Chapter Eight. Shows a Politician and a Policy.

Dudley Chisholm, with the excuse that his presence was urgently required at the Foreign Office, returned to town by the first train on the following day, leaving the colonel and Benthall to continue their sport. He would probably return in a couple of days, he said, but Lord Stockbridge wished to explain to him the line of policy which he intended to adopt towards France, with a view to lessening the tension between the two nations, and to give him certain instructions as to the conduct of the forthcoming debate in the House.

As both his guests understood that a man holding such a position was liable at any moment to be called up to town, they made the best of their disappointment, wished him good luck when the time came for his departure, and went out with the head-keeper for a day’s sport in Parnholt Wood.

That same afternoon, in the fading light, the Under-Secretary was closeted with his Chief, the Most Noble the Marquess of Stockbridge, K.G., Prime Minister of England, and Her Majesty’s Principal Secretary of State, in his private room at Downing Street.

Next to the Sovereign, this tall, thin-faced, grey-bearded man, with the rather ascetic, aquiline features and keen dark eyes that age had not dimmed, was the most potent personage in the British Empire. The room in which he was sitting at the big pedestal writing-table was on the first floor of the Foreign Office, a spacious apartment, solidly furnished and of a very business-like appearance. In that room Ambassadors and Envoys Plenipotentiary had discussed matters of such importance, in such a way, that if those walls had ears to listen and tongues to repeat, the whole of Europe would have been in arms on many an occasion. Placed as far from the door as possible, the most conspicuous object in the room was the Prime Minister’s table, standing on the right, close to the fireplace of black and white marble, with a plain, gilt-framed mirror above, and one of those ordinary square marble clocks which may be found in almost every middle-class dining-room. In a small bookcase close to his lordship’s left hand was a library of reference works; while to his right, in the centre of the apartment, was a round table covered with books, where the current issue of the Times was lying.

In front of the great statesman was a long lounge, upholstered in dark green leather, as was the rest of the furniture, and upon the wall behind the lounge a rack containing a large number of maps. Two or three deep armchairs, a couple of other tables and several revolving bookcases completed the furniture of the private room of the head of the Cabinet. At the table sat the marquess toying idly with his quill, while upon the leather-covered lounge before him sat Chisholm, the Under-secretary of State for Foreign Affairs.

They were alone, with the door closed against intruders. The greyness of the short afternoon had become more and more pronounced during their conversation, and as neither had risen to switch on the electric light the room was in semi-darkness. Chisholm was thankful, for he was uneasy, and feared that his face might betray him to that keen and practised statesman beneath whose calm gaze many a diplomatist, whether British or foreign, had so often trembled. A rather cold, but exceedingly courteous man, Lord Stockbridge always spoke with slow deliberation, and with a gentleness that one would scarcely have expected from a man of such an austere manner. He was an autocrat both at the Foreign Office and in the Cabinet, always ruling with a firm hand, exhibiting a strange individualism in responsibility, bestowing but little praise upon any of Britain’s hard-working representatives abroad; but he was a patriot, and every inch a gentleman. Representatives of certain of the Powers at the Court of St. James held him in dread—they even hated him, because of his integrity, his calm dignity, and his shrewd foresight. They knew that he was not a man to be tricked, and that in his anger the British lion showed its teeth.

To this rather melancholy man with the grave face and the quick dark eyes the British nation chiefly owed the retention of its position as the first Power in the world. During his fifteen years of office the European outlook had, times without number, been of a grim blackness, and the war-cloud had hovered on the political horizon almost incessantly; yet, by means of his careful statesmanship and the marvellous tact and finesse constantly exhibited by him, this splendid politician had succeeded in piloting the ship of state into quieter waters.

Like his trusted Under-Secretary, he was a man who hated popularity, although he was equally popular in England and throughout the great Empire oversea. He detested cheap notoriety; he always declared that he left that sort of thing to the Opposition benches. In a word, he was an honest, straightforward, patriotic Englishman, the most trusted of Her Majesty’s Ministers, and the greatest living statesman in Europe.

Had he not acted with firmness and discretion, as well as with quick foresight, Great Britain would a dozen times have been at war with her jealous neighbours. More than once conspiracies, deeply laid and skilfully engineered, had been in progress in some diplomatic circles for the purpose of inveigling England into hostilities; but his power of keen penetration and swift deduction had caused the efforts of our enemies to be thwarted and they themselves to be discomfited by some remarkable coup in quite another direction. It was the cackling cry of certain leader-writers that English diplomacy was abortive, that other nations left us behind in the race, and that our Ambassadors and Ministers were merely bunglers. These prophets (hired at the rate of two guineas a column) always conveniently overlooked the fact that the world virtually owed its peace and consequent prosperity to the thin-faced, rather haggard-looking, man who was the personal friend, confidant and adviser of his venerated and peace-loving Sovereign.

He sat there in the half light twisting his quill in his thin hands, a sign that he was puzzled.

“The situation is undoubtedly critical, Chisholm,” he said in a low voice. “I confess I cannot make it out in the least. The whole thing appears to me an enigma at present.”

“Have you received no further despatch from Vienna?” inquired the Under-Secretary.

“Yes. One came through in cipher a couple of hours ago. But it tells us nothing. Farncombe is apparently without information.”

The younger man breathed more freely. He had feared that the truth was already known. Up to the present, then, he was safe; but the tension was terrible. He did not know from one moment to another by what avenue his exposure, which would mean his inevitable degradation and ruin, would come. A despatch from Lord Farncombe, the British Ambassador at Vienna, revealing the truth, would be his death-warrant, for he had determined to commit suicide rather than face the terrible exposure that would necessarily ensue were his secret to become known.

