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KOREA
OECD
Reviews
of
Innovation
Policy
OECD Reviews of Innovation Policy
KOREA
How are a country’s achievements in innovation defined and measured, and how do they relate
to economic performance? What are the major features, strengths and weaknesses of a nation’s
innovation system? How can government foster innovation?
The OECD Reviews of Innovation Policy offer a comprehensive assessement of the innovation
system of individual OECD member and non-member countries, focusing on the role of government.
They provide concrete recommendations on how to improve policies that affect innovation
performance, including R&D policies. Each review identifies good practices from which other
countries can learn.
Korea’s exceptional economic success over the last half century has few parallels and has been
driven in no small part by a firm commitment to innovation. Among its strengths, Korea has one of
the highest rates of spending on R&D in the world, much of which is performed by private firms.
It also has a highly educated labour force – as signalled by its impressive PISA performance and
exceptionally high rates of tertiary level graduation – with a strong interest in science and technology.
However, a number of bottlenecks persist that hamper Korea’s economic convergence with the
leading OECD economies. These include a relatively weak SME sector and weak performance
in services, as well as lagging capacities to conduct leading-edge research in many areas.
Furthermore, Korea faces numerous threats in the mid term, notably increased levels of competition
from China and other newly-industrialising economies, the lowest fertility rate in the OECD and an
ageing society, and a continuing high dependency on imports of natural resources, particularly
hydrocarbons. In the shorter term, the economic crisis offers its own challenges, with the need for
some policy adjustments to deal with expected falls in business investment in R&D and growing
levels of unemployment among the highly skilled.
This report assesses the current status of Korea’s innovation system and policies, and identifies
where and how the government should focus its efforts to improve the country’s innovation
capabilities.
More information about the OECD Reviews of Innovation Policy series is available at
www.oecd.org/sti/innovation/reviews.
The full text of this book is available on line via this link:
www.sourceoecd.org/scienceIT/9789264067226
Those with access to all OECD books on line should use this link:
www.sourceoecd.org/9789264067226
SourceOECD is the OECD online library of books, periodicals and statistical databases.
For more information about this award-winning service and free trials ask your librarian, or write to us
at [email protected].
ISBN 978-92-64-06722-6
92 2009 04 1 P -:HSTCQE=U[WW[:
OECD Reviews of Innovation Policy
KOREA
56. his mind whether she were really false.
When he recollected the quick passion of her caresses, the
tenderness of her words, the gentle sympathy with which
she had asked him to confide in her, he found it difficult to
believe that she could actually forget him five minutes after
leaving him in that ballroom, and waltz airily with the man
with whose name her own was being everywhere coupled.
To him, honest, upright man that he was, this seemed an
absolute impossibility. He refused to believe it. Surely she
loved him, in spite of her perplexing caprices; surely she
had been seized by remorse for her own fickleness.
He endeavoured to compare the two women, but the
comparison caused him to start up in quick impatience.
“No!” he cried aloud in a fierce voice. “A thousand times no!
I love Claudia—no one else!—no one else in all the world!”
Next day when he entered his room at Downing Street,
Wrey, his secretary, put before him a quantity of documents
requiring attention. He held the responsible office of
superintending under-secretary of the Commercial
Department of Her Majesty’s Foreign Office, the business of
which consisted of correspondence with our Ministers and
Consuls abroad; with the representatives of the Foreign
Powers in England, and with the Board of Trade and other
departments of the Government. He had been absorbed in
these papers for some hours, snatching only a few minutes
for a glass of sherry and a biscuit at luncheon-time, when
Wrey returned to remind him of a long-standing
engagement that evening at the little town of Godalming,
which was in his constituency, four miles from Albury.
He glanced up from his writing and gave vent to a sharp
ejaculation of annoyance.
57. “Are you quite certain it is to-night?” he asked, for the
reminder was to him a most unpleasant one. He avoided
speaking in his constituency whenever he could.
“Yes. I put it down in the diary a month ago—a dinner given
by the Lodge of Odd Fellows in aid of a local charity.”
Dudley groaned. He knew too well those charity dinners
given in a small room among his honest but rather uncouth
supporters. He dreaded the tinned soups, the roast beef,
the tough fowls, and the surreptitious tankards of ale in lieu
of wine, to be followed by those post-prandial pipes and
strong cigars. He shuddered. The dense atmosphere always
turned him sick, so that he usually made his speech while it
was still possible to see across the room. He was very fond
of the working-man, and subscribed liberally to all
charitable objects and associations, from those with a
political aim down to the smallest coal club in the outlying
villages; but why could not those honest sons of toil leave
him in peace?
His presence, of course, gave importance to the occasion,
but if they had found it possible to spare him the ordeal of
sitting through their dinner he would have been thankful.
Out of fifty invitations to banquets of various kinds,
openings of bazaars, flower-shows, lectures, concerts,
entertainments and penny-readings, he usually declined
forty-nine. As he could not absolutely cut himself aloof from
his Division, on rare occasions he accepted, and spent an
evening at Albury, or Godalming, or some of the less
important local centres of political thought.
