“But, Count,” she exclaimed, “you seem to forget! A few days ago, all that you say to me was reasonable enough, but to-day there is a great difference, is there not? I have married an Englishman. Henceforth this is my country.”
There was a moment’s silence. The Count seemed dumbfounded. He stared at Anna as though unable to grasp the meaning of her words.
“Forgive me, Baroness!” he begged. “I cannot for the moment realise the significance of this thing. Do you mean me to understand that you consider yourself now an Englishwoman?”
“I do indeed,” she assented. “There are many ties which still bind me to Austria—ties, Count,” she proceeded, looking him in the face, “of which I shall be mindful. Yet I am not any longer the Baroness von Haase. I am Mrs. Francis Norgate, and I have promised to obey my husband in all manner of ridiculous things. At the same time, may I add something which will, perhaps, help you to accept the position with more philosophy? My husband is a friend of Herr Selingman’s.”
The Count glanced quickly towards Norgate. There was some relief in his face—a great deal of distrust, however.
“Baroness,” he said, “my advice to you, for your own good entirely, is, with all respect to your husband, that you shorten your honeymoon and pay your respects to the Emperor. I think that you owe it to him. I think that you owe it to your country.”
Anna for a moment was grave again.
“Just at present,” she pronounced, “I realise one debt only, and that is to my husband. I will come to the Embassy to-morrow and discuss these matters with you, Count, but whether my husband accompanies me or not, I have now no secrets from him.”
“The position, then,” the Count declared, “is intolerable. May I ask whether you altogether realise, Baroness; what this means? The Emperor is your guardian. All your estates are subject to his jurisdiction. It is his command that you return to Vienna.”
Anna laughed again. She passed her fingers through Norgate’s arm.
“You see,” she explained, as they stood for a moment at the corner of the street, “I have a new emperor now, and he will not let me go.”
* * * * *
Selingman frowned a little as he recognised his visitor. Nevertheless, he rose respectfully to his feet and himself placed a chair by the side of his desk.
“My dear Count!” he exclaimed. “I am very glad to see you, but this is an unusual visit. I would have met you somewhere, or come to the Embassy. Have we not agreed that it was well for Herr Selingman, the crockery manufacturer—”
“That is all very well, Selingman,” the Count interrupted, “but this morning I have had a shock. It was necessary for me to talk with you at once. In Bond Street I met the Baroness von Haase. For twenty-four hours London has been ransacked in vain for her. This you may not know, but I will now tell you. She has been our trusted agent, the trusted agent of the Emperor, in many recent instances. She has carried secrets in her brain, messages to different countries. There is little that she does not know. The last twenty-four hours, as I say, I have sought for her. The Emperor requires her presence in Vienna. I meet her in Bond Street this morning and she introduces to me her husband, an English husband, Mr. Francis Norgate!”
He drew back a little, with outstretched hands. Selingman’s face, however, remained expressionless.
“Married already!” he commented. “Well, that is rather a surprise.”
“A surprise? To be frank, it terrifies me!” the Count cried. “Heaven knows what that woman could tell an Englishman, if she chose! And her manner—I did not like it. The only reassuring thing about it was that she told me that her husband was one of your men.”
“Quite true,” Selingman assented. “He is. It is only recently that he came to us, but I do not mind telling you that during the last few weeks no one has done such good work. He is the very man we needed.”
“You have trusted him?”
“I trust or I do not trust,” Selingman replied. “That you know. I have employed this young man in very useful work. I cannot blindfold him. He knows.”
“Then I fear treachery,” the Count declared.
“Have you any reason for saying that?” Selingman asked.
The Count lit a cigarette with trembling fingers.
“Listen,” he said, “always, my friend, you undervalue a little the English race. You undervalue their intelligence, their patriotism, their poise towards the serious matters of life. I know nothing of Mr. Francis Norgate save what I saw this morning. He is one of that type of Englishmen, clean-bred, well-born, full of reserve, taciturn, yet, I would swear, honourable. I know the type, and I do not believe in such a man being your servant.”
The shadow of anxiety crossed Selingman’s face.
“Have you any reason for saying this?” he repeated.
“No reason save the instinct which is above reason,” the Count replied quickly. “I know that if the Baroness and he put their heads together, we may be under the shadow of catastrophe.”
Selingman sat with folded arms for several moments.
“Count,” he said at last, “I appreciate your point of view. You have, I confess, disturbed me. Yet of this young man I have little fear. I did not approach him by any vulgar means. I took, as they say here, the bull by the horns. I appealed to his patriotism.”
“To what?” the Count demanded incredulously.
“To his patriotism,” Selingman repeated. “I showed him the decadence of his country, decadence visible through all her institutions, through her political tendencies, through her young men of all classes. I convinced him that what the country needed was a bitter tonic, a kind but chastening hand. I convinced him of this. He believes that he betrays his country for her ultimate good. As I told you before, he has brought me information which is simply invaluable. He has a position and connections which are unique.”
The Count drew his chair a little nearer.
