Julian, duly embarked upon his mission, was kept waiting an unexpectedly
short time in the large but gloomy apartment into which Mr. Stenson’s
butler had somewhat doubtfully ushered him. The Prime Minister entered
with an air of slight hurry. He was also somewhat surprised.
“My dear Orden,” he exclaimed, holding out his hand, “what can I do for
you?”
“A great deal,” Julian replied gravely. “First of all, though, I have an
explanation to make.”
“I am afraid,” Mr. Stenson regretted, “that I am too much engaged this
evening to enter into any personal matters. I am expecting a messenger
here on very important official business.”
“I am that messenger,” Julian announced.
Mr. Stenson started. His visitor’s tone was serious and convincing.
“I fear that we are at loggerheads. It is an envoy from the Labour Party
whom I am expecting.”
“I am that envoy.”
“You?” Mr. Stenson exclaimed, in blank bewilderment.
“I ought to explain a little further, perhaps. I have been writing on
Labour questions for some time under the pseudonym of ‘Paul Fiske’.”
“Paul Fiske?” Mr. Stenson gasped. “You--Paul Fiske?”
Julian nodded assent.
“You are amazed, of course,” he proceeded, “but it is nevertheless the
truth. The fact has just come to light, and I have been invited to
join this new emergency Council, composed of one or two Socialists and
writers, amongst them a very distinguished prelate; Labour Members of
Parliament, and representatives of the various Trades Unions, a body
of men which you doubtless know all about. I attended a meeting at
Westminster an hour ago, and I was entrusted with this commission to
you.”
Mr. Stenson sat down suddenly.
“God bless my soul!” he exclaimed. “You--Julian Orden!”
There was a moment’s silence. Mr. Stenson, however, was a man of immense
recuperative powers. He assimilated the new situation without further
protest.
“You have given me the surprise of my life, Orden,” he confessed. “That,
however, is a personal matter. Hannaway Wells is in the study. You have
no objection, I suppose, to his being present?”
“None whatever.”
Mr. Stenson rang the bell, and in a few minutes they were joined by his
colleague. The former wasted no time in explanations.
“You will doubtless be as astonished as I was, Wells,” he said, “to
learn that our friend Julian Orden comes here as the representative of
the new Labour Council. His qualifications, amongst others, are that
under the pseudonym of ‘Paul Fiske’ he is the writer of those wonderful
articles which have been the beacon light and the inspiration of the
Labour Party for the last year.”
Mr. Hannaway Wells prided himself upon never being surprised. This time
the only way he could preserve his reputation was by holding his tongue.
“We are now prepared to hear your mission,” Mr. Stenson continued,
turning to his visitor.
“I imagine,” Julian began, “that you know something about this new
Labour Council?”
“What little we do know,” Mr. Stenson answered, “we have learnt with
great difficulty through our secret service. I gather that a small
league of men has been formed within a mile of the Houses of Parliament,
who, whatever their motives may be, have been guilty of treasonable and
traitorous communication with the enemy.”
“Strictly speaking, you are, without doubt, perfectly right,” Julian
acknowledged.
Mr. Stenson switched on an electric light.
“Sit down, Orden,” he invited. “There is no need for us to stand glaring
at one another. There is enough of real importance in the nature of our
interview without making melodrama of it.”
The Prime Minister threw himself into an easy chair. Julian, with a
little sigh of relief, selected a high-backed oak chair and rested
his foot upon a hassock. Hannaway Wells remained standing upon the
hearthrug.
“Straight into the heart of it, please, Orden,” Mr. Stenson begged. “Let
us know how far this accursed conspiracy has gone.”
“It has gone to very great lengths,” Julian declared. “Certain members
of this newly-formed Council of Labour have been in communication for
some months with the Socialist Party in Germany. From these latter they
have received a definite and authentic proposal of peace, countersigned
by the three most important men in Germany. That proposal of peace I am
here to lay before you, with the request that you act upon it without
delay.”
Julian produced his roll of papers. The two men remained motionless. The
great issue had been reached with almost paralysing rapidity.
“My advice,” Mr. Hannaway Wells said bluntly, “is that you,
sir,”--turning to his Chief--“refuse to discuss or consider these
proposals, or to examine that document. I submit that you are the head
of His Majesty’s Government, and any communication emanating from a
foreign country should be addressed to you. If you ever consider this
matter and discuss it with Mr. Orden here, you associate yourself with a
traitorous breach of the law.”
Mr. Stenson made no immediate reply. He looked towards Julian, as though
to hear what he had to say.
“Mr. Hannaway Wells’s advice is, without doubt, technically correct,”
Julian admitted, “but the whole subject is too great, and the issues
involved too awful for etiquette or even propriety to count. It is for
you, sir, to decide what is best for the country. You commit yourself to
nothing by reading the proposals, and I suggest that you do so.”
“We will read them,” Mr. Stenson decided.
Julian passed over the papers. The two men crossed the room and leaned
over the Prime Minister’s writing table. Mr. Stenson drew down the
electric light, and they remained there in close confabulation for about
a quarter of an hour. Julian sat with his back turned towards them and
his ears closed. In this atmosphere of government, his own position
seemed to him weird and fantastic. A sense of unreality cumbered his
thoughts. Even this brief pause in the actual negotiations filled him
with doubts. He could scarcely believe that it was he who was to dictate
terms to the man who was responsible for the government of the country;
that it was he who was to force a decision pregnant with far-reaching
consequences to the entire world. The figures of Fenn and Bright loomed
up ominously before him, however hard he tried to push them into
the background. Was it the mandate of such men as these that he was
carrying?
