Julian raised himself slightly from his recumbent position at the sound of the opening of the door. He watched Fenn with dull, incurious eyes as the latter crossed the uncarpeted floor of the bare wooden shed, threw off his overcoat, and advanced towards the side of the couch.
“Sit up a little,” the newcomer directed.
Julian shook his head.
“No strength,” he muttered. “If I had, I should wring your damned neck!”
Fenn looked down at him for a moment in silence.
“You take this thing very hardly, Mr. Orden,” he said. “I think that you had better give up this obstinacy. Your friends are getting anxious about you. For many reasons it would be better for you to reappear.”
“There will be a little anxiety on the part of your friends about you,” Julian retorted grimly, “if ever I do get out of this accursed place.”
“You bear malice, I fear, Mr. Orden.”
Julian made no reply. His eyes were fixed upon the door. He turned away with a shudder. Bright had entered. In his hand he was carrying two gas masks. He came over to the side of the couch, and, looking down at Julian, lifted his hand, and felt his pulse. Then, with an abrupt movement, he handed one of the masks to Fenn.
“Look out for yourself,” he advised. “I am going to give him an antidote.”
Bright stepped back and adjusted his own gas mask, while Fenn followed suit. Then the former drew from his pocket what seemed to be a small tube with perforated holes at the top. He leaned over Julian and pressed it. A little cloud of faint mist rushed through the holes; a queer, aromatic perfume, growing stronger every moment, seemed to creep into the farthest corners of the room. In less than ten seconds Julian opened his eyes. In half a minute he was sitting up. His eyes were bright once more, there was colour in his cheeks. Bright spoke to him warningly.
“Mr. Orden,” he enjoined, “sit where you are. Remember I have the other tube in my left hand.”
“You infernal scoundrel!” Julian exclaimed.
“Mr. Bright,” Fenn asserted, “is nothing of the sort. Neither am I. We are both honest men faced with a colossal situation. There is nothing personal in our treatment of you. We have no enmity towards you. You are simply a person who has committed a theft.”
“What puzzles me,” Julian muttered, “is what you expect I am going to do about you, if ever I do escape from your clutches.”
“If you do escape,” Fenn said quietly, “you will view the matter differently. You will find, as a matter of fact, that you are powerless to do anything. You will find a new law and a new order prevailing.”
“German law!” Julian sneered.
“You misjudge us,” Fenn continued. “Both Bright and I are patriotic Englishmen. We are engaged at the present moment in a desperate effort to save our country. You are the man who stands in the way.”
“I never thought,” said Julian, “that I should smile in this place, but you are beginning to amuse me. Why not be more explicit? Why not prove what you say? I might become amenable. I suppose your way of saving the country is to hand it over to the Germans, eh?”
“Our way of saving the country,” Fenn declared, “is to establish peace.”
Julian laughed scornfully.
“I know a little about you, Mr. Fenn,” he said. “I know the sort of peace you would establish, the sort of peace any man would propose who conducts a secret correspondence with Germany.”
Fenn, who had lifted his mask for a moment, slowly rearranged it.
“Mr. Orden,” he said, “we are not going to waste words upon you. You are hopelessly and intolerably prejudiced. Will you tell us where you have concealed the packet you intercepted?”
“Aren’t you almost tired of asking me that question? I’m tired of hearing it,” Julian replied. “I will not.”
“Will you let me try to prove to you,” Fenn begged, “that by the retention of that packet you are doing your country an evil service?”
“If you talked till doomsday,” Julian assured him, “I should not believe a word you said.”
“In that case,” Fenn began slowly, with an evil glitter in his eyes!!!!!
“Well, for heaven’s sake finish the thing this time!” Julian interrupted. “I’m sick of playing the laboratory rabbit for you. If you are out for murder, finish the job and have done with it.”
Bright was playing with another tube which he had withdrawn from his pocket.
“It is my duty to warn you, Mr. Orden,” he said, “that the contents of this little tube of gas, which will reach you with a touch of my fingers, may possibly be fatal and will certainly incapacitate you for life.”
“Why warn me?” Julian scoffed. “You know very well that I haven’t the strength of a cat, or I should wring your neck.”
“We feel ourselves,” Bright continued unctuously, “justified in using this tube, because its first results will be to throw you into a delirium, in the course of which we trust that you will divulge the hiding place of the stolen packet. We use this means in the interests of the country, and such risk as there may be lies on your own head.”
“You’re a canting hypocrite!” Julian declared. “Try your delirium. That packet happens to be in the one place where neither you nor one of your tribe could get at it.”
“It is a serious moment, this, Mr. Orden,” Fenn reminded him. “You are in the prime of life, and there is a scandal connected with your present position which your permanent disappearance would certainly not dissipate. Remember—”
He stopped short. A whistle in the corner of the room was blowing. Bright moved towards it, but at that moment there was the sound of flying footsteps on the wooden stairs outside, and the door was flung open. Catherine, breathless with haste, paused for a moment on the threshold, then came forward with a little cry.
“Julian!” she exclaimed.