The pot-house politician, who forms his ideas of current
events from the ultra-patriotic screeches of certain popular
newspapers, was a common object in his constituency; but
in Godalming, at any rate, the great majority of his
58. supporters were honest working-men. The little town is a
quaint, old-world place with a long High Street of ancient
houses, many of them displaying the oak-beams of the
sixteenth century, and its politics were just as staunch and
old-fashioned as the borough itself. True, a new town of
comfortable villas has sprung up of late around it, and high
upon the hill are to be seen the pinnacles of Charterhouse
School; but, notwithstanding these innovations, Godalming
has not marched with the times. Because of this the blatant
reformer has but little chance there, and the Parliamentary
Seat is always a safe one for the Conservatives.
Much as he disliked the duty, he saw that it was absolutely
necessary to go down and make pretence of having a meal
with that estimable Society of Odd Fellows. He rose from his
seat at the littered table, at once feeling a sudden desire for
fresh air after the closeness of his room, and a few minutes
later was driving in a cab to Waterloo. To dress for such a
function was quite unnecessary. Working-men do not
approve of their Member wearing a dinner-jacket when
among them, for they look upon a starched shirt as a sign
of superiority. He was always fond of the country round
Godalming, where he had once spent a summer, and as it
was a sunshiny afternoon saw in the occasion an
opportunity of taking a walk through some of the most
picturesque lanes in Surrey.
He was tired, world-weary, utterly sick of life. The duties of
his office pressed heavily upon him; but most burdensome
of all was the ever-present dread that the threatened blow
should fall and crush him. He wanted air: he wanted to be
alone to think.
And so, when that afternoon he alighted at Godalming and
returned the salutes of the station-master and book-stall
keeper, he started off up the steep road as far as the
59. Charterhouse, and from that point struck off by a narrow
footpath which led away across the brown ploughed fields to
where the Hog’s Back stretched before him in the blue
distance. The autumn sun shone brightly in the clear, grey
sky, and the trees in all their glory of brown and gold shed
their leaves upon him as he passed.
Save the station-master and the book-stall clerk, none had
recognised him. This was fortunate, for now he was free,
out in the open country with its rich meadows and
picturesque hills and valleys, until the hour when he must
dine with his supporters and utter some trite sayings
regarding the work of the Government and its policy
abroad.
He was fond of walking, and was glad to escape from
Downing Street and from the House for a single evening; so
he strode along down the path with a swinging gait, though
with a heart not light enough for the full enjoyment of his
lovely surroundings.
The by-path he had taken was that which leads over the
hills from Godalming past Field Place to the little old-world
village of Compton. Having crossed the ploughed lands, he
entered a thick coppice, where the path began to run down
with remarkable steepness into wide meadows, on the other
side of which lay a dark wood. The narrow path running
through the coppice terminated at a stile which gave
entrance to the park-like meadow-land.
Descending this path he halted at the stile, leaning against
it. Alone in that rural solitude, far removed from the mad
hurry of London life, he stood to think. Each gust of wind
brought down a shower of brown leaves from the oaks
above, and the only other sound was the cry of a pheasant
in the wood.
60. For at least five minutes he stood motionless. Then he
suddenly roused himself, and some words escaped his lips:
“How strange,” he murmured, “that my footsteps should
lead me to this very spot, of all others! Why, I wonder, has
Fate directed me here?”
He turned and gazed slowly round upon the scene spread
before him, the green meadows, the dark wood, the sloping
hill with its bare, brown fields, and the Hog’s Back rising in
the far distance, with the black line of the telegraph
standing out against the sky. With slow deliberation he took
in every feature of the landscape. Then, facing about, with
his back to the stile, his eyes wandered up the steep path
by which he had just descended from the crest of the hill.
“No,” he went on in a strange, low voice, speaking to
himself, “it has not changed—not in the least. It is all just
the same to-day, as then—just the same.” He sighed heavily
as he leaned back upon the wooden rail and gazed up the
ascent, brown with its carpet of acorns and fallen leaves.
“Yes,” he continued at last, “it is destiny that has led me
here, to this well-remembered spot for the last time before
I die—the justice which demands a life for a life.”
Throughout the district it would not have been easy to find
a more secluded spot than the small belt of dense wood,
half of which lay on either side of the footpath. So steep
was this path that considerable care had to be exercised
during its descent, especially in autumn, when the damp
leaves and acorns were slippery, or in winter, when the rain-
channels were frozen into precipitous slides.
“A life for a life!” he repeated slowly with a strange curl of
the lip. He permitted himself to speak aloud because in that
rural, solitude he had no fear of eavesdroppers. “I have
61. lived my life,” he said, “and now it is ended. My attempted
atonement is all to no purpose, for to-day, or to-morrow, a
voice as from the grave will arise to condemn me—to drive
me to take my life!”
He glanced at his watch.
“Yes,” he sighed. “Four o’clock!—at this very spot—at this
hour on a wet day in mid-winter—”
And his eyes fixed themselves blankly upon the ground a
couple of yards distant from where he was standing. “Six
years have gone, and it has remained ever a mystery!”
His face was pale, his brow contracted, his teeth firmly set.
His eyes still rested upon that spot covered with dead brown
leaves. Certainly it was strange that the steep and narrow
pathway should possess such fascination for him, for he had
wandered there quite involuntarily. It is not too much to say
that he would have flown to any other part of England
rather than stand upon the spot so closely associated with
the chapter in his life’s history that he hoped was closed for
ever.
Suddenly he roused himself, and, walking forward a couple
of paces, marked with his stick a square in the dead leaves.