Presently the two Ministers returned to their places. Julian had heard
their voices for the last few minutes without being able to distinguish
a word of their actual conversation.
“We have considered the document you have brought, Orden,” the
Prime Minister said, “and we frankly admit that we find its contents
surprising. The terms of peace suggested form a perfectly possible basis
for negotiations. At the same time, you are probably aware that it has
not been in the mind of His Majesty’s Ministers to discuss terms of
peace at all with the present administration of Germany.”
“These terms,” Julian reminded him, “are dictated, not by the Kaiser and
his advisers, but by the Socialist and Labour Party.”
“It is strange,” Mr. Stenson pointed out, “that we have heard so little
of that Party. It is even astonishing that we should find them in a
position to be able to dictate terms of peace to the Hohenzollerns.”
“You do not dispute the authenticity of the document?” Julian asked.
“I will not go so far as that,” Mr. Stenson replied cautiously. “Our
secret service informed us some time ago that Freistner, the head of
the German Socialists, was in communication with certain people in this
country. I have no doubt whatever that these are the proposals of the
authorised Socialist Party of Germany. What I do not understand is how
they have suddenly acquired the strength to induce proposals of peace
such as these.”
“It has been suggested,” Julian said, “that even the Hohenzollerns, even
the military clique of Germany, see before them now the impossibility of
reaping the rewards of their successful campaigns. Peace is becoming a
necessity to them. They would prefer, therefore, to seem to yield to the
demands of their own Socialists rather than to foreign pressure.”
“That may be so,” Mr. Stenson admitted. “Let us proceed. The first part
of your duty, Orden, is finished. What else have you to say?”
“I am instructed,” Julian announced, “to appeal to you to sue at once,
through the Spanish Ambassador, for an armistice while these terms are
considered and arrangements made for discussing them.”
“And if I refuse?”
“I will not evade even that question. Of the twenty-three members of the
new Council of Labour, twenty represent the Trades Unions of the great
industries of the kingdom. Those twenty will unanimously proclaim a
general strike, if you should refuse the proposed armistice.”
“In other words,” Mr. Stenson observed drily, “they will scuttle the
ship themselves. Do you approve of these tactics?”
“I decline to answer that question,” Julian said, “but I would point
out to you that when you acknowledged yourself defeated by the miners of
South Wales, you pointed the way to some such crisis as this.”
“That may be true,” Mr. Stenson acknowledged. “I have only at this
moment, however, to deal with the present condition of affairs. Do you
seriously believe that, if I make the only answer which at present seems
to me possible, the Council of Labour, as they call themselves, will
adopt the measures they threaten?”
“I believe that they will,” Julian declared gravely. “I believe that
the country looks upon any continuation of this war as a continuation
of unnecessary and ghastly slaughter. To appreciably change the military
situation would mean the sacrifice of millions more lives, would mean
the continuation of the war for another two years. I believe that the
people of Germany who count are of the same opinion. I believe that the
inevitable change of government in Germany will show us a nation freed
from this hideous lust for conquest, a nation with whom, when she is
purged of the poison of these last years, we can exist fraternally and
with mutual benefit.”
“You are a very sanguine man, Mr. Orden,” Hannaway Wells remarked.
“I have never found,” Julian replied, “that the pessimist walks with his
head turned towards the truth.”
“How long have I,” the Prime Minister asked, after a brief pause, “for
my reply?”
“Twenty-four hours,” Julian told him, “during which time it is hoped
that you will communicate with our Allies and pave the way for a further
understanding. The Council of Labour asks you for no pledge as to their
safety. We know quite well that all of us are, legally speaking, guilty
of treason. On the other hand, a single step towards the curtailment of
our liberties will mean the paralysis of every industry in the United
Kingdom.”
“I realise the position perfectly,” Mr. Stenson observed drily. “I
do not exactly know what to say to you personally, Orden,” he added.
“Perhaps it is as well for us that the Council should have chosen an
ambassador with whom discussion, at any rate, is possible. Nevertheless,
I feel bound to remind you that you have taken upon your shoulders,
considering your birth and education, one of the most perilous loads
which any man could carry.”
“I have weighed the consequences,” Julian replied, with a sudden and
curious sadness in his tone. “I know how the name of ‘pacifist’ stinks
in the nostrils. I know how far we are committed as a nation to a peace
won by force of arms. I know how our British blood boils at the thought
of leaving a foreign country with as many military advantages as Germany
has acquired. But I feel, too, that there is the other side. I have
brought you evidence that it is not the German nation against whom we
fight, man against man, human being against human being. It is my belief
that autocracy and the dynasty of the Hohenzollerns will crumble into
ruin as a result of today’s negotiations, just as surely as though we
sacrificed God knows how many more lives to achieve a greater measure of
military triumph.”
The Prime Minister rang the bell.
“You are an honest man, Julian Orden,” he said, “and a decent emissary.
You will reply that we take the twenty-four hours for reflection. That
means that we shall meet at nine o’clock to-morrow evening.”
He held out his hand in farewell, an action which somehow sent Julian
away a happier man.