God's Providence


THE phrase was Lady Caerlaverock’s. I remember her use of it when, with strained face and anxious eyes, she told me of the deplorable calamity which had befallen her party and her friends. “God’s Providence is a terrible thing,” she had sighed, believing, I think, that she was quoting Scripture. I have put. the phrase at the head of this narrative, because, as it happens, it was also the name of the strange force, drug, or enchantment, which, transmitted from the dim antiquity of the East, played havoc for a season with the sober government of England. The events which I purpose to chronicle were known to perhaps a hundred people in London whose fate brings them into contact with politics. The consequences were apparent to all the world, and for one hectic fortnight tinged the soberest newspapers with saffron, drove more than one worthy election agent to an asylum, and sent whole batches of legislators to continental “cures.” But no reasonable explanation of the mystery has been forthcoming until now, when a series of chances has given the key into my hands.

Lady Caerlaverock is my aunt, and I was present at the two remarkable dinner-parties which are the main events in this tale. I was also taken into her confidence during the terrible fortnight which intervened between them. Like everybody else, I was hopelessly in the dark, and could only accept what happened as a divine interposition. My first clue came when James, the Caerlaverocks’ second footman, entered my service as valet, and being a cheerful youth, chose to gossip while he shaved me. I checked him, but he babbled on, and I could not choose but learn something about the disposition of the Caerlaverock household below stairs. I learned — what I knew before — that his lordship had an inordinate love for curries, a taste acquired during some troubled years as Indian viceroy. I had often eaten that admirable dish at his table, and had heard him boast of the skill of the Indian cook who prepared it. James, it appeared, did not hold with the Oriental in the kitchen. He described the said Indian gentleman as a “nigger,” and expressed profound distrust of his ways. He referred darkly to the events of the year before, which in some distorted way had reached the servants’ ears. “We always thought as ’ow it was them niggers as done it,” he declared; and when I questioned him on his use of the plural, admitted that at the time in question “there ’ad been more nor one nigger ’anging about the kitchen.”

Pondering on these sayings, I asked myself if it were not possible that the behavior of certain eminent statesmen was due to some strange devilry of the East, and I made a vow to abstain in future from the Caerlaverock curries. But last month my brother returned from India, and I got the whole truth.

George is a silent creature, who has spent twenty years in various native states as guide, philosopher, and friend to their rulers. What he does not know about India is scarcely knowledge, but he is uncommon slow in imparting his wisdom. On this occasion he was staying with me in Scotland, and in the smoking-room the talk turned on occultism in the East. I declared myself a skeptic, and George was stirred. He asked me rudely what I knew about it, and proceeded to make a startling confession of faith. He was cross-examined by the others, and retorted with some of his experiences. Finding an incredulous audience, his tales became more defiant, until he capped them all with one monstrous yarn. He maintained that in a Hindu family of his acquaintance there had been transmitted the secret of a drug, capable of altering a man’s whole temperament until the antidote was administered. It would turn a coward into a bravo, a miser into a spendthrift, a rake into a fakir. Then, having delivered his manifesto, he got up abruptly, and went to bed.

I followed him to his room, for something in the story had revived a memory. By dint of much persuasion I dragged from the somnolent George various details. The family in question were Beharis, large landholders dwelling near the Nepal border. He had known old Ram Singh for years, and had seen him twice since his return from England. He had got the story from him, under no promise of secrecy, for the family drug was as well known in the neighborhood as the nine incarnations of Krishna. George had never repeated the tale, for in a life so full of marvels one more or less mattered little. But he had no doubt about the truth of it, for he had positive proof.

“And others besides me,” he said. “Do you remember when Vennard had a lucid interval a couple of years ago, and talked sense for once? That was old Ram Singh’s doing, for he told me about it.”

Three years ago, it seems, the government of India saw fit to appoint a commission to inquire into land tenure on the Nepal border. Some of the feudal rajahs had been “birsing yont,” like the Breadalbanes, and the smaller zemindars were gravely disquieted. The result of the commission was that Ram Singh had his boundaries rectified, and lost a mile or two of country which his hard-fisted fat hers had won. I know nothing of the rights of the matter, but there can be no doubt about Ram Singh’s dissatisfaction. He conceived himself to have been foully wronged, and, the day of force being over, he appealed to the law courts. He failed to upset the commission’s finding, and the Privy Council upheld the Indian judgment. Thereupon in a flowery and eloquent document he laid his case before the viceroy, and was told that the matter was closed.

Now Ram Singh came of a fighting stock, so he straightway took ship to England to petition the Crown. He petitioned Parliament, but his petition went into the bag behind the Speaker’s chair, from which there is no return. He petitioned the King, but was courteously informed that he must approach the department concerned. He tried the Secretary of State for India, and had an interview with Abinger Vennard, who was very rude to him. He appealed to the Prime Minister, and was warned off by a harassed private secretary. The handful of members of Parliament who make Indian grievances their stock in trade fought shy of him, for indeed Ram Singh’s case had no sort of platform appeal in it, and his arguments were flagrantly undemocratic. But they sent him to Lord Caerlaverock, for the ex-viceroy loved to be treated as a kind of consul-general for India. The Protector of the Poor, however, proved a broken reed. He told Ram Singh flatly that he was a belated feudalist, which was true, and implied that he was a land-grabber, which was not true, Ram Singh having only enjoyed the fruits of the enterprise of his forbears. Deeply incensed, the appellant shook the dust of Caerlaverock House from his feet, and sat down to plan a revenge upon the government which had wronged him. And in his wrath he thought of the heirloom of his house, the drug known as “God’s Providence.”

