Wallace Intervenes

by Alexander Wilson

  Sophie von Reudath’s laughter rang out in a silvery peal, while Erskine and Foster eyed each other with somewhat embarrassed looks.

  ‘Really, Elsa,’ began the former, ‘you do—’

  ‘Now don’t you pretend to be a prude, Bunny,’ interrupted the little lady. ‘I heard that you joined a nudist colony last summer.’

  ‘’Pon my soul! This is too much,’ cried the scandalised under-secretary. ‘Who libelled me so grossly?’

  ‘Nobody, my Bunny. Really, you’re too serious to live. Take me somewhere where there is champagne with ice tinkling musically in the glass.’

  They wandered away together and, before long, Foster found himself alone with Sophie von Reudath. She made room for him on the lounge by her side.

  ‘Tell me about yourself, Mr Foster,’ she begged. ‘Are you also a Member of the Parliament?’

  ‘Good Lord, no,’ he returned with more force than politeness ‘I beg your pardon,’ he added hastily. ‘I did not mean to be so vehement, but I can imagine few things more futile than being a Member of Parliament.’

  ‘Oh, but why?’ she asked. ‘Surely an ambitious man would have his hopes centred on a position in the Cabinet, and what could be greater than to be one of those governing your country?’

  ‘Few can attain to such heights,’ he told her, ‘and fewer still succeed in arriving before their best days are over, and they are half-senile, doddering old men.’

  She laughed.

  ‘Your sentiments,’ she declared, ‘are very much like those of Elsa.’

  ‘Well, it’s the truth,’ he persisted. ‘Young, energetic, enterprising men are kept back to a ludicrous extent in this country. The old hang on to their jobs like grim death, and are terrified lest a younger man gets a foot into the nest they have made so comfortable for themselves. It is not only the case in Parliament. The same thing applies in the big firms, even in sport.’

  ‘You sound as though you are bitter about these gentlemen.’

  ‘It is because old men who are long past their best hold the reins in this country,’ he went on, ‘that we have become such an unenterprising nation.’

  ‘I wonder if Britain is really so unenterprising,’ she mused.

  ‘Of course it is. You belong to a nation that is far more enterprising and go-ahead. I sometimes think you Germans must smile at our futility.’

  ‘I am not a German, my friend!’

  He turned and looked at her, surprise showing in his face. She noticed that, for once in a way, his eyes had lost their customary sleepy look; decided that he was far more alert that she had supposed, and liked him the better for it.

  ‘Not a German!’ he repeated. ‘Why I thought—’

  ‘My husband was a German,’ she told him. ‘I am an Austrian – a Viennese. But you have not told me yet what profession is yours.’

  ‘I am a gentleman of leisure,’ he replied with a half-ashamed grin. ‘I was in the Guards, but resigned my commission. There is not much fun in soldiering in peacetime.’

  ‘You would like a war?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘Heaven forbid!’ he cried earnestly. ‘I hope there will never be another war.’

  ‘My feelings are exactly as yours in that matter,’ she declared. ‘Another war would be too terrible to contemplate.’

  For some minutes she spoke lightly with several people who had strolled up, while Foster rose and stood impatiently waiting for them to go. His impatience was not assumed. He wanted to have her to himself in order that he could gradually allow her to see that he was becoming infatuated with her. His desire to be alone with her was not altogether from a sense of his duty. She fascinated him; he found her a very charming companion. It seemed, however, that his wishes were doomed to disappointment. No sooner did one person or party wander away than another approached. At last, when they were again alone for a few seconds, very daringly he suggested that they should seek a place free from interruption.

  ‘I have never met anyone quite like you, Baroness,’ he explained hastily, ‘and I should very much like to be able to talk to you without others constantly butting in. It’s horribly selfish of me, I know, and please tell me if you think I have stopped with you long enough.’

  While he was speaking her eyebrows rose slightly, and he feared for a horrible moment that he had offended her. Then she smiled gloriously, and rose.