He gazed at her, speechless, but with a sudden light in his eyes. She came across the room and dropped on her knees by his couch. The two men fell back. Fenn slipped back between her and the door. They both removed their masks, but they held them ready.
“Oh, how dared they!” she went on. “The beasts! Tell me, are you ill?”
“Weak as a kitten,” he faltered. “They’ve poisoned me with their beastly gases.”
Catherine rose to her feet. She faced the two men, her eyes flashing with anger.
“The Council will require an explanation of this, Mr. Fenn!” she declared passionately. “Barely an hour ago you told us that Mr. Orden had escaped from Hampstead.”
“Julian Orden,” Fenn replied, “has been handed over to our secret service by the unanimous vote of the Council. We have absolute liberty to deal with him as we think fit.”
“Have you liberty to tell lies as to his whereabouts?” Catherine demanded. “You deliberately told the Council he had escaped, yet, entirely owing to Mr. Furley, I find you down here at Bermondsey with him. What were you going to do with him when I came in?”
“Persuade him to restore the packet, if we could,” Fenn answered sullenly.
“Rubbish!” Catherine retorted. “You know very well that he is our friend. You have only to tell him the truth, and your task with him is at an end.”
“Steady!” Julian muttered. “Don’t imagine that I have any sympathy with your little nest of conspirators.”
“That is only because you do not understand,” Catherine assured him. “Listen, and you shall hear the whole truth. I will tell you what is inside that packet and whose signatures you will find there.”
Julian gripped her wrist suddenly. His eyes were filled with a new fear. He was watching the two men, who were whispering together.
“Catherine,” he exclaimed warningly, “look out! These men mean mischief. That devil Bright invents a new poisonous gas every day. Look at Fenn buckling on his mask. Quick! Get out if you can!”
Catherine’s hand touched her bosom. Bright sprang towards her, but he was too late. She raised a little gold whistle to her lips, and its pealing summons rang through the room. Fenn dropped his mask and glanced towards Bright. His face was livid.
“Who’s outside?” he demanded.
“The Bishop and Mr. Furley. Great though my confidence is in you both, I scarcely ventured to come here alone.”
The approaching footsteps were plainly audible. Fenn shrugged his shoulders with a desperate attempt at carelessness.
“I don’t know what is in your mind, Miss Abbeway,” he said. “You can scarcely believe that you, at any rate, were in danger at our hands.”
“I would not trust you a yard,” she replied fiercely. “In any case, it is better that the others should come. Mr. Orden might not believe me. He will at least believe the Bishop.”
“Believe whom?” Julian demanded.
The door was opened. The Bishop and Miles Furley came hastily in. Catherine stepped forward to meet them.
“I was obliged to whistle,” she explained, a little hysterically. “I do not trust either of these men. That fiend Bright has a poisonous gas with him in a pocket cylinder. I am convinced that they meant to murder Julian.”
The two newcomers turned towards the couch and exchanged amazed greetings with Julian. Fenn threw his mask on to the table with an uneasy laugh.
“Miss Abbeway,” he protested, “is inclined to be melodramatic. The gas which Bright has in that cylinder is simply one which would produce a little temporary unconsciousness. We might have used it—we may still use it—but if you others are able to persuade Mr. Orden to restore the packet, our task with him is at an end. We are not his gaolers—or perhaps he would say his torturers—for pleasure. The Council has ordered that we should extort from him the papers you know of and has given us carte blanche as to the means. If you others can persuade him to restore them peaceably, why, do it. We are prepared to wait.”
Julian was still staring from one to the other of his visitors. His expression of blank astonishment had scarcely decreased.
“Bishop,” he said at last, “unless you want to see me go insane before your eyes, please explain. It can’t be possible that you have anything in common with this nest of conspirators.”
The Bishop smiled a little wanly. He laid his hand upon his godson’s shoulder.
“Believe me, I have been no party to your incarceration, Julian,”, he declared, “but if you will listen to me, I will tell you why I think it would be better for you to restore that packet to Miss Abbeway:”
“Tell that blackguard to give me another sniff of his restorative gas,” Julian begged. “These shocks are almost too much for me.”
The Bishop turned interrogatively towards Bright, who once more leaned over Julian with the tube in his hand. Again the little mist, the pungent odour. Julian rose to his feet and sat down again.
“I am listening,” he said.
“First of all,” began the Bishop earnestly, as he seated himself at the end of the couch on which Julian had been lying, “let me try to remove some of your misconceptions. Miss Abbeway is in no sense of the word a German spy. She and I, Mr. Furley here, Mr. Fenn and Mr. Bright, all belong to an organisation leagued together for one purpose—we are determined to end the war.”
“Pacifists!” Julian muttered.
“An idle word,” the Bishop protested, “because at heart we are all pacifists. There is not one of us who would wilfully choose war instead of peace. The only question is the price we are prepared to pay.”
“Why not leave that to the Government?”
“The Government,” the Bishop replied, “are the agents of the people. The people in this case wish to deal direct.”
“Again why?” Julian demanded.
“Because the Government is composed wholly of politicians, politicians who, in far too many speeches, have pledged themselves to too many definite things. Still, the Government will have its chance.”
