For a gathering of men upon whose decision hung such momentous issues, the Council which met that evening at Westminster seemed alike unambitious in tone and uninspired in appearance. Some short time was spent in one of the anterooms, where Julian was introduced to many of the delegates. The disclosure of his identity, although it aroused immense interest, was scarcely an unmixed joy to the majority of them. Those who were in earnest—and they mostly were in grim and deadly earnest—had hoped to find him a man nearer their own class. Fenn and Bright had their own reasons for standing apart, and the extreme pacifists took note of the fact that he had been a soldier. His coming, however, was an event the importance of which nobody attempted to conceal.

The Bishop was voted into the chair when the little company trooped into the apartment which had been set aside for their more important meetings. His election had been proposed by Miles Furley, and as it was announced that under no circumstances would he become a candidate for the permanent leadership of the party, was agreed to without comment. A few notes for his guidance had been jotted down earlier in the day. The great subject of discussion was, of course, the recently received communication from an affiliated body of their friends in Germany, copies of which had been distributed amongst the members.

“I am asked to explain,” the Bishop announced, in opening the proceedings, “that this document which we all recognise as being of surpassing importance, has been copied by Mr. Fenn, himself, and that since, copies have been distributed amongst the members, the front door of the building has been closed and the telephones placed under surveillance. It is not, of course, possible that any of you could be mistrusted, but it is of the highest importance that neither the Press, the Government, nor the people should have any indication of what is transpiring, until the delegate whom you choose takes the initial step. It is proposed that until after his interview with the Prime Minister, no delegate shall leave the place. The question now arises, what of the terms themselves? I will ask each one of you to state his views, commencing with Miss Abbeway.”

Every one of the twenty-three—or twenty-four now, including Julian—had a few words to say, and the tenor of their remarks was identical. For a basis of peace terms, the proposals were entirely reasonable, nor did they appear in any case to be capable of misconstruction. They were laid down in eight clauses.

1. The complete evacuation of Northern France and Belgium, with full compensation for all damage done.

2. Alsace and Lorraine to determine their position by vote of the entire population.

3. Servia and Roumania to be reestablished as independent kingdoms, with such rectifications and modifications of frontier as a joint committee should decide upon.

4. The German colonies to be restored.

5. The conquered parts of Mesopotamia to remain under the protection of the British Government.

6. Poland to be declared an independent kingdom.

7. Trieste and certain portions of the Adriatic seaboard to be ceded to Italy.

8. A world committee to be at once elected for the purpose of working out a scheme of international disarmament.

“We must remember,” Miles Furley pointed out, “that the present Government is practically pledged not to enter into peace negotiations with a Hohenzollern.”

“That, I contend,” the Bishop observed, “is a declaration which should never have been made. Whatever may be our own feelings with regard to the government of Germany, the Kaiser has held the nation together and is at the present moment its responsible head. If he has had the good sense to yield to the demands of his people, as is proved by this document, then it is very certain that the declaration must be forgotten. I have reason to believe, however, that even if the negotiations have been commenced in the name of the Kaiser, an immediate change is likely to take place in the constitution of Germany.”

“Germany’s new form of government, I understand,” Fenn intervened, “will be modelled upon our own, which, after the abolition of the House of Lords, and the abnegation of the King’s prerogative, will be as near the ideal democracy as is possible. That change will be in itself our most potent guarantee against all future wars. No democracy ever encouraged bloodshed. It is, to my mind, a clearly proved fact that all wars are the result of court intrigue. There will be no more of that. The passing of monarchical rule in Germany will mean the doom of all autocracies.”

There was a little sympathetic murmur. Julian, to whom Catherine had been whispering, next asked a question.

“I suppose,” he said, “that no doubt can be cast upon the authenticity of the three signatures attached to this document?”

“That’s been in my own mind, Mr. Fiske—leastwise, Mr. Orden,” Phineas Cross, the Northumbrian, remarked, from the other side of the table. “They’re up to any mortal dodge, these Germans. Are we to accept it as beyond all doubt that this document is entirely genuine?”

“How can we do otherwise?” Fenn demanded. “Freistner, who is responsible for it, has been in unofficial correspondence with us since the commencement of the war. We know his handwriting, we know his character, we’ve had a hundred different occasions to test his earnestness and trustworthiness. This document is in his own writing and accompanied by remarks and references to previous correspondence which render its authenticity indisputable.”

“Granted that the proposals themselves are genuine, there still remain the three signatures,” Julian observed.

“Why should we doubt them?” Fenn protested. “Freistner guarantees them, and Freistner is our friend, the friend and champion of Labour throughout the world. To attempt to deceive us would be to cover himself with eternal obloquy.”

“Yet these terms,” Julian pointed out, “differ fundamentally from anything which Germany has yet allowed to be made public.”

“There are two factors here which may be considered,” Miles Furley intervened. “The first is that the economic condition of Germany is far worse than she has allowed us to know. The second, which is even more interesting to us, is the rapid growth in influence, power, and numbers of the Socialist and Labour Party in that country.”

“Of both these factors,” the Bishop reminded them, “we have had very frequent hints from our friends, the neutrals. Let me tell you all what I think. I think that those terms are as much as we have the right to expect, even if our armies had reached the Rhine. It is possible that we might obtain some slight modifications, if we continued the war, but would those modifications be worth the loss of a few more hundred thousands of human lives, of a few more months of this hideous, pagan slaughter and defilement of God’s beautiful world?”

