After lunch the Secretary returned to the Legation and made out his report to his Minister, concerning the treaty. He had looked up the word "parlous" in the dictionary, and found that it meant, "whimsical, tricky,"—a sinister interpretation he felt, when connected with anything diplomatic; moreover the Foreign Office was distressingly uninformed on the subject, another reason for suspicion. Yet, as far as he knew—only the mere formalities of settlement remained, the ratification by vote of his home Government—the exchange of protocols—and behold it was accomplished—much to the credit of his Minister and the satisfaction of all concerned. Doubtless the visit was nothing more than a bit of routine work, and his private affairs seeming for the time more important, he dismissed it from his mind as not worthy of serious consideration and compiled an elaborate report of three pages, not forgetting to mention the arrival of the Chief Clerk's lunch, as matter which might legitimately be used to fill up space. This done, he was about to leave the office in order to meet his appointment with Kent-Lauriston, when John, the genial functionaryof the Legation, beamed upon him from the door, presenting him a visiting card, and informing him that a lady was waiting in the ante-room.
"An' she's that 'ansome, sir, it would do your eyes good to see 'er."
The Secretary answered somewhat testily that his eyes were in excellent condition as it was, and that the lady did not deserve to be seen at all for coming so much after office-hours, and delaying him just as he was about to keep an appointment—then his eyes happened to fall on the card and his tone changed at once.
"Madame Darcy!" he exclaimed. "Why, what can have brought her to see me!—John, show the lady in at once, and—say my time is quite at her service."
A glance at his fair chaperon of the night before, as she entered the room, told him that she was in great trouble, and he sprang forward to take both her hands in his, with a warmth of greeting which he would have found it hard to justify, except on an occasion of such evident sorrow.
"Inez—Madame Darcy," he said, leading her to his most comfortable arm-chair—"this is indeed a pleasure—but do not tell me that you are in distress."
"I am in very great trouble."
"Anything that I can do to serve you—I need hardly say," he murmured, and paused, fascinated by this picture of lovely grief.
"I was prompted to come to you," she replied,"by your kindness of last evening, for I knew you had seen and understood, and were still my friend, and also my national representative in a foreign land, to ask your aid for a poor country-woman who is in danger of being deprived of her freedom, if not of her reason."
"But surely you are not speaking of yourself!"
"Yes, of myself."
The young diplomat said nothing for a moment or two, he was arranging his ideas—adjusting them to this new and interesting phase of his experience with Madame Darcy.
As a Secretary of Legation is generally the father confessor of his compatriots—he had ceased to be surprised at anything. People may deceive their physician, their lawyer, or the partner of their joys and sorrows; but to their country's representative in a strange land they unburden their hearts.
"Tell me," he said finally, breaking the silence, "just what your trouble is."
"I need sympathy and help."
"The first you have already," he replied with a special reserve in his manner, for he felt somehow that it was hardly fair that she should bring herself to his notice again, when he had almost made up his mind to marry a lady of whom all his friends disapproved. Indeed, in the last few minutes the force of Kingsland's remarks had made themselves felt very strongly, and he especially exerted himself to be brusque, feeling in an odd kind of way that he owed it to Miss Fitzgerald.So putting on his most official tone he added, "to help you, Madame Darcy, I must understand your case clearly."
"Don't call me by that name—give me my own—as you once did. My husband's a brute."
"Quite so, undoubtedly; but unfortunately that does not change your name."
"Would you mind shutting the door?" she replied somewhat irrelevantly. They were, as has been said, in the Secretary's private office, a dreary room, its furniture, three chairs, a desk and a bookcase full of forbidding legal volumes, its walls littered with maps, and its one window looking out on the unloveliness of a London business street.
As he returned to his seat, after executing her request, she began abruptly:—
"You're not a South American."
"No, my father was a Northerner, but, as you know, he owned large sugar plantations in your country, and if training and sympathy can make me a South American, I am one."
"You're a Protestant."
"Yes, so are you."
"It is my mother's faith, and though I was brought up in a convent at New Orleans, I've not forsaken it. I feel easier in speaking to you on that account."
"You may rest assured, my dear, that what you say to me will go no farther. 'Tis my business to keep secrets."
"Two years ago," she began abruptly, plunginginto her story, "after our—after you left home, an Englishman, a soldier returning from the East incapacitated by a fever, and travelling for his health, craved a night's rest at my father's house. As you know, in a country like ours, where decent inns are few and far between, travellers are always welcome. It was the hot season, we pressed him to stay for a day or two, he accepted, and a return of the fever made him our guest for months. He needed constant nursing—I—I was the only white woman on the plantation."
"I see," said Stanley. "You nursed him, he recovered, was grateful, paid you homage."
"Remember I was brought up in a convent. I was so alone and so unhappy. He told me you had married. I believed him—trusted him.
"Quite so. His name was Darcy. He is a liar."
"He is—my husband."
"A gentleman—I suppose?"
"The world accords him that title," she replied coldly.
"I understand— He's a man of means?"
"He has nothing but his pay."