“Explain to me,” Julian asked, “why, if you are a patriotic society, you are in secret and illegal communication with Germany?”
“The Germany with whom we are in communication,” the Bishop assured his questioner, “is the Germany who thinks as we do.”
“Then you are on a wild-goose chase,” Julian declared, “because the Germans who think as you do are in a hopeless minority.”
The Bishop’s forefinger was thrust out.
“I have you, Julian,” he said. “That very belief which you have just expressed is our justification, because it is the common belief throughout the country. I can prove to you that you are mistaken—can prove it, with the help of that very packet which is responsible for your incarceration here.”
“Explain,” Julian begged.
“That packet,” the Bishop declared, “contains the peace terms formulated by the Socialist and Labour parties of Germany.”
“Worth precisely the paper it is written on?” Julian scoffed.
“And ratified,” the Bishop continued emphatically, “by the three great men of Germany, whose signatures are attached to that document—the Kaiser, the Chancellor and Hindenburg.”
Julian was electrified.
“Do you seriously mean,” he asked, “that those signatures are attached to proposals of peace formulated by the Socialist and Labour parties of Germany?”
“I do indeed,” was the confident reply. “If the terms are not what we have been led to expect, or if the signatures are not there, the whole affair is at an end.”
“You are telling me wonderful things, sir,” Julian confessed, after a brief pause.
“I am telling what you will discover yourself to be the truth,” the Bishop insisted. “And, Julian, I am appealing to you not only for the return of that packet, but for your sympathy, your help, your partisanship. You can guess now what has happened. Your anonymity has come to an end. The newly formed Council of Labour, to which we all belong, is eager and anxious to welcome you.”
“Has any one given me away?” Julian asked.
Catherine shook her head.
“The truth was discovered this evening, when your rooms were searched,” she explained.
“What is the constitution of this Council of Labour?” Julian enquired, a little dazed by this revelation.
“It is the very body of men which you yourself foreshadowed,” the Bishop replied eagerly. “Twenty of the members are elected by the Trades Unions and represent the great industries of the Empire; and there are three outsiders—Miss Abbeway, Miles Furley and myself. If you, Julian, had not been so successful in concealing your identity, you would have been the first man to whom the Council would have turned for help. Now that the truth is known, your duty is clear. The glory of ending this war will belong to the people, and it is partly owing to you that the people have grown to realise their strength.”
“My own position at the present moment,” Julian began, a little grimly!!!!!
“You have no one to blame for that but yourself,” Catherine interrupted. “If we had known who you were, do you suppose that we should have allowed these men to deal with you in such a manner? Do you suppose that I should not have told you the truth about that packet? However, that is over. You know the truth now. We five are all members of the Council who are sitting practically night and day, waiting—you know what for. Do not keep us in suspense any longer than you can help. Tell us where to find this letter?”
Julian passed his hand over his forehead a little wearily.
“I am confused,” he admitted. “I must think. After all, you are engaged in a conspiracy. Stenson’s Cabinet may not be the strongest on earth, or the most capable, but Stenson himself has carried the burden of this war bravely.”
“If the terms offered,” the Bishop pointed out, “are anything like what we expect, they are better than any which the politicians could ever have mooted, even after years more of bloodshed. It is my opinion that Stenson will welcome them, and that the country, generally speaking, will be entirely in favour of their acceptance.”
“Supposing,” Julian asked, “that you think them reasonable, that you make your demand to the Prime Minister, and he refuses. What then?”
“That,” Fenn intervened, with the officious air of one who has been left out of the conversation far too long, “is where we come in. At our word, every coal pit in England would cease work, every furnace fire would go out, every factory would stand empty. The trains would remain on their sidings, or wherever they might chance to be when the edict was pronounced. The same with the ‘buses and cabs, the same with the Underground. Not a ship would leave any port in the United Kingdom, not a ship would be docked. Forty-eight hours of this would do more harm than a year’s civil war. Forty-eight hours must procure from the Prime Minister absolute submission to our demands. Ours is the greatest power the world has ever evolved. We shall use it for the greatest cause the world has ever known—the cause of peace.”
“This, in a way, was inevitable,” Julian observed. “You remember the conversation, Bishop,” he added, “down at Maltenby?”
“Very well indeed,” the latter acquiesced.
“The country went into slavery,” Julian pronounced, “in August, 1915. That slavery may or may not be good for them. To be frank, I think it depends entirely upon the constitution of your Council. It is so much to the good, Bishop, that you are there.”
“Our Council, such as it is,” Fenn remarked acidly, “consists of men elected to their position by the votes of a good many millions of their fellow toilers.”
“The people may have chosen wisely,” was the grave reply, “or they may have made mistakes. Such things have been known. By the bye, I suppose that my durance is at an end?”
“It is at an end, whichever way you decide,” Catherine declared. “Now that you know everything, though, you will not hesitate to give up the packet?”
“You shall have it,” he agreed. “I will give it back into your hands.”
“The sooner the better!” Fenn exclaimed eagerly. “And, Mr. Orden, one word.”
