of talking about private concerns, but you have a right to know. Eudoxia has lived with me for the past two years. I brought her over with me from America. She has been suffering with consumption all this while, and I do not think she will last the night."

"Is she a comrade?" I ventured to inquire.

"Oh, no. She hates Anarchists; she hates me. It will be a blessing to herself when she is laid to rest at last. She was the wife of my dearest friend, perhaps my only friend outside the Cause. Vassili had a great intellect, but his character was weak in some respects. He was full of noble ambitions; he had one of the most powerful minds I have known, a quite extraordinary faculty for grasping abstract ideas. I was first drawn towards him by hearing him argue at a students' meeting. He was maintaining a fatalistic paradox: the total uselessness of effort, and the vanity of all our distinctions between good and bad. All our acts, he argued, are the outcome of circumstances over which we have no control; consequently the man who betrays his best friend for interested motives, and the patriot who sacrifices happiness and life for an idea are morally on the same footing—both seek their own satisfaction, aiming at that goal by different paths; both by so doing obey a blind impulse. I joined in the argument, opposing him, and we kept the ball going till 4 A.M. He walked with me to my lodgings and slept on a rug on the floor, and we became fast friends. But though his mind was strong, he was swayed by sensual passions. He married young, burdening himself with the responsibility of a woman and family, and went the way of all who do so. He would have lost himself entirely in the meshes of a merely animal life; he seemed even to contemplate with satisfaction the prospect of begetting children! But I could not stand by and witness the moral degradation of my poor friend. I kept him intellectually alive, and when once stimulated to mental activity, no one was ever more logical, more uncompromising than he. Soon after my imprisonment he got implicated in a conspiracy and had to flee to America. When I arrived there after my escape I found him in the most abject condition. His wife, Eudoxia, was ill with the germs of the disease which is now killing her, and was constantly railing at him as the cause of their misfortune, urging him to make a full confession and throw himself on the mercy of the Russian authorities. Poor thing! she was ill; she had had to leave behind her only child, and news had come of its death. Vassili would never have done anything base, but he had not sufficient strength of character to rise superior to circumstances. Another weak trait in him was his keen sensibility to beauty. It was not so much the discomfort as the ugliness of poverty which irked him. I have always noted the deteriorating effect art has on the character in such respects. He was grieved at his wife's illness, goaded to desperation by her reproaches, sickened by the squalor of his surroundings, and instead of turning his thoughts inwards and drawing renewed strength and resolution from the spectacle of the sufferings caused by our false morality and false society, he gave way completely and took to drink. When I found him in New York he was indeed a wreck. He and his wife were living in a filthy garret in the Bowery; he had nothing to do, and had retired permanently on to a rotten old paillasse which lay in a corner; his clothes were in pawn; he could not go out. Eudoxia earned a few cents daily by slaving at the wash-tub, and most of this he spent in getting drunk on vile, cheap spirits. When he saw me arrive he railed at me as the cause of all his woes; blamed me for having dragged him on to actions he should never have done if left to himself; and pointing to his wife and to the squalid room, he exclaimed, 'See the results of struggling for a higher life.' Eudoxia, for her part, hated me, declaring that I was responsible for her husband's ruin, and that, not content with making his life a hell on earth, I was consigning his soul to eternal perdition. Then Vassili would burst into maudlin tears and weep over his own degeneracy, saying that I was his only true friend. I grieved at the decay of a fine mind; there was no hope now for him; I could only wish that his body might soon too dissolve. I gave him what little help I could, and he soon drank himself to death. I was with him at the last. He seemed overcome by a great wave of pity for himself, spoke tearfully of the might-have-beens, blamed me for having urged him to deeds beyond his strength, and ended by exclaiming that he could not even die in peace, as he did not know what would become of his poor wife, whose strength was already rapidly failing. 'I am leaving her friendless and penniless. I dragged her away from a comfortable home, promising her happiness. She has had to sacrifice her only child to my safety, and now, prematurely old, soured by misfortune and illness, I am abandoning her to fight for herself. She is my victim and yours, the victim of our ideas; it is your duty to look after her.' I promised him so to do, and she has been with me ever since."

I had walked on, absorbed in the interest of his tale, heedless of the distance we were covering, and now I noticed that we were already skirting Hyde Park, and reflected that our destination must still be far ahead.

"As your friend is so ill had we not better take the 'bus? You said we were going to Hammersmith, and there is still quite a long walk ahead of us," I suggested after a few minutes.

"Oh, are you tired?" he inquired; "I ought to have thought of it. I always walk." I noticed that his hand strayed into the obviously empty pocket of his inseparable blue overcoat, and a worried look came into his face. I at once realised that he had not a penny on him, and deeply regretted my remark. Not for worlds would I have suggested to him paying the fares myself, which I should have thought nothing of doing with most of the others.

"Oh, it was not for me," I hastened to rejoin, "I am not in the least tired; I only thought it would be quicker, but after all we must now be near," and I brisked up my pace, though I felt, I confess, more than a little fagged.

Again we trudged on, absorbed in our thoughts. At last, to break the silence I inquired of him if he had seen Armitage lately.

"It must be quite ten days now since I last saw him at a group-meeting of the Jewish Comrades. I fear he is developing a failing common to many of you English Anarchists; he is becoming something of a crank. He talked to me a lot about vegetarianism and such matters. It would be a thousand pities were he to lose himself on such a track, for he has both intellect and character. He is unswerving where principle is at stake; let's trust he will not lose sight of large aims to strive at minor details."

Again a silence fell on us. My companion was evidently reviewing his past; my brain was occupied in blindly searching the future; what would become of us all? Kosinski, Armitage, myself? Vassili's words, "This is the result of struggling for a higher life," haunted me. Should we after all only succeed in making our own unhappiness, in sacrificing the weak to our uncompromising theories, and all this without advancing the cause of humanity one jot? The vague doubts and hesitations of the past few weeks seemed crystallising. I was beginning to mount the Calvary of doubt.