"And you—but that question is unnecessary. Señor De Costa's name and estates are well known—and you are his only child."
"Yes, you're right," she burst out. "It's my money, my cursed money! Why do men call it a blessing! Oh, if I could trust him, I'd give him every penny of it. But I cannot, it's the onehold I have on him, and because I will not beggar myself to supply means for his extravagances he dares——"
"Not personal violence, surely?"
"To put me away somewhere—in a retreat, he calls it. That means a madhouse."
"My dear Madame Darcy!"
"Call me Inez De Costa, I willnothave that name of Darcy, I hate it."
"My dear Inez, then; your fears are groundless; they can't put sane people in madhouses any longer in England, except in cheap fiction—it's against the law."
"It's very easy for you to sit there and talk of law. You, who are protected by your office, but for me, for a poor woman whose liberty is threatened!"
"I assure you that you're in no such danger as you apprehend."
"But if I were put away, you would help me?"
"You shall suffer no injustice that we can prevent. You may return home and rest easy on that score."
"I shall never return to that man."
"Why not return to your father?"
"Would that I could!" she exclaimed, her eyes brimming with tears. "But how can I, with no money and no friends?"
"I thought you said——" began the Secretary, but his interruption was lost in the flow of her eloquence.
"I've not a penny. I can cash no cheque that'snot made to his order, and to come to you I must degrade myself by borrowing a sovereign from my maid. I've travelled third-class!"
The Secretary smiled at the ante-climax, saying:
"Many people of large means travel third-class habitually."
"But not a De Costa," she broke in, and then continued her narration with renewed ardour.
"I've no roof to shelter me to-night. No where to go. No clothes except what I wear. No money but those few shillings; but I would rather starve and die in the streets than go back to him. I'm rich. I've powerful friends. You can't have the heart to turn away from me. Have you forgotten the old friendship? You must do something—something to save me——" and in the passion, of her southern nature she threw herself at his feet, and burst into an agony of tears.
Stanley assisted her to rise, got her a glass of water, and had cause, for the second time in that interview, to thank his stars that love had already shot another shaft, because if it were not for Belle, his official position, and the fact that the Señora had one husband already—well—it was a relief to be forced to tell her that legations were not charitable institutions, and that much as he might desire to aid her, neither he nor his colleagues could interfere in her private affairs.
"Then you refuse to assist me—you leave me to my fate!" she cried, starting up, a red flush of anger mantling her cheek.
"Not at all," he hastened to say. "On the contrary, I'm going to help you all I know how. I can't interfere myself, but I can refer you to a friend of mine, whom you can thoroughly trust, and who's in a position to aid you in the matter."
"And his name?"
"His name is Peter Sanks, the lawyer of the Legation, a gentleman, truly as well as technically. A countryman of yours who has practised both here and at home, and who always feels a keen interest in the affairs of his compatriots. He has chambers in the Middle Temple. I'll give you his address on my card."
"You're most kind— I'll throw myself without delay on the clemency of this Señor——"
"Sanks."
"Madre de Dios!What a name!"
"I dare say he was Don Pedro Sanchez at home, but that would hardly go here. I've written him a line on my visiting card, requesting him to do everything he can for you, and, of course, I need hardly say to you, as a friend, not as an official, that my time and service are entirely devoted to your interests. There is nothing that I possess which you may not command."
"And for me, you do this?" she asked, looking up wistfully in his face.
He took her two little hands in his, and bending over, kissed the tips of their fingers.
"I cannot express the gratitude," she began.
"Don't," he said, cutting short her profusethanks. "It's nothing, I assure you. Here is my card to Sanks. Better go to him at once, or you may miss him. It's nearly three o'clock." And feeling that it was unsafe to trust himself longer in her presence, he touched the bell, saying to the confidential clerk who answered it:—
"The door, John."
A moment later she was gone, leaving only the subtle perfume of her presence in the room. Stanley threw himself moodily into the nearest chair. It was too bad that this bewitching woman should be married to a brute. It was too bad that he couldn't do more to help her, and it was—yes, it really was too bad, that she should have come again into his life just at the present moment. She was so exactly like what he had fancied the ideal woman he was to marry ought to be. But she wasn't a bit like Belle, and the reflection was decidedly disturbing. And now, he supposed, she would get a divorce, and—oh, pshaw! it wasn't his affair anyway, and he was late for his appointment with Kent-Lauriston.
He rang his office bell sharply, picking up his hat and gloves as he did so, and saying to the messenger who answered his summons:—
"Give this report to his Excellency, John, and let me have some visiting cards, will you—— No, no, not any official ones. Some with my private address on."
"Very sorry Sir, but they're all out. I ordered some more day before yesterday, Sir. They should have come by now."
"Just my luck, why didn't you attend to them earlier?"
"Isn't there one on your desk, Sir. I'm sure I saw one lying there this morning."
"Why, yes, so there was." And he turned hastily back, only to exclaim after a moment's hopeless rummaging:—
"Confound it! I must have given it to Señora De Costa!"
Kent-Lauriston was prompt to his appointment, and it took but a few moments to establish the Secretary and himself in a private room with a plentiful supply of cigarettes, and two whiskeys and sodas.