Julian was standing amongst them now, very drawn and pale in the dim halo of light thrown down from the hanging lamp. His answering monosyllable was cold and restrained.
“Well?”
“I trust you will understand,” Fenn continued, “that Bright and I were simply carrying out orders. To us you were an enemy. You had betrayed the trust of one of our members. The prompt delivery of that packet meant the salvation of thousands of lives. It meant a cessation of this ghastly world tragedy. We were harsh, perhaps, but we acted according to orders.”
Julian glanced at the hand which Fenn had half extended but made no movement to take it. He leaned a little upon the Bishop’s arm.
“Help me out of this place, sir, will you?” he begged. “As for Fenn and that other brute, what I have to say about them will keep.”
It was a little more than half an hour later when Julian ascended the steps of his club in Pall Mall and asked the hall porter for letters. Except that he was a little paler than usual and was leaning more heavily upon his stick, there was nothing about his appearance to denote several days of intense strain. There was a shade of curiosity, mingled with surprise, in the commissionaire’s respectful greeting.
“There have been a good many enquiries for you the last few days, sir,” he observed.
“I dare say,” Julian replied. “I was obliged to go out of town unexpectedly.”
He ran through the little pile of letters and selected a bulky envelope addressed to himself in his own handwriting. With this he returned to the taxicab in which the Bishop and Catherine were seated. They gazed with fascinated eyes at the packet which he was carrying and which he at once displayed.
“You see,” he remarked, as he leaned back, “there is nothing so impenetrable in the world as a club of good standing. It beats combination safes hollow. It would have taken all Scotland Yard to have dragged this letter from the rack.”
“That is really—it?” Catherine demanded breathlessly.
“It is the packet,” he assured her, “which you handed to me for safe keeping at Maltenby.”
They drove almost in silence to the Bishop’s house, where it had been arranged that Julian should spend the night. The Bishop left the two together before the fire in his library, while he personally superintended the arrangement of a guest room. Catherine came over and knelt by the side of Julian’s chair.
“Shall I beg forgiveness for the past,” she whispered, “or may I not talk of the future, the glorious future?”
“Is it to be glorious?” he asked a little doubtfully.
“It can be made so,” she answered with fervour, “by you more than by anybody else living. I defy you—you, Paul Fiske—to impugn our scheme, our aims, the goal towards which we strive. All that we needed was a leader who could lift us up above the localness, the narrow visions of these men. They are in deadly earnest, but they can’t see far enough, and each sees along his own groove. It is true that at the end the same sun shines, but no assembly of people can move together along a dozen different ways and keep the same goal in view.”
He touched the packet.
“We do not yet know the written word here,” he reminded her.
“I do,” she insisted. “My heart tells me. Besides, I have had many hints. There are people in London whose position forces them to remain silent, who understand and know.”
“Foreigners?” Julian asked suspiciously.
“Neutrals, of course, but neutrals of discretion are very useful people. The military party in Germany is making a brave show still, but it is beaten, notwithstanding its victories. The people are gathering together in their millions. Their voice is already being heard. Here we have the proof of it.”
“But even if these proposed terms are as favourable as you say,” Julian objected, “how can you force them upon the English Cabinet? There is America-France. Yours is purely a home demand. A government has other things to think of and consider.”
“France is war-weary to the bone,” she declared. “France will follow England, especially when she knows the contents of that packet. As for America, she came into this after the great sacrifices had been made. She demands nothing more than is to be yielded up. It is not for the sake of visionary ideas, not for diplomatic precedence that the humanitarians of the world are going to hesitate about ending this brutal slaughter.”
He studied her curiously. In the firelight her face seemed to him almost strangely beautiful. She was uplifted by the fervour of her thoughts. The depth in her soft brown eyes was immeasurable; the quiver of her lips, so soft and yet so spiritual, was almost inspiring. Her hand was resting upon his shoulder. She seemed to dwell upon his expression, to listen eagerly for his words. Yet he realised that in all this there was no personal note. She was the disciple of a holy cause, aflame with purpose.
“It will mean a revolution,” he said thoughtfully.
“A revolution was established two years ago,” she pointed out, “and the people have held their power ever since. I will tell you what I believe to-day,” she went on passionately. “I believe that the very class who was standing the firmest, whose fingers grasp most tightly the sword of warfare, will be most grateful to the people who will wrest the initiative from them and show them the way to an honourable, inevitable peace.”
“When do you propose to break those seals?” he enquired.
“To-morrow evening,” she replied. “There will be a full meeting of the Council. The terms will be read. Then you shall decide.”
“What am I to decide?”
“Whether you will accept the post of spokesman—whether you will be the ambassador who shall approach the Government.”
“But they may not elect me,” he objected.
“They will,” she replied confidently. “It was you who showed them their power. It is you whose inspiration has carried them along: It is you who shall be their representative. Don’t you realise,” she went on, “that it is the very association of such men as yourself and Miles Furley and the Bishop with this movement which will endow it with reality in the eyes of the bourgeoisie of the country and Parliament?”
