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A New England Peace War 1886 1918 1st Edition Geoffrey Russell Searle Download

A New England? Peace and War 1886-1918 by Geoffrey Russell Searle is a comprehensive examination of the historical period in England marked by significant political and social changes. The book synthesizes existing literature and provides insights into the complexities of peace and war during this era. Published by Oxford University Press, it is part of the New Oxford History of England series.

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A New England Peace War 1886 1918 1st Edition Geoffrey Russell Searle Download

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A New England Peace War 1886 1918 1st Edition
Geoffrey Russell Searle Digital Instant Download
Author(s): Geoffrey Russell Searle
ISBN(s): 9780199284405, 0199284407
Edition: 1
File Details: PDF, 21.43 MB
Year: 2004
Language: english
Copyright © 2005. Oxford University Press, Incorporated. All rights reserved.

General Editor j. m. roberts

G. R. S E ARLE
Copyright © 2005. Oxford University Press, Incorporated. All rights reserved.

CLARENDON PRESS OXFORD

outside the scope of the above should be sent to the Rights

Department, Oxford University Press, at the address above
You must not circulate this book in any other binding or cover
and you must impose this same condition on any acquirer
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Data available
Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data
Data available
Typeset by SPI Publisher Services, Pondicherry, India
Printed in Great Britain
on acid-free paper by
Ashford Colour Press Limited,
Gosport, Hampshire.
ISBN 0-19-820714-x 978-0-19-820714-6
ISBN 0-19-928440-7 (Pbk.) 978-0-19-928440-5 (Pbk.)
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

The first volume of Sir George Clark’s Oxford History of England was pub-
lished in 1934. Undertaking the General Editorship of a New Oxford History of
England forty-five years later it was hard not to feel overshadowed by its
powerful influence and well-deserved status. Some of Clark’s volumes (his
own among them) were brilliant individual achievements, hard to rival and
impossible to match. Of course, he and his readers shared a broad sense of the
purpose and direction of such books. His successor can no longer be sure of
doing that. The building-blocks of the story, its reasonable and meaningful
demarcations and divisions, the continuities and discontinuities, the priorities
of different varieties of history, the place of narrative—all these things are now
much harder to agree upon. We now know much more about many things, and
think about what we know in different ways. It is not surprising that historians
now sometimes seem unsure about the audience to which their scholarship and
writing are addressed.
In the end, authors should be left to write their own books. None the less,
the New Oxford History of England is intended to be more than a collection of
discrete or idiosyncratic histories in chronological order. Its aim is to give an
account of the development of our country in time. It is hard to treat that
development as just the history which unfolds within the precise boundaries of
England, and a mistake to suggest that this implies a neglect of the histories of
Copyright © 2005. Oxford University Press, Incorporated. All rights reserved.

the Scots, Irish, and Welsh. Yet the institutional core of the story which runs
from Anglo-Saxon times to our own is the story of a state-structure built round
the English monarchy and its effective successor, the Crown in Parliament, and
that provides the only continuous articulation of the history of peoples we
today call British. It follows that there must be uneven and sometimes discon-
tinuous treatment of much of the history of those peoples. The state story
remains, nevertheless, an intelligible thread and to me appears still to justify
the title both of this series and that of its predecessor.
If the attention given to the other kingdoms and the principality of Wales
must reflect in this series their changing relationship to that central theme, this
is not only way in which the emphasis of individual volumes will be different.
Each author has been asked to bring forward what he or she sees as the most
important topics explaining the history under study, taking account of the
present state of historical knowledge, drawing attention to areas of dispute
and to matters on which final judgement is at present difficult (or,
perhaps, impossible) and not merely recapitulating what has recently been

j. m. roberts
Copyright © 2005. Oxford University Press, Incorporated. All rights reserved.

Few periods of English history have attracted so rich and voluminous a

literature as that spanning the years 1886–1918. Writing this work of synthesis
has therefore offered a daunting challenge. How indebted I am to earlier
labourers in the vineyard will be apparent from the footnotes to the text and
from the Bibliography. The book would also have been much the poorer but
for the stimulation and advice of friends and colleagues. I particularly appreci-
ate the input of those who read draft chapters and saved me from many a
foolish slip: namely, John Charmley, Roy Church, Stephen Church, Jon Cook,
Colin Davis, Eric Homberger, Mark Knights, Adrian Martin, Carole
Rawcliffe, Michael Sanderson, and Richard Wilson. Any remaining faults are
of course my own.
Throughout the period that I have been preparing this volume I have
enjoyed indispensable support from the University of East Anglia in the
form of facilities, secretarial assistance, and study leave. I also benefited greatly
from the ‘time-off’ award that I received from the British Academy / Human-
ities Research Board. Library staff at Cambridge University Library as well as
at my own university have given me unfailing help in my book searches.
Thanks are also due to Anne Gelling, Ruth Parr, and Kay Rogers of the
Oxford University Press, who put their professional skills at my disposal and
steadied the ship when it entered choppy waters. Sadly John Roberts did not
Copyright © 2005. Oxford University Press, Incorporated. All rights reserved.

live to see the publication of this volume but, despite his declining health, read
the entire text in draft and was generous in his encouragement and suggestions.
The index was completed by Dr Michael Tombs, to whom I am also grateful.
Finally words cannot express the extent of my debt to my wife Barbara,
without whose great patience and support the book would never have reached
completion.