After a quarter of an hour Kosinski exclaimed: "Here we are. You must not be taken aback, Isabel, if you get but scant thanks for your kindness. Eudoxia is not well disposed towards our ideas; she looks upon her life with me as the last and bitterest act in the tragedy of her existence. Poor thing, I have done what I could for her, but I understand her point of view."

Without further ado we proceeded along the passage and up the mean wooden staircase of a third-rate suburban house, pushing past a litter of nondescript infancy, till we stopped before a back room on the top floor. As Kosinski turned the door handle a woman stepped forward with her finger to her lips. "Oh, thank Gawd, you're here at last," she said in a whisper, "your sister's been awful bad, but she's just dozed off now. I'll go to my husband; he'll be in soon now."

"Thanks, Mrs. Day. I need not trouble you further. My friend has come to help me."

The landlady eyed me with scant favour and walked off, bidding us good-night.

The room was of a fair size for the style of dwelling and was divided in two by a long paper screen. The first half was evidently Kosinski's, and as far as I could see by the dim light, was one litter of papers, with a mattress on the floor in a corner. We walked past the screen; and the guttering candle, stuck in an old ginger-beer bottle, allowed me to see a bed in which lay the dying woman. There was also a table on which stood some medicine bottles, a jug of milk, and a glass; an armchair of frowsy aspect, and two cane chairs. The unwashed boards were bare, the room unattractive to a degree, still an awkward attempt at order was noticeable. I stepped over to the bed and gazed on its occupant. Eudoxia was a thin gaunt woman of some thirty-five years of age. Her clustering golden hair streaked with grey; small, plaintive mouth, and clear skin showed that she might have been pretty; but the drawn features and closed eyelids bore the stamp of unutterable weariness, and a querulous expression hovered round her mouth. The rigid folds of the scanty bedclothes told of her woeful thinness, and the frail transparent hands grasped convulsively at the coverlet. As I gazed at her, tears welled into my eyes. She looked so small, so transient, yet bore the traces of such mental and physical anguish. After a moment or two she slowly opened her eyes, gazed vacantly at me without apparently realising my presence, and in a feeble, plaintive voice made some remark in Russian. Kosinski was at her side immediately and answered her in soothing tones, evidently pointing out my presence. The woman fixed on me her large eyes, luminous with fever. I stepped nearer. "Is there anything I can do for you?" I inquired in French. "No one can do anything for me except God and the blessed Virgin," she replied peevishly, "and they are punishing me for my sins. Yes, for my sins," she went on, raising her voice and speaking in a rambling delirious way, "because I have consorted with infidels and blasphemers. Vassili was good to me; we were happy with our little Ivan, till that devil came along. He ruined Vassili, body and soul; he killed our child; he has lost me. I have sold myself to the devil, for have I not lived for the past two years on his charity? And you," she continued, turning her glittering eyes on me, "beware, he will ruin you too; he has no heart, no religion; he cares for nothing, for nobody, except his cruel principles. You love him, I see you do; it is in your every movement, but beware; he will trample on your heart, he will sacrifice you, throw you aside as worthless, as he did with Vassili, who looked upon him as his dearest friend. Beware!" and she sank back exhausted on the pillows, her eyes turned up under her eyelids, a slight froth tinged with blood trickling down the corners of her mouth.

I was transfixed with horror; I knew not what to say, what to do. I put my hand soothingly on her poor fevered brow, and held a little water to her lips. Then my eyes sought Kosinski. He was standing in the shadow, a look of intense pain in his eyes and on his brow, and I knew what he must be suffering at that moment. I walked up to him and grasped his hand in silent sympathy; he returned the pressure, and for a moment I felt almost happy in sharing his sorrow. We stood watching in silence; at regular intervals the church chimes told us that the hours were passing and the long night gradually drawing to its close. Half-past three, a quarter to four, four; still the heavy rattling breath told us that the struggle between life and death had not yet ceased. At last the dying woman heaved a deep sigh, she opened her wide, staring eyes and raised her hand as if to summon some one. Kosinski stepped forward, but she waved him off and looked at me. "I have not a friend in the world," she gasped; "you shall be my friend. Hold my hand and pray for me." I knelt by her side and did as I was bid. Never had I prayed since I could remember, but at that supreme moment a Latin prayer learned in my infancy at my mother's knee came back to me; Kosinski turned his face to the wall and stood with bowed shoulders. As the words fell from my lips the dying woman clutched my hand convulsively and murmured some words in Russian. Then her grasp loosened. I raised my eyes to her face, and saw that all was over. My strained nerves gave way, and I sobbed convulsively. Kosinski was at my side.

"Poor thing, poor thing!" I heard him murmur. He laid his hand caressingly on my shoulder. The candle was flaring itself out, and everything assumed a ghastly blue tint as the first chill light of dawn, previous to sunrise, stole into the room. I rose to my feet and went over to the window. How cold and unsympathetic everything looked! I felt chilly, and a cold shudder ran down my limbs. Absolute silence prevailed, in the street, in the house, in the room, where lay the dead woman staring fixedly before her. Kosinski had sunk into a chair, his head between his hands. I looked at him in silence and bit my lip. An unaccustomed feeling of revolt was springing up in me. I could not and did not attempt to analyse my feelings, only I felt a blind unreasoning anger with existence. How stupid, how objectless it all seemed! The church clock rung out the hour, five o'clock. Kosinski rose, he walked to the bedside, and closed poor Eudoxia's staring eyes, and drew the sheet over her face. Then he came over to me.

"I shall never forget your kindness, Isabel. There is yet one thing I will ask of you; I know that Eudoxia wanted a mass to be said for her and Vassili; will you see about carrying out this wish of hers? I cannot give you the money to pay for it; I have not got it."

I nodded in silent consent.

He paused a few minutes. He seemed anxious to speak, yet hesitated; at last he said, "I am leaving London, Isabel, I can do nothing here, and I have received letters from comrades in Austria telling me that there things are ripe for the Revolution."

