Chapter Eight.
Shows a Politician and a Policy
Dudley Chisholm, with the excuse that his presence was urgently required at the Foreign Office, returned to town by the first train on the following day, leaving the colonel and Benthall to continue their sport. He would probably return in a couple of days, he said, but Lord Stockbridge wished to explain to him the line of policy which he intended to adopt towards France, with a view to lessening the tension between the two nations, and to give him certain instructions as to the conduct of the forthcoming debate in the House.
As both his guests understood that a man holding such a position was liable at any moment to be called up to town, they made the best of their disappointment, wished him good luck when the time came for his departure, and went out with the head-keeper for a day’s sport in Parnholt Wood.
That same afternoon, in the fading light, the Under-Secretary was closeted with his Chief, the Most Noble the Marquess of Stockbridge, K.G., Prime Minister of England, and Her Majesty’s Principal Secretary of State, in his private room at Downing Street.
Next to the Sovereign, this tall, thin-faced, grey-bearded man, with the rather ascetic, aquiline features and keen dark eyes that age had not dimmed, was the most potent personage in the British Empire. The room in which he was sitting at the big pedestal writing-table was on the first floor of the Foreign Office, a spacious apartment, solidly furnished and of a very business-like appearance. In that room Ambassadors and Envoys Plenipotentiary had discussed matters of such importance, in such a way, that if those walls had ears to listen and tongues to repeat, the whole of Europe would have been in arms on many an occasion. Placed as far from the door as possible, the most conspicuous object in the room was the Prime Minister’s table, standing on the right, close to the fireplace of black and white marble, with a plain, gilt-framed mirror above, and one of those ordinary square marble clocks which may be found in almost every middle-class dining-room. In a small bookcase close to his lordship’s left hand was a library of reference works; while to his right, in the centre of the apartment, was a round table covered with books, where the current issue of the Times was lying.
In front of the great statesman was a long lounge, upholstered in dark green leather, as was the rest of the furniture, and upon the wall behind the lounge a rack containing a large number of maps. Two or three deep armchairs, a couple of other tables and several revolving bookcases completed the furniture of the private room of the head of the Cabinet. At the table sat the marquess toying idly with his quill, while upon the leather-covered lounge before him sat Chisholm, the Under-secretary of State for Foreign Affairs.
They were alone, with the door closed against intruders. The greyness of the short afternoon had become more and more pronounced during their conversation, and as neither had risen to switch on the electric light the room was in semi-darkness. Chisholm was thankful, for he was uneasy, and feared that his face might betray him to that keen and practised statesman beneath whose calm gaze many a diplomatist, whether British or foreign, had so often trembled. A rather cold, but exceedingly courteous man, Lord Stockbridge always spoke with slow deliberation, and with a gentleness that one would scarcely have expected from a man of such an austere manner. He was an autocrat both at the Foreign Office and in the Cabinet, always ruling with a firm hand, exhibiting a strange individualism in responsibility, bestowing but little praise upon any of Britain’s hard-working representatives abroad; but he was a patriot, and every inch a gentleman. Representatives of certain of the Powers at the Court of St. James held him in dread – they even hated him, because of his integrity, his calm dignity, and his shrewd foresight. They knew that he was not a man to be tricked, and that in his anger the British lion showed its teeth.
To this rather melancholy man with the grave face and the quick dark eyes the British nation chiefly owed the retention of its position as the first Power in the world. During his fifteen years of office the European outlook had, times without number, been of a grim blackness, and the war-cloud had hovered on the political horizon almost incessantly; yet, by means of his careful statesmanship and the marvellous tact and finesse constantly exhibited by him, this splendid politician had succeeded in piloting the ship of state into quieter waters.
Like his trusted Under-Secretary, he was a man who hated popularity, although he was equally popular in England and throughout the great Empire oversea. He detested cheap notoriety; he always declared that he left that sort of thing to the Opposition benches. In a word, he was an honest, straightforward, patriotic Englishman, the most trusted of Her Majesty’s Ministers, and the greatest living statesman in Europe.