Their host returned, followed by his butler carrying a tray with refreshments, and the burden of serious things fell away from them. It was only after Catherine had departed, and the two men lingered for a moment near the fire before retiring, that either of them reverted to the great subject which dominated their thoughts.
“You understand, Julian,” the Bishop said, with a shade of anxiety in his tone, “that I am in the same position as yourself so far as regards the proposals which may lie within that envelope? I have joined this movement—or conspiracy, as I suppose it would be called—on the one condition that the terms pronounced there are such as a Christian and a law-loving country, whose children have already made great sacrifices in the cause of freedom, may honourably accept. If they are otherwise, all the weight and influence I may have with the people go into the other scale. I take it that it is so with you?”
“Entirely,” Julian acquiesced. “To be frank with you,” he added, “my doubts are not so much concerning the terms of peace themselves as the power of the German democracy to enforce them.”
“We have relied a good deal,” the Bishop admitted, “upon reports from neutrals.”
Julian smiled a little grimly.
“We have wasted a good many epithets criticising German diplomacy,” he observed, “but she seems to know how to hold most of the neutrals in the hollow of her hand. You know what that Frenchman said? ‘Scratch a neutral and you find a German propaganda agent!’”
The Bishop led the way upstairs. Outside the door of Julian’s room, he laid his hand affectionately upon the young man’s shoulder.
“My godson,” he said, “as yet we have scarcely spoken of this great surprise which you have given us—of Paul Fiske. All that I shall say now is this. I am very proud to know that he is my guest to-night. I am very happy to think that from tomorrow we shall be fellow workers.”
Catherine, while she waited for her tea in the Carlton lounge on the following afternoon, gazed through the drooping palms which sheltered the somewhat secluded table at which she was seated upon a very brilliant scene. It was just five o’clock, and a packed crowd of fashionable Londoners was listening to the strains of a popular band, or as much of it as could be heard above the din of conversation.
“This is all rather amazing, is it not?” she remarked to her companion.
The latter, an attache at a neutral Embassy, dropped his eyeglass and polished it with a silk handkerchief, in the corner of which was embroidered a somewhat conspicuous coronet.
“It makes an interesting study,” he declared. “Berlin now is madly gay, Paris decorous and sober. It remains with London to be normal,—London because its hide is the thickest, its sensibility the least acute, its selfishness the most profound.”
Catherine reflected for a moment.
“I think,” she said, “that a philosophical history of the war will some day, for those who come after us, be extraordinarily interesting. I mean the study of the national temperaments as they were before, as they are now during the war, and as they will be afterwards. There is one thing which will always be noted, and that is the intense dislike which you, perhaps I, certainly the majority of neutrals, feel towards England.”
“It is true,” the young man assented solemnly. “One finds it everywhere.”
“Before the war,” Catherine went on, “it was Germany who was hated everywhere. She pushed her way into the best places at hotels, watering places—Monte Carlo, for instance and the famous spas. Today, all that accumulated dislike seems to be turned upon England. I am not myself a great admirer of this country, and yet I ask myself why?”
“England is smug,” the young man pronounced; “She is callous; she is, without meaning to be, hypocritical. She works herself into a terrible state of indignation about the misdeeds of her neighbours, and she does not realise her own faults. The Germans are overbearing, but one realises that and expects it. Englishmen are irritating. It is certainly true that amongst us remaining neutrals,” he added, dropping his voice a little and looking around to be sure of their isolation, “the sympathy remains with the Central Powers.”
“I have some dear friends in this country, too,” Catherine sighed.
“Naturally—amongst those of your own order. But then there is very little difference between the aristocracies of every race in the world. It is the bourgeoisie which tells, which sets its stamp upon a nation’s character.”
Their tea had arrived, and for a few moments the conversation travelled in lighter channels. The young man, who was a person of some consequence in his own country, spoke easily of the theatres, of mutual friends, of some sport in which he had been engaged. Catherine relapsed into the role which had been her first in life,—the young woman of fashion. As such they attracted no attention save a few admiring glances on the part of passers-by towards Catherine. As the people around them thinned out a little, their conversation became more intimate.
“I shall always feel,” the young man said thoughtfully, “that in these days I have lived very near great things. I have seen and realised what the historians will relate at second-hand. The greatest events move like straws in the wind. A month ago, it seemed as though the Central Powers would lose the war.”
“I suppose,” she observed, “it depends very much upon what you mean by winning it? The terms of peace are scarcely the terms of victory, are they?”
“The terms of peace,” he repeated thoughtfully.
“We happen to know what they are, do we not?” she continued, speaking almost under her breath, “the basic terms, at any rate.”
“You mean,” he said slowly, “the terms put forward by the Socialist Party of Germany to ensure the granting of an armistice?”
“And acceded to,” she reminded him, “by the Kaiser and the two greatest German statesmen.”
He toyed with his teacup, drew a gold cigarette case from his pocket, selected a cigarette, and lit it.
“You would try to make me believe,” he remarked, smiling at his companion, “that to-day you are not in your most intelligent mood.”
“Explain, if you please,” she begged earnestly.
He smoked stolidly for several moments.
