Verney shrugged his shoulders.
“They’ve ratted. Timid as rabbits. There won’t be any General Strike, or Social Revolution. The Government has won that trick. But they look pretty silly with their Army Reserve and Home Defence. Not a single case of violence, except among soldiers who looted a village through sheer boredom.”
A shadow seemed to pass from Bernard Hall’s face.
“I’m relieved to hear all that, Verney. I’m for evolution, not revolution. If you’d challenged the Government by ‘direct action,’ there would have been bloodshed and chaos, ending in the utter defeat of Labour.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” said Verney. “I’m not one of the Reds, anyhow. I’ve no patience with those who want to destroy at all costs, without a notion of how they’re going to build up out of ruin.”
Bertram left the two men talking. He had heard enough to know that the Strike, or Lock-out, or whatever one liked to call it, was going to end in compromise. After all, he’d been right in backing the men! None of those awful things had happened which had been prophesied on the one hand by the Duke of Bramshaw, Lady Ottery, and their set, on the other by the parlour Jacobins of the “Left Wing.” The miners had gone on whitewashing their cottages, sowing seeds in little front gardens. The Unemployed in London, growing in numbers, because of industry closing down, had not invaded Mayfair, except with collection boxes and banners.
The Government and the Mine-owners had admitted at least half the men’s case after an ultimatum far too brutal in its original terms. England was not going to break out in civil conflict just yet, or ever, if the men were given anything like a fair deal. English character remained the same as he had seen it in the trenches, solid, steady, without passion. It had always chosen the middle of the road.
Well, he would soon be out of England, wandering among other peoples, studying their problems and psychology. Perhaps he would get as far as Russia, and link up with Christy in Moscow! Extraordinary adventure! What was it old Christy had said, at the top of his stairs?
“If you’re not cut out for disloyalty—and it needs a special temperament—cut and run when loyalty’s over-strained. It’s the safest way . . . and Moscow’s an interesting place.”
Queer words! He hadn’t understood them at the time. Now he seemed to see a special meaning in them. They referred a little to Joyce, and a little to Janet. His loyalty to Janet was getting overstrained. He was being tempted to disloyalty, perhaps to Christy as well as to Joyce. Janet had put a spell on him. That night in her flat was not very safe for a lonely man, abandoned, temporarily or otherwise, by his wife. It was too cosy there, making cocoa over an electric fire for a girl whose laughter and wisdom and comradeship were given generously. The chance of other nights like that, and of comradeship closer and more enduring, might overstrain loyalty to breaking-point. He was human, and pretty weak at that. “Cut and run,” old Christy had said. For him there would be torture of conscience in disloyalty. “Sir Faithful,” Janet called him. At least he wasn’t cut out for the part of Lancelot.