There was a murmur of approval. A lank, rawboned Yorkshireman—David Sands—a Wesleyan enthusiast, a local preacher, leaned across the table, his voice shaking with earnestness:

“It’s true!” he exclaimed. “It’s the word of God! It’s for us to stop the war. If we stop it to-night instead of to-morrow, a thousand lives may be saved, human lives, lives of our fellow creatures. Our fellow labourers in Germany have given us the chance. Don’t let us delay five minutes. Let the one of us you may select see the Prime Minister to-night and deliver the people’s message.”

“There’s no cause for delay that I can see,” Cross approved.

“There is none,” Fenn assented heartily. “I propose that we proceed to the election of our representative; that, having elected him, we send him to the Prime Minister with our message, and that we remain here in the building until we have his report.”

“You are unanimously resolved, then,” the Bishop asked, “to take this last step?”

There was a little chorus of assent. Fenn leaned forward in his place.

“Everything is ready,” he announced. “Our machinery is perfect. Our agents in every city await the mandate.”

“But do you imagine that those last means will be necessary?” the Bishop enquired anxiously.

“Most surely I do,” Fenn replied. “Remember that if the people make peace for the country, it is the people who will expect to govern the country. It will be a notice to the politicians to quit. They know that. It is my belief that they will resist, tooth and nail.”

Bright glanced at his watch.

“The Prime Minister,” he announced, “will be at Downing Street until nine o’clock. It is now seven o’clock. I propose that we proceed without any further delay to the election of our representative.”

“The voting cards,” Fenn pointed out, “are before each person. Every one has two votes, which must be for two different representatives. The cards should then be folded, and I propose that the Bishop, who is not a candidate, collect them. As I read the unwritten rules of this Congress, every one here is eligible except the Bishop, Miss Abbeway, Mr. Orden and Mr. Furley.”

There was a little murmur. Phineas Cross leaned forward in his place.

“Here, what’s that?” he exclaimed. “The Bishop, and Miss Abbeway, we all know, are outside the running. Mr. Furley, too, represents the educated Socialists, and though he is with us in this, he is not really Labour. But Mr. Orden—Paul Fiske, eh? That’s a different matter, isn’t it?”

“Mr. Orden,” Fenn pronounced slowly, “is a literary man. He is a sympathiser with our cause, but he is not of it.”

“If any man has read the message which Paul Fiske has written with a pen of gold for us,” Phineas Cross declared, “and can still say that he is not one of us, why, he must be beside himself. I say that Mr. Orden is the brains and the soul of our movement. He brought life and encouragement into the north of England with the first article he ever wrote. Since then there has not been a man whom the Labour Party that I know anything of has looked up to and worshipped as they have done him.”

“It’s true,” David Sands broke in, “every word of it. There’s no one has written for Labour like him. If he isn’t Labour, then we none of us are. I don’t care whether he is the son of an earl, or a plasterer’s apprentice, as I was. He’s the right stuff, he has the gift of putting the words together, and his heart’s where it should be.”

“There is no one,” Fenn said, his voice trembling a little, “who has a greater admiration for Paul Fiske’s writings than I have, but I still contend that he is not Labour.”

“Sit down, lad,” Cross enjoined. “We’ll have a vote on that. I’m for saying that Mr. Julian Orden here, who has written them articles under the name of ‘Paul Fiske’, is a full member of our Council and eligible to act as our messenger to the Prime Minister. I ask the Bishop to put it to the meeting.”

Eighteen were unanimous in agreeing with the motion. Fenn sat down, speechless. His cheeks were pallid. His hands, which rested upon the table, were twitching. He seemed like a man lost in thought and only remembered to fill up his card when the Bishop asked him for it. There was a brief silence whilst the latter, assisted by Cross and Sands, counted the votes. Then the Bishop rose to his feet.

“Mr. Julian Orden,” he announced, “better known to you all under the name of ‘Paul Fiske’, has been chosen by a large majority as your representative to take the people’s message to the Prime Minister.”

“I protest!” Fenn exclaimed passionately. “This is Mr. Orden’s first visit amongst us. He is a stranger. I repeat that he is not one of us. Where is his power? He has none. Can he do what any one of us can—stop the pulse of the nation? Can he still its furnace fires? Can he empty the shipyards and factories, hold the trains upon their lines, bring the miners up from under the earth? Can he—”

“He can do all these things,” Phineas Cross interrupted, “because he speaks for us, our duly elected representative. Sit thee down, Fenn. If you wanted the job, well, you haven’t got it, and that’s all there is about it, and though you’re as glib with your tongue as any here, and though you’ve as many at your back, perchance, as I have, I tell you I’d never have voted for you if there hadn’t been another man here. So put that in your pipe and smoke it, lad.”

“All further discussion,” the Bishop ruled, “is out of order. Julian Orden, do you accept this mission?”

Julian rose to his feet. He leaned heavily upon his stick. His expression was strangely disturbed.

“Bishop,” he said, “and you, my friends, this has all come very suddenly. I do not agree with Mr. Fenn. I consider that I am one with you. I think that for the last ten years I have seen the place which Labour should hold in the political conduct of the world. I have seen the danger of letting the voice of the people remain unheard too long. Russia to-day is a practical and terrible example of that danger. England is, in her way, a free country, and our Government a good one, but in the world’s history there arrive sometimes crises with which no stereotyped form of government can cope, when the one thing that is desired is the plain, honest mandate of those who count for most in the world, those who, in their simplicity and in their absence from all political ties and precedents and liaisons, see the truth. That is why I have appealed with my pen to Labour, to end this war. That is why I shall go willingly as your representative to the Prime Minister to-night.”

The Bishop held out his hand. There was a little reverent hush, for his words were in the nature of a benediction.

“And may God be with you, our messenger,” he said solemnly.