Apparently he was deep in calculation, for after he had
made the mark he carefully measured, by means of his
cane, the distance between the square and the top of the
short ascent. On either side of the path was a steep moss-
grown bank surmounted by thick hazel-bushes, but on the
left a little distance up was an old wooden fence, grey with
lichen. He appeared to be deeply interested in this fence,
for after going close up to it he measured by careful pacing
the distance between it and the spot he had marked out.
62. When this was done, he stood again motionless, his fevered
brow bared to the breezes as though to him that spot were
hallowed. Then, crossing the stile, he entered the meadow,
passing and repassing the narrow lane as though for the
purpose of discovering the exact position an observer would
be compelled to take up in order to watch a person standing
at the point he had marked.
At last he returned, standing again with his back to the
stile, his hat raised in reverence, gazing fixedly upon those
dead and decaying leaves.
“Yes,” he murmured, “I was mad—mad! The devil tempted
me, and I fell. Would to God that I could make amends! But
I cannot—I dare not. No, I must suffer!”
63. Chapter Fourteen.
Which Demands Explanation.
Chisholm dined that night in the upstairs room of that old-
fashioned hostelry, the Angel, at Godalming, in company
with the brethren of the banner.
He sat at the right of the estimable, fat-handed butcher who
presided, and was informed by him that as the gigantic
roast sirloin that was served was his “own killing,” he could
recommend it. They ate, drank, and made merry, these
men banded together by their sacred rites, until the heat
grew so intense that the windows were opened, with the
result that decorous High Street echoed to the volleys of
their hearty laughter.
As drink was included in the cost of the repast, those diners
with the more rapacious appetites—who, indeed, made no
secret that they had been existing in a state of semi-
starvation all day in order to eat at night—drank
indiscriminately of the lemonade, beer, wine and whiskey
placed upon the table. Indeed, as is usual at such feasts,
they ate and drank all within reach of their hands. But these
bearded working-men and small tradesmen were merry and
well-meaning with it all. After “The King” had been
honoured, they toasted with boisterous enthusiasm “Our
Honourable Member,” and joined in the usual chorus of
poetical praise, “For he’s a jolly good fellow.”
Dudley sat bowing and smiling, yet at heart sick of the
whole performance. He dreaded the pipes and cigars that
would in a few moments appear. Shag and clays always
64. turned him ill. He was no great smoker himself, and had
never been able to withstand the smell of a strong cigar.
His quick eyes observed a man who was beginning in an
affectionate manner to fondle a well-coloured short clay. He
bent at once to the chairman, saying that he would now
deliver his speech.
“Silence, please, gentlemen!” shouted the rotund butcher,
rapping the table with his wooden mallet after their guest’s
health had been drunk. “Silence for our Honourable
Member! Silence—please!”
Then Dudley rose eagerly, happy in the knowledge that he
was almost through the ordeal, and, with a preliminary “Mr
Chairman and Gentlemen,” addressed the hundred or so of
his faithful supporters, telling them this and that about the
Government, and assuring them of the soundness of the
policy adopted by Her Majesty’s Ministers. It was not a very
long speech, but it was upon a subject of the moment; and
as there were two “gentlemen of the Press” representing
the local advertisement sheets, the one a mere boy, and the
other a melancholy, disappointed-looking man, with a sage
and rather ascetic expression, the speech would appear in
the papers, and the Godalming Lodge of Odd Fellows would
receive the credit of having entertained one of England’s
most rising statesmen. The two representatives of the
Press, each of whom took himself very seriously, had been
regaled with a bottle of port and some cigars by the
committee, who entertained a hope that they would thus be
induced to give a lengthy and laudatory account of the
function.
While Dudley was on his legs the cloud of tobacco-smoke
became thicker and thicker. Those triumphs of the
tobacconist called “tuppenny smokes” are nauseous when in
65. combination with the odour of food. Dudley sniffed them,
coughed slightly, sipped some water, and then drew his
speech to a close amid a terrific outburst of applause and a
beating upon the tables which caused the glasses and
crockery to jingle.
While this oration was in full blast he noticed a committee-
man uncovering the piano, by which he knew that
“harmony” was to embellish the hot whiskey period. At last,
however, he managed to excuse himself, upon the plea that
he must return to the House for a Division that was
expected; and as soon as he was out in the High Street he
breathed more freely. Then he hurried to the train, and,
entering the express from Portsmouth, tried to forget the
spot he had visited in that small belt of forest—the scene
that too often commanded the most vivid powers of his
memory.
“I was a fool ever to have gone there!—an absolute fool!”
he murmured to himself, as he flung himself back in the
first-class compartment when alone. “I ran an unnecessary
risk. And that man who came so suddenly upon me just as I
was leaving! What if he had watched and recognised me? If
so, he would certainly gossip about my presence there,
describe my actions—and then—”
He was silent; his face became blanched and drawn.
“Even though six years have passed, the affair is not
forgotten,” he went on in a hard voice. “It is still the local
mystery which Scotland Yard failed to elucidate. Yes,” he
added, “I was a fool—a confounded fool! What absurd whim
took me to that place of all others, I can’t imagine. I’m mad
—mad!” he cried in wild despair. “This madness is the
shadow of suicide!”
66. Instead of going down to the House he drove back at once
to his chambers.