“You say that he has done you great service,” he said. “Well, you must admit for yourself that the day is too near now for much more to be expected. Could you not somehow guard against his resolution breaking down at the last moment? Think what it may mean to him—the sound of his national anthem at a critical moment, the clash of arms in the distance, the call of France across the Channel. A week—even half a week’s extra preparation might make much difference.”
Selingman sat for a short time, deep in thought. Then he drew out a box of pale-looking German cigars and lit one.
“Count,” he announced solemnly, “I take off my hat to you. Leave the matter in my hands.”
CHAPTER XXXVI
Table of Contents
Norgate set down the telephone receiver and turned to Anna, who was seated in an easy-chair by his side.
“Selingman is down-stairs,” he announced. “I rather expected I should see something of him as I didn’t go to the club this afternoon. You won’t mind if he comes up?”
“The man is a nuisance,” Anna declared, with a little grimace. “I was perfectly happy, Francis, sitting here before the open window and looking out at the lights in that cool, violet gulf of darkness. I believe that in another minute I should have said something to you absolutely ravishing. Then your telephone rings and back one comes to earth again!”
Norgate smiled as he held her hand in his.
“We will get rid of him quickly, dearest,” he promised.
There was a knock at the door, and Selingman entered, his face wreathed in smiles. He was wearing a long dinner coat and a flowing black tie. He held out both his hands.
“So this is the great news that has kept you away from us!” he exclaimed. “My congratulations, Norgate. You can never say again that the luck has left you. Baroness, may I take advantage of my slight acquaintance to express my sincere wishes for your happiness?”
They wheeled up a chair for him, and Norgate produced some cigars. The night was close. They were on the seventh story, overlooking the river, and a pleasant breeze stole every now and t
hen into the room.
“You are well placed here,” Selingman declared. “Myself, I too like to be high up.”
“These are really just my bachelor rooms,” Norgate explained, “but under the circumstances we thought it wiser to wait before we settled down anywhere. Is there any news to-night?”
“There is great news,” Selingman announced gravely. “There is news of wonderful import. In a few minutes you will hear the shouting of the boys in the Strand there. You shall hear it first from me. Germany has found herself compelled to declare war against Russia.”
They were both speechless. Norgate was carried off his feet. The reality of the thing was stupendous.
“Russia has been mobilising night and day on the frontiers of East Prussia,” Selingman continued. “Germany has chosen to strike the first blow. Now listen, both of you. I am going to speak in these few minutes to Norgate here very serious words. I take it that in the matters which lie between him and me, you, Baroness, are as one with him?”
“It is so,” Norgate admitted.
“To be frank, then,” Selingman went on, “you, Norgate, during these momentous days have been the most useful of all my helpers here. The information which I have dispatched to Berlin, emanating from you, has been more than important—it has been vital. It has been so vital that I have a long dispatch to-night, begging me to reaffirm my absolute conviction as to the truth of the information which I have forwarded. Let us, for a moment, recapitulate. You remember your interview with Mr. Hebblethwaite on the subject of war?”
“Distinctly,” Norgate assented.
“It was your impression,” Selingman continued, “gathered from that conversation, that under no possible circumstances would Mr. Hebblethwaite himself, or the Cabinet as a whole, go to war with Germany in support of France. Is that correct?”
“It is correct,” Norgate admitted.
“Nothing has happened to change your opinion?”
“Nothing.”
“To proceed, then,” Selingman went on. “Some little time ago you called upon Mr. Bullen at the House of Commons. You promised a large contribution to the funds of the Irish Party, a sum which is to be paid over on the first of next month, on condition that no compromise in the Home Rule question shall be accepted by him, even in case of war. And further, that if England should find herself in a state of war, no Nationalists should volunteer to fight in her ranks. Is this correct?”
“Perfectly,” Norgate admitted.
“The information was of great interest in Berlin,” Selingman pointed out. “It is realised there that it means of necessity a civil war.”
“Without a doubt.”
“You believe,” Selingman persisted, “that I did not take an exaggerated or distorted view of the situation, as discussed between you and Mr. Bullen, when I reported that civil war in Ireland was inevitable?”
“It is inevitable,” Norgate agreed.
Selingman sat for several moments in portentous silence.
“We are on the threshold of great events,” he announced. “The Cabinet opinion in Berlin has been swayed by the two factors which we have discussed. It is the wish of Germany, and her policy, to end once and for all the eastern disquiet, to weaken Russia so that she can no longer call herself the champion of the Slav races and uphold their barbarism against our culture. France is to be dealt with only as the ally of Russia. We want little more from her than we have already. But our great desire is that England of necessity and of her own choice, should remain, for the present, neutral. Her time is to come later. Italy, Germany, and Austria can deal with France and Russia to a mathematical certainty. What we desire to avoid are any unforeseen complications. I leave you to-night, and I cable my absolute belief in the statements deduced from your work. You have nothing more to say?”
“Nothing,” Norgate replied.
Selingman was apparently relieved. He rose, a little later, to his feet.