November 2003 g. r. searle

List of Plates xvii

List of Tables and Map xix
Abbreviations xx

i n t r o du c t i o n 1

PART I ENGLAND IN 1886

1. n a t i o n a l i s m a n d n a t i o n a l i t y 7
1. English and ‘Celts’ 7
2. Foreign Immigration 18
3. The English Exodus 22
4. ‘Our Kith and Kin’ 26
5. Foreigners 29
6. The Empire and ‘Race’ 31
7. Schooling and Patriotism 36
8. Conclusion 41
Copyright © 2005. Oxford University Press, Incorporated. All rights reserved.

2. g e n e r a t i o n a n d g e n de r 44
1. The Young 46
2. The Position of Women 55
3. Gender Roles 63
4. Sexual Mores 70
5. Votes for Women 77
6. Conclusion 80
3. s oc i a l i d e n t i t i e s : c la s s , c o m m u n i ty ,
a n d th e m a s s es 82
1. Locality 84
2. Vertical StratiWcation: Occupation 88
3. Horizontal StratiWcation: Class 91
4. Religion and Culture 100

PART II LATE VICTORIAN ENGLAND

1886–1899
5. h om e r u l e a n d th e p o l i t i c s o f u n i on i s m 149
1. The Aftermath of the Home Rule Crisis 149
2. Salisbury and the Unionist Alliance, 1886–1892 151
3. The Liberals in OYce, 1892–1895 162
4. The Disappearance of the Irish Question? 169
6. t h e s o c i a l q u e s t i o n : c o n f l i c t a n d
s t a b i l i t y, 1 8 8 6– 1 8 9 9 172
Copyright © 2005. Oxford University Press, Incorporated. All rights reserved.

1. The Crisis of the 1880s 172

2. Agricultural Depression and Rural Society 175
3. Industrial Unrest and the ‘New Unionism’ 183
4. The March of Progress? 186
5. The Social Explorers and the
‘People of the Abyss’ 192
6. The Making of Social Policy 197
7. po l i t i c s a n d th e s o c i a l q u e s t i o n ,
18 8 6 – 1 89 9 203
1. The Salisbury Government, 1886–1892 203

PART III EDWARDIAN ENGLAND

10. t h e u n i o n i s t p r o j e c t , 1902–1905 311
International Relations 312
1. The Reorganization of Imperial Defence 312
2. The End of Isolation? 320
The Domestic Front 329
1. The 1902 Education Act 329
2. The Genesis of TariV Reform 334
3. Drifting to Disaster 341
4. A Doomed Project? 344
5. The End of the Unionist Ascendancy 349

t r a ns i t i o n t o l i b e r a l ru l e , 19 0 6 –1 90 8
1. The 1906 General Election 358
2. The Liberals in OYce: The Early Years 362
11. t h e l i b e r al p a r t y an d s o c i a l
we l f ar e p o l it i cs 366
1. The Liberal Welfare Reforms 366
2. Rationale for Legislation 369
3. Creating an Imperial Race? 375
4. The Political Legacy of Welfare Reform 386
5. Health and Welfare in Edwardian Britain 398
12. t h e y e a r s o f ‘crisis’, 1908–1914 407
1. Introduction 407
2. The Constitutional Crisis 411
3. Crisis in Ireland 424
4. The Issue of Corruption 434
5. The Great Labour Unrest 438
6. The Women’s Revolt 456
Copyright © 2005. Oxford University Press, Incorporated. All rights reserved.

7. The Strange Death of Liberal England? 470

13. t h e r oa d t o wa r 474
1. Imperial Policy 474
2. The Formation of the Anglo-Russian Entente 483
3. The Hardening of the Anglo-French Entente 486
4. The Strategic Dilemma 487
5. Grey Under Challenge 495
6. Invasion Scares and Spies 504
7. A Militarized Society? 510
8. Feeling in the Country 515
9. The Challenge of the Peace Movement 517
10. Crisis 521

PART IV LEISURE, CULTURE, AND SCIENCE

14. t h e p u rs u i t o f p l e a s u r e 529
1. Time For Play 529
2. The Role of Religion 532
3. Rational Recreation 538
4. Rise of the Leisure Industry 543
5. ‘I Do Like To Be Beside the Seaside’ 553
6. Forbidden Pleasures 556
7. Hobbies 567
15. a r t a n d cu l t u r e 571
1. The Market for Art 571
2. Art and Morality 577
3. Realism and Modernism 589
4. The Nature of ‘Englishness’ 594
5. Pastoralism 602
6. Conclusion 613
16. s c i e n c e a n d l e a r n i n g 615
1. The Age of Discovery 615
2. Technology and Science 619
3. Britain’s International Performance
Copyright © 2005. Oxford University Press, Incorporated. All rights reserved.

623
4. The ‘Endowment of Research’ Movement 626
5. Attitudes to Science and Technology 635
6. Science and Spirituality 640
7. Social Science 643
8. The Triumph of Academia? 649

PART V THE GREAT WAR

17. t h e g r e a t w a r: t h e l o s s o f
innocence, 1914 – 1 9 1 6 663
1. ‘All Over By Christmas?’:
August–December 1914 663
2. The End of the Liberal Ministry,
January–May 1915 671

1. Gender and Generation 777

2. Class and the Military Participation Ratio 793
3. The Growth of the State 806
4. Political Identities 823

Chronology 839
List of Cabinets 852
General Elections 861
Bibliography 864
Index 903

(between pp. 491 and 492)