“I imagine,” he said, “that you preserve with me something of that very skilfully assumed ignorance which is the true mask of the diplomatist. But is it worth while, I wonder?”
She caught at her breath.
“You are too clever,” she murmured, looking at him covertly.
“You have seen,” he continued, “how Germany, who needs peace sorely, has striven to use the most despised power in her country for her own advantage—I mean the Socialist Party. From being treated with scorn and ignominy, they were suddenly, at the time of the proposed Stockholm Conference, judged worthy of notice from the All Highest himself. He suddenly saw how wonderful a use might be made of them. It was a very clever trap which was baited, and it was not owing to any foresight or any cleverness on the part of this country that the Allies did not walk straight into it. I say again,” he went on, “that it was a mere fluke which prevented the Allies from being represented at that Conference and the driving in of the thin end of the wedge.”
“You are quite right,” Catherine agreed.
“German diplomacy,” he proceeded, “may sometimes be obtuse, but it is at least persistent. Their next move will certainly rank in history as the most astute, the most cunning of any put forward since the war commenced. Of course,” the young man went on, fitting his cigarette into a long, amber holder, “we who are not Germans can only guess, but even the guessing is fascinating.”
“Go on, please, dear Baron,” she begged. “It is when you talk like this and show me your mind that I seem to be listening to a second Bismarck.”
“You flatter me, Countess,” the young man said, “but indeed these events are interesting. Trace their course for yourself after the failure of Stockholm. The Kaiser has established certain relations with the Socialist Party. Once more he turns towards them. He affects a war weariness he does not feel. He puts it into their heads that they shall approach without molestation certain men in England who have a great Labour following. The plot is started. You know quite well how it has progressed.”
“Naturally,” Catherine assented, “but after all, tell me, where does the wonderful diplomacy come in? The terms of peace are not the terms of a conqueror. Germany is to engage herself to give up what she has sworn to hold, even to pay indemnities, to restore all conquered countries, and to retire her armies behind the Rhine.”
The young man looked at his companion steadfastly for several seconds.
“In the idiom of this country, Countess,” he said, “I raise my hat to you. You preserve your mask of ignorance to the end. So much so, indeed, that I find myself asking do you really believe that Germany intends to do this?”
“But you forget,” she reminded him. “I was one of those present at the discussion of the preliminaries. The confirmation of the agreed terms, with the signatures, has arrived, and is to be placed before the Labour Council at six o’clock this evening.”
The young man for a moment seemed puzzled. Then he glanced at a little gold watch upon his wrist, knocked the cigarette from its holder and carefully replaced the latter in its case.
“That is very interesting, Countess,” he said. “For the moment I had forgotten your official position amongst the English Socialists.”
She leaned forward and touched his coat sleeve.
“You had forgotten nothing,” she declared eagerly. “There is something in your mind of which you have not spoken.”
“No,” he replied, “I have spoken a great deal of my mind—too much, perhaps, considering that we are seated in this very fashionable lounge, with many people around us. We must talk of these serious matters on another occasion, Countess. I shall pay my respects to your aunt, if I may, within the next few days.”
“Why do you fence with me?” she persisted, drawing on her gloves. “You and I both know, so far as regards those peace terms, that—”
“If we both know,” he interrupted, “let us keep each our own knowledge. Words are sometimes very dangerous, and great events are looming. So, Countess! You have perhaps a car, or may I have the pleasure of escorting you to your destination?”
“I am going to Westminster,” she told him, rising to her feet.
“In that case,” he observed, as they made their way down the room, “perhaps I had better not offer my escort, although I should very much like to be there in person. You are amongst those to-day who will make history.”
“Come and see me soon,” she begged, dropping her voice a little, “and I will confide in you as much as I dare.”
“It is tempting,” he admitted, “I should like to know what passes at that meeting.”
“You can, if you will, dine with us to-morrow night,” she invited, “at half-past eight. My aunt will be delighted to see you. I forget whether we have people coming or not, but you will be very welcome.”
The young man bowed low as he handed his charge into a taxicab.
“Dear Countess,” he murmured, “I shall be charmed.”
For a gathering of men upon whose decision hung such momentous issues, the Council which met that evening at Westminster seemed alike unambitious in tone and uninspired in appearance. Some short time was spent in one of the anterooms, where Julian was introduced to many of the delegates. The disclosure of his identity, although it aroused immense interest, was scarcely an unmixed joy to the majority of them. Those who were in earnest—and they mostly were in grim and deadly earnest—had hoped to find him a man nearer their own class. Fenn and Bright had their own reasons for standing apart, and the extreme pacifists took note of the fact that he had been a soldier. His coming, however, was an event the importance of which nobody attempted to conceal.
The Bishop was voted into the chair when the little company trooped into the apartment which had been set aside for their more important meetings. His election had been proposed by Miles Furley, and as it was announced that under no circumstances would he become a candidate for the permanent leadership of the party, was agreed to without comment. A few notes for his guidance had been jotted down earlier in the day. The great subject of discussion was, of course, the recently received communication from an affiliated body of their friends in Germany, copies of which had been distributed amongst the members.
