If the closely drawn blinds of the many windows of Westminster Buildings
could have been raised that night and early morning, the place would
have seemed a very hive of industry. Twenty men were hard at work in
twenty different rooms. Some went about their labours doubtfully, some
almost timorously, some with jubilation, one or two with real regret.
Under their fingers grew the more amplified mandates which, following
upon the bombshell of the already prepared telegrams, were within a
few hours to paralyse industrial England, to keep her ships idle in
the docks, her trains motionless upon the rails, her mines silent, her
forges cold, her great factories empty. Even the least imaginative felt
the thrill, the awe of the thing he was doing. On paper, in the brain,
it seemed so wonderful, so logical, so certain of the desired result.
And now there were other thoughts forcing their way to the front. How
would their names live in history? How would Englishmen throughout the
world regard this deed? Was it really the truth they were following, or
some false and ruinous shadow? These were fugitive doubts, perhaps, but
to more than one of those midnight toilers they presented themselves in
the guise of a chill and drear presentiment.
They all heard a motor-car stop outside. No one, however, thought it
worth while to discontinue his labours for long enough to look out and
see who this nocturnal visitor might be. In a very short time, however,
these labours were disturbed. From room to room, Julian, with Catherine
and the Bishop, for whom they had called on the way, passed with a brief
message. No one made any difficulty about coming to the Council room.
The first protest was made when they paid the visit which they had
purposely left until last. Nicholas Fenn had apparently finished or
discontinued his efforts. He was seated in front of his desk, his chin
almost resting upon his folded arms, and a cigarette between his lips.
Bright was lounging in an easy-chair within a few feet of him. Their
heads were close together; their conversation, whatever the subject of
it may have been, was conducted in whispers. Apparently they had not
heard Julian’s knock, for they started apart, when the door was opened,
like conspirators. There was something half-fearful, half-malicious in
Fenn’s face, as he stared at them.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded. “What’s wrong?”
Julian closed the door.
“A great deal,” he replied curtly. “We have been around to every one of
the delegates and asked them to assemble in the Council room. Will you
and Bright come at once?”
Fenn looked from one to the other of his visitors and remained silent
for a few seconds.
“Climbing down, eh?” he asked viciously.
“We have some information to communicate,” Julian announced.
Fenn moved abruptly away, out of the shadow of the electric lamp which
hung over his desk. His voice was anxious, unnatural.
“We can’t consider any more information,” he said harshly. “Our
decisions have been taken. Nothing can affect them. That’s the worst of
having you outsiders on the board. I was certain you wouldn’t face it
when the time came.”
“As you yourself,” Julian remarked, “are somewhat concerned in this
matter, I think it would be well if you came with the others.”
“I am not going to stir from this room,” Fenn declared doggedly. “I have
my own work to do. And as to my being concerned with what you have to
say, I’ll thank you to mind your own business and leave mine alone.”
“Mr. Fenn,” the Bishop interposed, “I beg to offer you my advice that
you join us at once in the Council room.”
Julian and Catherine had already left the room. Fenn leaned forward, and
there was an altered note in his tone.
“What’s it mean, Bishop?” he asked hoarsely. “Are they ratting, those
two?”
“What we have come here to say,” the Bishop rejoined, “must be said to
every one.”
He turned away. Fenn and Bright exchanged quick glances.
“What do you make of it?” asked Fenn.
“They’ve changed their minds,” Bright muttered, “that’s all. They’re
theorists. Damn all theorists! They just blow bubbles to destroy them.
As for the girl, she’s been at parties all the evening, as we know.”
“You’re right,” Fenn acknowledged. “I was a fool. Come on.”
Many of the delegates had the air of being glad to escape for a few
minutes from their tasks. One or two of them entered the room, carrying
a cup of coffee or cocoa. Most of them were smoking. Fenn and Bright
made their appearance last of all. The latter made a feeble attempt at a
good-humoured remark.
“Is this a pause for refreshments?” he asked. “If so, I’m on.”
Julian, who had been waiting near the door, locked it. Fenn started.
“What the devil’s that for?” he demanded.