1. The Diamond Jubilee procession passes through Trafalgar Square, 1897

(Mary Evans Picture Library)
2. London congestion, 1912. The junction between Holborn and Kingsway is
crowded with both horse-drawn and motorized traYc. The entrance to the
underground station can be seen on the corner (Hulton)
3. An advertisement of 1900 plays on the social aspirations of rich and poor
(Mary Evans Picture Library)
4. The Lobby of the House of Commons, 1886, from the Vanity Fair
Christmas Supplement of 1886. The foreground group includes (left to
right) Joseph Chamberlain, Charles Stewart Parnell, William Gladstone,
Lord Randolph Churchill, and Lord Hartington. John Bright stands third
from the left (National Portrait Gallery)
5. A Sunderland slum area, 1889 (Hulton)
6. The motor car as both status symbol and fashion accessory—the actress
Ethel Oliver goes motoring, c.1910 (Hulton)

7. HMS Dreadnought 1909. This picture clearly illustrates the size and
Copyright © 2005. Oxford University Press, Incorporated. All rights reserved.

modern technology associated with this ship (Hulton)

8. Native stretcher-bearers carry the wounded at the battle of Colenso (15–16

December 1899) (Mary Evans Picture Library)

9. Mafeking Night, 18 May 1900. Crowds in Central London celebrate the

relief of Mafeking (Mary Evans Picture Library)

10. Children in the street in London’s Whitechapel, August 1911 (Hulton)

11. Workers were only too aware of the contrasts between rich and poor, as is
shown by the banner carried in this unemployment march in London, 10
October 1908 (Hulton)

12. Ulster Day, 1 September 1912. Lord Charles Beresford, F. E. Smith, and
Edward Carson lead the protest rally to City Hall, Belfast, for the signing
of the Covenant against Home Rule (Hulton)

14. Early Xight, 1912: a Claude Grahame-White hydrophone is featured in the

Daily Mail (Mary Evans Picture Library)

15. The 1907 Colonial Conference in London, 8 May 1907. Winston Church-
ill, Under-Secretary at the Colonial OYce, is on the far left of the middle
row (Hulton)

16. A boy-scout camp, c.1910. Buglers sound the salute as the boys have
breakfast (Hulton)

17. A working-class treat: families are taken on a Bank Holiday excursion,

c.1895 (Mary Evans Picture Library)

18. Aston Villa score a goal against Newcastle United, 1904 (Mary Evans
Picture Library)

19. Blackpool, c.1903, with the Blackpool Tower in the distance (Hulton)

20. The music hall, Lambeth, c.1900—a large audience has gathered for the
last performance of the night (Hulton)

21. Letchworth Garden City, November 1912. Note the space given over to
allotments and the Arts and Crafts style of the houses (Hulton)
Copyright © 2005. Oxford University Press, Incorporated. All rights reserved.

22. Ernest Rutherford’s room at the Cavendish Laboratory, Cambridge

(Cavendish Laboratory, University of Cambridge)

23. Birmingham University buildings (University of Birmingham Information

Services, Special Collections)

24. In Manchester, Flora Drummond and Phyllis Ayrton greet David Lloyd
George and introduce him to a group of enthusiastic women munitions
workers, September 1918 (Mary Evans Picture Library)

25. Trench warfare, c.1916. German prisoners act as stretcher-bearers near

Bourton Wood (Mary Evans Picture Library)

26. ‘Women’s Work’: switchboard operators at the new telephone exchange at

Euston, London in February 1915 (Hulton)

Searle, G. R.. A New England? : Peace and War 1886-1918, Oxford University Press, Incorporated, 2005. ProQuest Ebook
Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/york-ebooks/detail.action?docID=5097214.
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brought back suggestions of antipathy and scorn. Those few minutes
spent with her had covered the world of Eve’s impressions with a
cold, grey light. She felt herself a hard young woman, quite
determined against patronage, and quite incapable of letting herself
be made a fool of by any emotions whatever.
Glancing aside she saw Canterton talking to a parson. He was
talking with his lips, but his eyes were on her. He had the hovering
and impatient air of a man held back against his inclinations, and
trying to cover with courtesy his desire to break away.
He was coming back to her, for there was something inevitable
and magnetic about those eyes of his. A little spasm of shame and
exultation glowed out from the midst of the half cynical mood that
had fallen on her. She turned and moved away, wondering what had
become of Lynette.
“I want to show you something.”
She felt herself thrill. The hardness seemed to melt at the sound
of his voice.
“Oh?”
“Let’s get away from the crowd. It is really preposterous. What
fools we all are in a crowd.”
“Too much self-consciousness.”
“Are you, too, self-conscious?”
“Sometimes.”
“Not when you are interested.”
“Perhaps not.”
They passed several of Canterton’s men parading the walks
leading to the nurseries. Temporary wire fences and gates had been
put up here and there. Canterton smiled.
“Doesn’t it strike you as almost too pointed?”
“What, that barbed wire?”
“Yes. I believe I have made myself an offence to the
neighbourhood. But the few people I care about understand.
Besides, we give to our friends.”
“I think you must have been a brave man.”
“No, an obstinate one. I did not see why the Mrs. Brocklebanks
should have pieces of my rare plants. I have even had my men
bribed once or twice. You should hear Lavender on the subject. Look
at that!”
He had brought her down to see the heath garden, and her
verdict was an awed silence. They stood side by side, looking at the
magnificent masses of colour glowing in the afternoon light.
“Oh, how exquisite!”
“It is rather like drinking when one is thirsty.”
“Yes.”
He half turned to her.
“I want to see the Latimer paintings. May I come down after
dinner, and have a chat with your mother?”
She felt something rise in her throat, a faint spasm of resistance
that lasted only for a moment.
“But—the artificial light?”
“I want to see them.”
It was not so much a surrender on her part as a tacit acceptance
of his enthusiasm.
“Yes, come.”
“Thank you.”
CHAPTER XIII
A MAN IN THE MOONLIGHT

