GRAHAM REMEMBERS
She came upon him at last in a little that ran from the Wind-Vane Offices toward his apartments. The was long and narrow, with a series of recesses, each with an that looked upon a of palms. He came upon her in one of these recesses. She was seated. She her at the of his and started at the of him. Every touch of colour from her face. She rose instantly, a step toward him as if to address him, and hesitated. He stopped and still, expectant. Then he that a her, perceived, too, that she must have speech with him to be waiting for him in this place.
He a to her. "I have wanted to see you," he said. "A days ago you wanted to tell me something—you wanted to tell me of the people. What was it you had to tell me?"
She looked at him with eyes.
"You said the people were unhappy?"
For a moment she was still.
"It must have to you," she said abruptly.
"It did. And yet—"
"It was an impulse."
"Well?"
"That is all."
She looked at him with a of hesitation. She spoke with an effort.
"You forget," she said, a breath.
"What?"
"The people—"
"Do you mean—?"
"You the people."
He looked interrogative.
"Yes. I know you are surprised. For you do not what you are.
You do not know the that are happening."
"Well?"
"You do not understand."
"Not clearly, perhaps. But—tell me."
She to him with resolution. "It is so hard to explain. I have meant to, I have wanted to. And now—I cannot. I am not with words. But about you—there is something. It is wonder. Your sleep—your awakening. These are miracles. To me at least—and to all the common people. You who and and died, you who were a common citizen, wake again, live again, to Master almost of the earth."
"Master of the earth," he said. "So they tell me. But try and how little I know of it."
"Cities—Trusts—the Labour Department—"
"Principalities, powers, dominions—the power and the glory. Yes, I have them shout. I know. I am Master. King, if you wish. With Ostrog, the Boss—"
He paused.
She upon him and his with a scrutiny.
"Well?"
He smiled. "To take the responsibility."
"That is what we have to fear." For a moment she said no more. "No," she said slowly. "You will take the responsibility. You will take the responsibility. The people look to you."
She spoke softly. "Listen! For at least the years of your sleep—in every generation—multitudes of people, in every of people, have prayed that you might awake—prayed."
Graham moved to speak and did not.
She hesitated, and a colour to her cheek. "Do you know that you have been to myriads—King Arthur, Barbarossa—the King who would come in his own good time and put the world right for them?"
"I the of the people—"
"Have you not our proverb, 'When the Sleeper wakes'? While you and there—thousands came. Thousands. Every of the month you in with a white upon you and the people by you. When I was a little girl I saw you like that, with your white and calm."
She her from him and looked at the painted her. Her voice fell. "When I was a little girl I used to look at your face…. It to me and waiting, like the patience of God."
"That is what we of you," she said. "That is how you to us."
She to him, her voice was clear and strong. "In the city, in the earth, a myriad men and are waiting to see what you will do, full of expectations."
"Yes?"
"Ostrog—no one—can take that responsibility."
Graham looked at her in surprise, at her with emotion. She at to have spoken with an effort, and to have herself by speaking.
"Do you think," she said, "that you who have that little life so away in the past, you who have into and out of this of sleep—do you think that the wonder and and of the world has about you only that you may live another little life?… That you may shift the to any other man?"
"I know how great this of mine is," he said haltingly. "I know how great it seems. But is it real? It is incredible—dreamlike. Is it real, or is it only a great delusion?"
"It is real," she said; "if you dare."
"After all, like all kingship, my is Belief. It is an in the minds of men."
"If you dare!" she said.
"But—"
"Countless men," she said, "and while it is in their minds—they will obey."
"But I know nothing. That is what I had in mind. I know nothing. And these others—the Councillors, Ostrog. They are wiser, cooler, they know so much, every detail. And, indeed, what are these of which you speak? What am I to know? Do you mean—"
He stopped blankly.
"I am still more than a girl," she said. "But to me the world full of wretchedness. The world has since your day, very strangely. I have prayed that I might see you and tell you these things. The world has changed. As if a had it—and life of—everything having."
She a upon him, moving suddenly. "Your days were the days of freedom. Yes—I have thought. I have been to think, for my life—has not been happy. Men are no longer free—no greater, no than the men of your time. That is not all. This city—is a prison. Every city now is a prison. Mammon the key in his hand. Myriads, myriads, from the to the grave. Is that right? Is that to be—for ever? Yes, than in your time. All about us, us, and pain. All the of such life as you about you, is by just a little from a life of any telling. Yes, the know it—they know they suffer. These who death for you two nights since—! You your life to them."
"Yes," said Graham, slowly. "Yes. I my life to them."
"You come," she said, "from the days when this new of the was beginning. It is a tyranny—a tyranny. In your days the had gone, and the new of had still to come. Half the men in the world still out upon the free countryside. The had still to them. I have the out of the old books—there was nobility! Common men of love and then—they did a thousand things. And you—you come from that time."
"It was not—. But mind. How is it now—?"
"Gain and the Pleasure Cities! Or slavery—unthanked, unhonoured, slavery."
"Slavery!" he said.
"Slavery."
"You don't to say that beings are chattels."
"Worse. That is what I want you to know, what I want you to see. I know you do not know. They will keep from you, they will take you presently to a Pleasure City. But you have noticed men and and children in canvas, with thin yellow and eyes?"
