A Lesson in Diplomacy

HE Most Honourable the Marquis of Pelborough sat on the edge of a bed, sewing a button on his shirt. The threading of the needle had occupied fully ten minutes, and there had been certain interruptions which necessitated the concealment of the garment under his pillow, for Chick Pelborough was in some awe of his housekeeper, and was not less panic-stricken at the possibility of Gwenda Maynard detecting him in this act of repair.

It was Sunday morning, and the church bells were ringing; but Chick was an evening church-goer.

Doughty Street, on Sunday mornings, was usually a place of desolation and silence, except for the occasional feeble wail of a milkman, or the hoarse and mysterious cries of newspaper sellers. Therefore the advent of a motor-car, which stopped at the door, was something of an event. Chick looked out of the open window, saw that the car was too large for a doctor's, and wondered who was the tall and smartly-dressed gentleman who alighted. He returned to his occupation, whistling softly a tune he had heard at a dance. And as he sewed awkwardly and laboriously, his mind was busy with his future.

The future was really beginning to worry Chick for the first time. He was a clerk earning five pounds a week, and had accounted himself comfortably placed, until the death of an expensive uncle had saddled him with an ancient title. He knew that a marquis clerk in the office of an insurance broker was something of a social monstrosity, and every day brought a new sense of discomfort. And Gwenda expected something better of him, too; that added to his distress. He felt that he was disappointing the pretty actress who was striving so wholeheartedly to put him on his feet.

In the course of those Sunday morning reparations Chick did most of his serious thinking, and of late his thoughts had centred round and about Gwenda Maynard. He wondered what her husband was like, and found it almost impossible to think of her with a husband at all. She had been distrait and absent-minded lately, and he wondered why. There was something on her mind. Chick knew. Perhaps it had to do with a letter which had been sent on to her from the theatre—a letter in a blue envelope. It had come at breakfast, and at the sight of the writing Gwenda had gone white. Chick felt it was from her husband, and his heart was hard against the man who could hurt her.

He put down his shirt, biting off the cotton in the approved style, and, still with his attention on the locked door, poured some water in a basin and began to wash his two silk handkerchiefs. He was in the midst of it when a knock came to the door.

"Chick!" said an urgent voice.

"Yes, Gwenda?"

Chick hastily squeezed the water from the handkerchiefs, threw them under the bed, wiped his hands imperfectly, and unlocked the door.

"Why do you always lock your door on Sunday morning?" asked Gwenda, and her eyes, roving to the bed, saw the shirt and, what was more damning, the threaded needle which Chick had stuck in the pillow.

"Chick, you've been sewing on buttons!" she said accusingly. "You know Mrs. Phibbs or I will always do that for you."

"I'm sorry, Gwenda, really," said Chick incoherently, "but the button came off, and I didn't want to trouble"

"There is somebody to see you," said Gwenda, cutting short his explanation.

"To see me!" said Chick, in surprise.

"Lord Mansar," said the girl.

Chick gaped.

"Put on your coat, Chick. And whatever have you been doing with your hands?"

She walked across to the bed, picked up the handkerchiefs, and shook her head,

"Really, Chick, you're incorrigible," she reproached him. "Do you want me to go to Lord Mansar and tell him you can't see him because it is washing day? Now wipe your hands, turn down the collar of your coat, and brush your hair."

The Marquis of Pelborough meekly obeyed.

Lord Mansar rose, as they came into the room, and offered his hand.

"I'm an awful rotter not to have come before," he said apologetically, "but the fact is, I was so heartily ashamed of myself that I couldn't have seen you even if I'd been willing. Besides, I didn't know your address until yesterday."

"Chick enjoyed the dance. Lord Mansar," said Gwenda. "It was awfully nice of Mrs. Krenley to have him there."

"Oh, very nice," said Mansar grimly, a hard little smile on his cherubic face. "Didn't Pelborough tell you?"

"He only told me he had a very pleasant evening," said the girl, in wonder. "What happened?"

Mansar told her the story of that night, and did not minimise the extent of his own folly.

"So you see, Mrs. Maynard," he said, "Chick's introduction to Society was not attended with the happiest circumstances."