It was no unusual thing for Canterton to spend hours in the

gardens and nurseries after dark. He was something of a star-gazer
and amateur astronomer, but it was the life of the earth by night
that drew him out with lantern, collecting-box and hand lens. Often
he went moth hunting, for the history of many a moth is also the
history of some pestilence that cankers and blights the green growth
of some tree or shrub. No one who has not gone out by night with a
lantern to search and to observe has any idea of the strange,
creeping life that wakes with the darkness. It is like the life of
another world, thousand-legged, slimy, grotesque, repulsive, and yet
full of significance to the Nature student who goes out to use his
eyes.
Canterton had some of Darwin’s thoroughness and patience. He
had spent hours watching centipedes or the spore changes of
myxomycetes on a piece of dead fir bough. He experimented with
various compounds for the extinction of slugs, and studied the ways
of wood-lice and earth worms. All very ridiculous, no doubt, in a
man whose income ran into thousands a year. Sometimes he had
been able to watch a shrew at work, or perhaps a queer snuffling
sound warned him of the nearness of a hedgehog. This was the
utilitarian side of his vigils. He was greatly interested, æsthetically
and scientifically, in the sleep of plants and flowers, and in the ways
of those particular plants whose loves are consummated at night,
shy white virgins with perfumed bodies who leave the day to their
bolder and gaudier fellows. Some moth played Eros. He studied
plants in their sleep, the change of posture some of them adopted,
the drooping of the leaves, the closing of the petals. All sorts of
things happened of which the ordinary gardener had not the
slightest knowledge. There were atmospheric changes to be
recorded, frosts, dew falls and the like. Very often Canterton would
be up before sunrise, watching which birds were stirring first, and
who was the first singer to send a twitter of song through the grey
gate of the dawn.
But as he walked through the fir woods towards Orchards Corner,
his eyes were not upon the ground or turned to the things that were
near him. Wisps of a red sunset still drifted about the west, and the
trunks of the trees were barred in black against a yellow afterglow.
Soon a full moon would be coming up. Heavy dew was distilling out
of the quiet air and drawing moist perfumes out of the thirsty
summer earth.
Blue dusk covered the heathlands beyond Orchards Corner, and
the little tree-smothered house was invisible. A light shone out from
a window as Canterton walked up the lane. Something white was
moving in the dusk, drifting to and fro across the garden like a moth
from flower to flower.
Canterton’s hand was on the gate. Never before had night fallen
for him with such a hush of listening enchantment. The scents
seemed more subtle, the freshness of the falling dew indescribably
delicious. He passed an empty chair standing on the lawn, and found
a white figure waiting.
“I wondered whether you would come.”
“I did not wonder. What a wash of dew, and what scents.”
“And the stillness. I wanted to see the moon hanging in the fir
woods.”
“The rim will just be topping the horizon.”
“You know the time by all the timepieces in Arcady.”
“I suppose I was born to see and to remember.”
They went into the little drawing-room that was Eve’s despair
when she felt depressed. This room was Mrs. Carfax’s lararium,
containing all the ugly trifles that she treasured, and some of the
ugliest furniture that ever was manufactured. John Carfax had been
something of an amateur artist, and a very crude one at that. He
had specialised in genre work, and on the walls were studies of a
butcher’s shop, a fruit stall, a fish stall, a collection of brass
instruments on a table covered with a red cloth, and a row of lean,
stucco-fronted houses, each with a euonymus hedge and an iron
gate in front of it. The carpet was a Kidderminster, red and yellow
flowers on a black ground, and the chairs were upholstered in green
plush. Every available shelf and ledge seemed to be crowded with
knick-knacks, and a stuffed pug reclined under a glass case in the
centre of a walnut chiffonier.
Eve understood her mother’s affection for all this bric-à-brac, but
to-night, when she came in out of the dew-washed dusk, the room
made her shudder. She wondered what effect it would have on
Canterton, though she knew he was far too big a man to sneer.
Mrs. Carfax, in black dress and white lace cap, sat in one of the
green plush arm-chairs. She was always pleased to see people, and
to chatter with amiable facility. And Canterton could be at his best
on such occasions. The little old lady thought him “so very nice.”
“It is so good of you to come down and see Eve’s paintings. Eve,
dear, fetch your portfolio. I am so sorry I could not come to Mrs.
Canterton’s garden party, but I have to be so very careful, because
of my heart. I get all out of breath and in a flutter so easily. Do sit
down. I think that is a comfortable chair.”
Canterton sat down, and Eve went for her portfolio.
“My husband was quite an artist, Mr. Canterton, though an
amateur. These are some of his pictures.”
“So the gift is inherited!”
“I don’t think Eve draws so well as her father did. You can see
——”
Canterton got up and went round looking at John Carfax’s
pictures. They were rather extraordinary productions, and the red
meat in the butcher’s shop was the colour of red sealing wax.
“Mr. Carfax liked ‘still life.’”
“Yes, he was a very quiet man. So fond of a littlelararium fishing