"Everywhere."
"Speaking a dialect, and weak."
"I have it."
"They are the slaves—your slaves. They are the of the Labour
Department you own."
"The Labour Department! In some way—that is familiar. Ah! now I remember. I saw it when I was about the city, after the lights returned, great of blue. Do you mean—?"
"Yes. How can I it to you? Of the you.
Nearly a third of our people wear it—more assume it now every day. This
Labour Department has imperceptibly."
"What is this Labour Department?" asked Graham.
"In the old times, how did you manage with people?"
"There was the workhouse—which the maintained."
"Workhouse! Yes—there was something. In our history lessons. I now. The Labour Department the workhouse. It grew—partly—out of something—you, perhaps, may it—an religious called the Salvation Army—that a company. In the place it was almost a charity. To save people from rigours. There had been a great against the workhouse. Now I come to think of it, it was one of the properties your Trustees acquired. They the Salvation Army and it as this. The idea in the place was to the of people."
"Yes."
"Nowadays there are no workhouses, no and charities, nothing but that Department. Its offices are everywhere. That is its colour. And any man, woman or child who comes to be and and with neither home friend resort, must go to the Department in the end—or some way of death. The Euthanasy is their means—for the there is no easy death. And at any hour in the day or night there is food, and a for all comers—that is the condition of the Department's incorporation—and in return for a day's the Department a day's work, and then returns the visitor's proper and sends him or her out again."
"Yes?"
"Perhaps that not so terrible to you. In your time men in your streets. That was bad. But they died—men. These people in blue—. The proverb runs: 'Blue once and ever.' The Department in their labour, and it has taken to itself of the supply. People come to it and helpless—they eat and sleep for a night and day, they work for a day, and at the end of the day they go out again. If they have well they have a or so—enough for a theatre or a dancing place, or a story, or a dinner or a bet. They about after that is spent. Begging is by the police of the ways. Besides, no one gives. They come again the next day or the day after—brought by the same that them first. At last their proper out, or their so that they are ashamed. Then they must work for months to fresh. If they want fresh. A great number of children are under the Department's care. The mother them a month thereafter—the children they and educate until they are fourteen, and they pay two years' service. You may be sure these children are for the canvas. And so it is the Department works."
"And none are in the city?"
"None. They are either in or in prison. We have destitution. It is upon the Department's checks."
"If they will not work?"
"Most people will work at that pitch, and the Department has powers. There are of in the work—stoppage of food—and a man or woman who has to work once is by a thumb-marking in the Department's offices all over the world. Besides, who can the city poor? To go to Paris two Lions. And for there are the prisons—dark and miserable—out of below. There are now for many things."
"And a third of the people wear this canvas?"
"More than a third. Toilers, without or or hope, with the of Pleasure Cities in their ears, their lives, their and hardships. Too for the Euthanasy, the rich man's from life. Dumb, millions, millions, all the world about, of anything but and desires. They are born, they are and they die. That is the to which we have come."
For a space Graham sat downcast.
"But there has been a revolution," he said. "All these will be changed. Ostrog—"
"That is our hope. That is the of the world. But Ostrog will not do it. He is a politician. To him it must be like this. He not mind. He takes it for granted. All the rich, all the influential, all who are happy, come at last to take these for granted. They use the people in their politics, they live in by their degradation. But you—you who come from a age—it is to you the people look. To you."
He looked at her face. Her were with tears. He a of emotion. For a moment he this city, he the race, and all those voices, in the of her beauty.
"But what am I to do?" he said with his upon her.
"Rule," she answered, him and speaking in a low tone. "Rule the world as it has been ruled, for the good and of men. For you might it—you it.
"The people are stirring. All over the world the people are stirring. It wants but a word—but a word from you—to them all together. Even the middle of people are restless—unhappy.
"They are not telling you the that are happening. The people will not go to their drudgery—they to be disarmed. Ostrog has something than he of—he has hopes."
His was fast. He to judicial, to considerations.
"They only want their leader," she said.
"And then?"
"You do what you would;—the world is yours."
He sat, no longer her. Presently he spoke. "The old dreams, and the thing I have dreamt, liberty, happiness. Are they dreams? Could one man—one man—?" His voice and ceased.
"Not one man, but all men—give them only a leader to speak the of their hearts."
He his head, and for a time there was silence.
He looked up suddenly, and their met. "I have not your faith," he said, "I have not your youth. I am here with power that me. No—let me speak. I want to do—not right—I have not the for that—but something right than wrong. It will no millennium, but I am now, that I will rule. What you have said has me… You are right. Ostrog must know his place. And I will learn—…. One thing I promise you. This Labour shall end."
"And you will rule?"
"Yes. Provided—. There is one thing."
"Yes?"
"That you will help me."
"I—a girl!"
"Yes. Does it not to you I am alone?"
She started and for an her had pity. "Need you ask I will help you?" she said.
There came a silence, and then the of a clock the hour. Graham rose.
"Even now," he said, "Ostrog will be waiting." He hesitated, her.
"When I have asked him questions—. There is much I do not know.
It may be, that I will go to see with my own the of which you
have spoken. And when I return—?"
"I shall know of your going and coming. I will wait for you here again."
They one another steadfastly, questioningly, and then he from her the Wind-Vane office.
