Short Fiction

to dinner were showered upon him, and Cargill, who had been unknown in society, found the whole social machinery of his party set at work to make him a lion. The result was that he was prevented from speaking in public, but given far too much encouragement to talk in private. He talked incessantly, before, at, and after dinner, and he did enormous harm. He was horribly clever, too, and usually got the best of an argument, so that various eminent private Liberals had their tempers ruined by his dialectic. In his rich and unabashed accent⁠—he had long discarded his Edinburgh-English⁠—he dissected their arguments and ridiculed their character. He had once been famous for his soapy manners: now he was as rough as a Highland stot.

Things could not go on in this fashion: the risk was too great. 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 curiae. It was understood that after dinner there would be a settling-up with the two rebels. Either they should recant and come to heel, or they should depart from the fold to swell the wolf-pack of the Opposition. The Prime Minister did not conceal the loss which his 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 remarks about 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 sickbed. He came in as jaunty as a boy, limping just a little from his accident. He was greeted by his colleagues with tender solicitude⁠—solicitude, I fear, completely wasted on him.

“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 last 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 noninterference. It is not for us, I should have thought, to read Germany a lesson.”

“Oh, come now,” Mulross said, slapping⁠—yes, 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 noninterference. 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 tomorrow 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 looking 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 jewelled 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, so that 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 this 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 are a collection of confounded, treacherous, complacent prigs, but they have no grit in them, and will come to heel if we tackle them firmly. I respect an honest fanatic, but I do not respect those sentiment-mongers. 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. “I suppose you mean Cargill and myself. But we are following