“My young friend,” he concluded, “in the near future great rewards will find their way to this country. There is no one who has deserved more than you. There is no one who will profit more. That reminds me. There was one little question I had to ask. A friend of mine has seen you on your way back and forth to Camberley three or four times lately. You lunched the other day with the colonel of one of your Lancer regiments. How did you spend your time at Camberley?”
For a moment Norgate made no reply. The moonlight was shining into the room, and Anna had turned out all the lights with the exception of one heavily-shaded lamp. Her eyes were shining as she leaned a little forward in her chair.
“Boko again, I suppose,” Norgate grunted.
“Certainly Boko,” Selingman acknowledged.
“I was in the Yeomanry when I was younger,” Norgate explained slowly. “I had some thought of entering the army before I took up diplomacy. Colonel Chalmers is a friend of mine. I have been down to Camberley to see if I could pick up a little of the new drill.”
“For what reason?” Selingman demanded.
“Need I tell you that?” Norgate protested. “Whatever my feeling for England may be at the present moment, however bitterly I may regret the way she has let her opportunities slip, the slovenly political condition of the country, yet I cannot put away from me the fact that I am an Englishman. If trouble should come, even though I may have helped to bring it about, even though I may believe that it is a good thing for the country to have to meet trouble, I should still fight on her side.”
“But there will be no war,” Selingman reminded him. “You yourself have ascertained that the present Cabinet will decline war at any cost.”
“The present Government, without a doubt,” Norgate assented. “I am thinking of later on, when your first task is over.”
Selingman nodded gravely.
“When that day comes,” he said, as he rose and took up his hat, “it will not be a war. If your people resist, it will be a butchery. Better to find yourself in one of the Baroness’ castles in Austria when that time comes! It is never worth while to draw a sword in a lost cause. I wish you good night, Baroness. I wish you good night, Norgate.”
He shook hands with them both firmly, but there was still something of reserve in his manner. Norgate rang for his servant to show him out. They took their places once more by the window.
“War!” Norgate murmured, his eyes fixed upon the distant lights.
Anna crept a little nearer to him.
“Francis,” she whispered, “that man has made me a little uneasy. Supposing they should discover that you have deceived them, before they have been obliged to leave the country!”
“They will be much too busy,” Norgate replied, “to think about me.”
Anna’s face was still troubled. “I did not like that man’s look,” she persisted, “when he asked you what you were doing at Camberley. Perhaps he still believes that you have told the truth, but he might easily have it in his mind that you knew too many of their secrets to be trusted when the vital moment came.”
Norgate leaned over and drew her towards him.
“Selingman has gone,” he murmured. “It is only outside that war is throbbing. Dearest, I think that my vital moments are now!”
CHAPTER XXXVII
Table of Contents
Mr. Hebblethwaite permitted himself a single moment of abstraction. He sat at the head of the table in his own remarkably well-appointed dining-room. His guests—there were eighteen or twenty of them in all—represented in a single word Success—success social as well as political. His excellently cooked dinner was being served with faultless precision. His epigrams had never been more pungent. The very distinguished peeress who sat upon his right, and whose name was a household word in the enemy’s camp, had listened to him with enchained and sympathetic interest. For a single second he permitted his thoughts to travel back to the humble beginnings of his political career. He had a brief, flashlight recollection of the suburban parlour of his early days, the hard fight at first for a li
ving, then for some small place in local politics, and then, larger and more daring schemes as the boundary of his ambitions became each year a little further extended. Beyond him now was only one more step to be taken. The last goal was well within his reach.
The woman at his right recommenced their conversation, which had been for a moment interrupted.
“We were speaking of success,” she said. “Success often comes to one covered by the tentacles and parasites of shame, and yet, even in its grosser forms, it has something splendid about it. But success that carries with it no apparent drawback whatever is, of course, the most amazing thing of all. I was reading that wonderful article of Professor Wilson’s last month. He quotes you very extensively. His analysis of your character was, in its way, interesting. Directly I had read it, however, I felt that it lacked one thing—simplicity. I made up my mind that the next time we talked intimately, I would ask you to what you yourself attributed your success?”
Hebblethwaite smiled graciously.
“I will not attempt to answer you in epigrams,” he replied. “I will pay a passing tribute to a wonderful constitution, an invincible sense of humour, which I think help one to keep one’s head up under many trying conditions. But the real and final explanation of my success is that I embraced the popular cause. I came from the people, and when I entered into politics, I told myself and every one else that it was for the people I should work. I have never swerved from that purpose. It is to the people I owe whatever success I am enjoying to-day.”
The Duchess nodded thoughtfully.
“Yes,” she admitted, “you are right there. Shall I proceed with my own train of thought quite honestly?”
“I shall count it a compliment,” he assured her earnestly, “even if your thoughts contain criticisms.”
“You occupy so great a position in political life to-day,” she continued, “that one is forced to consider you, especially in view of the future, as a politician from every point of view. Now, by your own showing, you have been a specialist. You have taken up the cause of the people against the classes. You have stripped many of us of our possessions—the Duke, you know, hates the sound of your name—and by your legislation you have, without a doubt, improved the welfare of many millions of human beings. But that is not all that a great politician must achieve, is it? There is our Empire across the seas.”
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