The Red Book Magazine/Volume 15/Number 6/'Crisis'

by J. J. Bell

 

“Crisis”

BY J. J. BELL

Author of “”The Wee MacGreegor,” etc.

AT last he turned abruptly and moved away from the bed. As he crossed to the door he made a sign to his wife. She whispered something to the uniformed nurse, then followed him. Downstairs, in the library, she joined him.

“Did you want me?” There was a suspicion of sharpness in her voice.

For a moment or two his heavy eyes regarded her; he drew his hand across his damp brows.

“What is it, Philip? Have you something to tell me?” She spoke impatiently, eyeing the door.

“Only that I must go, Isobel. I thought—”

“Go? Where?”

“To the House, of course,” he replied shortly, his tone catching the keenness of hers. But his next words came softly: “You knew, my dear, that it would be vitally necessary for me to be there to night. Were it otherwise—”

Her beautiful face hardened.

“Have you forgotten what the doctors said about Harry this afternoon?” she demanded.

He winced and bowed his gray head, saying:

“There is not time to explain, but I must tell you that an important matter is being dealt with to-night—so important that the world awaits the result; so serous that practically every man will be in his place. And though few understand it so, I believe that we are about to choose between peace and war—Isobel! You can see that I must be in my place to-night? The Country—”

“Oh, the Country!' The exclamation was contemptuous.

“The Country's welfare is in the balance, wife,” he said, the least bit sternly. “God knows—”

He broke off, throwing out his arms.

She stepped back a pace.

“Your son's life is in the balance,” she said passionately.

“Isobel!”

“Yet you say you must be in your place. Your place! Your place is here!”

“Isobel!”

“I say it is here, Philip. Surely, the Prime Minister is his own master at such a time. Send word that your son—your only child—is in danger. The Country will survive.”

Her hand avoided his.

“Isobel, duty is harder to-night than—”

“Duty! Your duty lies here. It is pride of power and ambition that calls you now.”

His hand dropped in a helpless sort of gesture.

“It has been pride and ambition with you from the beginning,” she added bitterly. “I wonder if you have any heart at all. I suppose the papers to-morrow will have your great speech, made while your son—”

“Hush!” He went over to a table laden with papers methodically arranged, and selected one or two. He came back and faced her.

“My dear,” he said in a restrained voice, “you and I have each got a crisis to watch over to-night. Though absent, we might yet help each other. Don't you understand, Isobel?”

She shook her head, glancing at the door.

“Well,” he continued dully, “I must be going. If by any chance Harry should ask for me—I suppose the chance is indeed remote—you might tell him why I am not at his side with you. Perhaps he will understand. Perhaps you, too, will understand—some day.”

Grantham, the Premier, withdrew into the library. He could not go to the House just yet. With a sigh of weariness he sank into a chair and closed his eyes.

He did not blame his wife: she did not understand—that was all. In some ways he blamed himself. Not for the first time he wondered whether he had not done an actual wrong in asking a woman twenty years his junior to marry him. And yet they had been happy together at the outset. He was rising rapidly at the time of their marriage, and she had not sought to check, or even chill, his ambitions; rather had she fostered them, prophesying that he should be Premier some day.

Isobel Grantham was not a frivolous minded woman, but neither was she great-souled. She desired honors for her husband, but could not, or would not, accept the word “minister” as meaning “servant.” Whilst he held minor offices, she was given to complaining half-laughingly, half-pettishly, that he took them and himself too seriously, and she looked forward to his attaining to the Premiership in the illogical enough belief that the high office carried with it the power to please one's self. Unfortunately she clung to that belief even after he had reached the heights; and it bred nought but bitterness. His devotion to affairs of state was, she conceived, simply his way of pleasing himself. She deemed herself neglected, of secondary importance. He had not won honors and power for her sake; he was still greedy for more for his own. She and her son counted less than people whom he had never seen; in a little while, no doubt, she and her son would be as good as forgotten.