I started violently: "You are leaving! Leaving London?" I stammered.

"Yes, I shall be able to do better work elsewhere."

I turned suddenly on him.

"And so you mean to say that we are to part? Thus? now? for ever?" A pained look came into his eyes. He seemed to shrink from personalities. "No," I continued rapidly, "I will, I must speak. Why should we ruin our lives? To what idol of our own creation are we sacrificing our happiness? We Anarchists are always talking of the rights of the individual, why are you deliberately sacrificing your personal happiness, and mine? The dead woman was right; I love you, and I know that you love me. Our future shall not be ruined by a misunderstanding. Now I have spoken, you must answer, and your answer must be final."

I looked at him whilst the words involuntarily rushed from my lips, and even before I had finished speaking, I knew what his answer would be.

"An Anarchist's life is not his own. Friendship, comradeship may be helpful, but family ties are fatal; you have seen what they did for my poor friend. Ever since I was fifteen I have lived solely for the Cause; you are mistaken in thinking that I love you in the way you imply. I thought of you as a comrade, and loved you as such."

I had quite regained my self-possession. "Enough," I said, interrupting him. "I do not regret my words; they have made everything clear to me. You are of the invincibles, Kosinski; you are strong with the strength of the fanatic; and I think you will be happy too. You will never turn to contemplate regretfully the ashes of your existence and say as did your friend, 'See the result of struggling for a higher life!' You do not, you cannot see that you are a slave to your conception of freedom, more prejudiced in your lack of prejudice than the veriest bourgeois; that is your strength, and it is well. Good-bye."

He grasped my proffered hand with warmth.

"Good-bye, Isabel. I knew you were not like other women; that you could understand."

"I can understand," I replied, "and admire, even if I deplore. Good-bye."

Slowly I moved towards the door, my eyes fascinated by the rigid lines of the sheet covering the dead woman; slowly I turned the handle and walked down the mean wooden staircase into the mean suburban street.

---

CHAPTER XII. — THE TOCSIN'S LAST TOLL

As I walked home from Kosinski's in the early morning I felt profoundly depressed. The weather had turned quite chilly and a fine drizzling rain began to fall, promising one of those dull, wet days of which we experience so many in the English spring. The streets were deserted but for the milkmen going their rounds, and the tired-looking policemen waiting to be relieved on their beats. I felt that feeling of physical exhaustion which one experiences after being up all night, when one has not had the opportunity for a wash and change of clothes. I was not sleepy, but my eyes were hot and dry under their heavy eyelids, my bones ached, my muscles felt stiff; I had the uncomfortable consciousness that my hair was disordered and whispy, my hat awry, my skin shiny; and this sub-consciousness of physical unattractiveness heightened the sense of moral degradation.

I felt weary and disgusted, and it was not only, nor even principally, the knowledge that Kosinski had gone out of my life which accounted for this. I felt strangely numbed and dull, curiously able to look back on that incident as if it had occurred to some one else. Every detail, every word, was vividly stamped on my brain: I kept recurring to them as I trudged along, but in a critical spirit, smiling every now and again as the humour of some strangely incongruous detail flashed across my brain.

What really weighed me down was a sense of the futility, not only of Anarchist propaganda but of things in general. What were we striving for? Happiness, justice? And the history of the world shows that man has striven for these since the dawn of humanity without ever getting much nearer the goal. The few crumbs of personal happiness which one might hope for in life were despised and rejected by men like Armitage, Kosinski, and Bonafede, yet all three were alike powerless to bring about the larger happiness they dreamed of.

I had acquired a keener sense of proportion since the days when I had first climbed the breakneck ladder of Slater's Mews, and I now realised that the great mass of toiling humanity ignored our existence, and that the slow, patient work of the ages was hardly likely to be helped or hindered by our efforts. I did not depreciate the value of thought, of the effort made by the human mind to free itself from the shackles of superstition and slavery; of that glorious unrest which spurs men on to scrutinise the inscrutable, ever baffled yet ever returning to the struggle, which alone raises him above the brute creation and which, after all, constitutes the value of all philosophy quite apart from the special creed each school may teach; and I doubted not for a moment that the yeast of Anarchist thought was leavening the social conceptions of our day.

But I had come to see the almost ludicrous side of the Anarchist party, especially in England, considered as a practical force in politics. Short and Simpkins were typical figures—M'Dermott, an exceptionally good one—of the rank and file of the English party. They used long words they barely understood, considered that equality justified presumption, and contempt or envy of everything they felt to be superior to themselves. Communism, as they conceived it, amounted pretty nearly to living at other people's expense, and they believed in revenging the wrongs of their classes by exploiting and expropriating the bourgeois whenever such action was possible without incurring personal risk. Of course I was not blind to the fact that there were a few earnest and noble men among them, men who had educated themselves, curtailing their food and sleep to do so, men of original ideas and fine independent character, but I had found that with the Anarchist, as with the Socialist party, and indeed all parties, such were not those who came to the surface, or who gave the ton to the movement. Then, of course, there were noble dreamers, incorrigible idealists, like Armitage, men whom experience could not teach nor disappointment sour. Men gifted with eternal youth, victimised and sacrificed by others, yet sifting and purifying the vilest waste in the crucible of their imaginations, so that no meanness, nor the sorrow born of the knowledge of meanness in others, ever darkens their path. Men who live in a pure atmosphere of their own creation, whom the worldly-wise pity as deluded fools, but who are perhaps the only really enviable people in the world. Notable, too, were the fanatics of the Kosinski type, stern heroic figures who seem strangely out of place in our humdrum world, whose practical work often strikes us as useless when it is not harmful, yet without whom the world would settle down into deadly lethargy and stagnation. Then in England came a whole host of cranks who, without being Anarchists in any real sense of the word, seemed drawn towards our ranks, which they swelled and not infrequently brought into ridicule. The "Bleeding Lamb" and his atheist opponent Gresham, the Polish Countess Vera Voblinska with her unhappy husband who looked like an out-at-elbows mute attached to a third-rate undertaker's business, a dress-reforming lady disciple of Armitage, a queer figure, not more than four feet in height, who looked like a little boy in her knickers and jersey, till you caught sight of the short grizzled hair and wrinkled face, who confided to me that she was "quite in love with the doctor, he was so quaint;" and numerous others belonged to that class; and finally a considerable sprinkling of the really criminal classes who seemed to find in the Anarchist doctrine of "Fais ce que veux" that salve to their conscience for which even the worst scoundrels seem to crave, and which, at worst, permitted them to justify their existences in their own eyes as being the "rotten products of a decaying society." Such were the heterogeneous elements composing the Anarchist party with which I had set out to reform the world.