"But, Chick," said the girl in amazement, "you did not tell me!"

Chick was very red and more than a little embarrassed.

In the kindness of his heart, and with the object of introducing him into good society, Lord Mansar had taken him to the house of Mrs. Krenley, a leader of a smart set, and Chick, mistaken for a waiter by Mrs. Krenley's brother, had been the witness of an attempt to cheat the half-drunken nobleman.

"I had a letter from Mrs. Krenley yesterday," said Mansar. "She was full of excuses and explanations, and begged me to go there again and bring you, Chick. I should imagine there's something preparing for you, something with boiling oil in it. Now, Mrs. Maynard"—he looked at the girl with a light of amusement in his eyes—"you asked me to do something for Pelborough."

"Did you, Gwenda?" gasped Chick, in amazement, and it was her turn to flush.

"Yes, Chick," she said quietly. "I saw Lord Mansar and asked him if he would find an opening for you. You can't stay in your present job very much longer; it is not the position you should be occupying."

Chick had already reached that conclusion, but he said nothing.

"An idea occurred yesterday to me," Mansar went on. "I was lunching with Sir John Welson, who is one of the Under-Secretaries at the Foreign Office. And I think I can find you a job, Pelborough—Chick you call him, don't you?" he smiled at the girl. "Well, I'm going to call you Chick, too, and, by Jove, you're the most wiry Chick that was ever served up On a Park Lane table!"

The joke amused him immensely, and when he recovered himself he went on—

"The only thing that may lose you the job is that you have one very unfortunate deficiency—at least, I'm afraid you have—otherwise I could get you an appointment as an extra Foreign Office Messenger without any difficulty."

Chick's jaw dropped.

"I don't think I'd like that," he said. "It would mean wearing a uniform, or something, wouldn't it?"

"Not exactly," said the other drily. "I'm not referring to the gentlemen in buttons who run errands. A Foreign Office Messenger is a sort of King's Messenger."

"That would be splendid, wouldn't it, Chick?" said the girl, her eyes shining.

Chick scratched his head thoughtfully.

"It means about four or five hundred a year, travelling expenses, and a pretty soft time," Mansar went on, "only—and here I come to the big drawback—you'd have to speak French and have a knowledge of some other language."

The girl's hopes faded.

"Of course you could learn, but it would take you some months" began Mansar.

"I can speak French," said Chick.

Gwenda stared at him.

"Really, Chick," she said, "you're the most surprising person."

"And I know quite a lot of Spanish," said the amazing Chick almost guiltily.

"Wherever did you acquire these accomplishments?" asked the girl. "At the Polytechnic," said Chick in a tone that suggested that he had explained everything.

The next afternoon he met Lord Mansar by arrangement in Whitehall. He sent a note to his office explaining that he would not be able to attend that day, and Mr. Leither, who had lured several possible clients to the office on the understanding that they would meet the marquis clerk, was pardonably annoyed.

It was a busy morning for Chick and for the girl. From nine o'clock, when the big stores open, until lunch-time, Chick had tramped and ridden on omnibuses round London submissively with Gwenda. He had tried on ready-made morning suits, he had stared with horror at the reflection of himself in a top hat, he had tried on gloves which bothered him, and had fought with collars which threatened to choke him, and he went back to the flat with a flushed and triumphant Gwenda, a parcel under each of his arms and a hat-box dangling by a string from his finger.

"There's too much clothing about this marquis business, Gwenda, isn't there?" he asked doubtingly.

"Clothing maketh the man," quoth Gwenda.

"It maketh a marquis, anyway," said Chick, without enthusiasm.

Arrayed in a costume which he firmly believed drew down upon his head the derision and contempt of all civilised people who wore soft hats and soft collars, he met Mansar, and was relieved to discover that that young gentleman, too, was similarly, if not so newly, attired.

"You'll like Welson," said Mansar, as they were sitting in a large and solemn waiting-room, their cards having been taken into the sanctum of the Under-Secretary. "He's a queer old devil, but really not half a bad sort. He's by far the most important man in the Foreign Office."

"What does he do?" asked Chick. Mansar was nonplussed.