“Just a precaution. We don’t want to be interrupted.”
Julian moved towards a little vacant space at the end of the table and
stood there, his hands upon the back of a chair. The Bishop remained by
his side, his eyes downcast as though in prayer. Catherine had accepted
the seat pushed forward by Cross. The atmosphere of the room, which at
first had been only expectant, became tense.
“My friends,” Julian began, “a few hours ago you came to a momentous
decision. You are all at work, prepared to carry that decision into
effect. I have come to see you because I am very much afraid that we
have been the victims of false statements, the victims of a disgraceful
plot.”
“Rubbish!” Fenn scoffed. “You’re ratting, that’s what you are.”
“You’d better thank Providence,” Julian replied sternly, “that there
is time for you to rat, too--that is, if you have any care for your
country. Now, Mr. Fenn, I am going to ask you a question. You led us to
believe, this evening, that, although all letters had been destroyed,
you were in constant communication with Freistner. When did you hear
from him last--personally, I mean?”
“Last week,” Fenn answered boldly, “and the week before that.”
“And you have destroyed those letters?”
“Of course I have! Why should I keep stuff about that would hang me?”
“You cannot produce, then, any communication from Freistner, except the
proposals of peace, written within the last--say--month?”
“What the mischief are you getting at?” Fenn demanded hotly. “And what
right have you to stand there and cross-question me?”
“The right of being prepared to call you to your face a liar,” Julian
said gravely. “We have very certain information that Freistner is now
imprisoned in a German fortress and will be shot before the week is
out.”
There was a little murmur of consternation, even of disbelief. Fenn
himself was speechless. Julian went on eagerly.
“My friends,” he said, “on paper, on the facts submitted to us, we took
the right decision, but we ought to have remembered this. Germany’s
word, Germany’s signature, Germany’s honour, are not worth a rap when
opposed to German interests. Germany, notwithstanding all her successes,
is thirsting for peace. This armistice would be her salvation. She set
herself out to get it--not honestly, as we have been led to believe, but
by means of a devilish plot. She professed to be overawed by the peace
desires of the Reichstag. The Pan-Germans professed a desire to give in
to the Socialists. All lies! They encouraged Freistner to continue his
negotiations here with Fenn. Freistner was honest enough. I am not so
sure about Fenn.”
Fenn sprang to his feet, a blasphemous exclamation broke from his lips.
Julian faced him, unmoved. The atmosphere of the room was now electric.
“I am going to finish what I have to say,” he went on. “I know that
every one will wish me to. We are all here to look for the truth and
nothing else, and, thanks to Miss Abbeway, we have stumbled upon it.
These peace proposals, which look so well on paper, are a decoy. They
were made to be broken. Those signatures are affixed to be repudiated.
I say that Freistner has been a prisoner for weeks, and I deny that
Fenn has received a single communication from him during that time.
Fenn asserts that he has, but has destroyed them. I repeat that he is a
liar.”
“That’s plain speaking,” Cross declared. “Now, then, Fenn, lad, what
have you to say about it?”
Fenn leaned forward, his face distorted with something which might have
been anger, but which seemed more closely to resemble fear.
“This is just part of the ratting!” he exclaimed. “I never keep a
communication from Freistner. I have told you so before. The preliminary
letters I had you all saw, and we deliberated upon them together. Since
then, all that I have had have been friendly messages, which I have
destroyed.”
There was a little uncertain murmur. Julian proceeded.
“You see,” he said, “Mr. Fenn is not able to clear himself from my first
accusation. Now let us hear what he will do with this one. Mr. Fenn
started life, I believe, as a schoolmaster at a parish school, a very
laudable and excellent occupation. He subsequently became manager to a
firm of timber merchants in the city and commenced to interest himself
in Labour movements. He rose by industry and merit to his present
position--a very excellent career, but not, I should think, a
remunerative one. Shall we put his present salary down at ten pounds a
week?”
“What the devil concern is this of yours?” the goaded man shouted.
“Of mine and all of us,” Julian retorted, “for I come now to a certain
question. Will you disclose your bank book?”
Fenn reeled for a moment in his seat. He affected not to have heard the
question.
