DIPLOMACY

By ERLE COX

From The Lone Hand

June, I908

WHEN a man is almost daily gibbeted by a section of the press as a heartless plutocrat, it may be safely assumed that he has enough of worry in his working life to compensate for its absence from the domestic circle. But—

The very first letter I opened was a polite note from Trent, my private secretary, intimating his desire to resign. I swore quietly, but fluently, at the almanac on the table. As a lightning conductor the almanac is very efficient. I had caught Trent as a callow youth of eighteen, and then patiently moulded him until now, after eleven years of his constant attendance to my requirements, I knew I would miss my right hand as much as my faultless Trent—faultless except for an obtrusive conscience that sometimes disturbed the remnants of mine. And now the young ass wanted to leave me.

When together we waded through the morning’s correspondence, I held my peace as to his letter; but ‘In the afternoon I decided to fathom the mystery, as few men of his age and sense throw up a certain £500 per annum’ without fairly strong reasons.

“Now, look here, Trent,” I began, “what’s all this about?” And I tapped the offending letter.

“I’m sorry, sir, but I’m afraid it’s unavoidable,” he answered, quietly.

“Salary?” I queried.

“You know well it could not be that, sir.”

“Got anything better?”

“No, worse luck; I guess anything better doesn’t exist.”

“Then why, In the name of Satan, do you wish to leave me? Great Scott, man! there is an explanation somewhere, and I am entitled to it.” I was beginning to feel irritated, and Trent knew the symptoms.

“I’m sorry, sir, but there can be no explanation.”

I take it to my credit that I didn’t say ‘what I thought, but toned it down to an enquiry as to the sanity of his antecedents. Now I hate being left in the dark when there is information available that I am anxious to obtain, and so for half‑An‑hour Trent squirmed in his chair as I slowly and scientifically probed for his real motive, till at last it came out with a jump that startled me.

“The fact Is, Mr. Carson,” he gulped out at last, with crimson face, “the fact is I’ve fallen in love with Miss Millicent. I couldn’t help it,” he added, as a sort of extenuation.

“You’ve what?” I gasped.

Now, there was nothing strange in the fact of a man falling in love with Millie. If rumours that occasionally came my way were to be believed, that had occurred a store of times.

But Trent had known Millie as a rebellious school‑girl in short frocks, and I strongly believe had suffered grievous wrongs from her reckless pranks, and even until now I thought there was nothing but open warfare between them. I knew she chaffed him without mercy, but that stands for nothing with a woman.

I liked the sterling John Walter Trent. I knew his habits. I knew how he had got his brother out of an ugly mess. I know how he had so carefully staved off the attentions of Mrs. Desmond, since divorced and disappeared, what time that somewhat enterprising dame went after his scalp; and I felt sorry for him. I knew that for quality he was miles ahead of any of the gilt‑edged young cubs that followed in Millie’s train; and out of these thoughts grew a sudden resolve to keep my secretary‑that is, if that little imp, Millie, knew what was good for her.

“Have you spoken to my daughter?” I asked.

“Well, considering our positions, I think that question rather unnecessary.”

“One way of looking at it,” was my comment, as I paused to consider the situation. After a while I went on: “Look here, Trent, my boy, suppose you do speak to her.”

In a second he was on his feet, staring at me with incredulous eyes.

“You don’t mean”—he gasped.

“Why not?”

The light in his eyes died out, and he shook his head: “I’m afraid it’s no use, sir. I don’t think she cares a little bit.”

“Find out.”

He hesitated a moment, and then ventured to remark that perhaps Mrs. Carson would have other views. For the first time the effect of the suggestion on my better‑half crossed my mind. Gertrude is all that a wife should be, and more; but the astute Trent knew as well as I did that, although at the moment a socialistic fit possessed her, it would he by no means likely to affect her ideas as to Millie’s future partner. I can manage a discontented meeting of shareholders, but somehow I did not fancy a head‑on collision with Gertrude, especially on such a matter. However, I had chosen a course, and decided to keep it.

“Well, Trent,” I said, “there can be no harm in trying. I won’t interfere, but at the same time I absolutely forbid you, in the event of either success or failure, to allow Millicent to know that I am aware of your intentions.”

“But, sir”—

“There is no ‘But, sir’ about it. Mrs. Carson and I are going out presently, and I think I heard Millie say she was going to the boatshed to sketch. Take my advice and study Art. It’s a fine afternoon.”

He seemed about to argue, but on the moment, Gertrud cloaked and veiled for a spin, announced that the car was waiting. Her entrance effectually sealed his mouth, and I left him still standing, the figure of perplexity.

