not leave off fighting until we’d done it. There was nothing said then about conserving millions of men. It was to be fought out to the end, whatever it cost.”
“And you were once a pacifist!”
“Pacifist!” the man repeated passionately. “Every human being with common sense was a pacifist when the war started.”
“But the war was forced upon us,” Julian reminded him. “You can’t deny that.”
“No one wishes to, sir. It was forced upon us all right, but who made it necessary? Why, our rotten government for the last twenty years! Our politicians, Mr. Julian, that are prating now of peace before their job’s done! Do you think that if we’d paid our insurance like men and been prepared, this war would ever have come? Not it! We asked for trouble, and we got it in the neck. If we make peace now, we’ll be a German colony in twenty years, thanks to Mr. Stenson and you and the rest of them. A man can be a pacifist all right until his head has been punched. Afterwards, there’s another name for him. Is there anything more I can get you to-night before I leave, sir?”
“Nothing, thanks. I’m sorry about Fred.”
Julian, conscious of an intense weariness, undressed and went to bed very soon after the man’s departure. He was already in his first doze when he awoke suddenly with a start. He sat up and listened. The sound which had disturbed him was repeated, – a quiet but insistent ringing of the front-door bell. He glanced at his watch. It was barely midnight, but unusually late for a visitor. Once more the bell rang, and this time he remembered that Robert slept out, and that he was alone in the flat. He thrust his feet into slippers, wrapped his dressing gown around him, and made his way to the front door.
Julian’s only idea had. been that this might be some messenger from the Council. To his amazement he found himself confronted by Catherine.
“Close the door,” she begged. “Come into your sitting room.”
She pushed past him and he obeyed, still dumb with surprise and the shock of his sudden awakening. Catherine herself seemed unaware of his unusual costume, reckless of the hour and the strangeness of her visit. She wore a long chinchilla coat, covering her from head to foot, and a mantilla veil about her head, which partially obscured her features. As soon as she raised it, he knew that great things had happened. Her cheeks were the colour of ivory, and her eyes unnaturally distended. Her tone was steady but full of repressed passion.
“Julian,” she cried, “we have been deceived – tricked! I have come to you for help. Are the telegrams sent out yet?”
“They go at eight o’clock in the morning,” he replied.
“Thank God we are in time to stop them!”
Julian looked at her for a moment, utterly incredulous.
“Stop them?” he repeated. “But how can we? Stenson has declared war.”
“Thank heaven for that!” she exclaimed, her voice trembling. “Julian, the whole thing is an accursed plot. The German Socialists have never increased their strength except in their own imaginations. They are absolutely powerless. This is the most cunning scheme of the whole war. Freistner has simply been the tool of the militarists. They encouraged him to put forward these proposals and to communicate with Nicholas Fenn. When the armistice has been declared and negotiations begun, the three signatures will be repudiated. The peace they mean to impose is one of their own dictation, and in the meantime we shall have created a cataclysm here. The war will never start again. All the Allies will be at a discord.”
“How have you found this out?” Julian gasped.
“From one of Germany’s chief friends in England. He is high up in the diplomatic service of – of a neutral country, but he has been working for Germany many ever since the commencement of the war. He has been helping in this. He has seen me often with Nicholas Fenn, and he believes that I am behind the scenes, too. He believes that I know the truth, and that I am working for Germany. He is absolutely to be relied upon. Every word that I am telling you is the truth.”
“What about Fenn?” Julian demanded breathlessly.
“Nicholas Fenn has had a hundred thousand pounds of German money within the last few months,” she replied. “He is one of the foulest traitors who ever breathed. Freistner’s first few letters were genuine enough, but for the last six weeks he has been imprisoned in a German fortress – and Fenn knows it.”
“Have you any proof of all this?” Julian asked. “Remember we have the Council to face, and they are all girt for battle.”
“Yes, I have proof,” she answered, “indirect but damning enough. This man has sometimes forwarded and collected for me letters from connections of mine in Germany. He handed me one to-night from a distant cousin. You know him by name General Geroldberg. The first two pages are personal. Read what he says towards the end,” she added, passing it on to Julian.
Julian turned up the lamp and read the few lines to which she pointed:
By the bye, dear cousin, if you should receive a shock within the next few days by hearing that our three great men have agreed to an absurd peace, do not worry. Their signatures have been obtained for some document which we do not regard seriously, and it is their intention to repudiate them as soon as a certain much-looked for event takes place. When the peace comes, believe me, it will be a glorious one for us. What we have won by the sword we shall hold, and what has been wrested from us by cunning and treachery, we shall regain.