It happened that Lord Caerlaverock’s cook came from the same neighborhood as Ram Singh. This cook, Lal Muhammed by name, was one of a large poor family, hangers-on of Ram Singh’s house. The aggrieved landowner summoned him, and demanded as of right his humble services. Lal Muhammed, who found his berth to his liking, hesitated, quibbled, but was finally overborne. He knew all about “God’s Providence,” and had a fuller understanding than Ram Singh of the encyclopædic incredulity of the English race. The drug wrought no ill to the body, which the law of England rates high; a change of temperament, argued Lai Muhammed, is an offense not known at the Old Bailey. Thereupon he got to business. There was a great dinner next week, — so he had learned from Jephson, the butler, — and more than one member of the government would honor Caerlaverock House by his presence. With deference he suggested this as a fitting occasion for the experiment, and Ram Singh was pleased to assent.

I can picture these two holding their meetings. I can see the little packet of clear grains — I picture them like small granulated sugar — added to the condiments, and soon dissolved out of sight.


My wife was at Kissingen, and I was dining with the Caerlaverocks en gcirçon. When I have not to wait upon the adornment of the female person I am a man of punctual habits, and I reached the house as the hall clock chimed the quarter past. My poor friend, Tommy Deloraine, arrived along with me, and we ascended the staircase together. I call him “my poor friend,” for at the moment Tommy was under the weather. He had the misfortune to be a marquis, and a very rich one, and at the same time to be in love with Claudia Barriton. Neither circumstance was in itself an evil, but the combination made for tragedy. For Tommy’s twenty-five years of healthy manhood, his cleanly-made, upstanding figure, fresh countenance and cheerful laugh, were of no avail in the lady’s eyes when set against the fact that he was an idle peer.

Miss Claudia was a charming girl, with a notable bee in her bonnet. She was burdened with the cares of t he state and had no patience with any one who took them lightly. Her rôle was not unlike that of Mrs. Humphry Ward’s heroines, except that she had no tolerance for the conservative tendencies of these ladies. To her mind, the social fabric was rotten beyond repair, and her purpose was frankly destructive. I remember some of her phrases: “A bold and generous policy of social amelioration,” “The development of a civic conscience, ” “A strong hand to lop off decaying branches from the trunk of the state.” I have no fault to find with her creed, but I objected to its practical working when it took the shape of an inhuman hostility to that devout lover, Tommy Deloraine. She had refused him, I believe, three times, with every circumstance of scorn. The first time she had analyzed his character, and described him as a bundle of attractive weaknesses. “The only forces I recognize are those of intellect and conscience,” she had said, “and you have neither.” The second time — it was after he had been to Canada on the staff—she spoke of the irreconcilability of their political ideals. “You are an Imperialist,” she said, “and believe in an empire of conquest for the benefit of the few. I want a little island with a rich life for all.”

Tommy declared that he would become a Doukhobor to please her, but she said something about the inability of Ethiopians to change their skin.

The third time she hinted vaguely that there was “another.” The star of Abinger Vennard was now blazing in the firmament, and she had conceived a platonic admiration for him. The truth is that Miss Claudia, with all her cleverness, was very young and rather silly.

My aunt Emily favored Deloraine’s suit, though she warmly applauded Miss Barriton’s politics, and she had shown her good-will by asking them both to dine. “O my dear,” she whispered to me, “I am sending them down together, but I am afraid it is no use. Mr. Vennard is coming, you see, and Claudia will have eyes only for him, though I don’t think he is aware of her existence. What can we do for poor Lord Deloraine?”

Caerlaverock was stroking his beard, legs a-straddle on the hearthrug, with something appallingly viceregal in his air, when Mr. and Mrs. Alexander Cargill were announced. The Home Secretary was a joy to behold. He had the face of an elderly and pious bookmaker, and a voice in which lurked the indescribable Scotch quality of “unction.” When he was talking you had only to shut your eyes to imagine yourself in some lowland kirk on a hot Sabbath morning. He had been a distinguished advocate before he left the law for politics, and had swayed juries of his countrymen at his will. The man was extraordinarily efficient on a platform. There were unplumbed depths of emotion in his eye, a juicy sentiment in his voice, an overpowering tenderness in his manner, which gave to politics the glamour of a revival meeting. He wallowed in obvious pathos, and his hearers, often unwillingly, wallowed with him. I have never listened to any orator at once so offensive and so horribly effective. There was no appeal too base for him, and none too august: by some subtle alchemy he blended the arts of the prophet and the fishwife. He had discovered a new kind of language. Instead of “ the hungry millions,” or “the toilers,” or any of the numerous synonyms for our masters, he invented the phrase “ Goad’s people.” “I shall never rest,” so ran his great declaration, “till Goad’s green fields and Goad’s clear waters arc free to Goad’s people.” I remember how on this occasion he pressed my hand with his famous cordiality, looked gravely and earnestly into my face, and then gazed sternly into vacancy. It was a fine picture of genius descending for a moment from his hilltop to show how close he was to poor humanity.