Stanley was nervous and showed it. Kent-Lauriston adjusted his monocle, tugged at his long sandy moustache, and surveyed his companion from head to foot.
"Not feeling fit?" he queried. "Suffering from political ennui?"
"Oh, my health is all right, as far as that goes——"
"Yes, I see," this last remark meditatively. Then he added. "Some deuced little scrape?"
Stanley nodded.
"Woman?"
"It concerns a lady—perhaps two."
Kent-Lauriston frowned, and tugged his moustache a trifle harder, to imply that he now understood the affair to be of a more complex order, requiring the aid of skilful diplomacy, in place of the simple directness of five-pound notes.
"Want my advice, I suppose?"
"Yes," admitted Stanley, "and so I'd better make a clean breast of the matter."
"Decidedly."
"The fact is, I want to marry—or rather, don't want to marry—no, that's not it either— I want to marry the girl bad enough, but I think I'd better not. It would be what the world—what you might call, a foolish match."
"Deucedly hard hit, I suppose?"
"You see," continued the Secretary, ignoring his friend's question, "I know I oughtn't to marry her, but left to myself, I'd do it, and I need a jolly good rowing—only you mustn't be disrespectful to the lady—I—I couldn't stand that."
"I think I know her name."
"Miss Fitzgerald. You dined with her at the Hyde Park Club last evening."
"Daughter of old Fitzgerald of the —th Hussars——"
"I—I believe that was her father's regiment, but now she lives——"
"Lives!" interjected Kent-Lauriston. "No, she doesn't live—visits round with her relatives—old Irish ancestry—ruined castles and no rents—washy blue eyes and hair, at present, golden."
"She is one of the most beautiful Irish girls I've ever seen," cried Stanley. "In repose her face is spirituelle. She is a cousin of Lord Westmoorland."
"Fourteenth cousin—twice removed."
"I don't know her degree of relationship."
"I do."
"She's splendid vitality and courage," said the Secretary, desirous of turning the conversation, which threatened to drift into dangerous channels. "She's dashing, thoroughly dashing."
"Gad, I'm with you there! I've seldom seen a better horse-woman. I've watched her more than once in the hunting field put her gee at hedges and ditches that many a Master of Hounds would have fought shy of,—and clear 'em, too."
Stanley smiled, delighted to hear a word of commendation from a quarter where he least expected it, but Kent-Lauriston's next remark was less gratifying.
"Little rapid, isn't she? Trifle fond of fizz-water and cigarettes?"
"She's the spirits of youth," said the Secretary, a trifle coldly.
"Let me see," mused his adviser. "How about that Hunt Ball at Leamington?"
"I wasn't there, and I must ask you to remember that you're talking of a lady."
"Um, pity!" said his friend ambiguously, and added, "How far have you put your foot in it?"
"Well, I haven't asked her to marry me."
"Ah. Order me another whiskey and soda, please," and Kent-Lauriston sat puffing a cigarette, and tugging at his moustache till the beverage came. Then he drank it thoughtfully, not saying a word; a silence that was full of meaning to Stanley, who flushed and began to fidget uneasily about the room.
Having finished the last drop, and disposed of his cigarette, his adviser looked up and said shortly:—
"How did this begin?"
"I met her some months ago—but only got to know her intimately at the races."
"Derby?"
"No, Ascot."
"Royal Enclosure, of course."
"Royal Enclosure, of course. She was visiting her aunt."
"I know. That type of girl has dozens of aunts."
"Her uncle brought her down and introduced us. He left her a moment to go to the Paddock and never came back."
"Um, left you to do the honours."
"Exactly so, and I did them. Saw the crowd, saw the gees, had lunch—you know the programme."
"Only too well. Do any betting?"
"A little."
"Thought it was against your principles. You told me so once."
"I—I didn't bet—that is——"
"Oh, I see. She did."
"Rather—a good round sum."
"You knew the amount?"
"Well, the fact is—she'd given her uncle her pocket-book, and he got lost."
"Clever uncle; so you paid the reckoning."
"She said she knew the winning horse."
"We always do know the winners."
"This was an exception to prove the rule."
"So you put down—and she never paid up."
"Youth is forgetful, and of course—you can't dun a lady."
"No—you can't dun alady!"
"Look here!" cried Stanley. "I won't stand that sort of thing!"
"Beg your pardon, I was thinking aloud, beastly bad habit, purely reminiscent, I assure you. Go on."
"Well, of course I saw something of her after that. Aunt invited me to call, also to dine."
"What about that trip down the Thames?"
"Why, I'd arranged my party for that before I met Belle—I mean Miss Fitzgerald."
"Oh, call her Belle, I know you do."
"And she happened to mention, quite accidentally, that one of her unaccomplished ideals was a trip down the Thames. I fear she's shockingly cramped for money you know, so as I happened to have a vacant place——"
"You naturally invited her— I wonder how she found out there was a vacant place," mused Kent-Lauriston.