“That man,” Catherine declared, “is one of the Kaiser’s intimates. He is one of the twelve iron men of Germany. Now I will tell you the name of the man with whom I, have spent the evening. It is Baron Hellman. Believe me, he knows, and he has told me the truth. He has had this letter by him for a fortnight, as he told me frankly that he thought it too compromising to hand over. To-night he changed his mind.”
Julian stood speechless for a moment, his fists clenched, his eyes ablaze.
Catherine threw herself into his easy-chair and loosened her coat.
“Oh, I am tired!” she moaned. “Give me some water, please, or some wine.”
He found some hock in the sideboard, and after she had drunk it they sat for some few minutes in agitated silence. The street sounds outside had died away. Julian’s was the topmost flat in the block, and their isolation was complete. He suddenly realised the position.
“Perhaps,” he suggested, with an almost ludicrous return to the commonplace, “the first thing to be done is for me to dress.”
She looked at him as though she had noticed his dishabille for the first time. For a moment their feet seemed to be on the earth again.
“I suppose I seem to you crazy to come to you at such an hour,” she said. “One doesn’t think of those things, somehow.”
“You are quite right,” he agreed. “They are unimportant.”
Then suddenly the sense of the silence, of their solitude, of their strange, uncertain relations to one another, swept in upon them both. For a moment the sense of the great burden she was carrying fell from Catherine’s shoulders. She was back in a simpler world. Julian was no longer a leader of the people, the brilliant sociologist, the apostle of her creed. He was the man who during the last few weeks had monopolised her thoughts to an amazing extent, the man for whose aid and protection she had hastened, the man to whom she was perfectly content to entrust the setting right of this ghastly blunder. Watching him, she suddenly felt that she was tired of it all, that she would like to creep away from the storm and rest somewhere. The quiet and his presence seemed to soothe her. Her tense expression relaxed, her eyes became softer. She smiled at him gratefully.
“Oh, I cannot tell you,” she exclaimed, “how glad I am to be with you just now! Everything in the outside world seems so terrible. Do you mind-it is so silly, but after all a woman cannot be as strong as a man, can she? – would you mind very much just holding my hand for a moment and staying here quite quietly. I have had a horrible evening, and when I came in, my head felt as though it would burst. You do not mind?”
Julian smiled as he leaned towards her. A kind of resentment of which he had been conscious, even though in some measure ashamed of it, resentment at her unswerving loyalty to the task she had set herself, melted away. He suddenly knew why he had kissed her, on that sunny morning on the marshes, an ecstatic and incomprehensible moment which had seemed sometimes, during these days of excitement, as though it had belonged to another life and another world. He took both her hands in his, and, stooping down, kissed her on the lips.
“Dear Catherine,” he said, “I am so glad that you came to me. I think that during these last few days we have forgotten to be human, and it might help us – for after all, you know, we are engaged!”
“But that,” she whispered, “was only for my sake.”
“At first, perhaps,” he admitted, “but now for mine,”
Her little sigh of content, as she stole nearer to him, was purely feminine. The moments ticked on in restful and wonderful silence. Then, unwillingly, she drew away from his protecting arm.
“My dear,” she said, “you look so nice as you are, and it is such happiness to be here, but there is a great task before us.”
“You are right,” he declared, straightening himself. “Wait for a few minutes, dear. We shall find them all at Westminster – the place will be open all night. Close your eyes and rest while I am away.”
“I am rested,” she answered softly, “but do not be long. The car is outside, and on the way I have more to tell you about Nicholas Fenn.”
CHAPTER XXI
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.
CHAPTER XXII
The Bishop and Catherine, a few weeks later, walked side by side up the murky length of St. Pancras platform. The train which they had come to meet was a quarter of an hour late, and they had fallen into a sort of reminiscent conversation which was not without interest to both of them.
“I left Mr. Stenson only an hour ago,” the Bishop observed. “He could talk about nothing but Julian Orden and his wonderful speeches. They say that at Sheffield and Newcastle the enthusiasm was tremendous, and at three shipbuilding yards on the Clyde the actual work done for the week after his visit was nearly as much again. He seems to have that extraordinary gift of talking straight to the hearts of the men. He makes them feel.”
“Mr. Stenson wrote me about it,” Catherine told her companion, with a little smile. “He said that no dignity that could be thought of or invented would be an adequate offering to Julian for his services to the country. For the first time since the war, Labour seems wholly and entirely, passionately almost, in earnest. Every one of those delegates went back full of enthusiasm, and with every, one of them, Julian, before he has finished, is going to make a little tour in his own district.”