Had he not acted with firmness and discretion, as well as with quick foresight, Great Britain would a dozen times have been at war with her jealous neighbours. More than once conspiracies, deeply laid and skilfully engineered, had been in progress in some diplomatic circles for the purpose of inveigling England into hostilities; but his power of keen penetration and swift deduction had caused the efforts of our enemies to be thwarted and they themselves to be discomfited by some remarkable coup in quite another direction. It was the cackling cry of certain leader-writers that English diplomacy was abortive, that other nations left us behind in the race, and that our Ambassadors and Ministers were merely bunglers. These prophets (hired at the rate of two guineas a column) always conveniently overlooked the fact that the world virtually owed its peace and consequent prosperity to the thin-faced, rather haggard-looking, man who was the personal friend, confidant and adviser of his venerated and peace-loving Sovereign.
He sat there in the half light twisting his quill in his thin hands, a sign that he was puzzled.
“The situation is undoubtedly critical, Chisholm,” he said in a low voice. “I confess I cannot make it out in the least. The whole thing appears to me an enigma at present.”
“Have you received no further despatch from Vienna?” inquired the Under-Secretary.
“Yes. One came through in cipher a couple of hours ago. But it tells us nothing. Farncombe is apparently without information.”
The younger man breathed more freely. He had feared that the truth was already known. Up to the present, then, he was safe; but the tension was terrible. He did not know from one moment to another by what avenue his exposure, which would mean his inevitable degradation and ruin, would come. A despatch from Lord Farncombe, the British Ambassador at Vienna, revealing the truth, would be his death-warrant, for he had determined to commit suicide rather than face the terrible exposure that would necessarily ensue were his secret to become known.
By making a supreme effort he had succeeded in carrying on this private consultation with his chief without betraying undue apprehension. He had shown some alarm, it is true, but the marquess put this down to his natural anxiety in regard to the serious complications in Europe which, as it seemed, had been created by what had so mysteriously leaked out from Vienna and Constantinople.
“I can’t understand why Farncombe has not some information on the matter,” his lordship went on deliberately, almost as though he were speaking to himself. “It’s scandalous that we should be working entirely in the dark. But for the present we must wait. Our only chance of success is to keep our own counsel and not show our hand. We are weak in this affair, Chisholm, horribly weak. If the Opposition got wind of it we should have a poor chance, I’m afraid. It’s just what they’ve been longing for these three years.”
“But they must know nothing!” exclaimed. Chisholm quickly. “If the secret of our weakness comes out, all Europe will be ablaze.”
“Exactly, that’s just what I fear!” the Minister answered. “It must be kept from them at all hazards. You are the only man in London besides myself who has the slightest inkling of the situation. You will, of course, regard it as strictly confidential.”
“Absolutely.”
“And you destroyed the despatch I sent you to Wroxeter?”
“I burnt it.”
“Good!” exclaimed the marquess, leaning both elbows upon the table and looking across again at the man sitting there in the falling darkness. “And now we must form some plan of action. We must save the situation. Have you anything to suggest?”
“I really don’t know what to suggest,” Dudley faltered. “The whole affair is so mysterious, and we seem to have nothing to go upon. To me, it doesn’t seem possible that our friends in Constantinople have suddenly turned antagonistic.”
“Certainly not. Our relations with the Porte are excellent – and you can tell the House so. It is that very fact which puzzles me. The only solution of the enigma, as far as I can see, is that it is the outcome of that dastardly betrayal to Russia of our policy towards the Porte a year or two ago. You will recollect it, and how nearly it resulted in war?”
“Yes,” answered Dudley in a faltering voice, “I remember it.” Then he added quickly, as though to change the subject: “As far as I can see, the conspiracy is being worked from one of the other capitals.”
Her Majesty’s Under-Secretary knew the truth, but made a clever pretence of being no less mystified than his chief.