“I am asked to explain,” the Bishop announced, in opening the proceedings, “that this document which we all recognise as being of surpassing importance, has been copied by Mr. Fenn, himself, and that since, copies have been distributed amongst the members, the front door of the building has been closed and the telephones placed under surveillance. It is not, of course, possible that any of you could be mistrusted, but it is of the highest importance that neither the Press, the Government, nor the people should have any indication of what is transpiring, until the delegate whom you choose takes the initial step. It is proposed that until after his interview with the Prime Minister, no delegate shall leave the place. The question now arises, what of the terms themselves? I will ask each one of you to state his views, commencing with Miss Abbeway.”
Every one of the twenty-three—or twenty-four now, including Julian—had a few words to say, and the tenor of their remarks was identical. For a basis of peace terms, the proposals were entirely reasonable, nor did they appear in any case to be capable of misconstruction. They were laid down in eight clauses.
1. The complete evacuation of Northern France and Belgium, with full compensation for all damage done.
2. Alsace and Lorraine to determine their position by vote of the entire population.
3. Servia and Roumania to be reestablished as independent kingdoms, with such rectifications and modifications of frontier as a joint committee should decide upon.
4. The German colonies to be restored.
5. The conquered parts of Mesopotamia to remain under the protection of the British Government.
6. Poland to be declared an independent kingdom.
7. Trieste and certain portions of the Adriatic seaboard to be ceded to Italy.
8. A world committee to be at once elected for the purpose of working out a scheme of international disarmament.
“We must remember,” Miles Furley pointed out, “that the present Government is practically pledged not to enter into peace negotiations with a Hohenzollern.”
“That, I contend,” the Bishop observed, “is a declaration which should never have been made. Whatever may be our own feelings with regard to the government of Germany, the Kaiser has held the nation together and is at the present moment its responsible head. If he has had the good sense to yield to the demands of his people, as is proved by this document, then it is very certain that the declaration must be forgotten. I have reason to believe, however, that even if the negotiations have been commenced in the name of the Kaiser, an immediate change is likely to take place in the constitution of Germany.”
“Germany’s new form of government, I understand,” Fenn intervened, “will be modelled upon our own, which, after the abolition of the House of Lords, and the abnegation of the King’s prerogative, will be as near the ideal democracy as is possible. That change will be in itself our most potent guarantee against all future wars. No democracy ever encouraged bloodshed. It is, to my mind, a clearly proved fact that all wars are the result of court intrigue. There will be no more of that. The passing of monarchical rule in Germany will mean the doom of all autocracies.”
There was a little sympathetic murmur. Julian, to whom Catherine had been whispering, next asked a question.
“I suppose,” he said, “that no doubt can be cast upon the authenticity of the three signatures attached to this document?”
“That’s been in my own mind, Mr. Fiske—leastwise, Mr. Orden,” Phineas Cross, the Northumbrian, remarked, from the other side of the table. “They’re up to any mortal dodge, these Germans. Are we to accept it as beyond all doubt that this document is entirely genuine?”
“How can we do otherwise?” Fenn demanded. “Freistner, who is responsible for it, has been in unofficial correspondence with us since the commencement of the war. We know his handwriting, we know his character, we’ve had a hundred different occasions to test his earnestness and trustworthiness. This document is in his own writing and accompanied by remarks and references to previous correspondence which render its authenticity indisputable.”
“Granted that the proposals themselves are genuine, there still remain the three signatures,” Julian observed.
“Why should we doubt them?” Fenn protested. “Freistner guarantees them, and Freistner is our friend, the friend and champion of Labour throughout the world. To attempt to deceive us would be to cover himself with eternal obloquy.”
“Yet these terms,” Julian pointed out, “differ fundamentally from anything which Germany has yet allowed to be made public.”
“There are two factors here which may be considered,” Miles Furley intervened. “The first is that the economic condition of Germany is far worse than she has allowed us to know. The second, which is even more interesting to us, is the rapid growth in influence, power, and numbers of the Socialist and Labour Party in that country.”
“Of both these factors,” the Bishop reminded them, “we have had very frequent hints from our friends, the neutrals. Let me tell you all what I think. I think that those terms are as much as we have the right to expect, even if our armies had reached the Rhine. It is possible that we might obtain some slight modifications, if we continued the war, but would those modifications be worth the loss of a few more hundred thousands of human lives, of a few more months of this hideous, pagan slaughter and defilement of God’s beautiful world?”
There was a murmur of approval. A lank, rawboned Yorkshireman—David Sands—a Wesleyan enthusiast, a local preacher, leaned across the table, his voice shaking with earnestness:
“It’s true!” he exclaimed. “It’s the word of God! It’s for us to stop the war. If we stop it to-night instead of to-morrow, a thousand lives may be saved, human lives, lives of our fellow creatures. Our fellow labourers in Germany have given us the chance. Don’t let us delay five minutes. Let the one of us you may select see the Prime Minister to-night and deliver the people’s message.”
“There’s no cause for delay that I can see,” Cross approved.
“There is none,” Fenn assented heartily. “I propose that we proceed to the election of our representative; that, having elected him, we send him to the Prime Minister with our message, and that we remain here in the building until we have his report.”