For quite fifteen minutes, as the car hummed over the level roads, I sat silently, revolving a plan of campaign, and scarcely heard a word of Gertrude’s chatter, until her somewhat vexed voice asked if I had lost my temper, or only become suddenly deaf.

“Only worried, Gert. I’m sorry.”

“Drop the worries overside, Dick. What’s the latest?”

“Trent,” I answered, shortly.

“Well, do you know when I went into the study just now, I thought you two had been rowing,” and she turned to look enquiringly at me.

“I’m going to get rid of him,” I went on. “He seems to think he owns me.”

“Oh, Dick. you won’t do that!”

‘Indeed I will.”

“But you can never fill his place, you big goose.’*’

“I’ll try, anyhow.”

I saw my wife purse up her lips — a distinct danger signal. “Well, Richard.” (Richard always indicates stormy weather.) “All I can say is that you will deserve all that you get by it.”

“Perhaps, but anyhow I don’t altogether fancy Trent as a son‑in‑law.”

She straightened up for a moment, and I saw the shot had got home somewhere.

“You are talking absolute nonsense, Richard.”

I let the idea sink in before I ventured to remark that I thought young Collett was a remarkably fine young man.

“Upon my word, Richard, you sometimes make me wonder where your reputation for judgment was gained. I think George Collett is an insufferable puppy. Mr. Trent is at least a gentleman.”

I thought it needless to remind my wife that the last opinion I had heard from her anent Collett was distinctly different. But she had taken up the parable, and for the next few miles I learned that Millicent was to be depended upon to use her own judgment; that anything between that erratic damsel and my secretary existed only in my disordered imagination; that there was not a man in the Commonwealth fit to look at Millie; and lastly, in one expansive breathless sentence, I was told that excursions into matters outside my province were fraught with danger to all concerned, and I was only putting ideas into both their heads that never existed.

I accepted all this in silence, a most effectual weapon against a woman who wants to argue, and, as I have found, the most exasperating one. Besides, I had said enough to rouse sufficient opposition for the present. So I played “Brer Rabbit” for the rest of the drive, and chuckled inwardly at the frigid bow with which my wife returned the salutation of the estimable Collett, whom we afterwards met.

That evening at dinner I observed two things. Firstly, that with deliberate intent my wife three times made reference to Trent, by which Millie refused deftly to be drawn. Again, the appetite of that self‑possessed young lady had fallen considerably below par, as too had her usually lively chatter. Twice I caught her surveying me with unusual interest, and each time I noticed an alteration of color. So two‑and‑two in this instance made me conclude that matters had moved. I am prepared to swear, too, that there was bribery in the good‑night kiss I received. The minx!

Trent was waiting in my study next morning when I got down. A blind man could have read his news.

“How went the sketching?”

‘I think I Would like to devote myself entirely to Art.” I must say that he looked it too. John Trent had not forgotten how to blush.

“So far to good, my boy. Now listen to me. Although I fully approve, I am going to be the stern parent. Your resignation is accepted and you leave here this afternoon. I absolutely forbid you to write to Millie, or see her before you go. I have my reasons for this. But, John, supposing you write to me, and I find an unaddressed letter enclosed, I might find time to leave it where it might be found. But only on condition that Millie will understand that I strongly disapprove of you.”

He eyed me with wrinkled forehead, and confessed that my idea was unintelligible to him; also that it was not fair to Millie.

“You see,” I went on, ‘I don’t profess to know much about womenkind, but I do know that taking a strong stand on a matter will often bring about stronger opposition. Now Mrs. Carson”—

“Ah!” And here John Trent whistled long and softly, and then begged my pardon.

‘I think, sir,” he said, after reflection, “that should I write to you after I leave, I will type your address on the envelope, as my handwriting might be recognised.”

“You’re a conspiring reprobate, John Trent,” I said. ‘There is a boat leaving for Adelaide at 2 P.M.”

John caught that boat.

“A pest on it,” I thought, as I went into luncheon. “It’s lucky Millie was away this morning. I fear .I’m going to have an evil time.”

Never did prophecy materialise into accomplished fact more readily. At 8.30 exactly, the sacred grounds of my study were invaded by a Millie who looked six feet high, in spite of being only five feet four, and for the first time I awoke to the fact that she was no longer a girl, and as such to be accounted for. She held a crumpled letter in her hand and asked some twenty vehement questions without waiting for an answer to one. Her peroration was to the effect that she would marry John Trent and no other. Also I was inconceivably brutal, and would I give her his address?

MY demand that she should on no account communicate with the disgraced John was received with cold scorn and the door banged behind her.

At 3.45 came Gertrude to know whatever had happened to Millie. It is not often that I can surprise my wife, but the bald statement that Trent had proposed and been accepted, and therefore dismissed in disgrace, certainly shook her out of her usual calm.