“Perhaps so, perhaps so,” the great statesman remarked. “But this affair shows that there is once again a desperate attempt being made against us – from what quarter we are unable at present to detect.”
“Rome is not the centre of activity, I feel sure,” Chisholm observed. “We only see its effect there.”
“An effect which may alienate us from Italy at any moment. With the Saracco Government in power there, matters are by no means upon a firm basis.”
“But Rathmore is one of our best men. He’ll surely see that such a contretemps does not occur.”
“Difficult – my dear Chisholm,” replied the grey-haired Minister. “Diplomacy is often as difficult in Rome as it is in Petersburg. The undercurrents against us are quite as many. The Powers are jealous of Italy’s friendship towards us and of her resolve to assist us in the Mediterranean if necessary. That is the whole crux of the matter. Happily, they are not aware of the terms I made with Rudini two years ago, or the war-cloud would probably have burst some time back. We can’t afford to risk hostilities while Italy is so weak. In two years her new armaments will be complete, and then – ”
“And then we shall be able to defy them,” added the Under-Secretary with a smile.
The great Minister rubbed his gold-framed glasses and nodded in the affirmative.
“But the most curious aspect of this sudden development – if the information is correct, as we suppose it to be – is the apparent boldness of the diplomatic move on the part of the Porte,” the elder man went on. “It is an absolute enigma how they dare to attempt such a coup without being absolutely certain of success.”
“But how could they be?” queried the Under-secretary in a strained voice.
“Only by the possession of secret information,” the other replied. “It is the outcome of our base betrayal five years ago.”
“Surely nothing further has leaked out!” exclaimed the man seated upon the leather-covered lounge.
“No. There are spies in London – a crowd of them. Melville from Scotland Yard handed me a list of twenty or so of the interesting gentlemen last week. But we have nothing to fear from them – absolutely nothing. What I dread is that there is a traitor here, in my own Department.”
“Then what is your private opinion?”
“Well,” said the great man, still slowly twisting his quill between his fingers, “it seems to me, Chisholm, very much as though the person who is responsible for this clever move to checkmate our influence in the Mediterranean, like the man who betrayed us before, knows our secret, and is possessed of absolute self-confidence. He evidently knows of the agreement made five years ago, or else he possesses influence in some quarter or other which may prove detrimental to us.”
Dudley Chisholm held his breath. Truth lived in the last words that had fallen from the lips of his chief. The man responsible for the remarkable coup that had been forecasted from Vienna did indeed possess influence – over himself – an influence for life or death. After a great effort he contrived to remain calm, and, in a voice which to him sounded cavernous in that great room, he merely said:
“Yes. I thoroughly agree with your theory – thoroughly.”
“Then in that case, Chisholm, you must make a distinct statement in the House to-morrow regarding our policy abroad and the defence of the Empire. If the coup is really attempted, we must have public opinion entirely with us. This is not a party matter. You follow me?”
“Entirely. I will have a supplementary question put to-morrow, and reply to it.”
“Speak fearlessly and straight to the point. Assure the House that at this moment we are in a stronger position than we ever were, and that our allies are eager to assist us whenever war may break out. Hint at certain secret understandings with regard to the Mediterranean, and also at an Anglo-American alliance. I detest to play this game, but it is necessary – highly necessary, having regard to the extreme gravity of the outlook.”
“Very well,” replied Chisholm, rising, anxious to escape from that astute man’s presence before his pallid face should confess a part of the truth. “I will carry out your instructions. I quite understand the line to be adopted – one of nonchalance and self-satisfaction.”
And then, after a brief conversation upon other topics, the Under-Secretary, when he had switched on the light for his chief, walked out, and went down the great staircase into Downing Street.
Chapter Nine.
Defines the Dazzling Degradation
At “question-time” on the following afternoon Dudley Chisholm, as mouthpiece of the Foreign Office, rose to reply to a very pointed and seemingly awkward supplementary question put to him by an obscure Member. There was a big House, and owing to the continual allegations of England’s unpreparedness made by the alarmist section of the Press, the answer was listened to with almost breathless interest.