Upon his table was a note from Claudia, affectionate as
usual, and full of regret that they had not met again on the
previous night—when they had been so suddenly separated
at Penarth House.
“What do you think of little Muriel Mortimer? I saw you
speaking with her,” she wrote. “She was full of you when I
met her shopping in Bond Street this morning. You have
made quite an impression, my dear Dudley. But don’t
altogether forget me, will you?”
Forget? Could he ever forget the woman whom he loved,
and yet despised? Strange that Claudia should have plotted
with Lady Meldrum against his bachelor estate, and should
have determined to bring about this marriage with Muriel
Mortimer!
In a frenzy of despair he cast her letter into the flames. He
recollected the words she had uttered to him in that room
on the previous night, the sweet words of love and
tenderness that had held him spellbound. No, there was no
other woman in all the world save her—and yet, she was
false and fickle, as all the world knew.
Life’s comforts are its cares. He smiled bitterly as he
reflected upon that phrase, which was an extract from one
of his many brilliant speeches. If a person has no cares,
that person must make them, or be wretched; care is
actually an employment, an action; sometimes even a joy.
And so it is with love. Life and love must have employment
and action. There must be responsibility and a striving to
reach a goal; for if not, both the power to endure and the
power to give comfort are shrunken and crippled.
67. When Dudley Chisholm was young he had long worshipped
an ideal. But when he found his idol to be undeserving of
the idolatry, madness fell upon him, and he accepted the
creed of the prodigal. Raking over the ashes of the
numerous bonfires he had made, for which his senses had
been the fuel, he now found a revelation of his inner self.
He recognised for the first time his weakness and his
unworthiness. He wanted something better than he had
known—not in others, but in himself. He had discovered a
spot of tenderness in his heart that had, so to speak,
remained virgin soil.
“Could a really smart woman possess any nice sense of
honour?” he asked himself for the hundredth time. If she is
endowed with any particular intelligence, and the world
discovers it, then society is prone to think that she is
necessarily a “schemer,” and, unless her friends know her
very well, she is soon given a place upon society’s black list
as an “adventuress,” a term which applies to the whole
gamut of West End wickedness. No, after all, few women
can be both honourable and smart.
His thoughts wandered back into the past, as they so
frequently did, and a moan came from his heart. He
remembered Claudia as an ideal woman of whom a cruel
Fate had robbed him in those days before he learned the
world to be what it is. And he still loved her—even though
this great gulf yawned between them.
Dudley Chisholm was blind to Claudia’s true character. He
was attracted to her by her intellect and her physical
magnetism. In these days of her freedom she had dared to
be herself, and having knowledge of herself and of men, she
had developed his admiration up to her own standpoint. She
had taught him women as she knew them herself. She was
playing with all the edged tools of daring because she felt
68. that she was the stronger of the two, and that he would
dare no further than she willed. She was charmed with the
freedom she allowed herself; while he was, in a manner,
flattered by her apparent constancy to him and by her
finding in him anything that interested a woman of her
attainments and popularity. Thus he had become thoroughly
interested, madly infatuated, as well as honestly in love.
Men so seldom understand the inner nature, the designing
nature, if I may be forgiven the expression, of some
women. Such women are unscrupulous in their dealings
both with men and women. The West End is full of them.
They live for what they can get out of their acquaintances,
instead of for what they can do for them. They give as
much love to all as to one, unless that one should happen
to be more wealthy or distinguished than the others. Then
the wealthy one will get the largest quantity of attention,
while the others will be kept dangling on the string for use
at odd times. Such women are shrewd. Mayfair has taught
them the art of conversation. They have reduced it to a
science. With the innocent face of a child, they learn never
to let the left hand know what the right hand is doing. And,
if the bare truth be stated, Claudia Nevill was one of these.
She, in her shrewdness, had handled Dudley with light
ribbons. She had intuitively understood what kind of woman
he preferred, and she had been that woman—until now,
when the bitter truth had been made plain to him.
In this life of ours the tossing between the extremes of
happiness and misery are terribly wearying. When once
life’s lessons begin they continue in a mad headlong rush of
events. During the last few days Dudley Chisholm seemed
to have lived a lifetime. Fate twisted and turned him
through and round human follies and treachery. It laughed
at him, beating up all that was false against all that was
true in his own nature, until he found himself in such a pot-
69. pourri of sunshine and storm that life seemed suddenly too
incomprehensible to be endured.
The daintiness of women rivets and enchains men of
Dudley’s stamp—the perfume of the hair, the baby-smell of
the skin, the frills, the laces, the violets exuding from the
chiffons, the arched foot, the neat ankle, the clinging
drapery—everything, in fact, that means delicate luxury not
to be enjoyed save in the company of a woman.
Awkwardness disenchants, but well-poised, graceful lines,
added to a chic in dress, hold for ever. To be essentially
feminine places a woman in the holy of holies in a man’s
heart. As Claudia was essentially feminine, she still held
Dudley safe, in spite of that sudden gust of scandal.
Alone, seated in his familiar armchair, he cast aside the
heavy thoughts that had so oppressed him ever since he
had stood at that spot deep in rural Surrey, and looked
upon the place every object of which was photographed
upon his memory. He thought of Claudia, and, remembering
the declaration of her love whispered in that room, felt
regret at the hard words he had uttered. She had made
mistakes and become entangled in the meshes of the net
spread out for her. Was it not his duty to extricate her? He
too had made a mistake in not paying respect, at least
outwardly, to the social code, and now the time had come
when he was forced to recognise that necessity. Yes, in his
inner consciousness he fully realised the mistake he had
made. He had all unconsciously aided and abetted her in
becoming what was known as “a smart woman.”