—when he could get it. That is why he painted fish so wonderfully.
Don’t you think so, Mr. Canterton?”
“Very probably.”
Eve returned and found Canterton studying the row of stucco
houses with their iron gates and euonymus hedges. She coloured.
“Will the lamp be right, Eve, dear?”
“Yes, mother.”
She opened her portfolio on a chair, and after arranging the
lamp-shade, proceeded to turn over sketch after sketch. Canterton
had drawn his chair to a spot where he could see the work at its
best. He said nothing, but nodded his head from time to time, while
Eve acted as show-woman.
Mrs. Carfax excelled herself.
“My dear, how queerly you must see things. I am sure I have
never seen anything like that.”
“Which, mother?”
“That queer, splodgy picture. I don’t understand the drawing.
Now, if you look at one of your father’s pictures, the butcher’s shop,
for instance——”
Eve smiled, almost tenderly.
“That is not a picture, mother. I mean, mine. It is just a whim.”
“My dear, how can you paint a whim?”
Eve glanced at Canterton and saw that he was absorbed in
studying the last picture she had turned up from the portfolio. His
eyes looked more deeply set and more intent, and he sat absolutely
motionless, his head bowed slightly.
“That is the best classic thing I managed to do.”
He looked at her, nodded, and turned his eyes again to the
picture.
“But even there——”
“There is a film of mystery?”
“Yes.”
“It was provoking. I’m afraid I have failed.”
“No. That is Latimer. It was just what I saw and felt myself,
though I could not have put it into colour. Show me the others
again.”
Mrs. Carfax knitted, and Eve put up sketch after sketch, watching
Canterton’s face.
“Now, I like that one, dear.”
“Do you, mother?”
“Yes, but why have you made all the poplar trees black?”
“They are not poplars, mother, but cypresses.”
“Oh, I see, cypresses, the trees they grow in cemeteries.”
Canterton began to talk to Eve.
“It is very strange that you should have seen just what I saw.”
“Is it? But you are not disappointed?”
His eyes met hers.
“I don’t know anybody else who could have brought back Latimer
like that. Quite wonderful.”
“You mean it?”
“Of course.”
He saw her colour deepen, and her eyes soften.
Mrs. Carfax was never long out of a conversation.
“Are they clever pictures, Mr. Canterton?”
“Very clever.”
“I don’t think I understand clever pictures. My husband could
paint a row of houses, and there they were.”
“Yes, that is a distinct gift. Some of us see more, others less.”
“Do you think that if Eve perseveres she will paint as well as her
father?”
Canterton remained perfectly grave.
“She sees things in a different way, and it is a very wonderful
way.”
“I am so glad you think so. Eve, dear, is it not nice to hear Mr.
Canterton say that?”
Mrs. Carfax chattered on till Eve grew restless, and Canterton,
who felt her restlessness, rose to go. He had come to be personal,
so far as Eve’s pictures were concerned, but he had been compelled
to be impersonal for the sake of the old lady, whose happy vacuity
emptied the room of all ideas.
“It was so good of you to come, Mr. Canterton.”
“I assure you I have enjoyed it.”
“I do wish we could persuade Mrs. Canterton to spend an
evening with us. But then, of course, she is such a busy, clever
woman, and we are such quiet, stay-at-home people. And I have to
go to bed at ten. My doctor is such a tyrant.”
“I hope I haven’t tired you.”
“Oh, dear, no! And please give my kind remembrance to Mrs.
Canterton.”
“Thank you. Good night!”
Canterton found himself in the garden with his hand on the gate
leading into the lane. The moon had swung clear of the fir woods,
and a pale, silvery horizon glimmered above the black tops of the
trees. Canterton wandered on down the lane, paused where it joined
the high road, and stood for a while under the dense canopy of a
yew.
He felt himself in a different atmosphere, breathing a new air,
and he let himself contemplate life as it might have appeared, had
there been no obvious barriers and limitations. For the moment he
had no desire to go back to Fernhill, to break the dream, and pick up
the associations that Fernhill suggested. The house was overrun by
his wife’s friends who had come to stay for the garden party. Lynette
would be asleep, and she alone, at Fernhill, entered into the drama
of his dreams.
Mrs. Carfax and the little maid had gone to bed, and Eve, left to
herself, was turning over her Latimer pictures and staring at them
with peculiar intensity. They suggested much more to her than the
Latimer gardens, being part of her own consciousness, and part of
another’s consciousness. Her face had a glowing pallor as she sat
there, musing, wondering, staring into impossible distances with a
mingling of exultation and unrest. Did he know what had happened
to them both? Had he realised all that had overtaken them in the
course of one short week?
The room felt close and hot, and turning down the lamp, Eve
went into the narrow hall, opened the door noiselessly, and stepped
out into the garden. Moonlight flooded it, and the dew glistened on
the grass. She wandered down the path, looking at the moon and
the mountainous black outlines of the fir woods. And suddenly she
stopped.
A man was sitting in the chair that had been left out on the lawn.
He started up, and stood bareheaded, looking at her half guiltily.
“Is it you?”
“I am sorry. I was just dreaming.”
He hesitated, one hand on the back of the chair.
“I wanted to think——”
“Yes.”
“Good night!”
“Good night!”
She watched him pass through the gate and down the lane. And
everything seemed very strange and still.
CHAPTER XIV
MRS. CARFAX FINISHES HER KNITTING

