Downing Street is awake betimes, and within the precincts of the
residence of the First Lord of the Treasury an unusual stir and signs of
an unwonted anxiety are perceivable. Seated around a long oblong table
in a singularly doleful-looking room, are a baker’s dozen of gentlemen,
apparently in eager discussion. Perplexity and anxiety is on every face,
not unmixed, in some cases, with vacuity. A stranger dropped from the
clouds, and unaccustomed to the ways, and manners, and customs of our
planet, might innocently inquire who these disturbed-looking personages
are, and what their business? He would be told in reply that the
personages are nothing more nor less than the Sovereign of Great
Britain’s Ministers, their business, the holding of a Cabinet Council.
But at such an hour, nine o’clock in the morning! Why, in the ordinary
course of affairs, poor old Lord Muddlehead, the Secretary of State for
the Colonies, would be adjusting his night-cap, and turning over for his
second sleep in bed, and that excellent nonentity, Lord Donothing, Lord
President of the Council and Privy Seal, would be sweetly dreaming of
rest and peace, well merited and well earned, after the arduous and
fatiguing duties attaching to his noble office!
However, a matter of importance has shaken sleep from their eyes, as
they have been summoned post-haste to attend their chief on urgent
public business.
The chief in question, the first Lord of the Treasury, the Prime
Minister of Great Britain and Ireland, is the Duke of Devonsmere, a
tall, aristocratic-looking man, with thick moustaches, whiskers, and
beard, in which the grey hairs of advancing age are rapidly gathering.
He has thick lips, a not very pleasant eye, and a forehead chiefly
remarkable for the crease or wrinkle, which, starting from the centre,
runs down perpendicularly to meet the nose. He has a voice far from
genial; and, in fact, his manner all round is cold, and haughty, and
unwinning.
The duke is a good speaker. That is his chief _forte_. He has not
particularly distinguished himself through life as a great politician,
though he has held high posts in various Ministries. He has been
Secretary for War in a former Ministry, but seceded from his chief when
this latter brought in his Irish Home Rule Bill. No one has ever been
able to accuse the Duke of Devonsmere of attempting to aggrandise
himself. In politics he has been strictly honest according to his
lights, though many believe that in the old days of Conservatives and
Liberals, he would have graced more appropriately the ranks of the
former, which as a Unionist he eventually joined. However, those days
are past. There are no Liberals, or Conservatives, or Unionists now. The
former having adopted the Progressist title, the two latter become
merged in the National party, of which party the Duke of Devonsmere is
the head.
The position which he holds at this moment is an awkward one. His is
only a provisional Ministry, held together by the temporary support of
the Progressist party, the natural and avowed enemy of the Nationals.
But the hatred of the Progressists for the D’Estrangeites is so intense,
that for a time their minor enmity with the Nationals is merged and
forgotten in this new and greater one. It is, therefore, with such
assistance as this, that the duke, with a Cabinet chiefly distinguished
for its dulness and want of perspicacity, is endeavouring to cope with
the extraordinary state of affairs, that has arisen on the defeat of
Hector D’Estrange’s policy, and the revolution which has resulted from
the events following upon that defeat.
Gloria de Lara is at large. Although warrants have been issued for her
arrest as well as that of Lady Flora Desmond, no traces of either have
yet been discovered. Of course the officials of Scotland Yard surrounded
Montragee House, and demanded admission soon after the former’s rescue;
but when at length the great front door was thrown open for the
admittance of the officers of the law, they were received only by Lord
Bernard Fontenoy, who smilingly regretted that he could afford them no
information or assist their search in any way. All he knew was that his
brother had left him in charge of Montragee House during his unavoidable
absence. Clearly there was very little to be extracted from the youthful
lord.
The Home Department Minister is speaking now, but apparently affording
but cold comfort to his colleagues. Mr. Mayhew belongs to the English
bar. He is an excellent speaker, but that is all. It would have been
better if he had stuck to his profession exclusively, and left politics
alone, for he has not shone in them. He is a weak man, and an obstinate
one, and can never be got to acknowledge having committed a mistake. He
has held office before in a Conservative Ministry in the same
department, which did not profit much by his supervision, or attain any
particular distinction for efficiency. He is the best man, however, that
the Nationals have at their command for the post, which is not saying
much for the existing state of things.
“Detectives are at work in nearly every great centre, and the police are
fully instructed how to act,” he assures his colleagues.
“Don’t you think, Mayhew, that Hector D’Estrange, or, as I suppose we
must now call her, Gloria de Lara, has many secret friends in the force?
There is no doubt she has the mass of the working classes of the country
on her side—certainly nearly every woman amongst them. Depend upon it
your detectives will not trace her, and it seems to me you are all of
you vastly underrating her power.”