At this time Grantham had been Premier for nearly three years. They had been troublous years. Those who knew the man intimately declared that he had changed greatly during the period: had grown much older-looking, much graver in manner, also kindlier. But none guessed how deep had been the change. More than once Grantham had sought to tell it to his wife, but something—a flash of jealousy or a sigh of petulance—had checked the laying bare of his soul. And he could not apologize for the change of which he was in nowise ashamed. Yet he had done what he could to prevent a drifting apart, for the boy's sake as well as Isobel's and his own. But he was by nature an undemonstrative man, and silence is not always golden. Into his efforts towards a display of affection Isobel read insincerity, or at best perfunctoriness.

And surely the limit of his selfishness was reached on this night, she thought as she ascended the stairs. He was going to the House, and his son on the verge of the dread crisis that comes in pneumonia. Surely self-seeking had now filled the least and last chambers of his heart. She almost hated him.

Grantham, relaxed in the easy-chair, sighed as if his heart itself had forced the sound from him. Would she have understood—would she have believed—had he told her of the great change? At such a time would she not deem his explanation, his defence, a poor piece of hypocrisy? Alas, yes! Nor would she be blameworthy in doing so, knowing his past wherein he had preached Patriotism and worshiped Success. And yet—and yet would to God that she might understand how, for nearly three years, personal ambition had been dying within him; how it was now dead; how—ah! if she could only believe this!—all that Premiership had given him was a terrible and ever-increasing sense of Responsibility!

Half his life had Grantham spent in fighting his way up the political steep, crushing his opponents mercilessly, fierce with the single purpose of gaining that pinnacle whereon triumph and glory and wide mastery would be his. And now—where were these things, the prizes of conquest? His triumph seemed to have passed with the tumult of the last election; his glory had gone out even as the spluttering party fireworks; his mastery—ah! where, indeed, was the wide mastery? For having reached the summit of his desires, it was as if his soul had entered into a vast silence, broken only by a whispering question: “Wherefore art thou here?”

The question was not to be ignored, and Grantham was still an honest man. On the heights of Success he was to learn Humility. Lower and lower his soul bowed in the vast silence. Deeper and deeper pierced the question. And at last his vision cleared. He saw his Country as he had never yet seen it. Triumph and glory and mastery? Nay! Nothing but service! He was not here to take from, but to give to, his Country!

A tap on the door roused him. His man entered, carrying hat, coat and gloves.

“I took the liberty, sir—”

The Prime Minister left his easy-chair with something like reluctance.

“Johnson, you will let me know by 'phone if—if there is any change.”

“Without delay, sir. I'll sit up, sir, until—”

“No, no. You need not sit up.”

“I couldn't sleep, sir. If you please, sir—”

The sympathy in the man's voice brought a moisture to the Premier's arid eyes.

“Very well, Johnson,” he said gently; “it is sometimes so. But one should have sleep.”

 

He took his place with a cool smile to some of his colleagues. The debate was already in progress; it would continue for hours. It might end in the overthrow of the Government, which the Opposition press of the day had declared to be tottering to its doom, Grantham had taken office as leader of a satisfactory majority about three years ago, but, as has been said, the times were troublous. The Country was full of unrest, of discontent. More than once the party in power had been threatened with a split in its ranks; now the threat seemed likely to become a reality, extending to the Cabinet itself. And the Opposition was moving Heaven and Earth to hasten the downfall. Why, the thing might be achieved that very night! If only Grantham lost his grip on the waverers! The thronged chamber was simmering with thrilling rumors and wild anticipations. Few members could recollect a crisis like this.

Grantham lay back in his seat, hands clasped negligently, eyes half-closed—his wonted attitude when listening. He looked as if he felt nothing. His nickname of “Cold Steel” still stuck. One of his younger lieutenants was speaking, and now and then Grantham nodded, almost imperceptibly, a chilly approval. Yet his heart was hot. No one knew better than the Prime Minister how near was the Ministry to defeat. Defeat was inevitable. But Grantham prayed that it might be delayed yet a little while. Give him victory this night, and on the morrow he would take any beating cheerfully—would be well content to retire, to rest for a space. Give him full victory to-night! For he was convinced that defeat for the Government on to-night's measure would mean war for the Country ere a year had gone. The Opposition, on the contrary, foresaw and prophesied a great revival in trade, contentment among the masses, prosperity generally; it ridiculed the idea of other nations allowing jealousies to override common-sense. Now, indeed, was the Opposition's opportunity to drive the Government to destruction. If only the waverers could be won over!