Then came Lord Mulross, a respectable troglodytic peer, who represented the one sluggish element in a swiftly progressing government. He was an oldish man with bushy whiskers and a reputed mastery of the French tongue. A Whig, who had never changed his creed one iota, he was highly valued by the country as a sober element in the nation’s councils, and endured by the Cabinet as necessary ballast. He did not conceal his dislike for certain of his colleagues, notably Mr. Vennard and Mr. Cargill.

When Miss Barriton arrived with her stepmother, the party was almost complete. She entered with an air of apologizing for her prettiness. Her manner with old men was delightful, and I watched with interest the unbending of Caerlaverock, and the simplifying of Mr. Cargill in her presence. Deloraine, who was talking feverishly to Mrs. Cargill, started as if to go and greet her, thought better of it, and continued his conversation. The lady swept the room with her eye, but did not acknowledge his presence.

Last of all, twenty minutes late, came Abinger Vennard. He made a fine stage entrance, walking swiftly with a lowering brow to his hostess, and then glaring fiercely round the room as if to challenge criticism. I have heard Deloraine in a moment of irritation describe him as a “pre-Raphaelite attorney,” but there could be no denying his good looks. He had a bad loose figure, and a quantity of studiously neglected hair, but his face was the face of a young Greek. A certain kind of political success gives a man the manners of an actor, and both Vennard and Cargill bristled with self-consciousness.

“Well, Vennard, what’s the news from the House?” Caerlaverock asked.

“Simpson is talking,” said Vennard wearily. “He attacks me, of course. He says he has lived forty years in India, — as if that mattered! When will people recognize that the truths of democratic policy are independent of time and space! Liberalism is a category, an eternal mode of thought, which cannot be overthrown by any trivial happenings. I am sick of the word ‘facts.’ I long for truths.”

Miss Barritons eyes brightened, and Cargill said, “Excellent.” Lord Mulross, who was a little deaf, and in any case did not understand the language, said loudly to my aunt that he wished there was a close time for legislation. “The open season for grouse should be the close season for politicians.”

And then we went down to dinner.

Miss Barriton sat on my left hand between Deloraine and me, and it was clear she was discontented with her position. Her eyes wandered down the table to Vennard, who had taken in an American duchess, and seemed to be amused at her prattle. She looked with complete disfavor at Deloraine, and turned to me as the lesser of two evils.

I was tactless enough to say that I thought there was a good deal in Lord Mulross’s view.

“Oh, how can you?” she cried. “Is there a close season for the wants of the people? It sounds to me perfectly horrible, the way you talk of government as if it were a game for idle men of the upper classes. I want professional politicians, men who give their whole heart and soul to the service of the state. I know the kind of member you and Lord Deloraine like, — a rich young man who eats and drinks too much, and thinks the real business of life is killing little birds. He travels abroad and shoots some big game, and then comes home and vapors about the empire. He knows nothing about realities, and will go down before the men who take the world seriously.”

I am afraid I laughed, but Deloraine, who had been listening, was in no mood to be amused.

“I don’t think you are quite fair to us, Miss Claudia,” he said slowly. “We take things seriously enough, the things we know about. We can’t be expected to know about everything, and the misfortune is that the things I care about don’t interest you. But they are important enough for all that.”

“Hush,” said the lady rudely. “I want to hear what Mr. Vennard is saying.”

Mr. Vennard was addressing the dinner-table as if it were a large public meeting. It was a habit he had. His words were directed to Caerlaverock at the far end.

“In my opinion this craze for the scientific standpoint is not merely overdone: it is radically vicious. Human destinies cannot be treated as if they were inert objects under the microscope. The cold-blooded logical way of treating a problem is in almost every case the wrong way. Heart and imagination to me are more vital than intellect. I have the courage to be illogical, to defy facts for the sake of my ideal, in the certainty that in time facts will fall into conformity. My creed may be put in the words of Newman’s favorite quotation: ‘Non in dialectica complacuit Deo salvum facere populum suum’ — Not in cold logic is it God’s will that his people should find salvation.”

“It is profoundly true,” sighed Mr. Cargill, and Miss Claudia’s beaming eyes proved her assent.

The moment of destiny, though I did not know it, had arrived. The entree course had begun, and of the two entrees one was the famous Caerlaverock curry. Now on a hot July evening in London there are more attractive foods than curry seven times heated, more Indico. I doubt if any guest would have touched it, had not our host in his viceregal voice called the attention of the three ministers to its merits, while explaining that under doctor’s orders he was compelled to refrain for a season. The result was that Mulross, Cargill, and Vennard alone of the men partook of it. Miss Claudia, alone of the women, followed suit. In the fervor of her hero-worship, she ate a mouthfull, and then drank rapidly two glasses of water.