The man who stood there addressing the House affected a calmness which he certainly did not feel. He knew not but that at any moment some Member of the Opposition might rise and there publicly show him up as a political impostor, a man who was sailing under false colours, and who knew of England’s danger yet dare not speak because to do so would be to expose his own crime. Nevertheless, even though the terrible tension had worked havoc with him throughout the long night, preventing him from sleeping and causing him to tramp for hours the deserted streets of London, he stood there speaking in his well-known deliberate manner, from time to time making home-thrusts at his political opponents, and eloquently assuring the House and the public that the Empire was safe from attack.
In the course of his brilliant reply he deprecated the popular assumption that in diplomacy we were always left behind, and hinted, as Lord Stockbridge had instructed him to do, at certain secret agreements which, having been of late effected, placed England in an almost invulnerable position. Never during the century, he declared, had Great Britain been on more amicable terms with her neighbours, and never had her position as the first among nations been more secure. Then he went on to speak of the two great tasks Her Majesty’s Ministers had themselves undertaken – the task of drawing all members of this vast Empire, all the dependencies of the crown in every quarter of the world, into a close and more organic unity, and the task of providing adequate defences for this great Empire. He admitted that it was sometimes held abroad that this awakening on our part to the obligations of Empire denoted a new spirit of antagonism in this country towards the legitimate aims and aspirations of European Powers. That was not so. The spirit in which we took up our portion of the task was not one of antagonism, but of generous emulation, with a view to seeing which of the favoured nations of the world could do most in the shortest time to perform the duty owed by them to the countries still oppressed by savagery, barbarism, or imperfect civilisation. That spirit was embodied in a certain secret agreement which he could not, of course, mention. The tasks he had spoken of could not be undertaken by their opponents, who in essential questions were distracted and apathetic. While the Government would foster true Imperialism, they would not neglect social and domestic legislation. The Opposition were living on the ghosts of the past and amid the tombs of dead policies.
As he resumed his seat there was an outburst of applause. The country had long been waiting for some reassuring declaration from the Government, and this, flashed by the wires from the Press Gallery above, would in a few hours have the effect of allaying any public misgivings.
But Chisholm, having performed his duty, gathered up his papers and at once left the House. In the Lobby one or two men congratulated him, but he only smiled that rather melancholy smile they knew so well.
The House of Commons nowadays is not such an austere assembly as it was even a decade ago. True, Members are sometimes called to St. Stephen’s in October and November, and thus have their vacation plans for Cairo or the Riviera considerably disarranged; yet the patriotic M.P. now finds the House the best and cheapest club in London, where he can, if he chooses, live upon ninepenny steaks and drink gin at twopence a glassful! Indeed, nowadays there seems more dining than politics, and more brilliant entertaining than brilliant oratory. There are many distinct coteries in the House, as there must always be among men divided in political opinion, but the coterie of entertainers is quite definite and distinct. Its members are those who have entered upon a Parliamentary career as a gentleman’s due. They are the political drones. They rarely, if ever, speak, but with their many smart lady-guests support the social side of Parliament right royally. Harry Benthall was one of these butterflies among legislators. When he spoke, the subject was usually connected with the personal comfort of Members. Among the boiled-shirt brigade was a man who had sat in the House for thirty years, and had only spoken once – a speech that lasted one minute; while Mr Kinnear, the Parliamentary diarist, has placed it on record that a certain gentleman representing a county division sat in three successive Governments without finding his way to the vote office! The whole life of such men is taken up in hunting for a “pair.” It is one of the first duties he feels he owes to himself and to his friends of the dining-room, or of that latter-day annexe to Mayfair, the Terrace. Indeed, so popular became the Terrace a couple of seasons ago that each afternoon it was crowded by grandes dames and young legislators, and flirting, tea-drinking, and strawberry-eating went on to such an extent that the merrymaking seriously threatened to stop legislation altogether. So that awe-inspiring functionary, the Serjeant-at-Arms, acting quietly but firmly, issued such orders that “at homes” in Parliament were suddenly discontinued, and the daily crush at Westminster became less of a public scandal.