"I'm blessed if I know," he said. "What do any of these johnnies do? They just sit round and find papers and things, and conduct the foreign politics of the country."

"I shouldn't have to do anything of that, should I?" asked Chick, in alarm.

"I don't think so," said Mansar gravely.

A few minutes afterwards they were shown into a very high-ceilinged room with a very large marble mantelpiece, an enormous desk, and a comparatively small old man, who peered up at them over his glasses as they entered.

"Hullo, Mansar!" he said. "Sit down. Is this your friend Lord Pelborough?"

Chick offered a large glove at the end of his arm—it didn't seem like his—and solemnly shook the hand of the Under-Secretary.

Sir John scrutinised him keenly, and then, taking a large form out of a large drawer—everything seemed overgrown at the Foreign Office—proceeded to fill up particulars.

Chick gave his name in a hushed voice and his place of residence. Presently Sir John's pen poised over the column which was headed "school."

"Eton?" he asked, looking up.

"Yes, thank you, sir," said Chick gratefully. "I lunched quite early."

"Sir John wants to know where you were educated," said Mansar gently, and Chick gave the name of a school which was wholly unfamiliar to the Under-Secretary.

"This is not a very remunerative post: your lordship quite understands that? Nor is the position a permanent one," said Sir John, leaning back in his chair and taking off his glasses, the better to see the candidate. "But it is unnecessary to tell you that your office is a very important one."

He opened another drawer and took out a small book.

"Here are some instructions which you had better digest," he said. "And now, sir, I do not think that we shall be in need of your services for a week. You had better report for duty on Friday."

He rang a bell, and his secretary came in.

"Show Lord Pelborough Major Stevens's old room."

In this simple way did Chick pass into the service of his country and become a cog in the wheel of Foreign Office administration.

It was a sad blow for Mr. Leither when Chick broke the news.

"I am sorry, very sorry, Pelborough," he said, shaking his head. "After all these years of association, it seems almost a tragedy to lose you. The Foreign Office, I think you said!"

Chick nodded.

"Yes, sir."

"H'm!" mused Mr. Leither. "You will be brought into contact with some very important people, Pelborough, some very important lives, Pelborough," he said. "Never forget that there is a half-commission waiting for all the business you introduce."

Very handsomely he paid Chick up to the end of the week, and would have given him a bonus on account of future business, but this Chick would not hear of.

The Lord of Pelborough left the insurance office with a little sigh of relief, boarded a passing 'bus, and went home to break the news to Gwenda.

He had not failed to notice that morning that Gwenda was more preoccupied than usual, and not so ready as she generally was to enter whole-heartedly into his affairs. He thought that the cause of her trouble was revealed during the evening meal, but in this he was mistaken.

"Chick," she said suddenly, without any preliminary, "I am giving up my part in the play."

"What?" said the startled Chick. "Giving up your part?"

She nodded.

"But I thought the play was a great success? The papers all praised it."

"It is a success," she said quietly, "but I—I am leaving. And I'm a success, too, I suppose, but I'm tired of the part."

Chick patted her hand.

"Poor old girl!" he said sympathetically. (He had never done such a thing before.) "That means that you'll have to start those wretched rehearsals all over again?"

"If I get a job," she said. "It is very difficult to get on in London, you know, Chick, and if I hadn't had the influence of the Marquis of Pelborough"—she smiled—"I don't think I should have got this."

Chick frowned and turned a troubled face to her.

"What will you do if you can't get a job in London?"

"I shall have to go in a touring company," she said.

"That means you'll leave the flat?" said Chick, in dismay.

"For a little time. But you'll be able to afford to keep it on; you'll be quite a moneyed man." She tried to smile, but failed dismally.

"Phew!" said Chick, and leant back in his chair. "That's dreadful news!"

"Anyway," she said, with an attempt at gaiety, "I shan't be leaving London just yet. And you're not to worry about it, Chick. I'm almost sorry I told you."

"I had to know sooner or later," said Chick. "Gwenda, you always leave your engagements suddenly, don't you? That nice Jewish gentleman told me. Aren't you well?"

She laughed as she rose. Passing him, she dropped her hand on his shoulder, and he took it in his and pressed it to his lips.