My narrative of the events which followed is based rather on what I should have seen than on what I saw. I had not the key, and missed much which otherwise would have been plain to me. For example, if I had known the secret, I must have seen Miss Claudia’s gaze cease to rest upon Vennard, and the adoration die out of her eyes. I must have noticed her face soften to the unhappy Deloraine. As it was, I did not remark her behavior till I heard her say to her neighbor,—

“Can’t you get hold of Mr. Vennard and forcibly cut his hair?”

Deloraine looked round with a start. Miss Barriton’s tone was intimate, and her face friendly.

“Some people think it picturesque,” he said in serious bewilderment.

“Oh, yes, picturesque — like a hairdresser’s young man!” She shrugged her shoulders. “He looks as if he had never been out of doors in his life.”

Now, whatever the faults of Tommy’s appearance, he had a wholesome sunburned face, and he knew it. This speech of Miss Barriton’s cheered him enormously.

I do not know how their conversation prospered, for my attention was distracted by the extraordinary behavior of the Home Secretary. Mr. Cargill had made himself notorious by his treatment of “political” prisoners. It was sufficient in his eyes for a criminal to confess to political convictions to secure the most lenient treatment and a speedy release. The Irish patriot who cracked skulls, the Suffragist who broke windows and the noses of the police, the Social Democrat whose antipathy to the Tsar revealed itself in assaults upon the Russian Embassy, the “hunger-marchers” who had designs on the British Museum, all were sure of respectful and tender handling. He had announced more than once, amid tumultuous cheering, that he “would never be the means of branding earnestness, however mistaken, with the badge of the felon.”

He was talking, I recall, to Lady Lavinia Dobson, renowned in two hemispheres for her advocacy of women’s rights. And this was what I heard him say. His face had suddenly grown flushed and his eye bright, so that he looked liker than ever to a bookmaker who had had a good meeting. “No, no, my dear lady, I have been a lawyer, and it is my duty in office to see that the law, the palladium of British liberties, is kept sacrosanct. The law is no respecter of persons, and I intend that it shall be no respecter of creeds. If men or women break the laws, to jail they shall go, though their intentions were those of the Apostle Paul. We don’t punish them for being socialists or suffragists, but for breaking the peace. Why, goodness me, if we did n’t, we should have every malefactor in Britain claiming preferential treatment because he was a Christian Scientist or a Pentecostal Dancer.”

“Mr. Cargill, do you realize what you are saying?” said Lady Lavinia, with a scared face.

“Of course I do. I am a lawyer and may be presumed to know the law. If any other doctrine were admitted the empire would burst up in a fortnight.”

“That I should live to hear you name that accursed name!” cried the outraged lady. “You are denying your gods, Mr. Cargill. You are forgetting the principles of a lifetime.”

Mr. Cargill was becoming excited, and exchanging his ordinary Edinburgh-English for a broader and more effective dialect.

“Tut, tut, my good wumman. I may be allowed to know my own principles best. I tell ye I ’ve always maintained these views from the day when I first walked the floor of the Parliament House. Besides, even if I had n’t, I’m surely at liberty to change if I get more light. Whoever makes a fetich of consistency is a trumpery body, and little use to God or man. What ails ye at the empire, too? Is it not better to have a big country than a kailyard, or a house in Grosvenor Square than a but-and-ben in Balham?”

Lady Lavinia folded her hands. “We slaughter our black fellow-citizens, we fill South Africa with yellow slaves, we crowd the Indian prisons with the noblest and most enlightened of the Indian race, and we call that empirebuilding! ”

“No we don’t,” said Mr. Cargill stoutly, “we call it common sense. That is the penal and repressive side of any great activity.”

Picture to yourself a prophet who suddenly discovers that, his God is laughing at him, a devotee whose saint winks and tells him that the devotion of years has been a farce, and you will get some idea of Lady Lavinia’s frame of mind. Her sallow face flushed, her lip trembled, and she slewed round as far as her chair would permit her. Meanwhile, Mr. Cargill, redder than before, went on contentedly with his dinner.

I was glad when my aunt gave the signal to rise. The atmosphere was electric, and all were conscious of it save the three ministers, Deloraine, and Miss Claudia. Vennard seemed to be behaving very badly. He was arguing with Caerlaverock down the table, and the ex-viceroy’s face was slowly getting purple. When the ladies had gone, we remained oblivious to wine and cigarettes, listening to this heated controversy which threatened any minute to end in a quarrel.

The subject was India, and Vennard was discoursing on the follies of all viceroys.

“Take this idiot we’ve got now,” he declared. “He expects me to beasort of wet-nurse to the government of India, and do all their dirty work for them. They know local conditions, and they have ample powers if they would only use them, but they won’t take an atom of responsibility. How the deuce am I to decide for them, when in the nature of things I can’t be half as well informed about the facts!”

“Do you maintain,” said Caerlaverock, stuttering in his wrath, “that the British government should divest itself of responsibility for the government of our great Indian dependency?”

“Not a bit,” said Vennard impatiently; “of course we are responsible, but that is all the more reason why the fellows who know the business at firsthand should do their duty. If I am the head of a bank I am responsible for its policy, but that does n’t mean that every local bank-manager should consult me about the solvency of clients I never heard of. Faversham keeps bleating to me that the state of India is dangerous. Well, for God’s sake let him suppress every native paper, shut up the schools, and send every agitator to the Andamans. I’ll back him up all right. But don’t let him ask me what to do, for I don’t know.”

