Maltenby was one of those old-fashioned houses where the port is served
as a lay sacrament and the call of the drawing-room is responded to
tardily. After the departure of the women, Doctor Lennard drew his chair
up to Julian’s.
“An interesting face, your dinner companion’s,” he remarked. “They tell
me that she is a very brilliant young lady.”
“She certainly has gifts,” acknowledged Julian.
“I watched her whilst she was talking to you,” the Oxford don continued.
“She is one of those rare young women whose undoubted beauty is put
into the background by their general attractiveness. Lady Maltenby was
telling me fragments of her history. It appears that she is thinking of
giving up her artistic career for some sort of sociological work.”
“It is curious,” Julian reflected, “how the cause of the people has
always appealed to gifted Russians. England, for instance, produces no
real democrats of genius. Russia seems to claim a monopoly of them.”
“There is nothing so stimulating as a sense of injustice for bringing
the best out of a man or woman,” Doctor Lennard pointed out. “Russia, of
course, for many years has been shamefully misgoverned.”
The conversation, owing to the intervention of other of the guests,
became general and platitudinal. Soon after, Mr. Stenson rose and
excused himself. His secretary; who had been at the telephone, desired a
short conference. There was a brief silence after his departure.
“Stenson,” the Oxonian observed, “is beginning to show signs of strain.”
“Why not?” Lord Shervinton pointed out. “He came into office full of the
most wonderful enthusiasm. His speeches rang through the world like a
clarion note. He converted waverers. He lit fires which still burn. But
he is a man of movement. This present stagnation is terribly irksome to
him. I heard him speak last week, and I was disappointed. He seems to
have lost his inspiration. What he needs is a stimulus of some sort,
even of disaster.”
“I wonder,” the Bishop reflected, “if he is really afraid of the
people?”
“I consider his remark concerning them most ill-advised,” Lord Maltenby
declared pompously.
“I know the people,” the Bishop continued, “and I love them. I
think, too, that they trust me. Yet I am not sure that I cannot see a
glimmering of what is at the back of Stenson’s mind. There are a good
many millions in the country who honestly believe that war is primarily
an affair of the politicians; who believe, too, that victory means a
great deal more to what they term ‘the upper classes’ than it does to
them. Yet, in every sense of the word, they are bearing an equal portion
of the fight, because, when it comes down to human life, the life of the
farm labourer’s son is of the same intrinsic value as the life of the
peer’s.”
Lord Maltenby moved a little in his chair. There was a slight frown upon
his aristocratic forehead. He disagreed entirely with the speaker, with
whom he feared, however, to cross swords. Mr. Hannaway Wells, who had
been waiting for his opportunity, took charge of the conversation. He
spoke in a reserved manner, his fingers playing with the stem of his
wineglass.
“I must confess,” he said, “that I feel the deepest interest in what
the Bishop has just said. I could not talk to you about the military
situation, even if I knew more than you do, which is not the case, but
I think it is clear that we have reached something like a temporary
impasse. There certainly seems to be no cause for alarm upon any front,
yet, not only in London, but in Paris and even Rome, there is a curious
uneasiness afoot, for which no one can account which no one can bring
home to any definite cause. In the same connection, we have confidential
information that a new spirit of hopefulness is abroad in Germany. It
has been reported to us that sober, clear-thinking men--and there are
a few of them, even in Germany--have predicted peace before a month is
out.”
“The assumption is,” Doctor Lennard interpolated, “that Germany has
something up her sleeve.”
“That is not only the assumption,” the Cabinet Minister replied, “but it
is also, I believe, the truth.”
“One could apprehend and fear a great possible danger,” Lord Shervinton
observed, “if the Labour Party in Germany were as strong as ours, or
if our own Labour Party were entirely united. The present conditions,
however, seem to me to give no cause for alarm.”
“That is where I think you are wrong,” Hannaway Wells declared. “If the
Labour Party in Germany were as strong as ours, they would be strong
enough to overthrow the Hohenzollern clique, to stamp out the militarism
against which we are at war, to lay the foundations of a great German
republic with whom we could make the sort of peace for which every
Englishman hopes. The danger, the real danger which we have to face,
would lie in an amalgamation of the Labour Party, the Socialists and the
Syndicalists in this country, and in their insisting upon treating with
the weak Labour Party in Germany.”
“I agree with the Bishop,” Julian pronounced. “The unclassified
democracy of our country may believe itself hardly treated, but
individually it is intensely patriotic. I do not believe that its
leaders would force the hand of the country towards peace, unless they
received full assurance that their confreres in Germany were able to
assume a dominant place in the government of that country--a place at
least equal to the influence of the democracy here.”
Doctor Lennard glanced at the speaker a little curiously. He had known
Julian since he was a boy but had never regarded him as anything but a
dilettante.
