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 Doeuillet 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."