The neighbouring church chimes rang out half-past six as I approached home, and on reaching the doorstep of the Fitzroy Square house I found my brother Raymond just letting himself in. On seeing me he exclaimed, "Oh, Isabel, where have you been so early?—though really your appearance suggests the idea that you have never been to bed rather than that you have just risen!" I confirmed his suspicion and together we entered his study.

"Well, where have you been? Is there something new on with the Anarchists? I have seen so little of you for the past six months that I feel quite out of the world—your world at least."

It was a great relief to me to find my brother so conversable. We had both been so occupied of late in our respective ways that we had had but scant opportunity for talk or companionship. Raymond had now started practising on his own account; he was popular with his poor patients in the crowded slums round King's Cross, amongst whom his work chiefly lay, and day and night he toiled in their midst. Certainly the sights he saw there were not calculated to destroy his revolutionary longings, though they were often such as might well have made him doubt of the ultimate perfectibility of the human race.

"Oh, I am so glad to find you, Raymond, and I should enjoy a nice long talk together; but you must be tired; you have, I suppose, only just come in after working all night?"

He explained to me that he had been summoned after midnight to attend a poor woman's confinement, and had stayed with her till past four, when, feeling more inclined for a walk than for his bed, he had wandered off in the direction of Highgate and had only just got home.

"By the way, Isabel," he said, "as I was coming down the Caledonian Road I met your friend Armitage. He is a good fellow whom I have always liked, so I stopped him and we had a chat. He explained to me that he was attired in his new pedestrian costume, which indeed struck me as almost pre-Adamite in its simplicity. He had been helping some of his friends to move—to shoot the moon, I fancy, would describe the situation. He inquired of me what I was doing, and we got talking on all sorts of scientific and philosophic problems. It is extraordinary what an intellect that man has. Only he lives too much in a world of his own creation; he seems absolutely oblivious of self, and I feel sure his hygiene and vegetarianism are simply the outcome of his desire to free himself from all worldly cares which might impede his absolute devotion to his Cause. He seems to have practically abandoned his practice. As we were wandering on rather aimlessly, I suggested accompanying him home, but he did not appear to jump at the idea, and as I know that it is not considered etiquette amongst you folk to press inquiries as to address and so on, I was going to drop the subject; but Armitage, after a short silence, explained that the fact was he had not exactly got a home to go to. I concluded that he was in for the bother of changing diggings, and made some sympathetic remark to that effect; but he said that was not exactly the case—that, in fact, he had given up having a fixed abode altogether. As you can imagine, Isabel," continued my brother, "this information somewhat staggered me. I knew through you that he had long ago given up his Harley Street establishment and moved into more populous quarters, where I quite supposed him still to be residing. But he calmly went on to explain, as though it were the most natural thing in the world, that he had been in need of a rather considerable sum of money some weeks back for purposes of propaganda, and that, not knowing where else to obtain the money, he had sold up all his belongings and cleared out of his lodgings without paying his rent, 'by way of an example.' All this he explained with the air of a man adducing an unanswerable argument, and as his manner did not admit of remonstrance, I simply asked him what he thought of doing now, which started him off on a long account of the opportunities for propaganda afforded by such establishments as Rowton House, the casual wards, and the Salvation Army Shelters. 'We want to get at the oppressed, to rouse them from their lethargy of ages, to show them that they too have rights, and that it is cowardly and wicked to starve in the midst of plenty; we want to come amongst them, not as preachers and dilettantists, but as workers like themselves, and how can this be done better than by going in their midst and sharing their life?' I could not but feel amazement and admiration at the enthusiasm and sincerity of this man, mingled with sorrow at the thought that such an intellect as his should be thus wasted. He is a man who might have done almost anything in the scientific world, and now he seems destined to waste his life, a dreamer of dreams, a sort of modern St. Francis in a world lacking in idealism, and where he will be looked upon as a wandering lunatic rather than a saint."

I sat silent for a few minutes. I had not quite realised that poor Armitage had come to this—a frequenter of casual wards, a homeless and wandering lunatic; my brother was right, the world would judge him as such. I was not, however, in the least surprised at the news.

The servants had by now come down and we had breakfast brought to the study, and I gave Raymond an account of my night's proceedings. When I concluded my brother said,

"Well, Isabel, you will remain almost alone at the Tocsin. Kosinski is leaving, Giannoli is gone, Armitage is otherwise occupied. Will you be able to keep it going?"

"Oh, I could keep it going," I replied. "There are still a lot of comrades hanging on to it; new ones are constantly turning up. The work can be done between us, there is no doubt of that. It is rather of myself that I doubt. I begin to feel isolated in the midst of the others; I cannot believe that people like Short and Simpkins can change Society; they would have to begin reforming themselves, and that they are incapable of. I can admire a man like Kosinski: I cannot exactly sympathise with him. As to Armitage, I can only grieve that he should thus waste his life and talents. Probably, had he thought a little more of his personal happiness, he would have avoided falling a victim to monomania, for such he is in part. And then—and then—it is not only of others that I doubt, but of myself. Am I really doing any good? Can I sincerely believe that the Tocsin will help towards the regeneration of mankind? Can mankind be regenerated? When such questions never occurred to me, or, if they did, were answered by my brain with an unhesitating affirmative, then it was easy to work. No difficulties could daunt me; everything seemed easy, straightforward. But now—but now...."