To put it plainly, a new House has grown up. The old austerity of legislation in the days of Palmerston and Beaconsfield has nearly disappeared, and to-day the gentlemen upon whom the right to add M.P. to their name is bestowed, find to their delight that legislation is really very largely an arrangement come to between the two front Benches.
As Chisholm passed through the Lobby, pausing at Mr Pike’s office to obtain some letters, some one cried “Saunderson’s up,” and all the idlers knew that the debate upon another matter had commenced, and that “fun” might be expected.
The Under-Secretary thrust the letters into his pocket, put on his overcoat, and walked back to the Foreign Office, where some documents were awaiting his signature, and where he had some instructions to give his secretary. On his way across Palace Yard and along Parliament Street his eyes were fixed upon the pavement, for he was deep in thought and heedless of all about him. He walked like a man in a dream.
Before long the blow must fall, he told himself. How long would it be deferred? How many days of grace would his secret enemy give him?
Hour after hour had he endeavoured to find some solution of the problem how to repel the threatened vengeance. But there seemed to be no satisfactory way – absolutely none.
A word from him to his chief might save the situation. That would mean open and complete confession. No, he could not confess to the great statesman who had reposed such entire confidence in him, and who had given him the high and responsible office he now held. He could not; he dare not face the wrath of Lord Stockbridge, of all men.
He had sinned, and must suffer. A dozen times during the past night as he had paced the silent streets of London the suggestion had occurred to him to resign everything and go abroad at once. Yet what would that avail him? To escape would be only to exhibit cowardice. The sleep from which there was no awakening was by far the best mode of release at which to aim.
Upon a seat at the kerb in Piccadilly, with a ragged outcast as companion, he had sat a full hour in the most silent watch of the night thinking the matter over. After all, he told himself, he was little better than the shivering wretch beside him.
And now, as he turned the corner of Downing Street, he sighed heavily, wondering on how many more occasions he would return to his official headquarters. Not many, alas! Nemesis was at his heels.
That night he dined at his club, the Carlton, but returned to his chambers immediately afterwards.
As he entered his sitting-room, a woman in a striking evening toilet of pale-blue, turning from the fire, rose to greet him. It was Claudia Nevill.
“My dear Dudley!” she cried, stretching forth both her hands to him. “I’ve been awaiting you for half an hour or more. Wherever have you been?”
He had drawn back in annoyance at the moment when she faced him so unexpectedly. She was the last person he wished to meet at that moment.
“Oh,” he answered rather coldly, taking her hands in greeting, “I dined at the Club. I’m not very well,” he added wearily.
“But not too queer to go to the Duchess’s ball?”
“The Duchess’s ball? I don’t understand,” he said, looking at her puzzled.
“Why, surely you keep a note of your engagements, or Wrey does for you? It’s quite three weeks ago since we arranged to go there together.”
“To go where?”
“Why, to the Duchess of Penarth’s ball. You of course remembered that she asked us both, and we promised. You had a card, no doubt.”
“Perhaps I had,” he said blankly, for he received so many invitations that he always left it to Wrey, his private secretary, to attend to the resulting correspondence. He had gone little into society, except when Claudia Nevill took him as her escort.
“Perhaps?” she exclaimed. “Why, whatever is the matter with you, Dudley? You’ve not been at all yourself for some days past. Now, tell me – do.”
He was silent for a few moments.
“I told you when I was last at Albert Gate,” he said at length very seriously. “I thought my words were quite plain, Claudia.”
“You spoke all sorts of absurd things about scandals and gossip,” she laughed, reseating herself and motioning him to a chair on the opposite side of the fireplace. “But you were not yourself, so I didn’t take any heed of it.”