Perhaps, however, his opinion of her would have been a
different one had he been present at that moment in one of
the smaller sitting-rooms of the great mansion at Albert
Gate. It was a cosy apartment, with the lamplight mellowed
to a half tone by the yellow shade; dull greyish blue was the
70. colour of the silken walls, a cool, restful tint that seemed a
fitting background for the cosy lounge draped with dark
Egyptian red and suppressed greens and yellows.
Upon the couch, in a handsome dinner-gown of pale pink
trimmed with black velvet, lazily lounged its mistress
among her silken pillows, slowly waving her fan, while near
her in one of the big saddle-bag chairs sat the Grand-Duke
Stanislas smoking a cigarette, his eyes fixed upon her.
At his throat he wore the ribbon of St. Andrew, one of the
highest of the Russian orders, the splendid diamond cross
glittering upon his shirt-front. He was on his way to a
reception at the Austrian Embassy given in his honour by
the ambassador, but at Claudia’s invitation he had dined
with her.
“No, really,” she was laughing, “it is not so in England. I
quite admit that men make it a general accusation against
us, as a sex, that we are ill-natured, unfair, pitiless, in
judging one another. They say that when women get
together, at every word a reputation dies; they say that as a
savage proves his heroism by displaying in grim array the
torn scalps of his enemies, so a woman thinks she proves
her virtue by exhibiting the mangled reputations of her
friends; they say—But there is no end to the witty
impertinences and fag-ends of rhymes from Simonides to
Pope, which they fling at us on this subject I have never
heard men so eloquently satirical as when treating with
utter scorn the idea that a woman can possibly elevate
herself in the eyes of one of their sex by degrading, or
suffering to be degraded, one of her own; and in their
censure they are right—quite right; but wrong—quite wrong
in attributing this, our worst propensity, to ill-nature and
jealousy. Ignorance is the main cause: ignorance of
ourselves and others.”
71. He laughed at her philosophy, and blew a cloud of smoke
towards the ceiling.
“I think, my dear madame, that you must be full of whims,
comme disent les Anglais. A pretty woman like yourself
always is,” he said in his marked foreign accent.
“And why not?” she inquired, for he had suddenly changed
the channel of their conversation, and she much feared that
he now intended to give her a réchauffé of his sentimental
nonsense.
“Because you brought your friend to the duchess’s last
night. I saw him. C’etait assez.”
“You are jealous—eh?”
“Not in the least, I assure you,” he answered quite coolly.
“Only it is pretty folly on madame’s part—that is all.”
“Why folly? O la belle idée!”
“Madame’s amitiés are of course friendships,” he said,
raising his dark eyebrows. “Nevertheless, she should be
warned.”
“Of what?”
“Of Monsieur the Under-Secretary,” he replied, still
regarding her quite calmly with his dark eyes. “For her own
reputation madame should no longer be seen with him.”
She glanced at her guest quickly, for she was used to men’s
jealousies. Yet surely this scion of an Imperial House could
not be jealous!
“And for what reason, pray?” she asked, puzzled.
72. “Because of a regrettable circumstance,” he answered
mysteriously. “Because of a forthcoming exposure which will
be startling. In a certain Chancellerie in a certain capital of
Europe there reposes a document which must shortly be
made public property.”
“Well, and what then?” she asked, not yet grasping his
meaning.
“Its publication will bring disgrace and ruin upon madame’s
friend,” he answered simply. “That is why I warn you not to
be seen again in his company.”
“What do you mean?” she cried, starting up with sudden
hauteur. “You tell me this, in order to turn me from him.”
“No, ma chère, I tell you a secret which is known in the
Chancellerie of a certain Power antagonistic to your
country,” he responded. “I have told madame the truth for
her own benefit.”
“You would try to poison my mind against Dudley Chisholm
by hints such as these!” she cried, magnificent in her
sudden fury. “You!—You! But let me tell you that I love him
—that—that—”
“That you refuse to believe my word!” he said, concluding
her unfinished sentence.
“Yes, that I absolutely refuse to believe you!” she declared
emphatically, facing him boldly in a manner which showed
that her nature had revolted against this attempt to
denounce the man she loved.
“C’est assez!” he laughed with an air of nonchalance the
moment he had blown a cloud of smoke from his lips.
“Madame has spoken!”
74. Chapter Fifteen.
Is told in the Grass Country.
Throughout November Dudley remained in town tied to the
House by his official duties, and saw little of Claudia, who
had gone into Leicestershire for the hunting. Riding to
hounds was her favourite sport, and she was one of the
best horse-women within fifty miles of Market Harborough.
Each season she went on a visit to Lady Atteridge, whose
husband had a box right in the centre of the hunting-
country, and at every meet she was a conspicuous figure.