  ‘You shall find a quiet spot,’ she agreed, ‘but I cannot give up too much time to you, Mr Foster. I have a duty to my host and hostess which I must not neglect. Where shall we go?’

  Rather surprised that she had acquiesced but decidedly elated, he led her out into the gardens, which had been decorated with innumerable little coloured electric lights and in which cane chairs and tables had been placed. Many of the guests had sought relief out there from the heat of the crowded rooms, but Foster found two chairs and a little table in a secluded position in the midst of a clump of rhododendrons. The early June moon looked placidly down from a clear sky, like a benevolent deity keeping watch and ward over puny mankind. The baroness sank into her chair, with a little sigh of pleasure; accepted a cigarette from her companion.

  ‘It is delightful out here,’ she decided; then, after a short pause; ‘So you have no profession. That is a great pity, Mr Foster.’

  ‘I suppose you think I am a waster,’ he murmured ruefully.

  ‘No; I do not think that. It would be foolish of me if I did. It does not require great perception to know that you have much character and many good qualities. But like many of the young men of these times you regard life from a wrong angle. You are too quiescent – I think that is the word I need. A little while ago you spoke of the men who continue to hold the power in their hands, and keep younger and more energetic men out. You like others, resent it. Yet you take no steps to alter these things.’

  ‘What steps could we take short of staging something like a revolution?’

  ‘It would need no revolution to force the men in power to recognise you and your rights. Supposing that all the men in this country below the age of fifty, no matter what profession is theirs, united together and demanded recognition, what would the result be? Why, my friend, the government would no longer remain in the hands of those who have grown old and weary, the army and navy would not be controlled by officers who lack energy and enterprise because age had taken its toll of them; the courts would not be presided over by judges and magistrates whose minds were no longer alert. The same thing would apply to all other professions and trades. The young would hold all predominant posts. I do not mean the too young. A man is at his best from the age of thirty until fifty – perhaps to fifty-five. After that he should be content to retire, and make way for a younger personality. After all, when one has worked hard for thirty years, one deserves to enjoy leisure. It is in my mind that there would be little unemployment if fifty-five were universally considered the retiring age. There would be no necessity for what you call the dole. The money put aside for that would be paid out in pensions to those who had worked hard and deserved it. I feel that you young men who grumble are to be blamed. You would only have to assert yourselves in unity to obtain your rights. It is not fair to scoff at the lack of enterprise in those who hold the power, when you yourselves are so much unenterprising as to permit them to do so.’

  ‘I suppose you are right, Baroness,’ agreed Foster, thinking at the same time that he, at least, was a member of a service – perhaps the most enterprising and successful in the world – which was entirely controlled and in the hands of comparatively young men. The oldest member of the staff was Maddison, then about forty-six. Sir Leonard Wallace himself, he knew, had recently only reached his thirty-eighth birthday. Perhaps, however, it was unfair to think of the Secret Service as a shining example of youthful enterprise, when it was a profession in which only youngish men could be expected to succeed. The hazardous nature of its demands, the strain, the difficulties could only be faced and endured by men physically and mentally in perfect con
dition. Foster felt a little bit ashamed at having given the baroness the impression that he had no profession. The more he learnt to know her, the more he hated deceiving her. He wondered what she would think if she discovered the truth. ‘But in your own country,’ he went on, ‘there are many men holding important positions who are well over the age of fifty-five.’

  ‘If you are referring to Germany,’ she returned a trifle coldly, ‘I wish you to remember that it is not my country.’

  ‘But—’ he commenced, and paused for a moment abashed. He wondered why she persisted in her assertion that she was not a German. ‘You do not consider,’ he queried presently, ‘that your marriage to a gentleman of German nationality made you of that race?’

  She shrugged her dainty shoulders.

  ‘According to law – yes, but not otherwise. I am an Austrian, and very proud of it, Mr Foster, even though my poor country has been divided up and impoverished until it is almost obliterated. The heart of Austria still beats fervently and firmly, and you must not think, like so many people, that Austria and Germany are names very nearly synonymous. But to resume our discussion, you say there are many men holding important positions in Germany who are over fifty-five years of age. You are incorrect to say many. It is certain that there are fewer than in this country. Those who govern are nearly all young men.’