"Well, then, why don't you give it up, Isabel?"

"Give it up? Oh, how could I? I have never really thought of that. Oh no; the paper must come out. I have undertaken it. I must go on with it."

"And you an Anarchist! Why, I always thought you believed in the absolute freedom of the individual, and here you are saying that you must go on with a work in which you no longer feel the requisite confidence, for the mere reason that you once, under other circumstances, started it."

"You are right, Raymond, logically right, but life is not ruled by logic, whether we be Anarchists or Reactionaries. I feel that I could not give up the Tocsin, my interests centre round it; besides, I do not say that I have altered my ideas; I am still an Anarchist, I can honestly work for the Cause; I only said that I doubt. I feel depressed. Who has not had at times periods of depression and doubt?"

"Well, we shall see," replied Raymond. "I got a letter from Caroline last night which I wanted to show you. She says she will be home in another three months, as she has accepted a further engagement for the States now that her tour is nearly over. When she comes home it will be a little company for you in the house. She has friends, and she is sure to be much sought after now, as she seems fairly on the road to becoming a celebrity in the musical world."

I read the long letter, written in the brilliant style which characterised everything about Caroline. She described her triumphs in the various cities of the Argentine and Brazil, the receptions given in her honour, the life and society of these faraway countries, with a brightness and humour which brought home to me the whole atmosphere of the places and people she described. Caroline had always been fond of society, and even before leaving England had become quite a favourite in musical circles; but her quick, bright intelligence had never allowed her to be blind to much that was vulgar and ludicrous in her surroundings. I was truly glad to think that we should meet again before long. The common memories and affections of our childhood formed a solid basis for our mutual friendship, but I could not help smiling as I read the last paragraph of her long epistle: "I expect by now Isabel has had time to grow out of her enthusiasm for revolutions and economics, and will feel less drawn towards baggy-trousered democrats and unwashed philosophers than when I left. Perhaps she may even have come round to my view of life, i.e., that it is really not worth while taking things too tragically, and that it is best to take the few good things life brings us without worrying one's brains about humanity. Selfish, is it not? But I have generally noticed that it is your stern moralists and humanitarians who cause the most unhappiness in the world. Anyhow, if Isabel is less wrapped up in Socialism and Anarchy we shall be able to have a good time when I come home. I am sure to be asked out a good deal, and if the fashionable people who patronise musical celebrities are not free from their foibles and ridicules we shall anyhow be able to amuse ourselves and laugh at them up our sleeves."

So Caroline already counted on my having outgrown Anarchy and unwashed philosophy, as she phrased it, and grown into drawing-room etiquette! But she was wrong! I should go on with the Tocsin. I should still work in the Cause; I had done so till then, and what had happened since yesterday to alter my intentions? Nothing, or at least nothing of outward importance. Only, since my last interview with Armitage and my parting with Kosinski, I had begun to formulate to myself many questions which till then I had only vaguely felt. Still I repeated to myself that I should go on with the paper, that I should continue to lead the same life. Of course I should! How could I do otherwise? And even if I had changed somewhat in my ideas and my outlook on life, I certainly did not feel even remotely attracted towards the sort of society Caroline referred to. I had a vivid recollection of once accompanying her to an at home, given in a crowded drawing-room, where the heavily-gilded Louis XV. mirrors and Sevres vases and ornaments, with their scrolls and flourishes, all seemed to have developed the flowing wigs which characterised the Roi Soleil, and where the armchairs and divans were upholstered in yellow and pink satin, and decked out with ribbon bows to resemble Watteau sheep. Oh no; certainly I should not exchange the low living and high thinking of my Anarchist days for such artificiality and vulgar display. Sunday was generally a very busy day with me, almost more so than week-days, for there were meetings to be held, literature to be sold and distributed, and lectures and discussions to be attended. I was in the habit of rising rather late, as very often Saturday night was an all-night sitting at the office of the Tocsin, and Sunday morning was the only time I found it convenient to pay a little attention to the toilet. But I used generally to manage to be by twelve in some public place, and help Short and M'Dermott to start a meeting. Short, influenced by his inherent laziness, had succeeded in persuading the Italians that he was a great orator, and that they could not better forward the Cause in their new country than by carrying for him the movable platform from which he delivered his spirited harangues; so that one or two of them were generally present helping to form the nucleus of an audience, and ready to lend their valid support should any drunken loafer or top-hatted bourgeois, outraged in his feelings, attempt to disturb the proceedings. Hyde Park was generally my destination in the afternoon, and in the evening we used to repair in force to the hall of the Social Democrats, there to take part in the discussion which followed the lectures, or else some meeting in Deptford, Canning Town, or Stratford would claim my attendance. But on this particular Sunday I felt too tired and despondent to think of rushing out in my usual style.

I shut myself in my room and tried to rest, but I could not free myself from the sights and thoughts which had beset me during the night. The words of Kosinski's friend, "And this is what comes of struggling for the higher life," still haunted me; the dead woman, staring blindly into space rose before me, an image of the suffering forced on the weak by the strong. Then my thoughts reverted to Giannoli. What was he doing? I had not heard from him for over a month, and his last letter had been far from reassuring. He hinted at some desperate enterprise he was engaged on, and as I had no further news of him from any quarter I thought it not unlikely that he had been arrested, and was, even then perhaps, suffering unknown tortures in one of those dreaded Spanish prisons, where the old systems of the Inquisition still prevail, though modern hypocrisy requires that all should pass in silence and darkness, content on these conditions never to push too closely its inquiries, even though some crippled victim who may escape should rouse for a moment a spasmodic outburst of indignation in the civilised world. And even were this not his fate, it was a sad enough one in all conscience: to rush all over the world, wrecked in health, driven from place to place by his wild suspicions, the offspring of a diseased imagination; deprived of friends, for his mania of persecution drove them off; deprived of means, for he had sacrificed his all to the propaganda, and his health and mode of life did not permit of any settled occupation. I felt strangely anxious about him, and this led my thoughts back once more to Kosinski, with whom I had been brought so closely into contact through our relations with Giannoli. I should never see him again in all probability. He had told me he was going to Austria. He too belonged to the knights of death, as an Italian comrade had named a certain section of the Anarchists; and he was working out his inevitable destiny. I wondered now how I had ever allowed myself to conceive of him otherwise. I had always known it was impossible, and I felt that it was only an impulse of rebellion against fate which had led me to speak.