"My dear fellow," reiterated Stanley. "I tell you she didn't even know I was getting it up. Of course if she had, she'd never have spoken of it. Miss Fitzgerald is far above touting for an invitation."
"Of course. Well you must have advanced considerably in your acquaintance during thetrip. Had her quite to yourself, as it were, since I suppose she knew none of the party."
"Oh, but she did. She knew Lieutenant Kingsland."
"To be sure. He was the man who wagered her a dozen dozen pairs of gloves that she wouldn't swim her horse across the Serpentine in Hyde Park."
"And she won, by Jove! I can tell you she has pluck."
"And they were both arrested in consequence. I think the Lieutenant owed her some reparation, and I must say a trip down the Thames was mostà propos."
"Look here, Kent-Lauriston, if you're insinuating that Kingsland put her up to——"
"Far from it, my boy, how could I insinuate anything so unlikely? Well, what other unattainable luxuries did you bestow?"
"Nothing more to speak of—why, yes. Do you know the poor little thing had never seen Irving, or been inside the Lyceum?"
"So you gave the 'poor little thing' a box party, and a champagne supper at the Savoy afterwards, I'll be bound, and yet surely it was at the Lyceum that——"
"What?"
"Oh, nothing, I was becoming reminiscent once more; it's a bad habit. Let's have the rest of it."
"There isn't much more to tell. I've ridden with her sometimes in the Park. Given her a dinner at the Wellington, a few teas at the HydePark Club. I think that's all—flowers perhaps, nothing in the least compromising."
"Compromising! Why, it's enough to have married you to three English girls."
"She's Irish."
"I beg her pardon," and Kent-Lauriston bowed in mock humility.
"What do you think of my case, honestly?"
"Honestly, I think she means to have you, and if I was a betting man, I'd lay the odds on her chances of winning."
"Confound you!" broke in Stanley. "You've such a beastly way of taking the words out of a man's mouth and twisting them round to mean something else. Here I started in to tell you of my acquaintance with Miss Fitzgerald, and by the time I've finished you've made it appear as if her actions had been those of an adventuress, a keen, unprincipled, up-to-date Becky Sharp. Why, you've hardly left her a shred of character. I swear you wrong her, she's not what you've made me make her out,—not at all like that."
"What is she like then?"
"She is a poor girl without resources or near relations, thrown on the world in that most anomalous of positions, shabby gentility; who has to endure no end of petty insults; insults, covert, if not open, from men like you, who ought to know better. I tell you she's good and straight, straight as a die; brave, fearless, plucky—isn't the word for it. A little headstrong, perhaps, and careless of what the world may say, but whomhas she had to teach her better? There's no harm in her though. Of that I'm sure. And underneath an exterior of what may seem flippancy, her heart rings true; but you're so prejudiced you'll never admit it."
"On the contrary," replied his friend, lighting another cigarette, "I'm perfectly willing to agree to nearly all that you have just said in her favour—all that is of vital importance, at least. I know something of this young lady's career, and I'm prepared to say I don't believe there is anything bad in her. She has to live by her wits, and they must be sharp in consequence; and having to carve out her own destiny instead of having a mother to do so for her, she has become self-reliant, and to some extent careless of the impression she makes, which has given her a reputation for indiscretion which she really does not deserve. She's certainly charming, and undeniably dashing, though whether it arises from bravery or foolhardiness, I'm not prepared to say; but one thing I can state most emphatically—you're not the man to marry her."
"And why not, pray?"
"Because you're too good for her."
"That's a matter of opinion."
"No—matter of fact."
Stanley flushed angrily—but Kent-Lauriston continued:
"No need to fly into a passion; what I say is perfectly true. The only way for Belle Fitzgerald to marry, be happy, and develop the best that isin her, is to have a husband whose methods—forceful or otherwise—she can understand and appreciate. You are too good for her. Her struggle with life has been a hard one, she has seen the seamy side of human nature, and it has taught her to estimate all men at their worst. She'd consider your virtue, weakness. You could never take her to South America and the ancestral plantation; it would bore her to extinction. She'd require to live in London or keep open house in the country, and she'd gather about her the set she goes with now. Her companions, her manner of life, you think unworthy of her; already they grate on your finer sensibilities, blinded as you are; believe me, they'd grate much more when she bore your name. No, the only man who could marry her, be happy, make her happy, and keep his good name untarnished in the future, would be one who knows her world better than she does herself; who has a past that even she would shudder at; who has no ideals, no aspirations, just manly vigour and brute force; who could guide her with a hand of steel in a glove of velvet, and pull her up short at the danger line, because he knows what lies beyond, and she knows that he knows. She'd tire of you in six months; she would not dare to tire of the other man."
"I think you wrong her," said Stanley wearily. "Indeed, your own criticism of her might be applied to yourself. Your knowledge of the world has caused you unconsciously to misjudge a natureyou cannot understand. Yet I know that my friends would all voice your sentiments—that they'd all be disappointed in the match."
"Exactly so—and they'd be in the right—excuse me for being blunt, but with your wealth and social position you would be simply throwing yourself away."
"I know all that—but—I'm so sorry for her."