Another member arose to address the House, and presently Grantham was listening to a harsh denunciation of his policy. For the first time in his political career words hurt him. The clasp of his hands tightened; he looked up, smiling faintly. The honorable member spoke brilliantly— But had he honestly thought of his Country, of the millions of people whose lives might be blighted by his words? Well—perhaps he had thought honestly. Grantham admitted it, for he had become curiously generous in these days. Doubtless, the man was as good a patriot as himself. ... Dear God! if one loved only one's Country!... But Grantham knew what the orator did not know: he knew how real was the danger of war, were the measure under discussion to be defeated; he knew, also, that ere long his present opponents would come to see the wisdom of the measure they were seeking to kill, and that the people who were professedly sick of a government which had failed to fulfil expectations—like every government since governments began—would yet discover that their dearest interests had been safeguarded. And he prayed that he and his lieutenants might be given words to sway and to hold men's minds on this night of crisis.

[And what was happening now at home? Was the nurse entirely trustworthy? Was the doctor there? Was Isobel still in the sick-room? Was his boy—Oh, Isobel, could you not have understood that your husband wanted to stay with you to-night? Isobel, does nothing whisper to you that his tired heart is racked between his home and his Country—between love and duty?]

The debate proceeded briskly. Hours passed. The benches were crowded, the galleries crammed. A fine thing to be present at the downfall of a once popular ministry; a finer thing to assist in giving the death-blow! A fever was in the air. Notable politicians put forth their full strength in rhetoric; partisans grew hoarse with cheering and counter-cheering. The leader of the Opposition surpassed himself, and sat down, quivering, amid a storm of voices.

The Prime Minister rose. For some seconds after the cheering had subsided, he stood uncertain, as if waiting for something to happen, his gaze in the direction whence a messenger might come. Those near to him heard him heave a sigh.

He began to speak; quietly at first, almost dully. Colleagues glanced at him in dismay. Was he going to fail them, fail himself, at last? An ironical cheer from the Opposition altered matters. He warmed to his task. The pallor left his countenance; light seemed to grow in his eyes. His followers drew themselves erect with quick breaths of satisfaction. Their time was not come; they were still unvanquished. Their leader was himself again!... Nay, more than himself, they began to think presently.

For Grantham was speaking as he had never yet spoken. The man was inspired. He spoke with passion, yet without anger or bitterness. He breathed no threatenings and slaughter. He twitted no member on his speech; he ridiculed no one; he purchased no cheap laughter with cheaper humor. Nor did he utter the word “war,” which, indeed, had not been mentioned during the debate, for few had conceived the possibility of war in connection with the rejection of the measure, and the few shrank from being dubbed “scaremongers.” Grantham dealt with the measure on, as he said, its own merits, and as he proceeded, its merits, despite some sarcastic laughter, seemed to increase. The laughter gave out. His words were touched with the fire that enlightens without scorching. He sought to win, not to wound, his hearers; to convince, not to baffle. But it was his personality, the essence of his purified, earnest soul that gained the victory over doubt and hatred and party prejudice. He would not let them go—those waverers. Even men of the Opposition declared afterwards that Grantham had be witched them that night. Towards the end of his speech the House forgot to express either approval or the reverse. But a hurricane shook the chamber as he took his seat.

 

The Home Secretary was whispering to him, not without emotion.

“You've won, Grantham. It was glorious!”

Grantham, all the color gone from his face, was staring in the direction whence a messenger might come.

“We're quite safe,” another voice was whispering. “You've saved the Government—saved the Country.”

The Prime Minister nodded patiently, but neither spoke nor shifted his gaze.

The speaker announced the figures.

“Ayes—338; Noes—272. The Ayes have it.”

A shout burst the silence. No man had dreamed such a Government majority possible.

The Secretary for War came over to the Prime Minister.

“God bless you, Grantham,” he said warmly. “It was more than magnificent. The Country—”

The Prime Minister was intent on a slip of paper which had just been put into his hands.

“My son is going to get well,” he said.

He drooped sideways.

“I must be going—home,” he gasped.

A hush fell upon the House. Then through the hush a whisper began to run like some tiny, terrified, living thing.