An acquaintance she made in the field with the late
Empress of Austria, during a run with the Pytchley across
the Grafton country, ripened into a warm friendship, and on
many occasions she had entertained her now lamented
Majesty at Albert Gate. Nearly every year some foreign
royalty or other is the centre of hunting interest. Unable to
enjoy the race over the grass in their own land, they come
to England for healthful sport, and generally make
Harborough their headquarters. That season it was the
Grand-Duke Stanislas who rode to nearly every meet,
always accompanied by his equerry. Hence Claudia and he
frequently met, but since that evening when he had
endeavoured to turn her from the man she loved she had
avoided him. She purposely refrained from attending any
function at which he might possibly be present, and when
they were compelled to meet with the hounds she only
bowed, and seldom, if ever, offered him her hand.
On his part, he was always fussing about her, scolding her
for her too reckless riding across boggy meadows, or at
hedges made dangerous by barbed wires, and always
75. holding himself prepared to render her any of those many
little services which the hunting-man renders the fair sex in
the field. But on her part she was absolutely indifferent to
his attentions, and at the same time annoyed that he
should thus publicly exhibit his admiration.
Certainly no figure was more neat and chic than hers in its
well-cut habit, her dark hair tightly coiled beneath her
becoming hunting-hat. In the saddle she looked as if she
were part of the animal she rode, and her mare, “Tattie,”
was a splendid creature, which always came in for a full
share of praise among those who could tell a good hunter
when they saw one. The men who ride to hounds in the
Harborough country are, as a rule, hard as nails, and as
keen and outspoken critics of a woman as of a horse. But
Claudia Nevill and “Tattie” were both pronounced first-class,
the former because she was so extremely affable with one
and all, even to the farmer’s sons who followed the hounds,
and blushed with a countryman’s awkwardness when she,
the woman of whom the papers spoke, addressed them.
There was no pride about her ladyship, and the whole
countryside, from Harborough right across to Peterborough,
declared her to be “one of the right sort.”
Of course even in the villages there were whispers that she
was very friendly with the Grand-Duke, and the usual
deductions were made from the fact that the latest foreign
star in the hunting-firmament was always riding near her.
But in the country the people are very slow to give credence
to scandal, and the gossip, though active, was not ill-
natured; besides, it had long ago been known that the
Foreign Under-Secretary was passionately attached to her.
Last season Chisholm had hunted with the Pytchley and had
been always at her side, so that the rustics, and even the
members of the hunt had come to regard him as her future
76. husband, and had pronounced them to be a well-matched
pair.
Late one afternoon towards the close of November the end
of a busy day was drawing near. The meet was at Althorpe
Park, Earl Spencer’s seat, and the spinneys all around the
park were drawn one after the other; but although plenty of
pretty hunting took place, the hounds did not do any good.
On drawing No-bottle Wood the greater portion of the large
field managed to get away with the pack as the hounds
raced away up wind in the direction of Harlestone. The first
fox led his pursuers over fine grass country to a copse near
Floore, where the sight of hounds in full cry, a rare
occurrence, caused considerable excitement among the
villagers. Continuing past Weedon Beck, the fugitive circled
round in the direction of Pattishall, but he was so hotly
pressed that he was obliged to take shelter in a drain near
Bugbrook, where it was decided to leave him. The second
fox, which was started from Dowsby Gorse, gave a fine run
of an hour. He travelled first to Byfield, thence across the
hilly country back to Weedon Beck, over almost the same
district as his predecessor. Near Weedon reynard had an
encounter with some terriers belonging to a rabbiting party,
but got safely away and finally beat the pack close to the
Nene.
The run had been a very fast one, but both Claudia and
Stanislas were among the few in at the finish. As many of
the hunters jogged homeward along the Daventry road, the
Grand-Duke managed to take up his position by the side of
the beautiful woman whom he so greatly admired.
Stanislas, who was an excellent rider, had left his equerry
far behind in the mad race across hedges, ditches, stubble
and ploughed land. Somewhat bespattered by mud, he sat
his horse with perfect ease and with almost imperial dignity.
To the casual observer there was nothing to distinguish him
77. from any of the other hunters, for in his well-worn riding-
breeches, gaiters and black coat his appearance was devoid
of that elegance which had distinguished him in London
society, and he looked more like a country squire than the
son of an emperor.
They were descending the slope towards a small hamlet of
thatched cottages, when of a sudden he drew his horse
closer to hers and, turning to her, exclaimed in English of
rather a pleasant accent:
“Madame is, I fear, fatigued—of my company?”
“Oh dear no,” she laughed, turning her fine dark eyes
mischievously towards him. “Why should I be? When you
are so self-sacrificing as to leave Muriel Mortimer to Captain
Graydon’s charge and ride with me, I surely ought not to
complain.”
“Why do you speak of Mam’zelle Mortimer?” he asked, at
once grown serious.
“Because you have been flirting with her outrageously all
day. You can’t deny it,” she declared, turning to him in her
saddle.
“I was merely pleasant to her,” he admitted. “But you
English declare that a man is a flirt if he merely extends the
most commonplace courtesies to a woman. It is so different
in other countries.”
“Yes,” she laughed. “Here, in England, woman is fortunately
respected, but it is not so on the Continent.”
“I trust that madame has not found me indiscreet,” he said
earnestly. “If I have been, I must crave forgiveness,
because I am so unused to English manners.”
78. “I don’t think any one need blame you for indiscretion,
providing that Muriel does not object.”
“Object? I do not follow you,” he said.
“Well, she may object to her name being bandied about as a
woman with whom you are carrying on an open flirtation.”