"You could serve her better as her friend than as her husband. She must live your life or you must live hers—in either case, one of you would be unhappy."
"I half believe you're right. Confound it! I know you're right, and yet—how am I to get out of it with honour?"
"Don't have any false sentimentality about that, my boy. Believe me, she understands the situation much better than you do. So far you have been chums; if you stop there, she is too much a woman of the world to lay it up against you. You've given her much pleasure during the past season and she appreciates it; but she's quite enough of a philosopher to accept cheerfully the half-loaf."
"But I can't be just a friend."
"Not now, perhaps, but you can a few months later, when other things have supervened."
"If I see her again—it's all over."
"Don't see her then."
"That is just the point. She's going to stay with an aunt in Sussex."
"Another aunt?"
"Yes, Mrs. Roberts, and I am invited to go down to the house-party to-morrow, and have accepted, and shall come back engaged."
"Send your excuses, by all means, write to-day."
"Yes, I suppose it's for the best, but you know I hate to do it. Somehow I can't think all you imply of her."
"My dear boy," said Kent-Lauriston, "I may be doing the lady gross injustice and keeping you out of a very good thing, but even in that case you must not go to Sussex. For heaven's sake, man, take time to consider! It's too important a matter to be decided in a hurry. If she cares for you and is worthy of you, she'll give you every fair opportunity of asking her the fateful question and a reasonable amount of time to think it over. Take a fortnight for calm reflection; it's very little to allow for what may be a life's happiness or misery. Meanwhile try and keep your mind off it. Run over to Paris with me. If at the end of our trip you still feel the same towards her, I won't stand in your way, I promise you. Come, is that a fair offer?"
"Most kind," said Stanley, "and to show you my appreciation of all the trouble you've taken, I'll send my regrets to Mrs. Roberts by the first post."
"Good boy!" said his mentor, sententiously.
"I don't know about Paris, as to whether I can get leave, I mean."
"Nonsense, you have already arranged yourleave for the house-party, I'll be bound. Dine with me here to-morrow night at eight, and we'll talk it over."
"Thanks, I will. I must be going now, I have to look in at a tea or two."
"Not to meet our charming enchantress?"
"No, no, trust me, I'll play fair," and he was gone.
Kent-Lauriston puffed meditatively at his cigarette, now that he was alone, and tugged hard at his moustache.
"The little Fitzgerald a pattern of all the virtues, eh?" he said, half to himself, and half to the departing Secretary, and added, under his breath:
"Gad! How she would rook him! Never been to the Lyceum or down the Thames! May she be forgiven!"
The Secretary had stated that he had several calls to make, but they resolved themselves into one, the fact being that the day was disagreeable and the prospect of riding vast distances in hansom cabs, interspersed with short intervals of tea, not alluring. He therefore decided to confine his attentions to one hostess, and selected his missing chaperon, Lady Rainsford, whose indisposition had come so near wrecking his little dinner. Her Ladyship had much to commend her. Her house was central and large, one knew one would meet friends there, and there were plenty of nooks and corners for tête-à-têtes, while, as her circle was most select, and she received frequently, there was a fair chance that her rooms would not be crowded.
Stanley found his hostess quite recovered, and standing by the side of a bright fire in a diminutive fireplace, for the rain had made the day a bit chilly.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Secretary," she cried, as he entered. "I was beginning to think you'd not forgiven me for leaving you in the lurch last night."
"Don't speak of it, I beg," he said, hastening to deprecate her apologies. "I should have called to enquire the first thing this morning."
"You should most certainly, and I ought to tax you with base desertion," she went on.
"That would be impossible, but I'm a victim of stern necessity. Society demands all my spare time, and I'm forced, as one always is in London, to neglect my friends for my acquaintances."
"You deserve a thorough rating, and if it were not for my duties as hostess, I'd give it to you here and now."
"I claim the protection of your hearth," he rejoined, laughing.
"Oh! But it's such a tiny hearth," she remonstrated.
"And I," he added, "am such an insignificant personage."
"I won't have you run yourself down in that way. I believe you are a great social lion. Come, confess, how many teas have you been to in the last seven days?"
"Fifty-six."
"Good gracious! How do you men stand it, and having something to eat and a cup of tea at every place?"
"Shall I enlighten you as to the professional secrets of the habitual tea-goer? We don't."
"But surely you can't always refuse."
"I never refuse. I always accept the cup—and put it down somewhere."
"For another guest to knock over. You're ahardened reprobate, but this time you shall not escape. You know Miss Campbell, who is pouring tea for me this afternoon? No? Then I'll introduce you. Miss Campbell, this is Secretary Stanley, a member of the Diplomatic Corps, who has just confessed to me that he habitually eludes the trustful hostess and the proffered tea. You'll give him a cup and see that he drinks it before he leaves the room," and the vivacious little woman departed, leaving him no alternative but to accept his fate meekly.
"How do you like your tea?" inquired Miss Campbell, a young lady deft of hand, but with few ideas.
"Lemon and no sugar."
"How nasty! But then, I forgot you never really drink it, Lady Rainsford says. But this time——"
"This time," he replied, "I'm a lamb led to the slaughter."