I think that, considering her ambitions for Millie, my prompt dealing with the situation might have received warmer approval from my wife, but she wore a somewhat thoughtful look as she left me, remarking that it was a pity that Jack was Impossible.

Now, I don’t know how John Walter Trent enjoyed the following four weeks, but I am prepared to affirm that the ways of the conspirator are hard.

Apart from the unveiled hostility of Millie, and the reproachful look in her eyes, I noticed that Gertrude’s manner was often more frigid than the position warranted. My papers, too, got into the most hopeless muddle.

The worst trouble, however, was supplied by Trent himself. I firmly believe that he wrote to Millie for twelve hours out of the twenty‑four, and seven times a week, and the danger of getting those infernal budgets to their proper destination without detection almost bereft me of my few remaining grey hairs. At first I managed to slip them into Millie’s room. Once, in placing one under her pillow I found the photo of the forbidden man, which gave proof of the obedience of Australian children. Two narrow escapes from discovery scared me into more devious paths. I slipped them under her door in the small hours of the morning, and all the time the little minx gave no sign that she knew of Trent’s existence, much less his whereabouts. Nemesis however overtook me. One afternoon I had invaded her studio to dispose of the latest despatch, and I found myself confronting a flashing‑eyed daughter with the proof of my guilt in my hand.

I had to bow to a torrent of her wrath before I made a clean breast of my nefarious designs. Then, oh, what a change! I was called a dear, fat, old Cupid, a horrid schemer, and for the first time in three weeks Millie nestled on my knee and then demanded an explanation for my unseemly conduct.

“To think how I have been in fear and trembling that you should know that I was getting letters and wondering ail the time how Jack had been clever enough to get them through to me. Oh! dad, I’m shocked. Why did you do it, you old darling?”

“Did it ever strike you, lassie, that your mother might not approve, and that I wanted to keep my secretary very much, and I also highly approve of that same young man,”

“Dad! t that’s worse than ever.”

“Now, lassie, you must appeal to your mother; but remember I’m relentless, I’m adamant.”

“You are a dear old fraud.”

I let it go at that and made my escape.

Next day, Millie, in coming to search my letters for pickings of interest, informed me that her mother had said that John was out of the question, at present, at any rate; so I bade the minx to mope and lose her appetite for a few days. Mope she did, but (I heard in a burst of confidence) she raided the pantry at every opportunity.

Later, I suggested quietly to Gertrude that she should take Millie to the Blue Mountains, and invite young Collett’s people and a few others to stay with them‑a suggestion negatived by one vote. My usually placid wife stated that Collett was a donkey, and, as an afterthought, remarked that there were others, too. The ambiguity of the latter remark gave me food for thought. Then I heard that Millie was out of sorts, and positively would eat nothing. As a fictionist I recognised that my daughter was a success. She certainly drooped gracefully, per medium, as I afterwards learned, of a judicious use of powder. This droop my wife duly pointed out to me was my fault for not geeing what was going on, So like a woman!

Certainly the domestic barometer Indicated stormy weather, and, with the exception of meal times I stuck to my study, to try and straighten out the chaos that reigned there, but kept a wary eye for the coming outbreak,

It lingered until just four weeks after Trent left, when I announced that the best thing for Millie was a long sea voyage, and that there were matters in London that required attention. We should all leave immediately, as I had secured an excellent successor for Trent. Millie hurriedly left the room. I did not look at her, but I had my suspicions as to the real reason of the audible catch in her breath as she fled. But my wife claimed too much of my attention to indulge in idle speculation. I know she calls the medium “force of character” by which she attains her ends, but to my mind it is force of verbosity; and for the next fifteen minutes I was in an excellent position to judge.

Millicent was breaking her heart. My attitude was almost barbarous. It was not a matter of money, but the child’s happiness. When the storm had passed, the stern parent had repented and went to smoke in solitary satisfaction. Two jays after, Trent reigned again, and peace was declared. But I made those two young people promise not to betray me.

My wife and I were alone at last after the crowd had left on the day of the wedding. “Dick,” she announced, “I’ve a confession to make now. It’s this. Quite two years ago I made up my mind that Jack was the only man fit for Millie. I knew you would be unreasonable, but I really didn’t think you would give in in the short time you did. You see, dear old boy, for the sake of appearances I had to side with you at first; but I managed you in the end, didn’t I?’

I think it was my wife’s sense of justice that made her overlook the one small, emphatic word that came to my lips. But I do hope that she will never know the truth.

However, I have lost my secretary, after all. But he will make a first‑class partner ultimately.

END