“You think such a course would be popular?” asked a large grave man, a newspaper editor.

“Of course it would,” said Vennard cheerily. “The British public hates the idea of letting India get out of hand. But they want a lead. They can’t be expected to start the show any more than I can.”

Lord Caerlaverock rose to join the ladies, with an air of outraged dignity. Vennard pulled out his watch and announced that he must get back to the House.

“ Do you know what I am going to do?” he asked. “I am going down to tell Simpson what I think of him. He gets up and prates of having been forty years in India. Well, I am going to tell him that it is to him and his fortyyear lot that all this muddle is due. Oh, I assure you, there’s going to be a row,” said Vennard as he struggled into his coat.

Mulross had been sitting next me, and I asked him if he was leaving town. “I wish I could,” he said, “ but I fear I must stick on over the Twelfth. I don’t like the way that fellow Von Kladow has been talking. He’s up to no good, and he’s going to get a flea in his ear before he is very much older.”

Cheerfully, almost hilariously, the three ministers departed, Vennard and Cargill in a hansom, and Mulross on foot. I can only describe the condition of those left behind as nervous prostration. We looked furtively at one another, each afraid to hint his suspicions, but all convinced that a surprising judgment had befallen at least two members of His Majesty’s government. For myself I put the number at three, for I did not like to hear a respected Whig Foreign Secretary talk about giving the Chancellor of a friendly but jealous Power a flea in his ear.

The only unperplexed face was Deloraine’s. He whispered to me that Miss Barriton was going on to the Alvanleys’ ball, and had warned him to be there. “She has n’t been to a dance for months, you know,” he said. ”I really think things are beginning to go a little better, old man.”


When I opened my paper next morning I read two startling pieces of news. Lord Mulross had been knocked down by a taxicab on his way home the night before, and was now in bed suffering from a bad shock and a bruised ankle. There was no cause for anxiety, said the report, but his lordship must keep his room for a week or two.

The second item, which filled leading articles, and overflowed into “Political Notes,” was Mr. Vennard’s speech. The Secretary for India had gone down about eleven o’clock to the House, where an Indian debate was dragging out its slow length. He sat down on the Treasury Bench and took notes, and the House soon filled in anticipation of his reply. Somewhere about half-past twelve he rose to wind up the debate, and the House was treated to an unparalleled sensation. He began with the unfortunate Simpson, and called him a silly old man who did not understand his silly old business. But it was the reasons he gave for this abuse which left his followers aghast. He attacked him because he had dared to talk second-rate Western politics in connection with India.

“Have you lived for forty years with your eyes shut,” he cried, “that you cannot see the difference between a Bengali, married at fifteen and worshiping a Pantheon of savage gods, and the university-extension young Radical at home? There is a thousand years between them, and you dream of annihilating the centuries with a little dubious popular science !”

Then he turned to the other critics of Indian administration, his quondam supporters. The East, he said, had had its revenge upon the West by making certain Englishmen babus. His honorable friends had the same slipshod minds, and they talked the same pigeon-English, as the patriots of Bengal. Then his mood changed, and he delivered a solemn warning against what he called “the treason begotten of restless vanity and proved incompetence.” He sat down, leaving a House deeply impressed and horribly mystified.

The next afternoon when I called at Caerlaverock House I found my aunt almost in tears.

“What has happened?” she cried. “What have we done that we should be punished in this awful way? And to think that the blow fell in this house. Caerlaverock was with the Prime Minister this morning. They are very anxious about what Mr. Cargill will do to-day. He is addressing the National Convention of Young Liberals at Oldham this afternoon, and though they have sent him a dozen telegrams they can get no answer. Caerlaverock went to Downing Street an hour ago to get news.”

There was the sound of an electric brougham stopping in the square below, and we both listened with a premonition of disaster. A minute later Caerlaverock entered the room, and with him the Prime Minister. The cheerful, eupeptic countenance of the latter was clouded with care. He shook hands dismally with my aunt, nodded to me, and flung himself down on a sofa.

“The worst has happened,”Caerlaverock boomed solemnly. “Cargill has been incredibly and infamously silly.” He tossed me an evening paper.

One glance convinced me that the Convention of Young Liberals had had a waking up. Cargill had addressed them on what he called the true view of citizenship. He had dismissed manhood suffrage as an obsolete folly. The franchise, he maintained, should be narrowed and given only to citizens, and his definition of citizenship was military training combined with a fairly high standard of rates and taxes. I do not know how the Young Liberals received this creed, but it had no sort of success with the Prime Minister.

“We must disavow him,” said Caerlaverock.

“He is too valuable a man to lose,” said the Prime Minister. “We must hope that it is only a temporary aberration. I simply cannot spare him in the House.”

“But this is flat treason.”

“I know, I know. But the situation wants delicate handling, my dear Caerlaverock. I see nothing for it but to give out that he was ill.”

“Or drunk?” I suggested.

The Prime Minister shook his head sadly. “I fear it will be the same thing. What we call illness the ordinary man will interpret as intoxication. It is a most regrettable necessity, but we must face it.”