Miss Campbell said, "Really?" Then there followed an awkward silence.
Looking around for some means of escape, he saw a face in the crowd, that caused him to start, so utterly unexpected and out of place did it seem, considering what he had heard that afternoon. It was the face of Colonel Darcy.
He did not think the man knew him, and for obvious reasons he did not care to be introduced; so he turned again to Miss Campbell, who, seeing no alternative, rose to the occasion and continued the conversation by remarking:—
"Is it true that you go to such an enormous number of teas? What do you find to talk about?"
"Oh, I don't find much. I talk about the same thing at every tea. If you meet other people it makes no difference."
"How clever of you!"
"On the contrary it's simply dulness, and because I'm lazy—I——" but he left his sentence unfinished, for Miss Campbell's attention was palpably wavering, and her glance spoke of approaching deliverance. He looked over his shoulder to see Darcy advancing with Lieutenant Kingsland.
The two officers had met in the crush a few minutes before, and the Colonel had lost no time in taking Kingsland to task for his stupidity of the past night.
"I'm no end sorry," the Lieutenant said, in very apologetic tones.
"That doesn't give me my letter," growled the Colonel.
"I know I'm an awful duffer," assented Kingsland, "but when he came up behind me and asked questions about it, I was so staggered I let him take it right out of my hands. It wasn't addressed, you know, and I naturally couldn't say who gave it to me."
"I should hope not indeed."
"Well, what shall I do—ask him for it?"
"No, no, leave it alone; you've blundered enough. You all meet at a country house to-morrow."
"Yes."
"Well, trust its recovery to her; she'll get it, if he has it with him. If he leaves it behind in London so much the easier for me."
"But I thought you were coming down——"
"You think a great deal too much, and your actions are——"
"Sh!" whispered the Lieutenant, laying his hand on Darcy's arm. "He's looking our way, he'll hear us."
Stanley had not caught a word of the previous conversation, but a whisper sometimes carries much farther than the ordinary tones of the voice, and he heard the caution and saw the gesture which accompanied it, very distinctly.
The Colonel and the Lieutenant were close upon him by this time, and Stanley, who had no wish to be recognised, began to move off, and disappeared in the crowd, determined to make the best of his way to the door. He was terribly bored.
He was not destined to escape quite so easily, however, for Lady Isabelle McLane sighted him in transit, and in a moment more had drawn him into a protecting corner with two seats, and settled down to a serious conversation.
"I hear you're going down to the Roberts'," she said; "I'm invited too."
"Then I'm all the more sorry that I'm not to be there," he replied.
"You surprise me; I supposed your acceptance was of some standing. I hope there's nothingwrong, that your chief hasn't forgotten his position, and turned fractious?"
"Oh, no, my chief behaves very well," Stanley hastened to assure her, "but the fact is—I, well, I don't find it convenient."
"Or, in other words, you've some reason for not wanting to go."
He assented, having learned by long and bitter experience, that when a woman makes up her mind to exert her faculties of instinct, it is easier by far to acquiesce at once in any conclusion to which she may have jumped, however erroneous.
"Will you be shocked if I say I'm glad of it?"
The Secretary shrugged his shoulders; he thought he knew what was coming.
"It certainly isn't complimentary to me," he replied; "but you've always exercised the prerogative of a friend to tell disagreeable truths."
"Now, that's very unkind, Mr. Stanley. I'm sure I only do it for your good."
"My dear Lady Isabelle, if you'll allow a man who is older than your charming self, and who has seen more of the world than I hope you'll ever do——"
"To tell a disagreeable truth?" she queried, filling out the sentence, as pique prompted her.
"To make a suggestion."
"It's the same thing. Go on."
"It's merely this. That you'll never achieve a great social success till you've realised that the well-being of your friends is your least important consideration."
"Dear me, Mr. Secretary, I had no idea you were so tender in regard to Miss Fitzgerald."
"Who said anything about Miss Fitzgerald?"
"I did. I don't suppose you knew she was to be at Roberts' Hall."
"Certainly I know it. That is the very reason why I'm not going."
"I'm unfeignedly rejoiced. I've watched your progress in London with much interest, and believe me, Miss Fitzgerald is a stumbling-block in your path."
"All my friends, all the people who have my good at heart," he replied a trifle testily, "seem to think it their duty to warn me against Miss Fitzgerald."
"I should hate to see you become entangled."
"I'm sorry to disappoint you, but there's not even the shadow of a chance of such an event coming to pass. Miss Fitzgerald and I are both philosophers in our way. We attend to the serious business of society when we are apart, and indulge in a little mild and harmless flirtation when we occasionally meet, quite understanding that it means nothing, and is merely a means of relaxation, to keep our hands in, as it were."
"You say that so glibly, that I'm sure you must have said it before. It's flippant, and, besides that, it's not strictly true."
"Really!"
"Oh, excuse me if I've said anything rude, but this is a very, very serious matter, according to my way of thinking! and I do wish you'd consent tobe serious about it just for once, won't you, to please me?"