"Don't do that, Chick!" she cried, and snatched her hand away.

He stared at her in amazement.

"I'm sorry," he said, and went very red. "I—I didn't mean anything, Gwenda."

"Of course you didn't, Chick." Her face was white and her lips were trembling. "It was just silly of me. You want some more tea," she said, and took the cup away from him.

But Chick was not to be deflected from his indiscretion.

"You know how I love you, Gwenda," he said simply. "It was only love that made me do that."

"I know, Chick," she said, not looking at him. "You love me—as you would love a sister."

Chick rumpled his hair.

"I suppose I do," he said, but there was doubt in his voice. "But never having had a sister, I can't exactly compare things. I love babies, too, but it isn't the same kind of love. Gwenda," he asked suddenly, and he never knew why he asked the question, "where is your husband?"

It was so unlike Chick—Chick the reticent, the delicate, the tender, to ask a question which well might have been brutal.

"My husband?" she faltered. "Why—why, Chick, do you ask that?"

"I'm blessed if I know," said Chick, "only I've thought a lot about him lately. I woke up in the middle of the night with a scared feeling that maybe he'll come along and take you away one of these days."

"Don't let that worry you," she said, after a long interval of silence. She stood by the table, twisting the plain gold band about her finger absent-mindedly. "And now let us talk about something else."

The week that followed was one of great anxiety for the Marquis of Pelborough. He reported for duty on Friday, according to instructions, and expected to be immediately taken into the Under-Secretary's room. He found that reporting meant no more than signing a book; he did not even go to his room, being informed by a uniformed messenger that his services were not required for that day.

Another letter came for Gwenda that week, and Chick, going into the dining-room one day, saw her hastily conceal a blue paper she was reading, and there were tears in her eyes. He did not ask the cause, pretending not to have noticed the occurrence, but he was worried for the rest of the day.

Although he was not expected to make any length of stay at the Foreign Office, he discovered that there was no objection to his occupying the very small room of his predecessor. The furniture consisted of one chair and one table, a fender, a pair of tongs, a poker, and a coal-scuttle. It was a nice quiet room for study, Chick discovered, and he tackled, with the outward appearance of ferocity, the intricacies of the Spanish grammar.

One day Gwenda met Lord Mansar in Bond Street. His car was passing her when she caught his eye. He signalled her to wait, and came running back.

"How is Chick getting on?" "That is the very question I was going to ask you," she smiled.

He thought she looked a little pinched, and less pretty than usual.

"I think he'll be a success," said Mansar. "I was talking to Sir John Welson yesterday."

"What does Sir John think?"

Mansar hesitated.

"Well, frankly, he thought that Chick was rather callow."

"In fact, rather a fool," suggested the girl, with a little smile. "They're all wrong about Chick; there is nothing of the fool about him."

"Of course he isn't subtle" began Lord Mansar, but she shook her head.

"You are quite wrong there, Lord Mansar," she said quietly. "Apart from the fact that there's nothing quite so subtle as honesty, he has a fund of shrewdness which sometimes amazes me. You never quite know what is going on in his mind. I've seen him manœuvre our housekeeper, Mrs. Phibbs, into doing things she didn't want to do, and I used to think that it was just his transparent simplicity which moved her. I don't think so now."

She was on her way home when Mansar had met her, and now he insisted upon driving her to Doughty Street.

Gwenda did not accept services readily, but she was a little tired, a little dispirited, and for the moment was eager for the society of somebody who would take her out of herself.

"I saw Chick the other day in Whitehall," Mansar said, as they were driving along Piccadilly, "looking as solemn as an owl and carrying a great leather portfolio under his arm. Ho looked as though he had been entrusted with the secrets of the Cabinet!"

Gwenda laughed.

"There was nothing more startling in his portfolio than two Spanish grammars," she said. "Chick bought it as a compromise between a leather bag and a satchel."

Mansar took his leave of her reluctantly. Gwenda had an appeal beyond her visible charm; her sincerity and her sane, clear outlook on life had made a greater impression upon the young man than he cared to admit even to himself.

"I hear you have left the stage?" he said at parting.

Gwenda nodded.