It was a curious coincidence that Mrs. Carfax should have come

to the end of her white wool that night, put her pins aside and left
her work unfinished.
It was the last time that Eve heard the familiar clicking of the
ivory pins, for Mrs. Carfax died quietly in her sleep, and was found
with a placid smile on her face, her white hair neatly parted into two
plaits, and her hands lying folded on the coverlet. She had died like
a child, dreaming, and smiling in the midst of her dreams.
For the moment Eve was incredulous as she bent over the bed,
for her mother’s face looked so fresh and tranquil. Then the truth
came to her, and she stood there, shocked and inarticulate, trying to
realise what had happened. Sudden and poignant memories rose up
and stung her. She remembered that she had almost despised the
little old lady who lay there so quietly, and now, in death, she saw
her as the child, a pathetic creature who had never escaped from a
futile childishness, who had never known the greater anguish and
the greater joys of those whose souls drink of the deep waters. A
great pity swept Eve away, a choking compassion, an inarticulate
remorse. She was conscious of sudden loneliness. All the memories
of long ago, evoked by the dead face, rose up and wounded her. She
knelt down, hid her face against the pillow, uttering in her heart that
most human cry of “Mother.”
Canterton was strangely restless that morning. Up at six, he
wandered about the gardens and nurseries, and Lavender, who
came to him about some special work that had to be done in one of
the glasshouses, found him absent and vague. The life of the day
seemed in abeyance, remaining poised at yesterday, when the moon
hung over the black ridge of the fir woods by Orchards Corner.
Daylight had come, but Canterton was still in the moonlight, sitting
in that chair on the dew-wet grass, dreaming, to be startled again by
Eve’s sudden presence. He wondered what she had thought,
whether she had suspected that he had been imagining her his wife,
Orchards Corner their home, and he, the man, sitting there in the
moonlight, while the woman he loved let down her dark hair before
the mirror in their room.
If Lavender could not wake James Canterton, breakfast and
Gertrude Canterton did. There were half a dozen of Gertrude’s
friends staying in the house, serious women who had travelled with
batches of pamphlets and earnest-minded magazines, and who
could talk sociology even at breakfast. Canterton came in early and
found Gertrude scribbling letters at the bureau in the window. None
of her friends were down yet, and a maid was lighting the spirit
lamps under the egg-boiler and the chafing dishes.
“Oh, James!”
“Yes.”
She was sitting in a glare of light, and Canterton was struck by
the thinness of her neck, and the way her chin poked forward. She
had done her hair in a hurry, and it looked streaky and meagre, and
the colour of wet sand. And this sunny morning the physical
repulsion she inspired in him came as a shock to his finer nature. It
might be ungenerous, and even shameful, but he could not help
considering her utter lack of feminine delicacy, and the hard, gaunt
outlines of her face and figure.
“I want you to take Mrs. Grigg Batsby round the nurseries this
morning. She is such an enthusiast.”
“I’ll see what time I have.”
“Do try to find time to oblige me sometimes. I don’t think you
know how much work you make for me, especially when you find
some eccentric way of insulting everybody at once.”
“What do you mean, Gertrude?”
The maid had left the room, and Gertrude Canterton half turned
in her chair. Her shoulders were wriggling, and she kept fidgeting
with her pen, rolling it to and fro between her thumb and forefinger.
“Can’t you imagine what people say when you put up wire
fences, and have the gates locked on the day of our garden party?”
“Do you think that Whiteley would hold a party in his business
premises?”
“Oh, don’t be so absurd! I wonder why people come here.”
“I really don’t know. Certainly not to look at the flowers.”
“Then why be so eccentrically offensive?”
“Because there are always a certain number of enthusiastic ladies
who like to get something for nothing. I believe it is a feminine
characteristic.”
Mrs. Grigg Batsby came sailing into the room, gracious as a great
galleon freighted with the riches of Peru. She was an extremely
wealthy person, and her consciousness of wealth shone like a golden
lustre, a holy effulgence that penetrated into every corner. Her
money had made her important, and filled her with a sort of after-
dinner self-satisfaction. She issued commands with playful regality,
ordered the clergy hither and thither, and had a half humorous and
half stately way of referring to any male thing as “It.”
“My dear Mrs. Batsby, I have just asked James to take you round
this morning.”
The lady rustled and beamed.
“And is ‘It’ agreeable? I have always heard that ‘Its’ time is so
precious.”
“James will be delighted.”
“Obliging thing.”
Canterton was reserved and a little stiff.
“I shall be ready at eleven. I can give you an hour, Mrs. Batsby.”
“‘It’ is really a humorist, Mrs. Canterton. That barbed wire! I
don’t think I ever came across anything so delightfully original.”
Gertrude frowned and screwed her shoulders.
“I cannot see the humour.”
“But I think Mrs. Batsby does. I have a good many original plants
on my premises.”
“Oh, you wicked, witty thing! And original sin?”
“Yes, it is still rather prevalent.”
There was no queen’s progress through the Fernhill grounds for
Mrs. Grigg Batsby that morning, for by ten o’clock her very existence
had been forgotten, and she was left reading the Athenæum, and
wondering, with hauteur, what had become of the treacherous “It.”
Women like Mrs. Grigg Batsby have a way of exacting as a right
what the average man would not presume to ask as a favour. That
they should happen to notice anything is in itself a sufficient honour
conferred upon the recipient, who becomes a debtor to them in
service.
Canterton had drifted in search of Eve, had failed to find her, and
was posing himself with various questions, when one of the under-
gardeners brought him a letter. It had taken the man twenty minutes
of hide and seek to trace Canterton’s restless wanderings.
“Just come from Orchards Corner, sir. The young lady brought it.”
“Miss Carfax?”
“No, sir, the young lady.”
“I see. All right, Gibbs.”
Canterton opened the letter, and stood reading it in the shade of
a row of cypresses.

“Dear Mr. Canterton,—Mother died in the night. She

must have died in her sleep. I always knew it might
happen, but I never suspected that it would happen so
suddenly. It has numbed me, and yet made me think.
“I wanted you to know why I did not come to-day.
“Eve Carfax.”