"Certainly, if you wish it, and I'm amazingly honoured that you should have spent so much of your valuable time over my poor affairs."
"That isn't a promising beginning," she said reflectively, "for a man who has agreed to be serious; but really now, you must know that I'm distressed about you. Your attentions to this lady are the talk of London."
"I've told you," he replied, "that I've refused this invitation to the house-party. Isn't that a sufficient answer, and won't it set your mind at rest?"
"Ye-es. Would you object if I asked just one more question? If you think it horribly impertinent you're just to refuse to answer it."
"Ask away."
"Had you, before refusing, previously accepted this invitation of Mrs. Roberts?"
"Yes," he replied, a trifle sheepishly.
"Thanks, so much," she said, "I quite understand now."
"Then may we talk on some more congenial subject?"
"No, you must take me back to Mamma."
"What, was I only taken aside to be lectured?"
"Oh, no," she hastened to assure him, naïvely—it was her first season—"but we have been chatting already fifteen minutes, and that's long enough."
"Oh, dear!" he said regretfully, "I thought I'd left Mrs. Grundy at the tea-table."
"You are so careless yourself that you forget that others have to be careful. Here comes Lieutenant Kingsland to my rescue. You would not believe it, Lieutenant," she continued, as that officer approached them, "this gentleman considers himself abused because I will not talk to him all the afternoon."
"I quite agree with him," said Kingsland, "not that I have ever had that felicity; it's one of my most cherished ambitions."
"You're as bad as he is; take me to Mamma, at once."
"I'll take you to have some tea. Won't that do as well?" and they moved away.
Ten minutes later the Secretary met the Dowager Marchioness of Port Arthur, who bore down on him at once.
"Mr. Stanley, have you seen my daughter?" she demanded. "I'm waiting to go home, and I can't find her anywhere."
"The last I saw of her she was with Lieutenant Kingsland."
"Oh, youhaveseen her this afternoon, then."
This last remark seemed tempered with a little disapproval.
"I had the pleasure of fifteen minutes' chat with her," continued the Secretary imperturbably. The Marchioness raised her eyebrows.
"At least she said it was fifteen minutes"—hehastened to explain—"it didn't seem as long to me; then Lieutenant Kingsland arrived."
"I knew his mother," she said, "he comes of one of the best families in the land."
Most young men would have been crushed by the evident implication, but Stanley rose buoyantly to the occasion.
"He proposed——" he began.
The Marchioness started.
"To get her a cup of tea," continued the Secretary, placidly finishing his sentence.
"You may escort me to the tea-table," she replied, frigidly, and added: "We leave town to-morrow."
"Yes, I know," said her companion, as they edged their way through the crowd. "I'm invited myself."
"I should think you would find it difficult to attend to the duties of your office, if you make a practice of accepting so many invitations."
"Oh, I haven't accepted," he returned cheerfully.
The Marchioness was manifestly relieved.
They had by this time reached the tea-table. Lady Isabelle was nowhere in sight.
"I do not see my daughter," said her mother severely. "You told me she was here."
"Pardon me, I told you that Lieutenant Kingsland offered to get her a cup of tea."
"Well."
"But they went in the opposite direction."
"I won't detain you any longer, Mr. Stanley."The Dowager's tone was frigid. "If my daughter is in Lieutenant Kingsland's charge, I feel quite safe about her. She could not be in better hands."
The Secretary bowed and went on his way rejoicing, and his way, in this instance, led him to his lodgings.
"I wonder why she is so down on me and so chummy with Kingsland," he thought. "If she'd seen him on my launch on the Thames, she might think twice before entrusting her daughter to his charge. Well, it's none of my business, any more than my affairs are the business of Lady Isabelle."
He was just a little annoyed at the persistency with which his friends joined in crying down a woman, who, whatever her faults might be, possessed infinite fascination, and was, he honestly believed, not half so bad as she was painted. He told himself that he must seek the first opportunity that circumstances gave him at Mrs. Roberts' house-party, to have a serious talk with Miss Fitzgerald and warn her, as gently as he could, of what was being said about her. Then he recollected with a start, that he had decided not to go, that he had promised to write a refusal and—no, that he hadnotwritten. He would do so at once. His latch-key was in his hand.
He opened the door. There was his valet, Randell, standing in the hall, but with a look on his face which caused Stanley to question him as to its meaning, before he did anything else.
"Puzzled? I am a bit puzzled. That's a fact, sir," Randell replied to his question. "And it's about that lady," indicating the Secretary's sitting-room with a jerk of his thumb.
"What lady?"
"Why, the lady as come here half an hour ago, with her luggage, and said she was going to stay."
"Randell, are you drunk or dreaming? I know of no lady," cried Stanley, amazed.
"Well, you can see for yourself, sir," replied the valet, throwing open the door.
The Secretary stepped in, and confronted—Madame Darcy.
"Madame Darcy!" he exclaimed, too astonished not to betray in some measure his emotions. Then following the direction of her eyes, and noting the interrogatory glance, which she threw at Randell, he signed to his valet to leave them together.