“You may not know it,” he said, “but you are practically expounding
the views of that extraordinary writer of whom we were speaking--Paul
Fiske.”
“I have been told,” the Bishop remarked, cracking a walnut, “that Paul
Fiske is the pseudonym of a Cabinet Minister.”
“And I,” Hannaway Wells retorted, “have been informed most credibly that
he is a Church of England clergyman.”
“The last rumour I heard,” Lord Shervinton put in, “was that he is a
grocer in a small way of business at Wigan.”
“Dear me!” Doctor Lennard remarked. “The gossips have covered enough
ground! A man at a Bohemian club of which I am a member--the Savage
Club, in fact--assured me that he was an opium drugged journalist, kept
alive by the charity of a few friends; a human wreck, who was once the
editor of an important London paper.”
“You have some slight connection with journalism, have you not, Julian?”
the Earl asked his son condescendingly. “Have you heard no reports?”
“Many,” Julian replied, “but none which I have been disposed to credit.
I should imagine, myself, that Paul Fiske is a man who believes, having
created a public, that his written words find an added value from the
fact that he obviously desires neither reward nor recognition; just in
the same way as the really earnest democrats of twenty years ago scoffed
at the idea of a seat in Parliament, or of breaking bread in any way
with the enemy.”
“It was a fine spirit, that,” the Bishop declared. “I am not sure that
we are not all of us a little over-inclined towards compromises. The
sapping away of conscience is so easy.”
The dining-room door was thrown open, and the butler announced a
visitor.
“Colonel Henderson, your lordship.”
They all turned around in their places. The colonel, a fine,
military-looking figure of a man, shook hands with Lord Maltenby.
“My most profound apologies, sir,” he said, as he accepted a chair. “The
Countess was kind enough to say that if I were not able to get away in
time for dinner, I might come up afterwards.”
“You are sure that you have dined?”
“I had something at Mess, thank you.”
“A glass of port, then?”
The Colonel helped himself from the decanter which was passed towards
him and exchanged greetings with several of the guests to whom his host
introduced him.
“No raids or invasions, I hope, Colonel?” the latter asked.
“Nothing quite so serious as that, I am glad to say. We have had a
little excitement of another sort, though. One of my men caught a spy
this morning.”
Every one was interested. Even after three years of war, there was still
something fascinating about the word.
“Dear me!” Lord Maltenby exclaimed. “I should scarcely have considered
our out-of-the-way part of the world sufficiently important to attract
attentions of that sort.”
“It was a matter of communication,” the Colonel confided. “There was an
enemy submarine off here last night, and we have reason to believe that
a message was landed. We caught one fellow just at dawn.”
“What did you do with him?” the Bishop asked.
“We shot him an hour ago,” was the cool reply.
“Are there any others at large?” Julian enquired, leaning forward.
“One other,” the Colonel acknowledged, sipping his wine appreciatively.
“My military police here, however, are very intelligent, and I should
think it very doubtful whether he can escape.”
“Was the man who was shot a foreigner?” the Earl asked. “I trust that he
was not one of my tenants?”
“He was a stranger,” was the prompt assurance.
“And his companion?” Julian ventured.
“His companion is believed to have been quite a youth. There is a
suggestion that he escaped in a motor-car, but he is probably hiding in
the neighbourhood.”
Lord Maltenby frowned. There seemed to him something incongruous in the
fact that a deed of this sort should have been committed in his domain
without his knowledge. He rose to his feet.
“The Countess is probably relying upon some of us for bridge,” he said.
“I hope, Colonel, that you will take a hand.”
The men rose and filed slowly out of the room. The Colonel, however,
detained his host, and Julian also lingered.
“I hope, Lord Maltenby,” the former said, “that you will excuse my men,
but they tell me that they find it necessary to search your garage for a
car which has been seen in the neighbourhood.”
“Search my garage?” Lord Maltenby repeated, frowning.
“There is no doubt,” the Colonel explained, “that a car was made use
of last night by the man who is still at large, and it is very possible
that it was stolen. You will understand, I am sure, that any enquiries
which my men may feel it their duty to make are actuated entirely by
military necessity.”
“Quite so,” the Earl acceded, still a little puzzled. “You will find
my head chauffeur a most responsible man. He will, I am sure, give them
every possible information. So far as I am aware, however, there is no
strange car in the garage. Do you know of any, Julian?”
“Only Miss Abbeway’s,” his son replied. “Her little Panhard was out in
the avenue all night, waiting for her to put some plugs in. Every one
else seems to have come by train.”
The Colonel raised his eyebrows very slightly and moved slowly towards
the door.
“The matter is in the hands of my police,” he said, “but if you could
excuse me for half a moment, Lord Maltenby, I should like to speak to
your head chauffeur.”
“By all means,” the Earl replied. “I will take you round to the garage
myself.”