Canterton stood stock still, his eyes staring at Eve’s letter. He was
moved, strongly moved, as all big-hearted people must be by the
sudden and capricious presence of Death. The little white-haired,
chattering figure had seemed so much alive the night before, so far
from the dark waters, with her child’s face and busy hands. And Eve
had written to tell him the news, to warn him why she had not come
to Fernhill. This letter of hers—it asked nothing, and yet its very
muteness craved more than any words could ask. To Canterton it
was full of many subtle and intimate messages. She wanted him to
know why she had stayed away, though she did not ask him to come
to her. She had let him know that she was stricken, and that was all.
He put the letter in his pocket, forgot about Mrs. Grigg Batsby,
and started for Orchards Corner.
All the blinds were down, and the little house had a blank and
puzzled look. The chair that he had used the previous night still
stood in the middle of one of the lawns. Canterton opened and
closed the gate noiselessly, and walked up the gravel path.
Eve herself came to the door. He had had a feeling that she had
expected him to come to her, and when he looked into her eyes he
knew that he had not been wrong. She was pale, and quite calm,
though her eyes looked darker and more mysterious.
“Will you come in?”
There was no hesitation, no formalism. Each seemed to be
obeying an inevitable impulse.
Canterton remained silent. Eve opened the door of the drawing-
room, and he followed her. She sat down on one of the green plush
chairs, and the dim light seemed part of the silence.
“I thought you might come.”
“Of course I came.”
He put his hat on the round table. Eve glanced round the room at
the pictures, the furniture and the ornaments.
“I have been sitting here in this room. I came in here because I
realised what a ghastly prig I have been at times. I wanted to be
hurt—and hurt badly. Isn’t it wonderful how death strips off one’s
conceit?”
He leant forward with his elbows on his knees, a listener—one
who understood.
“How I used to hate these things, and to sneer at them. I called
them Victorian, and felt superior. Tell me, what right have we ever to
feel superior?”
“We are all guilty of that.”
“Guilty of despising other colour schemes that don’t tone with
ours. I suppose each generation is more or less colour-blind in its
sympathies. Why, she was just a child—just a child that had never
grown up, and these were her toys. Oh, I understand it now! I
understood it when I looked at her child’s face as she lay dead. The
curse of being one of the clever little people!”
“You are not that.”
She lay back and covered her eyes with her hands. It was a still
grief, the grief of a pride that humbles itself and makes no mere
empty outcry.
Canterton watched her, still as a statue. But his eyes and mouth
were alive, and within him the warm blood seemed to mount and
tremble in his throat.
“I think she was quite happy.”
“Did I do very much?”
“She was very proud of you in her way. I could see that.”
“Don’t!”
“You are making things too deep, too difficult. You say, ‘She was
just a child.’”
Her hands dropped from her face.
“Yes.”
“Your moods passed over her and were not noticed. Some people
are not conscious of clouds.”
She mused.
“Yes, but that does not make me feel less guilty.”
“It might make you feel less bitter regret.”
Canterton sat back in his chair, spreading his shoulders and
drawing in a deep breath.
“Have you wired to your relatives?”
“They don’t exist. Father was an only son, and mother had only
one brother. He is a doctor in a colliery town, and one of the unlucky
mortals. It would puzzle him to find the train fare. He married when
he was fifty, and has about seven children.”
“Very well, you will let me do everything.”
He did not speak as a petitioner, but as a man who was calmly
claiming a most natural right.
She glanced at him, and his eyes dominated hers.
“But—I can’t bother you——”
“I can arrange everything. If you will tell me what you wish—
what your mother would have wished.”
“It will have to be very quiet. You see, we——”
“I understand all that. Would you like Lynette to come and see
you?”
“Yes, oh, yes! I should like Lynette to come.”
He pondered a moment, staring at the carpet with its crude
patterning of colours, and when again he began to speak he did not
raise his head to look at her.
“Of course, this will make no difference to the future?”
“I don’t know.”
“Tell me exactly.”
“All mother’s income dies with her. I have the furniture, and a
little money in hand.”
“Would you live on here, or take rooms?”
She hesitated.
“Perhaps.”
His eyes rose to meet hers.
“I want you to stay. We can work together. I’m not inventing
work for you. It’s there. It has been there for the last two or three
years.”
He spoke very gently, and yet some raw surface within her was
touched and hurt. Her mouth quivered with sensitive cynicism.
“A woman, when she is alone, must get money—somehow. It is
bitter bread that many of us have to eat.”
“I did not mean to make it taste bitter.”
Her mouth and eyes softened instantly.
“You? No. You are different. And that——”
“Well?”
“And that makes it more difficult, in a way.”
“Why should it?”
“It does.”
She bent her head as though trying to hide her face from him.
He did not seem to be conscious of what was happening, and of
what might happen. His eyes were clear and far sighted, but they
missed the foreground and its complex details.
He left his chair and came and stood by her.
“Eve.”
“Yes?”
“Did I say one word about money? Well, let’s have it out, and the
dross done with. I ask you to be my illustrator, colour expert, garden
artist—call it what you like. The work is there, more work than you
can manage. I offer you five hundred a year.”
She still hid her face from him.
“That is preposterous. But it is like you in its generosity. But I
——”
“Think. You and I see things as no two other people see them. It
is an age of gardens, and I am being more and more pestered by
people who want to buy plants and ideas. Why, you and I could
create some of the finest things in colour. Think of it. You only want
a little more technical knowledge. The genius is there.”
She appealed to him with a gesture of the hand.
“Stop, let me think!”
He walked to the window and waited.
Presently Eve spoke, and the strange softness of her voice made
him wonder.
“Yes, it might be possible.”
“Then you accept?”
“Yes, I accept.”
CHAPTER XV
LYNETTE PUTS ON BLACK