The harassed leader rose, seized the evening paper, and departed as swiftly as he had come. “Remember, illness,” were his parting words. “An old heart trouble which is apt to affect the brain. His friends have always known of it.”

I walked home, and looked in at the club on my way. There I found Deloraine, devouring a hearty tea, and looking the picture of virtuous happiness.

“Well, this is tremendous news,” I said, as I sat down beside him.

“What news?” he asked with a start.

“This row about Vennard and Cargill.”

“Oh, that! I haven’t seen the papers to-day. What’s it all about?” His tone was devoid of interest.

Then I knew that something of great private moment had happened to Tommy.

“I hope I may congratulate you,” I said.

Deloraine beamed on me affectionately. “Thanks, very much, old man. Things came all right, quite suddenly, you know.”


The next week was an epoch in my life. While Lord Mulross’s ankle approached convalescence, the hives of politics were humming with rumors. Vennard’s speech had dissolved his party into its parent elements, and the opposition, as non-plussed as the government, did not dare as yet to claim the recruit. Consequently he was left alone till he should see fit to take a further step. He refused to be interviewed, using blasphemous language about our free press; and mercifully he showed no desire to make speeches. He went down to golf at Littlestone, and rarely showed himself in the House. The earnest young reformer seemed to have adopted not only the creed, but the habits, of his enemies.

Mr. Cargill’s was a hard case. He returned from Oldham, delighted with himself and full of fight, to find awaiting him an urgent message from the Prime Minister. His chief was sympathetic and kindly. He had long noticed that the Home Secretary looked fagged and ill. Let him take a fortnight’s holiday:— fish, golf, yacht — the Prime Minister was airily suggestive. In vain Mr. Cargill declared he was perfectly well. His chief gently but firmly overbore him, and insisted on sending him his own doctor. Then Mr. Cargill began to suspect, and asked the Prime Minister point-blank if he objected to his Oldham speech. He was told that there was no objection, a little strong meat, perhaps, for Young Liberals, a little daring, but full of Mr. Cargill’s old intellectual power. Mollified and reassured, the Home Secretary agreed to a week’s absence, and departed for a little salmon-fishing in Scotland.

“In a fortnight,” said the Prime Minister to my aunt, “ he will have forgotten all this nonsense; but, of course, we shall have to watch him very carefully in the future.”

The press was given its cue, and announced that Mr. Cargill had spoken at Oldham while suffering from severe nervous break-down, and that the remarkable doctrines of that speech need not be taken seriously. As I had expected, the public put its own interpretation upon this tale. Men took each other aside in clubs, women gossiped in drawing-rooms, and in a week the Cargill scandal had assumed amazing proportions. The popular version was that the Home Secretary had got very drunk at Caerlaverock House, and, still under the influence of liquor, had addressed the Young Liberals at Oldham. He was now in an Inebriates’ Home, and would not return to the House that session. I confess I trembled when I heard this story, for it was altogether too libelous to pass unnoticed.

A few days later I went to see my aunt to find out how the land lay. She was very bitter, I remember, about Claudia Barriton. “I expected sympathy and help from her, and she never comes near me. I can understand her being absorbed in her engagement, but I cannot understand the frivolous way she spoke when I saw her yesterday. She had the audacity to say that both Mr. Vennard and Mr. Cargill had gone up in her estimation. Young people can be so heartless.”

I would have defended Miss Barriton, but at this moment an astonishing figure was announced. It was Mrs. Cargill, in traveling dress, with a purple bonnet and a green motor-veil. Her face was scarlet, whether from excitement or the winds of Scotland, and she charged down on us like a young bull.

“We have come back,” she said, “to meet our accusers.”

“Accusers!” cried my aunt.

“Yes, accusers!” said the lady. “The abominable rumor about Alexander has reached our ears. At this moment he is with the Prime Minister, demanding an official denial. I have come to you, because it was here, at your table, that Alexander is said to have fallen.”

“I really don’t know what you mean, Mrs. Cargill.”

“I mean that Alexander is said to have become drunk while dining here, to have been drunk when he spoke at Oldham, and to be now in a Drunkards’ Home.” The poor lady broke down. “Alexander,” she cried, “who has been a teetotaler from his youth, and for thirty years an elder in the Presbyterian church! No form of intoxicant has ever been permitted on our table. Even in illness the thing has never passed our lips.”

My aunt by this time had pulled herself together.

“If this outrageous story is current, Mrs. Cargill, there is nothing for it but to come back. The only denial necessary is for Mr. Cargill to resume his work. I trust his health is better.”

“ He is well, but heartbroken. His is a sensitive nature, Lady Caerlaverock, and he feels a stain like a wound.”

“There is no stain,” said my aunt briskly. “Every public man is a target for scandals, but no one but a fool believes them. Trust me, dear Mrs. Cargill, there is nothing to be anxious about now that you are back in London again.”

On the contrary, I thought, there was more cause for anxiety than ever. Cargill was back in the House, and the illness game could not be played a second time. I went home that night acutely sympathetic toward the worries of the Prime Minister. Mulross would be abroad in a day or two, and Vennard and Cargill were volcanoes in eruption. The government was in a parlous state.