The speaker is a man of about fifty years of age, with a fine forehead,
rather scant hair, prominent, intelligent eyes, a sallow complexion, and
somewhat of the middle height. He looks younger than he really is, and
it is probably his long thick moustache that gives him a little of the
military appearance. But Lord Pandulph Chertsey is no soldier. He is
every inch a politician, living for nothing else but politics.
While we can pass over the remainder of the Devonsmere Cabinet without
notice, because of the extreme mediocrity of talent displayed therein, a
glance at the character of Lord Pandulph Chertsey is necessary. The
extraordinary point which first strikes one is—why is not Lord Pandulph
Prime Minister? Clearly amongst all those thirteen gentlemen he is the
only one possessing a large grasp of thought, or a power to look at
events and regard them as they are. Few men have been more abused than
Lord Pandulph; and yet he has done nothing to merit that abuse beyond
showing a certain independence of mind and an inclination to follow the
dictates of conscience before party. He has been accused of ambition. It
is certain that if he had been less honest in his political career, and
less straightforward, he might have risen more quickly to supreme power.
But though doubtless ambitious—and what sin is there in that?—he has
known how to subordinate his ambition to the dictates of his conscience
in all matters, which, according to his lights, he believes affect the
welfare of Society. He sees clearly now what the high and dignified Duke
of Devonsmere, old Lord Muddlehead, Lord Donothing, and their colleagues
do not see in the least. He sees that Gloria de Lara, though she may
have many an enemy in the country, is yet a power which must not be
despised. Lord Pandulph has no sympathy with her cause or her teachings;
but that is no reason why he should ignore the fact that there are
thousands who have, and who are prepared to support her. Mr. Mayhew
shakes his head. We have said he is an obstinate man, and obstinacy is
more or less a sign of weakness.
“No, no,” he says hastily. “I think it is you, Chertsey, who overrate
her power. Of course she has a few friends, but not many. I always said
D’Estrangeism was ephemeral. You will see how quickly the storm she has
raised will become subdued. I have not the slightest doubt on that
score. But for the sake of law and order we must strain every nerve to
arrest both her and Lady Flora. It is a terrible business, but murder
cannot go unpunished, that is very clear.”
Lord Pandulph laughs, as he glances at the duke, who is sprawling back
in his chair with his legs stretched out. Mr. Mayhew’s remarks appear to
him ridiculous. “Depend upon it,” he exclaims again, “that you are
utterly underrating her power. We know enough of Hector D’Estrange to be
pretty well certain that Gloria de Lara will not remain inactive. You
talk of your detectives and police, but let me remind you that there are
scattered throughout the country those companies of Women Volunteers,
whom she can call out at any moment. Surely you do not underrate their
power for mischief?”
But Mr. Mayhew does, and so do the rest of the Cabinet, including the
Duke of Devonsmere. This latter is a bitter opponent of Gloria de Lara’s
advocacy for woman’s freedom. He is quite convinced that the sex is
hopelessly inferior to his own, and regards their emancipation with the
same horror as did the South in the American Civil War when the North
upheld the abolition of slavery.
“I think we are straying wide of the mark, Chertsey,” he observes rather
gruffly. “The policy we have got to decide on, is how the riotous crowds
that are paralysing public freedom are to be suppressed. There is no
doubt that for the moment this adventuress has a strong party in her
favour, but I think, with Mayhew, that all sympathy with her will
quickly subside, especially if the Government show a bold and determined
front to the mutineers. The most strenuous efforts must be made to
arrest those two women, and so put an end to the mutiny which they have
provoked. I consider, therefore, that the military ought to be employed
to assist the police, and I have little doubt that in a very short time
order will be restored. Do you all think with me?”
The eleven satellites do, but not the independent planet. Lord Pandulph
does not agree, and he says so plainly. He thinks it will be madness to
employ the military, and thus provoke civil brawls, and perhaps civil
war. He cannot make himself responsible for such a state of things.
“I am very sorry,” he says gravely, “but I am quite unable to fall in
with such a policy, which, if pursued, I believe will entail lamentable
results. Do your best if you think it possible to arrest the leaders of
this movement by means of detectives and police, but for goodness’ sake
keep the soldiers out of the fray. However, if you persist, I can make
way for a fresh Secretary for India. I can resign.”
“That is an old game with you,” remarks the duke drily. “It will not be
the first time you have left your colleagues in the lurch.”
“Say rather not the first time that I have refused to stifle conscience
for the sake of office, or to make over my honest opinion to the care of
others,” answers Lord Pandulph somewhat hotly, nettled no doubt by the
duke’s unfair remark. “However,” he continues quietly, “I have no wish
to mar the unanimity of these proceedings, and will withdraw. My reasons
for resignation can be fully explained in the proper place.”