“My what?” he stammered.
“Your bank book,” Julian repeated calmly. “As you only received your
last instalment from Germany this week, you probably have not yet had
time to purchase stocks and shares or property wherever your inclination
leads you. I imagine, therefore, that there would be a balance there of
something like thirty thousand pounds, the last payment made to you by a
German agent now in London.”
Fenn sprang to his feet. He had all the appearance of a man about to
make a vigorous and exhaustive defence. And then suddenly he swayed, his
face became horrible to look upon, his lips were twisted.
“Brandy!” he cried. “Some one give me brandy! I am ill!”
He collapsed in a heap. They carried him on to a seat set against the
wall, and Catherine bent over him. He lay there, moaning. They loosened
his collar and poured restoratives between his teeth. For a time he was
silent. Then the moaning began again. Julian returned to the table.
“Believe me,” he said earnestly, “this is as much a tragedy to me as
to any one present. I believe that every one of you here except--” he
glanced towards the sofa--“except those whom we will not name have gone
into this matter honestly, as I did. We’ve got to chuck it. Tear up your
telegrams. Let me go to see Stenson this minute. I see the truth about
this thing now as I never saw it before. There is no peace for us with
Germany until she is on her knees, until we have taken away all her
power to do further mischief. When that time comes let us be generous.
Let us remember that her working men are of the same flesh and blood as
ours and need to live as you need to live. Let us see that they are
left the means to live. Mercy to all of them--mercy, and all the
possibilities of a free and generous life. But to Hell with every one of
those who are responsible for the poison which has crept throughout all
ranks in Germany, which, starting from the Kaiser and his friends,
has corrupted first the proud aristocracy, then the industrious,
hard-working and worthy middle classes, and has even permeated to some
extent the ranks of the people themselves, destined by their infamous
ruler to carry on their shoulders the burden of an unnatural, ungodly,
and unholy ambition. There is much that I ought to say, but I fancy that
I have said enough. Germany must be broken, and you can do it. Let the
memory of those undispatched telegrams help you. Spend your time amongst
the men you represent. Make them see the truth. Make them understand
that every burden they lift, every time they wield the pickaxe, every
blow they strike in their daily work, helps. I was going to speak about
what we owe to the dead. I won’t. We must beat Germany to her knees. We
can and we will. Then will come the time for generosity.”
Phineas Cross struck the table with the flat of his hand.
“Boys,” he said, “I feel the sweat in every pore of my body. We’ve nigh
done a horrible thing. We are with you, Mr. Orden. But about that little
skunk there? How did you find him out?”
“Through Miss Abbeway,” Julian answered. “You have her to thank. I can
assure you that every charge I have made can be substantiated.”
There was a little murmur of confidence. Everyone seemed to find speech
difficult.
“One word more,” Julian went on. “Don’t disband this Council. Keep it
together, just as it is. Keep this building. Keep our association and
sanctify it to one purpose--victory.”
A loud clamour of applause answered him. Once more Cross glanced towards
the prostrate form upon the sofa.
“Let no one interfere,” Julian enjoined. “There is an Act which will
deal with him. He will be removed from this place presently, and he will
not be heard of again for a little time. We don’t want a soul to know
how nearly we were duped. It rests with every one of you to destroy all
the traces of what might have happened. You can do this if you will.
To-morrow call a meeting of the Council. Appoint a permanent chairman,
a new secretary, draw out a syllabus of action for promoting increased
production, for stimulating throughout every industry a passionate
desire for victory. If speaking, writing, or help of mine in any way is
wanted, it is yours. I will willingly be a disciple of the cause. But
this morning let me be your ambassador. Let me go to the Premier with a
message from you. Let me tell him what you have resolved.”
“Hands up all in favour!” Cross exclaimed.
Every hand was raised. Bright came back from the couch, blinking
underneath his heavy spectacles but meekly acquiescent.
“Let us remember this hour,” the Bishop begged, “as something solemn in
our lives. The Council of Labour shall justify itself, shall voice the
will or the people, fighting for victory.”
“For the Peace which comes through Victory!” Julian echoed.