Lynette had a little black velvet frock that had been put away in a
drawer, because it was somewhat tarnished and out of fashion.
Moreover, Lynette had grown three or four inches since the black
frock had been made, and even a Queen of the Fairies’ legs will
lengthen. Over this dress rose a contest in which Lynette engaged
both her mother and Miss Vance, and showed some of that tranquil
and wise obstinacy that characterised her father.
Lynette appeared for lessons, clad in this same black frock, and
Miss Vance, being a matter-of-fact and good-naturedly dictatorial
adult, proceeded to raise objections.
“Lynette, what have you been doing?”
“What do you mean, Vancie?”
“Miss Vance, if you please. Who told you to put on that dress?”
“I told myself to do it.”
“Then please tell yourself to go and change it. It is not at all
suitable.”
“But it is.”
“My dear, don’t argue! You are quite two years too old for that
frock.”
“Mary can let it out.”
“Go and change it!”
Lynette had her moments of dignity, and this was an occasion for
stateliness.
“Vancie, don’t dare to speak to me like that! I’m in mourning.”
“In mourning! For whom?”
“Miss Eve’s mother, of course! Miss Eve is in mourning, and I
know father puts on a black tie.”
“My dear, don’t be——”
“Vancie, I am going to wear this frock. You’re not a great friend
of Miss Eve’s, like me. She’s the dearest friend in the world.”
The governess felt that the dress was eccentric, and yet that
Lynette had a sentimental conviction that carried her cause through.
Miss Vance happened to be in a tactless mood, and appealed to
Gertrude Canterton, and to Gertrude the idea of Lynette going into
mourning because a certain young woman had lost her mother was
whimsical and absurd.
“Lynette, go and change that dress immediately!”
It was then that Canterton came out in his child. She was
serenely and demurely determined.
“I must wear it, mother!”
“You will do nothing of the kind. The skirt is perfectly indecent.”
“Why?”
“Your—your knees are showing.”
“I am not ashamed of my knees.”
“Lynette, don’t argue! Understand that I will be obeyed. Go and
change that dress!”
“I am very sorry, mother, but I can’t. You don’t know what great
deep friends me and Miss Eve are.”
Neither ridicule nor fussy attempts at intimidation had any effect.
There was something in the child’s eyes and manner that forbade
physical coercion. She was sure in her sentiment, standing out for
some ideal of sympathy that was fine and convincing to herself.
Lynette appealed to her father, and to her father the case was
carried.
He sided with Lynette, but not in Lynette’s hearing.
“What on earth is there to object to, Gertrude?”
“It is quite absurd, the child wanting to go into mourning
because old Mrs. Carfax is dead.”
“Children have a way of being absurd, and very often the gods
are absurd with them. The child shall have a black frock.”
Gertrude twitched her shoulders, and refused to be responsible
for Canterton’s methods.
“You are spoiling that child. I know it is quite useless for me to
suggest anything.”
“You are not much of a child yourself, Gertrude. I am. That
makes a difference.”
Canterton had his car out that afternoon and drove twenty miles
to Reading, with Lynette on the seat beside him. He knew, better
than any woman, what suited the child, so Lynette had a black frock
and a little Quaker bonnet to wear for that other child, Mrs. Carfax,
who was dead.
Within a week Eve was back at Fernhill, painting masses of
hollyhocks and sweet peas, with giant sunflowers and purple-spiked
buddlea for a background. Perhaps nothing had touched her more
than Lynette’s black frock and the impulsive sympathy that had
suggested it.
“I’m so sorry, Miss Eve, dear. I do love you ever so much more
now.”
And Eve had never been nearer tears, with Lynette snuggling up
to her, one arm round her neck, and her warm breath on Eve’s
cheek.
It was holiday time, and Miss Vance’s authority was reduced to
the supervision of country walks, and the giving of a daily piano
lesson. Punch, the terrier, accompanied them on their walks, and
Miss Vance hated the dog, feeling herself responsible for Punch’s
improprieties. Her month’s holiday began in a few days, and Lynette
had her eyes on five weeks of unblemished liberty.
“Vancie goes on Friday. Isn’t it grand!”
“But you ought not to be so glad, dear.”
“But I am glad. Aren’t you? I can paint all day like you, and we’ll
have picnics, and make daddy take us on the river.”
“Of course, I’m glad you’ll be with me.”
“Vancie can’t play. You see she’s so very old and grown up.”
“I don’t think she is much older than I am.”
“Oh, Miss Eve, years and years! Besides, you’re so beautiful.”
“You wicked flatterer.”
“I’m not a flatterer. I’m sure daddy thinks so. I know he does.”
Eve felt herself flushing, and her heart misgave her, for the lips of
the child made her thrill and feel afraid. She had accepted the new
life tentatively yet recklessly, trying to shut her eyes to the possible
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CLARENDON PRESS OXFORD

outside the scope of the above should be sent to the Rights

Few periods of English history have attracted so rich and voluminous a

November 2003 g. r. searle

List of Plates xvii

PART I ENGLAND IN 1886

PART II LATE VICTORIAN ENGLAND

1. The Crisis of the 1880s 172

PART III EDWARDIAN ENGLAND

7. The Strange Death of Liberal England? 470

PART IV LEISURE, CULTURE, AND SCIENCE

PART V THE GREAT WAR

1. Gender and Generation 777

(between pp. 491 and 492)

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14. Early Xight, 1912: a Claude Grahame-White hydrophone is featured in the

17. A working-class treat: families are taken on a Bank Holiday excursion,

22. Ernest Rutherford’s room at the Cavendish Laboratory, Cambridge

23. Birmingham University buildings (University of Birmingham Information

25. Trench warfare, c.1916. German prisoners act as stretcher-bearers near

26. ‘Women’s Work’: switchboard operators at the new telephone exchange at

It was no unusual thing for Canterton to spend hours in the

It was a curious coincidence that Mrs. Carfax should have come

“Dear Mr. Canterton,—Mother died in the night. She

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