There is a significant ring in his voice which cannot be mistaken. The
duke knows perfectly well that with Lord Pandulph out of his Cabinet,
this excellent clique will be little less than a group of mechanical
dolls. To lose Lord Pandulph means discredit to his Ministry, and a
considerable loss of confidence outside it. He feels he must temporise.
“Really, Chertsey, I don’t understand what you want,” he observes
impatiently. “A short while ago you were making fun of the detective
force, and assuring us we had underrated Gloria de Lara’s power. Now
that I propose to take decisive measures to arrest that power, you
object to them. Will you propose a policy yourself?”
“Well, I will, as you invite me to do so,” answers Lord Pandulph, with a
smile, “but I do not suppose you will adopt it. However, here is my
opinion. I am not in sympathy with Gloria de Lara’s desires, but I fully
recognise that her doctrines are accepted by thousands. I am not likely
to forget that it was she who raised the Hall of Liberty, who drilled
into efficiency a large Woman Volunteer Force, and who has worked her
way into the affections of vast numbers of the working classes. Having
read the evidence at her trial, I am extremely dissatisfied with the
verdict, while in regard to the death of the policeman in the
prison-van, I do not look upon Lady Flora’s act as murder. We are
assured by members of the police force, that she fired through the lock
of the van, only after giving the policeman full warning of her
intention to do so. She naturally supposed he had lain down as she bade
him; and though his death is most grievous, really she cannot be accused
of murder. Looking at matters in this light, I think the wisest thing
the present Government can do is to appeal to the country to decide the
question, revoke the warrant against Lady Flora, and offer Gloria de
Lara a fresh trial. Such a policy may be out of the way, but we must not
forget that we are now facing a state of affairs unparalleled in the
world’s history. For my part, I cannot take the responsibility of
deciding for the country. It is the country which should be appealed to,
and allowed to decide for itself.”
He has spoken as befits a statesman, who is able and willing to look
upon the people as the proper tribunal to decide the policy to be
pursued. But the Duke of Devonsmere, unlike Lord Pandulph, has never and
will never be able to quit his aristocratic perch in order to descend to
the people’s level. He is willing to give them a policy and ask them to
accept it, but he cannot realise that the masses are able to produce one
for themselves. It is not wonderful that he thinks as he does, for he is
not, and never has been, in touch with the people.
Like Mr. Mayhew, he shakes his head.
“Your proposal is simple madness, Chertsey. I, for one, cannot fall in
with it.”
He looks sternly at the eleven satellites who are regarding him. They
thoroughly understand that look.
“Nor we,” they murmur deferentially, apeing the abject acquiescence of
poor old Lord Muddlehead.
Again Lord Pandulph laughs. Words would not measure the contemptuous
ring that there is in that laugh.
“And you will pardon me if I say that I think your proposal madness
also. I cannot agree to it, and it is best I should resign,” he says
quietly.
“Very well,” answers the duke coldly. “As you are determined, so be it,
Chertsey.”
Lord Pandulph rises. He accepts his _congé_ willingly. It has been gall
and wormwood to work with such colleagues as these. He is out of place,
and he feels it. He knows that he ought to be where the duke is sitting.
Undoubtedly he ought.
“Then it is understood? I shall tender my resignation without any delay,
so that you will be able to nominate my successor. This being so, it is
better I should retire at once. Good-morning, Devonsmere.” And without
deigning recognition of the eleven satellites, Lord Pandulph leaves the
room.
“Really, Chertsey is about the most insufferable fellow to deal with I
have ever known,” murmurs Lord Hankney, the Minister for Agriculture,
adjusting his eyeglass. “We shall do much better without him,
Devonsmere.”
So they sit on in council these strange twelve, a Ministry
misrepresentative of the people. The policy against which Lord Pandulph
warned them, they agree to adopt. The military is to be ordered out, a
direct incentive to civil war, while the warrants for the arrest of
Gloria de Lara and Lady Flora Desmond are to remain in force. It is the
old story, merely history repeating itself, of a group of men omitting
to consult the people—whose paid servants they are—before acting.
Office, unfortunately, nowadays is too much considered as the happy
hunting ground of a clique or class, to the exclusion of the people’s
acknowledged representatives. So the wrong men step in, and take upon
themselves responsibilities for which they are totally disqualified and
unfitted; and thus are mistakes committed for which those who pay the
taxes have to suffer. The case in point is a good one. Such a decision
would never have been come to had the Duke of Devonsmere’s Cabinet
contained some of the people’s representatives.
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