“Is it not your duty to the people to allay their apprehensions of a coming war?”
“It is my duty to Her Majesty alone,” he exclaimed, suddenly remembering that he had forgotten to dispatch the reassuring news to Osborne, and turning, he thereupon dictated to me a telegram, which I quickly reduced to cipher.
“Then you decline to allow any explanation to be given?” said the Premier, in a tone of reproach, stroking his full beard thoughtfully. “You would go home comfortably to bed and allow these thousands of half-scared citizens to remain in fear and doubt throughout the night.”
“Why not?” he laughed. “I tell you I am unpopular, therefore a little secrecy more or less does not matter. If a Foreign Minister allowed the Press and public to know all his doings, how could diplomacy be conducted? The first element of success in dealing with foreign affairs is to preserve silence, and not allow one’s self to be drawn.”
“But in this instance silence is quite unnecessary,” exclaimed the Prime Minister, growing impatient at the dogged persistence of his eccentric colleague, whose delight was to be designated as harsh, unrelenting and ascetic. In private life Lord Warnham lived almost alone in his great, gloomy mansion, scarcely seen by any other person save his valet, the telegraph clerk and myself. Some said that a strange romance in his youth had soured him, causing him to become misanthropic and eccentric; but it was always my opinion that the blow which fell upon him years ago; the early death of his young and beautiful wife, whom he loved intensely, was responsible for his slavish devotion to duty, his eccentricity, and the cool cynicism with which he regarded everybody, from his Sovereign to his secretary. As a Foreign Minister, every Government in Europe admired, yet feared him. He was, without doubt, the most shrewd and clever statesman the present century had known.
“I shall preserve silence until to-morrow,” he said, decisively, at last.
“If Her Majesty were consulted, she would, I feel sure, advocate an immediate declaration of the exact position of affairs,” Lord Maybury said. “She has the welfare of her people at heart. Remember, both you and I are her servants.”
“Of course, of course,” he said, commencing to pace the room slowly. “Well,” he added, after a pause, “suppose we made a statement in the Commons to-night, and to-morrow we find the outlook still threatening and gloomy—what then?”
“Listen!” cried the Prime Minister, at last losing patience, and throwing open the window wide. “Listen! The people of London are clamouring for news. Give it to them, and let them depart.”
“They’ll be able to read it in the papers presently. Let them pay their pennies for it,” he sneered.