“You appear to blame me for common civility to her,” he
observed. “I cannot, somehow, understand madame of late.
She has so changed.”
“Yes,” she answered with a bitter smile; “I have grown older
—and wiser.”
“Wisdom always adds charm to a woman,” he replied,
endeavouring to turn her sarcasm into a compliment.
“And age commands respect,” she answered.
He laughed uneasily, for he knew well her quick and clever
repartee.
“I have been wishing to have a word with madame for a
long time,” he said, at last breaking a silence that had fallen
between them. “You have pointedly avoided me for several
weeks. Have I given you offence? If so, I beg a thousand
pardons.”
She did not answer for some time. At heart she despised
this Imperial Prince, before whom half the women in London
bowed and curtsied. She had once allowed him to pay court
to her in his fussy, foreign manner, amused and flattered
that one of his degree should find her interesting; but all
that was now of the past. In those brief moments as they
rode together along the country road in the wintry twilight,
recollections of summer days at Fernhurst came back to her,
79. and she hated herself. In those days she had actually
forgotten Dudley. And then she also remembered how this
man had condemned her lover: how he had urged her to
break off the acquaintance, and how he had hinted at some
secret which, when exposed, must result in Dudley’s ruin.
Those enigmatical words of his had caused her much
thought. At what had he hinted? A thousand times had she
endeavoured to discover his meaning, but had utterly failed.
If such a secret actually existed, and if its revelation could
cause the downfall of Dudley Chisholm, then it was surely
her duty to discover it and to seek its suppression. This
latter thought caused her to hesitate, and to leave unsaid
the hasty answer that had flashed into her mind.
“Well,” she said at length, “now that you have spoken
plainly, I may as well confess that I have been annoyed—
very much annoyed.”
“I regret that!” he exclaimed with quick concern. “If I have
caused madame any annoyance, I assure her it was not in
the least intentional. But tell me how I have annoyed you.”
“Oh, it was a small matter, quite a trivial one,” she said with
affected carelessness, settling her habit and glancing
furtively at the man who had declared that he held her
lover’s secret.
“But you will tell me,” he urged. “Please do. I have already
apologised.”
“Then that is sufficient,” she replied.
“No, it is not sufficient I must know my offence, to be fully
cognisant of its gravity.”
80. Her brows contracted slightly, but in the fading light he did
not notice the shadow of annoyance that passed across her
countenance.
“As I have told you, the offence was not a grave one,” she
declared. “I was merely annoyed, that is all.”
“Annoyed by my actions, or by my words?”
“By your words.”
“On what occasion?”
“On the last occasion you dined at my house.”
For a moment his face assumed a puzzled expression, then
in an instant the truth flashed upon him.
“Ah!” he cried; “I recollect, of course. Madame has been
offended at what I said regarding her friend, the Under-
Secretary. I can only repeat my apologies.”
“You repeat them because what you told me was untrue!”
she exclaimed, turning and looking him full in the face.
They had allowed their horses to walk, in order to be able to
converse.
“I much regret, madame, that it was true,” he replied.
“All of it?”
“All of it.”
“And there exists somewhere or other a document which
inculpates Dudley Chisholm?”
“Yes, it inculpates him very gravely, I am sorry to say.”
81. “Sorry! Why?”
“Well, because he is madame’s friend—her very best friend,
if report speaks the truth.” There was a sarcastic ring in his
words which she did not fail to detect, and it stung her to
fury.
“I cannot see why you should entertain the least sympathy
for my friend,” she remarked in a hard voice. “More
especially for one unknown to you.”
“Oh, we have met!” her companion said. “We met in Paris
long since on an occasion when I was travelling incognito,
and I liked him. Indeed, he was dining at the Carlton a
week ago at the next table to me.”
“And you are aware of the nature of this secret, which,
according to what you tell me, must some day or other
bring about his utter downfall?”
“Ah, no. Madame misunderstands me entirely,” he hastened
to protest. “I am not a diplomatist, nor have I any
connection, official or otherwise, with diplomacy. I merely
told you of a matter which had come to my knowledge.
Recollect, that a young man in Chisholm’s position of
responsibility must have a large number of jealous enemies.
Perhaps it will be owing to one of these that the secret will
leak out.”
“It will be used for a political purpose, you mean?”
“Exactly,” replied the Grand-Duke. “Your Government, what
with the two or three contending parties, is always at war,
as it were, and the Opposition, as you term it, may, as a
coup de grace to the Government, reveal the secret.”
82. “But you told me that it was a document, and that it
reposed safely in one of the Chancelleries in a foreign
capital, if I remember aright,” she said. “Now, tell me
honestly, is St. Petersburg the capital you refer to?”
“No, it is not,” he replied promptly.
“And the Embassy in London that is aware of the truth is
not in Chesham Place?”
“Most assuredly not, madame,” he replied.
“Cannot you be more explicit,” she urged. “Cannot you, if
you are my friend, as you have more than once declared
yourself to be, tell me more regarding this extraordinary
matter which is to create such a terrible scandal?”
“No, it is impossible—utterly impossible. If I could, I would
tell madame everything. But my information really carries
me no further than the bare fact that a certain Power
antagonistic to England has been able to secure a document
which must prove the ruin of the most brilliant and
promising of the younger English statesmen.”
“And have you really no idea whatever as to the nature of
the secret?”
