while in no wise belittling the magic inventiveness
of an age which has given us an Edison, a Marconi, and a whole host of
brilliant explorers, birdmen, and others equally daring and
distinguished, he intended to remember always the enormous debt
which we of this century owe to the glorious past.
Possibly in Owen's very enthusiasm, in the eager, ardent spirit of his
dreams, there was more of the spirit of the future than of the past--but
he intended to hold the balance as evenly as possible.
On one point he was firm. While hoping that his review would be in
every way a serious contribution to the more valuable literature of the
day, the literature which was worth something, he intended it to be
strictly non-political. There would be no room within its covers for
writers with axes to grind. No acrimonious discussions, thinly-veiled in
pedantry, should mar the harmony of the pages; no party cries should
echo from the editorial offices; and although he aimed, in some
measure, at instructing and uplifting his readers, it was their betterment
as human beings, rather than as citizens--so far as the two may be
divorced--with which he intended to concern himself.
He was fortunate in his collaborators. At his back he had an old friend
of his fathers', a gifted, if somewhat inarticulate, man of letters, who
had longed, in his early life, for the opportunity to do what Owen was
doing; and was generous enough to feel that, though his own working
days were over, he might well use a little of his wealth in helping
another man to realize their mutual dream.
Everything was to be on a strictly business-like footing. Owen, as
editor, was to receive a moderate salary--moderate because he felt that
in the circumstances the backing he received was worth more than any
emolument. Also he was sufficiently well-off to waive the matter if he
chose until the review was on firm financial ground. Barry, as his
personal secretary and general second-in-command, was to receive a
generous sum; and the rest of the men, all young, ardent, and fired with
a whole-hearted belief in Owen as their chief, were to be remunerated
according to their work and ability.
A certain Miss Lucy Jenkins had been selected as typewriter and
assistant at what seemed to her the princely sum of forty shillings a
week; and by the beginning of February activity at headquarters, a
pleasant, though not palatial suite of offices in Victoria Street,
Westminster, was in full swing.
The first number of the Bridge was to make its appearance at Easter;
and Owen was meditating one morning over the possible inclusion of a
little set of verses which had reached him from a hitherto-unknown
contributor, when Barry appeared in the doorway leading to his inner
sanctum with a worried look in his frank blue eyes.
"Hallo, Barry, anything wrong?" Owen put down the paper he held and
looked at his young colleague with a smile.
"Well, it's no end of a bore!" Barry frowned distastefully. "That stupid
Jenkins woman has gone and landed herself in Holloway!"
"Holloway?" Owen repeated the word in surprise.
"Yes. I knew she was a Militant Suffragette, but I thought she would
have more sense than to go mixing herself up in brawls with the
police!"
"And she hasn't?"
"No. On Saturday afternoon"--this was Monday--"she went and
marched in a procession of women out to smash windows or something
of the sort, got into a row and kicked a bobby in the ribs. The end was
she got locked up that night."
"Where is she now?"
"Brought up before the magistrate this morning and sentenced to
fourteen days without an option for violence," said Barry laconically.
"I've just had a note from her mother, who's nearly distracted, begging
me to keep her place open for her, but I don't see how we can do that."
"Certainly not," said Owen decidedly. "I'll have no militant women on
my staff, and the sooner they understand that the better. She wasn't any
great treasure, either. She was too fond of revising the stuff she had to
type; and her ideas and mine clashed considerably when it came to
punctuation."
"I suppose I must advertise for someone to take her place, then," said
Barry, with a sigh.
"Yes. Get a younger girl this time, if you can. Miss Jenkins had reached
the certain--or uncertain--age when women take to militant suffragism.
She didn't like being corrected when she made mistakes, and used to
argue with me till you'd have thought it was she who ran the office, and
not I."
"All right. I'll do my best."
"Not too young, though," said Owen, half-maliciously, "or she'll be
thinking about her best boy all day instead of working. Of course that's
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