“You are unanimously resolved, then,” the Bishop asked, “to take this last step?”
There was a little chorus of assent. Fenn leaned forward in his place.
“Everything is ready,” he announced. “Our machinery is perfect. Our agents in every city await the mandate.”
“But do you imagine that those last means will be necessary?” the Bishop enquired anxiously.
“Most surely I do,” Fenn replied. “Remember that if the people make peace for the country, it is the people who will expect to govern the country. It will be a notice to the politicians to quit. They know that. It is my belief that they will resist, tooth and nail.”
Bright glanced at his watch.
“The Prime Minister,” he announced, “will be at Downing Street until nine o’clock. It is now seven o’clock. I propose that we proceed without any further delay to the election of our representative.”
“The voting cards,” Fenn pointed out, “are before each person. Every one has two votes, which must be for two different representatives. The cards should then be folded, and I propose that the Bishop, who is not a candidate, collect them. As I read the unwritten rules of this Congress, every one here is eligible except the Bishop, Miss Abbeway, Mr. Orden and Mr. Furley.”
There was a little murmur. Phineas Cross leaned forward in his place.
“Here, what’s that?” he exclaimed. “The Bishop, and Miss Abbeway, we all know, are outside the running. Mr. Furley, too, represents the educated Socialists, and though he is with us in this, he is not really Labour. But Mr. Orden—Paul Fiske, eh? That’s a different matter, isn’t it?”
“Mr. Orden,” Fenn pronounced slowly, “is a literary man. He is a sympathiser with our cause, but he is not of it.”
“If any man has read the message which Paul Fiske has written with a pen of gold for us,” Phineas Cross declared, “and can still say that he is not one of us, why, he must be beside himself. I say that Mr. Orden is the brains and the soul of our movement. He brought life and encouragement into the north of England with the first article he ever wrote. Since then there has not been a man whom the Labour Party that I know anything of has looked up to and worshipped as they have done him.”
“It’s true,” David Sands broke in, “every word of it. There’s no one has written for Labour like him. If he isn’t Labour, then we none of us are. I don’t care whether he is the son of an earl, or a plasterer’s apprentice, as I was. He’s the right stuff, he has the gift of putting the words together, and his heart’s where it should be.”
“There is no one,” Fenn said, his voice trembling a little, “who has a greater admiration for Paul Fiske’s writings than I have, but I still contend that he is not Labour.”
“Sit down, lad,” Cross enjoined. “We’ll have a vote on that. I’m for saying that Mr. Julian Orden here, who has written them articles under the name of ‘Paul Fiske’, is a full member of our Council and eligible to act as our messenger to the Prime Minister. I ask the Bishop to put it to the meeting.”
Eighteen were unanimous in agreeing with the motion. Fenn sat down, speechless. His cheeks were pallid. His hands, which rested upon the table, were twitching. He seemed like a man lost in thought and only remembered to fill up his card when the Bishop asked him for it. There was a brief silence whilst the latter, assisted by Cross and Sands, counted the votes. Then the Bishop rose to his feet.
“Mr. Julian Orden,” he announced, “better known to you all under the name of ‘Paul Fiske’, has been chosen by a large majority as your representative to take the people’s message to the Prime Minister.”
“I protest!” Fenn exclaimed passionately. “This is Mr. Orden’s first visit amongst us. He is a stranger. I repeat that he is not one of us. Where is his power? He has none. Can he do what any one of us can—stop the pulse of the nation? Can he still its furnace fires? Can he empty the shipyards and factories, hold the trains upon their lines, bring the miners up from under the earth? Can he—”
“He can do all these things,” Phineas Cross interrupted, “because he speaks for us, our duly elected representative. Sit thee down, Fenn. If you wanted the job, well, you haven’t got it, and that’s all there is about it, and though you’re as glib with your tongue as any here, and though you’ve as many at your back, perchance, as I have, I tell you I’d never have voted for you if there hadn’t been another man here. So put that in your pipe and smoke it, lad.”
“All further discussion,” the Bishop ruled, “is out of order. Julian Orden, do you accept this mission?”
Julian rose to his feet. He leaned heavily upon his stick. His expression was strangely disturbed.
“Bishop,” he said, “and you, my friends, this has all come very suddenly. I do not agree with Mr. Fenn. I consider that I am one with you. I think that for the last ten years I have seen the place which Labour should hold in the political conduct of the world. I have seen the danger of letting the voice of the people remain unheard too long. Russia to-day is a practical and terrible example of that danger. England is, in her way, a free country, and our Government a good one, but in the world’s history there arrive sometimes crises with which no stereotyped form of government can cope, when the one thing that is desired is the plain, honest mandate of those who count for most in the world, those who, in their simplicity and in their absence from all political ties and precedents and liaisons, see the truth. That is why I have appealed with my pen to Labour, to end this war. That is why I shall go willingly as your representative to the Prime Minister to-night.”
The Bishop held out his hand. There was a little reverent hush, for his words were in the nature of a benediction.
“And may God be with you, our messenger,” he said solemnly.