By making a supreme effort he had succeeded in carrying on this private consultation with his chief without betraying undue apprehension. He had shown some alarm, it is true, but the marquess put this down to his natural anxiety in regard to the serious complications in Europe which, as it seemed, had been created by what had so mysteriously leaked out from Vienna and Constantinople.

“I can’t understand why Farncombe has not some information on the matter,” his lordship went on deliberately, almost as though he were speaking to himself. “It’s scandalous that we should be working entirely in the dark. But for the present we must wait. Our only chance of success is to keep our own counsel and not show our hand. We are weak in this affair, Chisholm, horribly weak. If the Opposition got wind of it we should have a poor chance, I’m afraid. It’s just what they’ve been longing for these three years.”

“But they must know nothing!” exclaimed. Chisholm quickly. “If the secret of our weakness comes out, all Europe will be ablaze.”

“Exactly, that’s just what I fear!” the Minister answered. “It must be kept from them at all hazards. You are the only man in London besides myself who has the slightest inkling of the situation. You will, of course, regard it as strictly confidential.”

“Absolutely.”

“And you destroyed the despatch I sent you to Wroxeter?”

“I burnt it.”

“Good!” exclaimed the marquess, leaning both elbows upon the table and looking across again at the man sitting there in the falling darkness. “And now we must form some plan of action. We must save the situation. Have you anything to suggest?”

“I really don’t know what to suggest,” Dudley faltered. “The whole affair is so mysterious, and we seem to have nothing to go upon. To me, it doesn’t seem possible that our friends in Constantinople have suddenly turned antagonistic.”

“Certainly not. Our relations with the Porte are excellent—and you can tell the House so. It is that very fact which puzzles me. The only solution of the enigma, as far as I can see, is that it is the outcome of that dastardly betrayal to Russia of our policy towards the Porte a year or two ago. You will recollect it, and how nearly it resulted in war?”

“Yes,” answered Dudley in a faltering voice, “I remember it.” Then he added quickly, as though to change the subject: “As far as I can see, the conspiracy is being worked from one of the other capitals.”

Her Majesty’s Under-Secretary knew the truth, but made a clever pretence of being no less mystified than his chief.

“Perhaps so, perhaps so,” the great statesman remarked. “But this affair shows that there is once again a desperate attempt being made against us—from what quarter we are unable at present to detect.”

“Rome is not the centre of activity, I feel sure,” Chisholm observed. “We only see its effect there.”

“An effect which may alienate us from Italy at any moment. With the Saracco Government in power there, matters are by no means upon a firm basis.”

“But Rathmore is one of our best men. He’ll surely see that such a contretemps does not occur.”

“Difficult—my dear Chisholm,” replied the grey-haired Minister. “Diplomacy is often as difficult in Rome as it is in Petersburg. The undercurrents against us are quite as many. The Powers are jealous of Italy’s friendship towards us and of her resolve to assist us in the Mediterranean if necessary. That is the whole crux of the matter. Happily, they are not aware of the terms I made with Rudini two years ago, or the war-cloud would probably have burst some time back. We can’t afford to risk hostilities while Italy is so weak. In two years her new armaments will be complete, and then—”

“And then we shall be able to defy them,” added the Under-Secretary with a smile.

The great Minister rubbed his gold-framed glasses and nodded in the affirmative.

“But the most curious aspect of this sudden development—if the information is correct, as we suppose it to be—is the apparent boldness of the diplomatic move on the part of the Porte,” the elder man went on. “It is an absolute enigma how they dare to attempt such a coup without being absolutely certain of success.”

“But how could they be?” queried the Under-secretary in a strained voice.

“Only by the possession of secret information,” the other replied. “It is the outcome of our base betrayal five years ago.”

“Surely nothing further has leaked out!” exclaimed the man seated upon the leather-covered lounge.

“No. There are spies in London—a crowd of them. Melville from Scotland Yard handed me a list of twenty or so of the interesting gentlemen last week. But we have nothing to fear from them—absolutely nothing. What I dread is that there is a traitor here, in my own Department.”

“Then what is your private opinion?”

“Well,” said the great man, still slowly twisting his quill between his fingers, “it seems to me, Chisholm, very much as though the person who is responsible for this clever move to checkmate our influence in the Mediterranean, like the man who betrayed us before, knows our secret, and is possessed of absolute self-confidence. He evidently knows of the agreement made five years ago, or else he possesses influence in some quarter or other which may prove detrimental to us.”

Dudley Chisholm held his breath. Truth lived in the last words that had fallen from the lips of his chief. The man responsible for the remarkable coup that had been forecasted from Vienna did indeed possess influence—over himself—an influence for life or death. After a great effort he contrived to remain calm, and, in a voice which to him sounded cavernous in that great room, he merely said:

“Yes. I thoroughly agree with your theory—thoroughly.”

“Then in that case, Chisholm, you must make a distinct statement in the House to-morrow regarding our policy abroad and the defence of the Empire. If the coup is really attempted, we must have public opinion entirely with us. This is not a party matter. You follow me?”

“Entirely. I will have a supplementary question put to-morrow, and reply to it.”

“Speak fearlessly and straight to the point. Assure the House that at this moment we are in a stronger position than we ever were, and that our allies are eager to assist us whenever war may break out. Hint at certain secret understandings with regard to the Mediterranean, and also at an Anglo-American alliance. I detest to play this game, but it is necessary—highly necessary, having regard to the extreme gravity of the outlook.”

“Very well,” replied Chisholm, rising, anxious to escape from that astute man’s presence before his pallid face should confess a part of the truth. “I will carry out your instructions. I quite understand the line to be adopted—one of nonchalance and self-satisfaction.”

And then, after a brief conversation upon other topics, the Under-Secretary, when he had switched on the light for his chief, walked out, and went down the great staircase into Downing Street.