“Surely you can never regard yourself as unpopular after this?”
“Ah!” exclaimed the other, sadly, with a heavy sigh. “It is you they are cheering, not myself. The people call you ‘good old Maybury,’ but they have never called me ‘good old Warnham,’ and will never do so. I am still unpopular, and shall be always.”
Chapter Fourteen.
Sonia.
Notwithstanding official assurances that no alarm need be felt at the political outlook, the popular excitement, fostered by a sensational Press, abated but slowly. On the morning following the memorable scene in the House of Commons, a great panic occurred on the Stock Exchange, and it was fully a week ere confidence was restored. Meanwhile, at Lord Warnham’s dictation, I exchanged constant communications with our ambassador in St Petersburg, and although every endeavour was used to elucidate the mysterious reason why the Russian Government so suddenly altered its tactics, it remained as inexplicable as the means whereby they had obtained the original of our secret convention with Germany.
Both the London police and our secret agents in Russia abandoned none of their activity, but all their efforts were to no purpose. The incident was a perfect enigma.
Thus a month went by. Lord Warnham had slightly relaxed towards me as if, after all, he believed that I had spoken the truth, although he frequently, when vexed, would refer in uncomplimentary terms to what he called my “carelessness that nearly cost England her honour.” Indeed, although I had been reinstalled in the position of great trust I had previously held, mine was no enviable lot. The Foreign Minister was a man of moods, strangely eccentric, sometimes preserving a rigid silence for hours, and often working for long periods alone during the night, attending to unimportant dispatches that might have been answered by a lower-grade clerk. But it was his object always to know the exact work done in each department, and to be able to do it himself. Thus he was enabled to keep a more careful watch over everything that went on, and was not, like the majority of Cabinet Ministers, a mere figure-head. Times without number I have gone to Berkeley Square early in the morning when some important matter of diplomacy has been in progress, and found the grey, thin-faced peer still seated in his study, the blinds still down, the electric light still on, showing how he had worked on unconsciously throughout the whole night, and was quite unaware of dawn. His servants had strict orders never to disturb him, even for meals, hence, when he was busy, he frequently spent many hours in his chair, regardless of day or night.
These periods of intense mental strain would, however, be followed by exasperating irritability of such a character that I often feared to utter a word lest he should break out into a fierce ebullition of anger. At those times he would scatter broadcast the most severe censures on all and sundry, sparing neither ambassador nor consul, so fierce was his wrath. Knowing this, I would sometimes, after writing an abusive dispatch at his dictation, put it aside and, instead of forwarding it, accidentally overlook it. Then, next day, he would almost invariably relent, and after deep thought, exclaim,—