“None.”
“From what you tell me one would almost infer that Dudley
Chisholm had been guilty of some crime. Have you no
suspicion of its nature?”
“Absolutely none,” her companion declared. “The only other
fact I know is the whereabouts of the document in question,
and that I must keep a secret, according to my solemn
promise.”
83. “You promised not to divulge the direction in which danger
lies?” she said suspiciously. “Why did you do so? You surely
must have had some motive!”
“I had none. The affair was mentioned to me confidentially,
and I was compelled to promise that I would give no
indication as to what person held the incriminating paper. I
told madame of its existence merely to warn her, and
perhaps to prepare her for an unwelcome revelation.”
“You refuse to tell me more?” she asked quickly, “even
though you must be aware how deeply this extraordinary
matter affects me?”
“I am compelled to refuse, madame,” he answered in the
same calm, unruffled tone. “I cannot break my word of
honour.”
84. Chapter Sixteen.
Suggests a Double Problem.
Fashion, as we call it, is in these decadent days at the
mercy of any millionaire pork-butcher, or any enterprising
adventurer from across the seas. Victorian literature has
declined into the “short story” and the “problem play,”
taking its heroines from among women with a past and its
heroes from the slums. In prose, in verse, and in
conversation, the favourite style is the Cockney slang of the
costermonger, the betting-ring, and the barrack canteen. Is
it not appalling that the reek of the pot-house, the music-
hall, the turf, the share-market, the thieves’ doss-house
infects our literature, our manners, our amusements, and
our ideals of life? Yet is it not the truth?
Dudley, yielding to Claudia’s persuasion, gave a large
house-party at Wroxeter during the Christmas recess. As he
was too much occupied with his public duties to be able to
arrange the affair himself, she returned from Market
Harborough and went down to Shropshire to make his
arrangements. Truth to tell, he was wearied of the nightly
discussions in the House and his daily work at the Foreign
Office, and looked forward to a brief period of relaxation
and gaiety, when he could entertain his friends. He left
everything to her, just as he had done on several previous
occasions. Very soon after his decision to ask his friends
down to the old feudal castle, Wroxeter was the scene of
much cleaning and garnishing.
Claudia, whose charm of manner was unequalled, was an
admirable hostess of striking individuality, and her own
entertainments were always brilliant successes. Royalties
85. came to her small parties, and every one who was any one
was seen at her receptions. She it was who decided what
guests should be asked to Wroxeter, and who sent out the
invitations; then, after seeing that all was in complete
readiness, she returned again to town. She was a born
entertainer, and never so happy as when arranging a social
function, whether it was a dinner, private theatricals, a
bazaar, or a theatre supper at the Carlton. It follows that as
regards the arrangement of Dudley’s house-party at
Wroxeter she was entirely in her element.
A paragraph crept into the papers announcing how the
popular Under-Secretary intended to spend the recess. This
was copied into hundreds of papers all over the country
with that rapidity with which the personal paragraph always
travels.
Of course the invitations were sent out in Dudley’s name,
and the fact that Claudia had arranged the whole matter
was carefully concealed. As the relict of Dick Nevill she had
a perfect right to act as hostess on Chisholm’s behalf if she
so desired, but Dudley had strenuously refused to allow
this, for people might renew their ill-natured gossip. He had
no desire to submit either Claudia or himself to a fresh
burst of scandal.
The House rose. Three days later the guests began to
assemble at Wroxeter, making the old halls echo with their
laughter in a manner in which they had not echoed for
many years. Claudia herself did not arrive until a couple of
days later, but the arrangements she had made with the
housekeeper were perfect.
The guests numbered thirty-three, nearly all of them
Dudley’s most intimate friends, including a Cabinet Minister
and a sprinkling of political notabilities. Among them were,
86. of course, some smart women and pretty girls; and with a
perfect round of entertainment the Christmas festival was
kept in a right royal manner, worthy the best traditions of
the Chisholms. Holly boughs and mistletoe were suspended
in the great oak-panelled hall, while a boar’s head and other
old-world dishes formed part of the fare on Christmas Day.
Outside, the weather was intensely cold, for snow had fallen
heavily and had now frozen, giving the park and the
surrounding hills quite a fairy-like appearance. It was in
every respect such a festival as we most of us desire, “an
old-fashioned Christmas.”
The Grand-Duke was in Paris, and Dudley was secretly glad
that on this account he could not be invited. But among the
guests were the portly Lady Meldrum, whose black satin
seemed a fixed part of her, her inoffensive husband, Sir
Henry, and pretty, fair-haired Muriel Mortimer. Benthall, the
Member for East Glamorganshire, was, of course, there, but
the colonel, who had been his fellow-guest for the shooting,
had gone to Cannes for the winter, in accordance with his
usual habit.
With such a party, a woman’s directing influence was, of
course, indispensable, but Claudia acted the part of hostess
in a manner so unobtrusive that no one could demur. So
skilfully planned was the whole affair that a perfect round of
gaiety was enjoyed each day, with some amusement to
attract everybody.
Compelled to be civil and affable to everybody, Dudley
somehow found himself more often in the company of
Muriel Mortimer than in that of Claudia. Whether it was that
Lady Meldrum’s ward deliberately sought his society, or
whether chance threw them together so often, he could not
decide. At any rate, he played billiards with her, danced with
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