“I told you exactly what I intended doing,” he answered, standing before her, with his back to the fire. “I am surprised to find you here.”
“And who has been putting all these absurd ideas into your head, my dear Dudley?” asked the brilliant woman in the magnificent Dôeuillet ball toilette. “You know that we love each other, so what’s the use of kicking against the pricks? Now go and put on a dress-coat and a pair of gloves and take me to Penarth House, there’s a good fellow – the Duchess expects us.”
“Her Grace doesn’t expect me, for I declined.”
“You declined!” cried his fair companion. “Why?”
“Wrey declined. He has recently had orders from me to decline all such invitations. Dances only bore me. I’m too much occupied with official business.”
“Official business! Bosh! Leave it alone for a time and enjoy yourself. You are really becoming quite the old crony.”
“Better that than – well, than to be one of the set who were down at Fernhurst Abbey.”
She glanced at him swiftly, with a curious, half-apprehensive look.
“At Fernhurst? What do you mean?”
“I mean, Claudia, that there were certain incidents at Fernhurst which do not reflect much credit upon either the man or the woman.”
“And I am the woman, of course?”
He nodded.
“And the man? Name him.”
“A certain foreigner.”
“Ah!” she laughed lightly. “So you’ve heard all about it already. You mean the Grand-Duke. He was such fun, such a soft-headed fool. He actually thought himself in love with me.”
“And you allowed him to entertain that impression. I know the whole of the facts,” he said harshly.
“What you know is, I presume, some absurd tittle-tattle about us,” she replied, a shadow of annoyance upon her face.
“I know sufficient, Claudia, to cause me to alter my opinion regarding you,” he answered very gravely.
“Oh! so you would condemn me unheard? That is unlike you, Dudley. I cannot think chivalry and justice are dead in you.”
“I condemn you,” he said quickly, looking straight at her. “I condemn you for casting aside all your womanly instincts in this mad craze of yours to lead society and retain your position as a so-called smart woman. You cannot see that smartness is merely a synonym for fastness, and that you are rapidly flinging your reputation to the winds.”
“That, my dear Dudley, is a stale story. You have already told me so before. Without offence to you, I would point out that my reputation is entirely my own affair.”
“It concerns me, as well as yourself,” he blurted out. “You cannot afford to run the risks you are running. You love distinction, Claudia, and that is a passion of a deep and dangerous nature. In a man that passion is ambition. In a woman it is a selfish desire to stand apart from the many; to be, as far as is possible, unique; to enjoy what she does enjoy and to appropriate the tribute which society offers her, without caring a rap for the sisterhood to which she belongs. To be the idol of society is synonymous with being the butt of ridicule and of scandal, especially to all who have failed in the same career.”
“Oh,” she laughed, “you are such a funny old philosopher, Dudley. You grow worse and worse.”
“I know this,” he went on, “that no sooner does a woman begin to feel herself a leader of society, as you are at this moment, than she finds in her daily path innumerable temptations, of which she had never before dreamed. Her exalted position is maintained, not by the universal suffrage of her friends, for at least one-half of them would tear her down from her pedestal, if they were able, but by the indefatigable exercise of ingenuity in the way of evading, stooping, conciliating, deceiving; as well as by a continued series of efforts to be cheerful when depressed, witty when absolutely dull, and animated, brilliant, and amusing when disappointed, weary, or distressed.”
“Oh,” she cried impatiently, “I thought we had enough of moralising the last time we met! And now you want to re-open the old question.”
“No, Claudia,” he answered, placing his hand tenderly upon her shoulder, which was covered only by the strap of pale-blue embroidered satin which held her handsome corsage. “I only want to show you plainly how in a woman simplicity of heart cannot be allied to ambition. The woman who aspires to be the idol of her fellows, as you do, must be satisfied to lose this lily from her wreath. And when a woman’s simplicity of heart is gone, then she is no longer faithful as a wife or safe as a friend. Her fame is, after all, nothing more than dazzling degradation.”