The same night I first heard the story of the Bill. Vennard had done more than play golf at Littlestone. His active mind — for his bitterest enemies never denied his intellectual energy — had been busy on a great scheme. At that time, it will be remembered, a serious shrinkage of unskilled labor existed not only in the Transvaal but in the new copper fields of East Africa. Simultaneously a famine was scourging Behar, and Vennard, to do him justice, had made manful efforts to cope with it. He had gone fully into the question, and had been slowly coming to the conclusion that Behar was hopelessly overcrowded. In his new frame of mind — unswervingly logical, utterly unemotional, and wholly unbounded by tradition — he had come to connect the African and Indian troubles, and to see in one the relief of the other.

Then, whispered from mouth to mouth, came the news of the Great Bill. Vennard, it was said, intended to bring in a measure at the earliest possible date to authorize a scheme of enforced and state-aided Indian emigration to the African mines. It would apply at first only to the famine districts, but power would be given to extend its working by proclamation to other areas. Such was the rumor, and I need not say it was soon magnified. In a day or two the story universally believed was that the Secretary for India was about to transfer the bulk of the Indian people to work as indentured laborers for South African Jews.

It was this popular version, I fancy, which reached the ears of Ram Singh, and the news came on him like a thunderclap. He thought that what Vennard proposed Vennard could do. He saw his native province stripped of its people; his fields left unploughed and his cattle untended; nay, it was possible, his own worthy and honorable self sent to a far country to dig in a hole. He walked home to Gloucester Road in heavy preoccupation, and the first thing he did was to get out the mysterious brass box in which he kept his valuables. From a pocket-book he took a small silk packet, opened it, and spilled a few clear grains on his hand. It was the antidote.


I conceive that the drug did not create new opinions, but elicited those which had hitherto lain dormant. Every man has a creed, but in his soul he knows that that creed has another side, possibly not less logical, which it does not suit him to produce. Our most honest convictions are not the children of pure reason, but of temperament, environment, necessity, and interest. The man who sees both sides of a question with equal clearness will remain suspended like Mahomet’s coffin. Fortunately most of us take sides in life, and forget the one we reject. But our conscience tells us it is there, and we can on occasion state it with a fairness and fullness which proves that it is not wholly repellent to our reason. The drug altered temperament, and with it the creed which is mainly based on temperament. It scattered current convictions, roused dormant speculations, and, without damaging the reason, switched it on to a new track.

It was just a fortnight, I think, after the Caerlaverock dinner-party, when the Prime Minister resolved to bring matters to a head. He could not afford to wait forever on a return of sanity. He consulted Caerlaverock, and it was agreed that Vennard and Cargill should be asked, or rather commanded, to dine on the following evening at Caerlaverock House. Mulross, whose sanity was not suspected, and whose ankle was now well again, was also invited, as were three other members of the cabinet, and myself as amicus curice. It was understood that after dinner there would be a settling-up with the two rebels. They should either recant and come to heel, or depart from the fold to swell the wolf-pack of the opposition. The Prime Minister did not conceal the loss which the party would suffer, but he argued very sensibly that anything was better than a brace of vipers in its bosom.

I have never attended a more lugubrious function. When I arrived I found Caerlaverock, the Prime Minister, and the three other members of the cabinet, standing round a small fire in attitudes of nervous dejection. I remember it was a raw wet evening, but the gloom out of doors was sunshine compared to the gloom within. Caerlaverock’s viceregal air had sadly altered. The Prime Minister, once famous for his genial manners, was pallid and preoccupied. We exchanged remarksabout the weather, and the duration of the session. Then we fell silent till Mulross arrived.

He did not look as if he had come from a sick-bed. He came in as jaunty as a boy, limping just a little from his accident. He was greeted by his colleagues with tender solicitude, — completely wasted on him I fear.

“Devilish silly thing to do to get run over,’- he said. “I was in a brown study when a cab came round a corner. But I don’t regret it, you know. During the past fortnight I have had leisure to go into this Bosnian Succession business, and I see now that Von Kladow has been playing one big game of bluff. Very well; it has got to stop. I am going to prick the bubble before I am many days older.”

The Prime Minister looked anxious. “Our policy towards Bosnia has been one of non-interference. It is not for us, I should have thought, to read Germany a lesson.”

“Oh, come now,” Mulross said, slapping — actually slapping — his leader on the back; “we may drop that nonsense when we are alone. You know very well that there are limits to our game of non-interference. If we don’t read Germany a lesson, she will read us one, and a damned long unpleasant one too. The sooner we give up all this milk-blooded, blue-spectacled, pacificist talk the better. However, you will see what I have got to say to-morrow in the House.”

The Prime Minister’s face lengthened. Mulross was not the pillar he had thought him, but a splintering reed. I saw that he agreed with me that this was the most dangerous of the lot.

Then Cargill and Vennard came in together. Both looked uncommonly fit, younger, trimmer, cleaner. Vennard, instead of his sloppy clothes and shaggy hair, was groomed like a guardsman, had a large pearl-and-diamond solitaire in his shirt, and a white waistcoat with jeweled buttons. He had lost all his self-consciousness, grinned cheerfully at the others, warmed his hands at the fire, and cursed the weather. Cargill, too, had lost his sanctimonious look. There was a bloom of rustic health on his cheek, and a sparkle in his eye; he had the appearance of some rosy Scotch laird of Raeburn’s painting. Both men wore an air of purpose and contentment.