Finding sleep out of the question, I got up and attempted to write an article which I had promised to bring down to the Tocsin the following morning. The subject I had chosen was "The Right to Happiness," and I argued that man has a right not only to daily bread, as the Socialists maintain, but also to happiness, consisting in the fullest development and exercise of all his faculties, a condition only possible when the individual shall be perfectly free, living in a harmonious society of free men, untrammelled by artificial economic difficulties, and by superstitions inherited from the past. Some days previously we had had a discussion on the subject at the office of the Tocsin, and I had maintained my views victoriously against the pessimistic dogmatism of a German comrade. But now my arguments seemed hollow to myself, mere rhetoric, and even that of third-rate quality. Happiness! Did not the mere fact of attaining our desires deprive them of their charm? Life was an alternating of longing and regret. I pushed paper and pen aside, and began roaming aimlessly about the house. The large old-fashioned rooms impressed me as strangely silent and forlorn. I wandered up to the attic which our father had used as a laboratory, and which had always struck us children as a mysterious apartment, where he did wonderful things with strange-shaped instruments and bottles which we were told contained deadly poison. His apparatus was still ranged on the shelves, thick in dust, and the air was heavy with the pungent smell of acids. The large drawing-rooms with their heavy hangings looked shabbier and dingier than of old; I could not help noticing the neglected look of everything. I had hardly entered them during the past year, and now I vaguely wondered whether Caroline on her return would wish to have them renovated. Then I remembered how I had received there for the first time, some four years ago, my brother's Socialist friend, and I could not help smiling as I recollected my excitement on that occasion. I was indeed young in those days! I picked up a book which was lying on a table thick in dust, and sat down listlessly in the roomy arm-chair by the fireside, which had been my father's favourite seat. I began turning the pages of a volume, "The Thoughts of Marcus Aurelius," and gradually I became absorbed in its contents. Here was a man who had known how to create for himself in his own soul an oasis of rest, not by practising a selfish indifference to, and isolation from, public matters—not by placing his hopes in some future paradise, the compensation of terrestrial suffering, but by rising superior to external events, and, whilst fulfilling his duty as emperor and man, not allowing himself to be flustered or perturbed by the inevitable. "Abolish opinion, you have abolished this complaint, 'Some one has harmed me.' Suppress the complaint, 'Some one has harmed me,' and the harm itself is suppressed." What wisdom in these words!

It was a long while since I had thus enjoyed a quiet read. For several months past my life had been a ceaseless round of feverish activity. Looking back, it seemed to me that I had allowed myself to be strangely preoccupied and flustered by trifles. What were these important duties which had so absorbed me as to leave me no time for thought, for study, no time to live my own life? How had I come to give such undue importance to the publication of a paper which, after all, was read by a very few, and those few for the most part already blind believers in the ideas it advocated? Yet I told myself that the Tocsin had done good work, and could yet do much. Besides, I had undertaken it, I must go on with it; life without an object would be intolerable. The slow hours passed, and when night came I felt thoroughly worn out and exhausted, and soon got to sleep.

I awoke on Monday morning with a sense of impending misfortune hovering over me. I had taken refuge in sleep the previous night from a host of troublesome thoughts and perplexing doubts, and I now experienced the hateful sensation of returning consciousness, when one does not yet recollect fully the past, yet realises vaguely the re-awakening to suffering and action. I wanted to get to the office early that morning, for publishing day was near at hand and there was a lot of work to be finished. I felt that the drudgery of composing would be a relief to my over-strained nerves; so, without waiting for breakfast and the morning paper which I generally scanned before leaving home, I dressed rapidly and set out for the Tocsin. I had not gone many yards when my attention was attracted by the large placards pasted on the boards outside a newspaper shop:—

"Shocking outrage in Madrid. Attempt on the life of Spanish Prime-Minister—Many victims. Arrest of Anarchist Assassin. London Police on scent."

Giannoli! The name flashed across my brain as I rushed into the shop and purchased the paper. My heart thumped with excitement as, standing in the shadow of some houses at the corner of the street, I hastily opened and folded the sheet and ran my eyes down the long column, freely interspersed with headlines.

"On Sunday evening, at half-past six, when the fashionable crowd which throngs the Prado at Madrid was at its thickest, and just as the Minister Fernandez was driving by in his carriage, a man pushed his way through the crowd, and shouting 'Long live Anarchy,' discharged at him three shots from a revolver; the aim, however, was not precise, and one of the bullets wounded, it is feared mortally, the secretary, Señor Esperandez, who was seated beside his chief, whilst the Minister was shot in the arm. Several people rushed forward to seize the miscreant, who defended himself desperately, discharging the remaining chambers of the revolver amidst his assailants, two of whom have sustained serious injuries. He was, however, overcome and taken, handcuffed and bound, to the nearest police station. On being interrogated he refused his name and all particulars as to himself, only declaring that he attempted the life of the Minister Fernandez on his own individual responsibility, that he had no accomplices, and that his object was to revenge his comrades who had been persecuted by order of the Minister. When informed that he had missed his aim, and that Fernandez had escaped with a broken arm, whilst his secretary was in danger of death, he expressed his regret at not having succeeded in his object, saying that this was due to his wretched health, which rendered his aim unsteady; but as to Señor Esperandez, he declared that he considered him also responsible, inasmuch as he was willing to associate himself with the oppressor of the people. Neither threats nor persuasion could induce him to say more. The police, however, are making active inquiries, and have ascertained so far (midnight of Sunday) that the prisoner is an Italian Anarchist recently landed at Barcelona from America, passing under the name of Paolo Costa. This name, however, is considered to be false. He is a tall man, of rather distinguished appearance. The police do not credit the idea that he has no accomplices, and during the evening extensive arrests have been made in Madrid and Barcelona. Over a hundred of the most noted Anarchists and Socialists in these cities are now in prison."