"I left on Saturday. That doesn't necessarily mean that I am leaving the stage," she said, and changed the subject.

That same evening Chick was unexpectedly detained at the Foreign Office. To his terror, he was summoned to Sir John Welson's room at the moment when he had put away his grammars and his sheets of notes, and was preparing to go home.

Sir John also was on the point of departure.

"How are you shaping, Lord Pelborough?" he asked.

"Very well, sir," said Chick respectfully.

"Studying the gentle art of diplomacy, I hope?" said Sir John, who was in a good humour. "Well, my boy, the art of diplomacy can be summed up in a sentence. Always make your opponent feel that he's getting the best of you. That is the beginning and end of diplomacy. By the way, I want you to stay on until eight o'clock to-night. The Minister may have some important dispatches to go to Paris."

Chick was thrilled. The fact that his travelling kit consisted of the clothes he wore and a top hat did not worry him. Later he learnt to keep in his room a travelling bag, ready packed. Fortunately, the Minister decided that the Paris trip was unnecessary that night, and Chick was released, a little disappointed, at a quarter to eight.

He had sent a wire to Gwenda, telling her that he might not be home that night, so he did not hurry home. It was nine o'clock when he turned into Doughty Street, his portfolio under his arm, his tall hat rakishly on the side of his head—it was dark, or Chick would never have dared such secret raffishness—his mind fully occupied with the recitation of a hundred Spanish idioms which he had committed to his memory during the past few days.

When he came to the house, he was surprised to see the door open and Mrs. Orlando Phibbs standing in the doorway with a shawl over her shoulders.

"Hullo, Mrs. Phibbs!" said Chick, in astonishment. "Are you looking for anybody?"

"No, Chick," she said in a low voice; "only Mrs. Maynard has a visitor."

"A visitor," said Chick, startled.

"I don't think I should go up, Chick," she said, putting her hand on his arm. "She asked me to go out. He's said terrible things to her."

Chick's blood went cold.

"Who is it?" he asked huskily.

"Mr. Maynard."

Mrs. Phibbs became a blurred vision to Chick, and the street for a second swung and swayed.

"Mr. Maynard!" he said, after a long pause. "Her—her husband?"

Before she could reply, there was a sharp little scream from the head of the stairs, and, without waiting for another second, Chick raced up the stairs. He came into the dining-room to see Gwenda leaning against the table, her face drawn and white, her eyes red with weeping. He saw her quick breathing, and saw, too, that she was rubbing a reddened wrist.

Once in a boxing contest Chick's opponent had deliberately fouled him, and his heart had been cold with the desire for murder. So he felt now as he looked on the visitor. He was a man of forty-five, hollow-cheeked and unshaven. His crooked mouth was twisted in a sneer, his deep-set eyes were fixed on Gwenda, and for the moment he did not notice Chick.

"If you think you're going to live in luxury whilst I'm starving, you've made a mistake, Gwenda" he said. He stopped suddenly and surveyed Chick. "Who's this?" he growled.

"This is Lord Pelborough," said the girl breathlessly.

He whistled.

"A lord, eh? And you told me you had no money! Now, look here, my girl, you've got to find me the fare to Canada and give me a little to start on"

"What is the matter, Gwenda? Is this—your husband?"

She could not speak.

"Oh, Chick, Chick!" she sobbed, and dropped her head on his breast as his arm came round her.

"Husband!" laughed the visitor. "That's good."

Gwenda drew away from the boy and shook her head.

"He is my brother," she said simply, and the smile that dawned on Chicks face was seraphic.

"Your brother!" he said softly, and looked at the ill-favoured man almost benevolently.

The girl dried her eyes and took greater command of her voice.

"He's just come out of prison," she said. "He's my half-brother. If you want to know why I'm always throwing up my engagements, there's the reason." She nodded at the man. "For ten years he has dogged me, following me from theatre to theatre, and the only peace I've had was when he was in prison."

"Now, look here, Grwenda" began the man threateningly, but Chick put up his hand.

"I don't think you had better use that tone," he said gently. "Gwenda, I'd like to talk to your brother."

She shook her head.

"It is no use, Chick," she said, with a helpless gesture.