“And after to-morrow,” the Bishop remarked with a smile, “I suppose he will not be alone.”
She pressed his arm.
“It is very wonderful to think about,” she said quietly. “I am going to try and be Julian’s secretary – whilst we are away, at any rate.”
“It isn’t often,” the Bishop reflected, “that I have the chance of a few minutes’ quiet conversation, on the day before her wedding, with the woman whom I am going to marry to the man I think most of on earth.”
“Give me some good advice,” she begged.
The Bishop shook his head.
“You don’t need it,” he said. “A wife who loves her husband needs very few words of admonition. There are marriages so often in which one can see the rocks ahead that one opens one’s prayer-book, even, with a little tremor of fear. But with you and Julian it is different.”
“There is nothing that a woman can do for the man whom she loves,” she declared softly, “which I shall not try to do for Julian.”
They paced up and down for a few moments in silence. The Bishop’s step was almost buoyant. He seemed to have lost all that weary load of anxiety which had weighed him down during the last few months. Catherine, too, in her becoming grey furs, her face flushed with excitement, had the air of one who has thrown all anxiety to the winds.
“Julian’s gift of speech must have surprised even himself,” the Bishop remarked. “Of course, we always knew that ‘Paul Fiske’, when he was found, must be a brilliant person, but I don’t think that even Julian himself had any suspicion of his oratorical powers.”
“I don’t think he had,” she agreed. “In his first letter he told me that it was just like sitting down at his desk to write, except that all the dull material impedimenta of paper and ink and walls seemed rolled away, and the men to whom he wished his words to travel were there waiting. Of course, he is wonderful, but Phineas Cross, David Sands and some of the others have shown a positive genius for organisation. That Council of Socialism, Trades Unionism, and Labour generally, which was formed to bring us premature peace, seems for the first time to have brought all Labour into one party, Labour in its very broadest sense, I mean.”
“The truth of the matter is,” the Bishop pronounced, “that the people have accepted the dictum that whatever form of republicanism is aimed at, there must be government. A body of men who realise that, however advanced their ideas, can do but little harm. I am perfectly certain – Stenson admits it himself – that before very long we shall have a Labour Ministry. Who cares? It will probably be a good ministry – good for the country and good for the world. There has been too much juggling in international politics. This war is going to end that, once and for ever. By the bye,” he went on, in an altered tone, “there is one question which I have always had in my mind to ask you. If I do so now, will you please understand that if you think it best you need not answer me?”
“Certainly,” Catherine replied.
“From what source did you get your information which saved us all?”
“It came to me from a man who is dead,” was the quiet answer.
The Bishop looked steadily ahead at the row of signal lights.
“There was a young foreigner, some weeks ago,” he said “a Baron Hellman – quite a distinguished person, I believe – who was discovered shot in his rooms.”
She acquiesced silently.
“If you were to go to the Home Office and were able to persuade them to treat you candidly, I think that you could discover some wonderful things,” she confided. “I wish I could believe that the Baron was the only one who has been living in this country, unsuspected, and occupying a prominent position, who was really in the pay of Germany.”
“It was a very subtle conspiracy,” the Bishop remarked thoughtfully, “subtle because, in a sense, it appeared so genuine. It appealed to the very best instincts of thinking men.”
“Good has come out of it, at any rate,” she reminded him. “Westminster Buildings is now the centre of patriotic England. Labour was to have brought the war to an end – for Germany. It is Labour which is going to win the victory – for England.”
The train rolled into the station and rapidly disgorged its crowd of passengers, amongst whom Julian was one of the first to alight. Catherine found herself trembling. The shy words of welcome which had formed themselves in her mind died away on her lips as their glances met. She lifted her face to his.
“Julian,” she murmured, “I am so proud – so happy.”
The Bishop left them as they stepped into their cab.
“I am going to a mission room in the neighbourhood,” he explained. “We have war talks every week. I try to tell them how things are going on, and we have a short service. But before I go, Mr. Stenson has sent you a little message, Julian. If you go to your club later on to-night, you will see it in the telegrams, or you will find it in your newspapers in the morning. There has been wonderful fighting in Flanders to-day. The German line has been broken at half a dozen points. We have taken nearly twenty thousand prisoners, and Zeebrugge is threatened. Farther south, the Americans have made their start and have won a complete victory over the Crown Prince’s picked troops.”
The two men wrung hands.
“This,” Julian declared, “is the only way to Peace.”