  ‘What about the President?’ he asked.

  ‘Ah!’ she exclaimed, and he could see the gleam of her little white teeth, as she smiled. ‘He is little but a figurehead. A great man – that was. He is content now to leave all to a younger and more virile man.’

  ‘The Chancellor is a great friend of yours, is he not?’ asked Foster greatly daring.

  She was silent for a while.

  ‘Yes,’ she murmured at length ‘he and I are very good friends. He is an Austrian also,’ she added, as though in explanation.

  ‘But not, I think,’ he remarked quietly, ‘as fervent an Austrian as Baroness von Reudath.’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ she agreed. ‘He could hardly be expected to be under the circumstances.’

  They were silent for some moments.

  ‘I wonder,’ ventured Foster at length, ‘why you have been so kind to a dull nonentity, as to sit out here with him, when there are so many interesting men and women present only too anxious to claim your attention.’

  ‘I do not consider you a nonentity at all Mr Foster,’ she replied, adding frankly: ‘I like you, otherwise I would not have come here with you. Perhaps also I am a little tired of talking politics and entering into the tortuous paths of diplomatic conversation. You see I am not trying to hide from you the fact, which is well known, that I have been concerned in political affairs in Germany. It would be a useless evasion, would it not? I am well aware that at the reception tonight are many who would like me to talk of Germany in the hope of learning something from me. Out here with you I am free from that, at peace, and in very pleasant company.’

  ‘It is nice of you to say that,’ he murmured.

  ‘It is nice of you,’ she corrected gently, ‘to spend your time with me when, I am sure, there are many charming girls anxious for your society.’

  ‘There are none here half as charming or as beautiful as you, Baroness,’ he whispered.

  She laughed softly.

  ‘S’sh! Do not pay me such compliments – I like sincerity in my friends. Compliments without sincerity are very cheap, Mr Foster.’

  ‘What I said was sincere – nothing could be more so, Baroness,’ he assured her earnestly. ‘I meant every word.’

  ‘So …’ She was silent for a moment, and he thought to hear a little sigh. ‘I believe you,’ she murmured presently. ‘Thank you, my friend. Now we must return to the house. I am afraid we have already stayed away from the others too long.’ They rose, and she took his arm. ‘I had almost forgotten I am young also,’ she confided. ‘You have made me remember.’

  ‘I am glad,’ he told her with simple sincerity. ‘Presently I shall be separated from you by more important people. Before I am forced to take leave of you, may I make a request, Baroness?’

  ‘Of course. What is it?’

  ‘I badly want to call on you. May I?’

  She turned her face towards him and, in the moonlight and the illumination cast by the little lamps, he saw that she was smiling gloriously.

  ‘I shall not forgive you, if you do not,’ she vowed. ‘As perhaps you know, I am staying at the Carlton. I shall expect you tomorrow at four, Mr Foster.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  Amid The Rhododendrons

  ‘How did you get on with the baroness?’ asked Mrs Manvers-Buller, a little later.

  ‘Splendidly,’ Foster assured her.

  ‘I’m so glad. Be as kind as you can to her, Bernard. She’s a dear girl. Your job is not too pleasant, is it?’

  He stared at her with incredulous eyes.

  ‘Then you know?’ he gasped.

  ‘Of course I know.’ She smiled at him. ‘I know a very great deal. Perhaps that is why I am so anxious that Sophie should not be hurt.’

  ‘I won’t hurt her, Elsa, if I can possibly help it.’

  She patted his hand affectionately.

  ‘I know you won’t. I can’t understand what she sees in that von Strom. He certainly seems to have blinded Sophie pretty effectively. One of these days, though, Bernard, everybody’s eyes will be opened at once; then our friend the Marshal will fall with a bump that will shake Germany from end to end.’

