"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, Senor 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 Senor 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