Vennard turned at once on the Prime Minister. “Did you get my letter?" he asked. “No? Well you’ll find it waiting when you get home. We’re all friends here, so I can tell you its contents. We must get rid of that ridiculous Radical ‘tail.’ They think they have the whip-hand of us; well, we have got to prove that we can do very well without them. They have the impudence to say that the country is with them. I tell you it is rank nonsense. If you take a strong hand with them you ’ll double your popularity, and we ’ll come back next year with an increased majority. Cargill agrees with me.”

The Prime Minister looked grave. “I am not prepared to discuss any policy of ostracism. What you call our ‘tail’ is a vital section of our party. Their creed may be one-sided, but it is none the less part of our mandate from the people.”

“ I want a leader who governs as well as reigns,” said Vennard. “I believe in discipline, and you know as well as I do that the Rump is infernally out of hand.”

“They are not the only members who fail in discipline.”

Vennard grinned.

Cargill suddenly began to laugh. “I don’t want any ostracism,” said he. “Leave them alone, and Vennard and I will undertake to give them such a time in the House that they will wish they had never been born. We’ll make them resign in batches.”

Dinner was announced, and, laughing uproariously, the two rebels went arm-in-arm into the dining-room.

Cargill was in tremendous form. He began to tell Scotch stories, memories of his old Parliament-House days. He told them admirably, with a raciness of idiom which I had thought beyond him. They were long tales, and some were as broad as they were long, but Mr. Cargill disarmed criticism. His audience, rather scandalized at the start, was soon captured, and political troubles were soon forgotten in oldfashioned laughter. Even the Prime Minister’s anxious face relaxed.

This lasted till the entrée, the famous Caerlaverock curry.


As I have said, I was not in the secret, and did not detect the transition. As I partook of the dish, I remember feeling a sudden giddiness and a slight nausea. The antidote, to one who had not taken the drug, must have been, I fancy, in the nature of a mild emetic. A mist seemed to obscure the faces of my fellow guests, and slowly the tide of conversation ebbed away. First Vennard, then Cargill, became silent. I was feeling rather sick, and I noticed with some satisfaction that all our faces were a little green. I wondered casually if I had been poisoned.

The sensation passed, but the party had changed. More especially I was soon conscious that something had happened to the three ministers. I noticed Mulross particularly, for he was my neighbor. The look of keenness and vitality had died out of him, and suddenly he looked a rather old, rather tired man, very weary about the eyes.

I asked him if he felt seedy.

“No, not specially,” he replied, “but that accident gave me a nasty shock.”

“You should go off for a change,” I said.

“I almost think I will,” was the answer. “I had not meant to leave town till just before the Twelfth, but I think I had better get away to Marienbad for a fortnight. There is nothing doing in the House, and work at the office is at a standstill. Yes, I fancy I’ll go abroad before the end of the week.”

I caught the Prime Minister’s eye, and saw that he had forgotten the purpose of the dinner, being dimly conscious that that purpose was now idle. Cargill and Vennard had ceased to talk like rebels. The Home Secretary had subsided into his old suave, phrasing self. The humor had gone out of his eye, and the looseness had returned to his lips. He was an older and more commonplace man, but harmless, quite harmless. Vennard, too, wore a new air, or rather had recaptured his old one. He was saying little, but his voice had lost its crispness, and recovered its half-plaintive unction; his shoulders had a droop in them; once more he bristled with self-consciousness.

We others were still shaky from the detestable curry, and were so puzzled as to be acutely uncomfortable. Relief would come later, no doubt; for the present we were uneasy at the weird transformation. I saw the Prime Minister examining the two faces intently, and the result seemed to satisfy him. He sighed and looked at Caerlaverock, who smiled and nodded.

“What about that Bill of yours, Vennard?” he asked. “There have been a lot of stupid rumors.”

“Bill!” Vennard said. “I know of no Bill. Now that my departmental work is over, I can give my whole soul to Cargill’s Small Holdings. Do you mean that?”

“Yes, of course. There was some confusion in the popular mind, but the old arrangement holds. You and Cargill will pull it through between you.”

They began to talk about those weariful small holdings, and I ceased to listen. We left the dining-room and drifted to the library, where a fire tried to dispel the gloom of the weather. There was a feeling of deadly depression abroad, so that for all its awkwardness I would really have preferred the former Caerlaverock dinner. The Prime Minister was whispering to his host. I heard him say something about there being “the devil of a lot of explaining” before him.

Vennard and Cargill came last to the library, arm-in-arm as before.

“I should count it a greater honor,” Vennard was saying, “to sweeten the lot of one toiler in England than to add a million miles to our territory. While one English household falls below the minimum scale of civic wellbeing all talk of empire is sin and folly.”

“Excellent!” said Mr. Cargill.

Then I knew for certain that at last peace had descended upon the vexed tents of Israel.

VOL. 105-NO. 2