Chick's brain was working rapidly. Suddenly and without another word, he left them and went straight to his bedroom. In a little cash box that he kept in a drawer were fifty pounds which he had taken from the bank to meet the emergency of sudden travel. He opened the box, took out the money, and, slipping it into his portfolio, snapped the lock. Then he came back with the portfolio under his arm.

He heard a murmur of voices before he turned the handle of the door, and caught the word "Mug," and smiled to himself, for Chick had a very keen sense of humour.

"I want to talk to your brother, Gwenda: would you mind going into your room?"

She looked at him.

"What are you going to say, Chick?"

"If you don't mind," he urged, "I should like just a few minutes' conversation with Mr. Maynard. You see, I haven't much time," he said apologetically. "I have an important dispatch which I am taking to Berlin." He touched the portfolio. "I came back to get my money. Do you think a hundred pounds will be enough for the journey?"

She could only stare at him dumbfounded.

"Will you go to your room, Gwenda?" he asked again, and she nodded.

When she had gone, Chick motioned to a chair.

"Sit down, please, Mr. Maynard," he said. "I am sorry your sister has had this trouble. Is there anything I could do to induce you to go away?"

"You could give me the money," said Mr. Maynard, with his crooked smile.

"That I couldn't possibly do," said Chick firmly. "Why should I help a man like you? If I gave you money, you would only come back again next week for more."

"I'll swear to you" began the man, and again Chick raised his hand.

He had at times the dignity of an archbishop.

"Please don't swear," he said, "and please don't get angry," he added, as the man's face darkened. "I dislike intensely talking about myself, but I feel that it is only right that I should tell you that I am a light-weight amateur champion—you could get confirmation of this at the Polytechnic—and I am supposed to have the most punishing left of any man of my weight. I hate telling you this," he said awkwardly, "but it will save such a lot of unpleasantness if I do. You, of course, have just come out of prison, and you're not in condition, it would be rather like striking a child. What I am going to suggest to you, Mr. Maynard, is that you go away for three days and think over my offer to you, which is that I will allow you a pound a week so long as you do not bother Mrs. Maynard."

The man would have interrupted him, but Chick went on.

"A pound a week until you find some honest employment. Now, what do you say?"

Chick placed his portfolio on the table.

"I should not be willing to help you to get to Canada," Chick went on, "even if I could. As a matter of fact, the hundred pounds in that portfolio is all I have in the house, but that is beside the point, Mr. Maynard. I like the Canadians, and I do not see why I should inflict a man of your character upon Canada. Will you accept my offer?"

"No!" snarled the man violently.

"Then I must consult Mrs. Maynard," said Chick. "Will you excuse me for about ten minutes?"

He left the room and found the girl pacing up and down in a condition bordering upon hysteria.

"Sit down, Gwenda." His voice was unusually soft. "Is this the man who has been bothering you all these years?"

She nodded.

"Is that the reason you have left your engagement?"

She nodded again.

"And is he the explanation of your sadness, Gwenda?"

"Yes, Chick," she said in a low voice. "He has been my nightmare for years. I had a letter from Dartmoor the other day, saying he was being discharged, and that he was coming to see me. I haven't slept since."

"I understand," said Chick gently.

"What are you going to do Chick?" she asked. "Are you going to Berlin? And, Chick, there wasn't a hundred pounds"

"I know," he replied, to her amazement.

"Have you made a suggestion to him?"

He nodded.

"Yes, I have," he said after a while, "but he hasn't accepted it, and I didn't expect he would."

His ears had been strained to catch one sound since the moment he left the room, and now he heard it.

"Sir John Welson told me to-day that you must always let the other side think they're getting the best of you, Gwenda," he said. "I have an idea that your brother is gone."

When they went back to the room, they found it was the case. Mr. Maynard had gone, so also had Chick's portfolio, with fifty pounds and two Spanish grammars.

"You see, dear," said Chick that night, as he sat by her side at the table, his hand on hers, "if I'd given him money, he'd have come back. As he stole the money, he won't come back. He can't go anywhere near you for fear I shall be with you. Maybe he'll go to Canada and be killed," he added hopefully.