Such was the brief outline of facts as given by the Morning Post. Of course I had not the slightest doubt as to the identity of the prisoner; the state of weakness and ill-health which had caused him to miss his aim was conclusive, added to the many other reasons I had for supposing him to be Giannoli. This, then, was the deed he had been contemplating! Only the day before I had been wondering why I had no news of him; but a few hours previously he went forth to his death. For it meant death, of course; of that I had no doubt. He would be garotted; I only hoped that he might not be tortured first. I gave a hasty glance at the other details given by the paper. A column was dedicated to the virtues of the prime-minister. He was upheld as a model of the domestic virtues (a few months back Continental papers had been full of a scandalous trial in which Fernandez had been involved), and was represented as the man who had saved Spain from ruin and disaster by his firm repression of the revolutionary parties: by which euphonious phrase the papers referred to the massacres of strikers which had taken place at Barcelona and Valladolid, and the wholesale arrest and imprisonment of Anarchists and Socialists in connection with a recent anti-clerical movement which had convulsed the Peninsula.

These arrests had given rise to a great political trial for conspiracy before a court-martial, which had ended in a sentence of death passed on five of the prisoners, whilst the others were sentenced to terms of imprisonment varying from thirty to five years. It was to revenge the injustice and the sufferings caused by this policy that Giannoli had attempted the life of the Spanish minister. Another paragraph caught my eye:—

"London police hot on scent: raids and arrests."

"Our correspondent has interviewed a leading detective at Scotland Yard who for some years past has been charged with the surveillance of suspicious foreign Anarchists. This clever officer informs our correspondent that he has no doubt the plot was hatched in London, and thinks that he could name the author, an Italian Anarchist of desperate antecedents who disappeared from London under mysterious circumstances nearly seven months ago. London is a centre of Anarchist propaganda, and foreign desperadoes of all nationalities flock hither to abuse the hospitality and freedom which this government too rashly concedes them. Englishmen will one day be roused from their fool's paradise to find that too long have they nursed a viper in their bosom. We trust that this lesson will not be wasted, and that the police will see to closing without delay certain self-styled clubs and 'printing-offices' which are in reality nothing but hotbeds of conspiracy and murder."

I hurried along as I read these last words. We were evidently once more in for troublous times. The office of the Tocsin was clearly designated in the paragraph I have quoted; perhaps the office would be raided; perhaps the Italian comrades who were staying there would be arrested. I rapidly reviewed in my mind's eye the papers and letters which were in the office, wondering whether anything incriminating would be found; but I did not feel much perturbed on that score, as it was my invariable custom to burn all papers of importance, and I felt certain that nothing more compromising would be found than the Bleeding Lamb's tract on the Seven-headed Beast, which, according to its author, would "make the old Queen sit up a bit," and Gresham's treatise on the persecutions of the Early Christians. I was glad to think that Kosinski had settled to leave the country. I knew that Giannoli had left with him much of his correspondence, and I trusted that this would not fall into the hands of the police.

I had now nearly reached my destination and, as I turned up the corner of Lysander Grove, I at once realised that something unusual had taken place at the office. The shutters were still up at Mrs. Wattles's green-grocer's shop, and that lady herself loomed large at the entrance to the courtyard leading to the Tocsin, surrounded by her chief gossips and by a dozen or two of dirty matrons. Several windows were up in the houses opposite and slatternly-looking women were craning out and exchanging observations. I hurried on and, pushing my way past Mrs. Wattles, who I could see at a glance was in liquor, and heedless of her remarks, I ran down the narrow courtyard to the office door which I found shut. I knocked impatiently and loudly; the door opened and I was confronted by a detective.

What I had expected had happened. The office had been raided, and was now in the hands of the police. In answer to my inquiring look, the detective requested me to come in and speak to the inspector. In the ground-floor room three or four Italian comrades were gathered together. The one-eyed baker, Beppe, was addressing the others in a loud voice; as far as I could gather from the few words I caught, he was relating some prison experiences. The group looked unusually animated and jolly; the incident evidently reminded them of their own country. As soon as they saw me enter they interrupted their talk, and Beppe stepped forward to shake hands, but the officer of the law interposed: "Now, you fellows, stay there; the young lady is going to speak to the inspector." I told Beppe I should soon be down, and he retired, pulling a wry face at the detective, and making some observation to his friends which made them all roar with laughter. Upstairs a scene of wild disorder greeted my eye. Four or five policemen were turning over heaps of old papers, searching through dusty cupboards and shelves; heaps of pie lay about the floor—evidently some one had put a foot through the form of type ready set for the forthcoming issue of the Tocsin; on the "composing surface" stood a formidable array of pint pots, with the contents of which the men in blue had been refreshing themselves. On a packing-case in the middle of the room sat Short, his billycock hat set far back on his long, greasy hair, smoking a clay pipe with imperturbable calm; whilst little M'Dermott, spry as ever, watched the proceedings, pulling faces at the policemen behind their backs, and "kidding" them with extraordinary tales as to the fearful explosive qualities of certain ginger-beer bottles which were ranged on a shelf. At the editorial table, which was generally covered with a litter of proofs and manuscript, more or less greasy and jammy, owing to our habit of feeding in the office, sat the inspector, going through the heaps of papers, pamphlets, and manuscript articles which were submitted to his scrutiny by his satellites. I took in all this at a glance, and walking straight up to the inspector, I demanded of him an explanation of this unwarranted invasion of the office.

His first answer was an interrogation.

"You are Isabel Meredith, are you not?"