  ‘Elsa,’ came in plaintive tones from Major Protheroe, ‘need you stand flirting with that young fellow before my very eyes, when I am longing to take you into the garden.’

  ‘I haven’t said yet that I want to go with you into the garden,’ she retorted.

  Nevertheless she went. Foster was left on his own. Instead of rejoining the circle of his own intimate friends, he also wandered out once again on to the lawn. He felt he wanted to be alone, to think. Unconsciously his steps took him in the direction of the remote clump of rhododendrons where he and the baroness had sought seclusion. There seemed no one in that part of the gardens, and he was about to make his way to the chair he had previously occupied, there to sit, smoke, and think in peace, when the murmur of voices caught his ears. He pulled up abruptly, rather surprised that the sequestered little spot was occupied after all. He decided that he had almost interrupted a lover’s tête-à-tête, and was glad that the soft, springy turf had silenced his footsteps. He was about to creep quietly away, when he caught a name, followed by a phrase in German. For a moment he stood irresolute; then approached closer to the rhododendron bushes on the side behind the chairs and stood listening. The phrase in German coupled with the name of Mrs Manvers-Buller had decided him. He knew that the baroness was in the house; had seen her taking refreshments with a crowd of other people just before he had emerged. Who else but she would be likely to talk German, and why was the name of Mrs Manvers-Buller mentioned? He disliked eavesdropping, but this seemed to be a case of necessity. It would be easy enough to retreat once he had ascertained that he was listening to a harmless conversation. There followed a silence so prolonged that he began to wonder if the occupants of the chairs had moved away or had heard him, and were keeping quiet on purpose. Suddenly, however, someone laughed.

  ‘Why are you amused?’ asked a woman’s voice in German.

  ‘I was thinking,’ came in the deeper tones of a man speaking the same language, ‘of the indignation of the little Sophie, if she knew that her movements were being watched by you and me. His Excellency does not like this tour of hers at all. He was particularly against her coming to England.’

  ‘And you really think Frau Manvers-Buller is likely to be a bad companion for our Sophie?’

  ‘My dear, it is known that the lady is the great friend of Herr Wallace, and we all know of the position he holds in this country. Who is to say that she does not act for the British Secret Service? It is no secret that the baroness and the Supreme Marshal are
extremely friendly, and that he goes to her, and sometimes confides in her, perhaps under the force of his passion for her, for it is believed that he loves her deeply. Frau Manvers-Buller may quite well attempt to obtain from the baroness the secrets that have been confided to her.’

  ‘Then she will fail,’ replied the woman. ‘No secret that is ever imparted to Sophie will be revealed without permission. She is staunch, and you know it. I hate this unpleasant task of following her about, and periodically searching her belongings. It is one thing to be of the espionage service, but quite another to be forced to spy on a very sweet woman simply because she might divulge something which His Excellency wishes to be kept secret. You and I know that it is nothing of any great importance we also know that this Frau Manvers-Buller has been friendly with Sophie since she was a child. Why then should she be suspected simply because Sophie has come to England, and because she happens to be friendly with the Chief of the British Secret Service? It is all a great waste of time, Carl.’

  ‘Perhaps you are right. Nevertheless, His Excellency has given the orders, and it is for us to obey.’

  ‘A fine man he is to give orders for the woman he is supposed to love to be spied upon!’ The contempt in the woman’s tone was unmistakable.

  ‘S’sh, Hanni! What sentiments are these? If you said that in Germany, you would be likely to get into serious trouble.’

  ‘We are in England, not in Germany.’

  ‘But you will be returning, and then—’

  ‘And then you will report what I have said! Is that so?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ protested the man. ‘You do me a great injustice. Do you not know how deeply I love you?’

  ‘About as deeply as the Supreme Marshal loves Sophie, I suppose. You men, whether the highest or the lowest, are all the same. Women are fools to trust you. Sophie, no doubt, has great belief and trust in His Excellency. Yet he has her spied upon. I tell you, Carl, I am sick of the business, for I have become very fond of Sophie.’