This opened up an explanation which was brief and conclusive. The inspector showed me a search-warrant, duly signed by a magistrate, and another warrant for the arrest of Kosinski, and informed me that the office had been opened to him by Short, who had represented himself as one of the proprietors. The primary object of the search was to see if Kosinski, who was wanted by the police in connection with the Madrid outrage, were not on the premises, and also to see if there were no incriminating documents or explosive materials concealed there.

"And have you found anything very alarming?" I inquired sarcastically.

"No, miss," the inspector replied in the same tone; "the most dangerous object in this place seems to be your printer" (he pointed at Short), "and we have kept at a fairly safe distance from him. Still, of course, I have to go through all these papers; they may yet give us a clue to the whereabouts of Kosinski or your friend Giannoli;" and here he looked me straight in the face.

"Maybe," I simply replied with a shrug. I felt perfectly tranquil on that score, and had but small doubt that Kosinski was by now already on his way out of the country, as he would judge from the papers that the police would be on his track.

"And when will this search be over?" I inquired.

"Oh, I cannot exactly tell you. It will take me some days to go all through these papers. We shall probably be here for two or three days."

I looked around me. Everything was disorganised. The type cases had all been emptied into a heap in the middle of the room, the forms ready locked up had been pied, the MSS. and papers sequestered. It was utterly hopeless to think of bringing out the Tocsin. The scene reminded me of my first experience of an Anarchist printing-office after the police raid on the Bomb; but now I no longer had Armitage to encourage me with his unswerving optimism and untiring energy, nor Kosinski to urge me on with his contempt of dilettantism and half-hearted enthusiasm. True, Short was there, much the same as in the old days; even his dog could be heard snarling and growling when the policemen administered to him some sly kick; but as I looked at the squalid and lethargic figure with its sallow, unhealthy, repulsive face, I was overcome by a feeling of almost physical nausea. I realised fully how loathsome this gutter Iago had become to me during the past few months, during which I had had ample opportunity to note his pettifogging envy and jealousy, his almost simian inquisitiveness and prying curiosity. I felt I could not work with him; his presence had become intolerable to me. I realised that this was the finale, the destined end of the Tocsin and of my active revolutionary propaganda. I had changed. Why not let the dead bury their dead?

At this moment the policeman who had opened the office door to me came up bringing a letter, which he handed to the inspector.

"It is for you, miss," that functionary said, reading the address, "but I have orders to open all correspondence. You will excuse my complying with them."

My heart stood still. Could it be from Kosinski or Giannoli? After a moment the inspector handed the note to me. It was from the landlord—a notice to quit. I walked up and showed it to Short.

"Well, what will you do?" he inquired. They were the first words we had exchanged that morning.

"I shall leave," I replied.

"And how about the paper? Do you think of starting it again?"

"No, I do not think so; not for the present at any rate."

"And the 'plant'?"

"I shall leave that too. You can look after it, you and the comrades!"

"Oh, the comrades!" sneered Short, and returned to his pipe.

I turned once more to the inspector. "I am free to leave, I suppose?" I inquired. "I cannot see that my presence here serves any purpose."

"Oh yes, miss, you can go if you like. The presence of the printer is sufficient for us. I understand he is one of the proprietors?"

"Oh yes, he is a proprietor," I replied, and turned on my heel. M'Dermott came up to me.

"Well, my dear," he said, "so you are leaving. Well, I don't blame you, nor wish you to remain. After all, it is no use trying to tinker up our rotten system, or to prop up society with such wretched supports as our friend here," and he pointed at Short. "What we need is to get round them by our insidious means, and then go in for wholesale assassination!"

I could not help smiling as the little man gave vent to this bloodthirsty sentiment in an undertone; he wrung my hand warmly, and we parted.

"What do you intend doing with those Italians who stay here?" I inquired of the inspector as the sound of a guitar proceeding from downstairs recalled my thoughts to them.

"I think it best to detain them here until I have finished searching the place thoroughly; then if I find nothing to incriminate them, they will be free. You need not worry about them, miss, they do not seem likely to suffer from depression."

The twanging of the guitar was now accompanied by Beppe's powerful baritone voice, whilst the others joined in the chorus:

"Noi, profughi D'Italia...."

I walked down the stairs.

"Good-bye, Comrades!"

"Good-bye, a rivederci!" and after giving one last look at the familiar scene, I walked out.

As I made my way down the yard leading to the street, I encountered Mrs. Wattles at the back door of her shop. She had now reached the maudlin stage of intoxication. Her eyes were bleary, her mouth tremulous, her complexion bloated and inflamed. There was something indefinite in her appearance, suggesting the idea that her face had been boiled, and that the features had run, losing all sharpness of outline and expression. She fixed me with her fishy eye, and dabbing her face with the corner of her apron began to blubber.

"S'elp me Gawd, miss," she began, "I never thought as I should come to this! To have them narks under my very roof, abrazenin' it out! I always knew as there was something wrong abart pore Mr. Janly, and many's the time I've said to 'im, 'Mr. Janly, sir,' I've said, 'do take a little something, yer look so pale.' But 'e always answered, 'No, Mrs. Wattles, no; you've been a mother to me, Mrs. Wattles, and I know you're right, but I can't do it. 'Ere's for 'alf a pint to drink my health, but I can't do it.' And I dare say as it were them temp'rance scrupils like as brought 'im to 'is end."

At these tender recollections of Giannoli the good lady quite broke down.

"To think that it was I as let you that very shop two years last Christmas, and that pore Mr. Cusings, as was sweet on you then—I've not seen 'im lately—and now the coppers are under my very roof! It seems a judgment on us, it really does. But I always told Wattles that if he went on treatin' of 'is wedded wife more like a 'eathen than a Christian woman, as a judgment would come on 'im, an' now my words is proved."

She seemed by now quite oblivious of my presence: a quivering shapeless mass of gin-drenched humanity she collapsed on to the doorstep. And with this for my last sight and recollection of the place which had witnessed so much enthusiasm, so many generous hopes and aspirations, and where so many illusions lay buried, I walked forth into the London street a sadder if a wiser woman.

THE END