"To what have I the honour——" he began abruptly, his voice showing some trace of the irritation he was not quite able to suppress. Surely, he thought, Inez De Costa, large as the liberty of her youth might have been, must know that in England, worse still in London, a lady cannot visit a bachelor's apartments alone, without running great danger of having her actions misconstrued.
She, with true feminine intuition, was none the less keen to realise the awkwardness of the situation, and to suffer more acutely because of the inconvenience to which she was putting him.
"A thousand pardons for this unwarrantable intrusion," she interrupted, "on one who has already loaded me with favours. It is the result of a stupid—a deplorable blunder—for which I shall never forgive myself. But once it had been committed,it seemed better that I should stay and explain. What letter could ever have made suitable apology—have made clear beyond all doubt, as I must make it clear, that until I had passed your threshold I had no suspicion that these were your lodgings, and not the Legation."
Stanley bowed, he could not but believe her, every anguished glance of her eyes, every earnest tone of her impassioned voice, carried conviction. But how had this strange mischance come about.
"You've seen Sanks?" he asked, breaking the silence.
"Ah, that is it," she exclaimed, thankful for the outlet he had suggested. "That good Señor Sanks, he was so kind, he said I had a case, and could be protected from—him. He has written a letter, I forget what he called it, some legal name, requiring my husband to surrender my goods, my money, and I have written him also to send them to your care at the Legation, as he told me. Then I drive here with what I have— I had nothing when I started, but he advanced me a sum," she flushed, "to buy what was needful till my trunks come. He advised me to stay at some private hotel, known only to you and to himself, till my husband has declared his attitude in the case. I make my purchases, I drive, as I suppose, to the Legation, my luggage is unloaded and carried in. I ask if Señor Stanley, if you are here, they say you will be shortly, I dismiss my cab, I enter, then I find it is not the Legation—it is your private apartments."
She paused, awaiting his sentence of displeasure—but his tone was rather that of thoughtful wonder.
"How could Sanks have made the mistake in my address? He knew, must have known, them, both."
"It was my fault, all mine," she broke in hastily. "It was undecided where I should have my things sent. I filled in the address myself, from your card."
"Ah, that's it," said Stanley, beginning to see light. "I remember now, I gave you my private card by mistake for my official one. You've nothing to distress yourself about, Inez, this is my blunder, and it is I who must beg your pardon."
"Ah, we will not beg each other's pardon then. It is a foolishness between friends," she returned, with just that little foreign touch which rendered her so irresistible.
"I quite agree with you," he replied heartily. "We've other and more important things to consider."
"But what to do?" she exclaimed.
"Well, you must take Sanks' advice, and go to some quiet, private Hotel,—say X——'s. I know them and will introduce you, send you over with Randell: it's better than going with you myself. You'll find it most comfortable."
She shivered and shrugged her shoulders.
"But of course," he hastened to add, "you'll stay and dine with me first."
"But Jim!" she said, rising.
"But why not?" he persisted. "It's a beastly night. You're here. It makes little difference whether you stay an hour or two, or the thirty minutes you have already remained. I'll send you over early in the evening."
"But the household——"
"They'd know in any event. The fact is the important thing to them, the details do not matter. Your staying here for dinner in a prosaic manner, as if there was no reason why you shouldn't, would do more to stop tongues from wagging, than your sudden disappearance after a mysterious visit. Believe me, I should not urge this if it were more or less than common sense."
"But your engagements?"
"I should have dined alone in any case."
She stood uncertain whether to go or to remain, one hand upon the table. Then she smiled at him, though there were tears in her eyes, saying;—
"I will stay— I will trust to your judgment. Whom have I to trust but you?"
"Good!" he cried, an air of quick decision taking possession of him, now her consent had been given; "my landlady will put a room at your disposal should you wish to remove the stains of travel before dinner. You'll find her kindly, if inexperienced. I'll go and explain the situation to her and to my valet." And he stepped towards the door.
"Explain?"
"Explain by all means, my dear. In thiscountry it is the greatest of all mistakes to try to deceive your servants, especially where circumstances give the slightest scope for misconstruction."
"I thought servants were our worst scandal-mongers."
"True, they're only human. But put a well-trained servant on his honour by giving him your confidence, and he's far less likely to betray you, than if you try to blind him to an obvious truth."
She laughed, and he left her to arrange for his impromptu dinner.
When they sat down to table, half an hour later, she was more self-possessed than he had ever before seen her, and chatted away quite gaily on indifferent topics, each taking great care to avoid the one subject which neither could forget.
With the fruit and wine, the valet, who performed the double office of body servant and butler, left them to themselves, having first received careful directions from Stanley in regard to escorting madame to her hotel, half an hour hence.
Once they were alone the reserve, which the servant's presence had called into play, was no longer exerted, and she spoke freely of her own troubles.
"You've no idea," she said, "what a misery my winter in England has been. I shall never look back on it without feeling that this is the most cruel place on earth."
"You mustn't judge the whole country from your own unfortunate experience," the Secretaryhastened to interpose. "I've never found more true culture and refinement than I've met with here."
"Ah," she replied, "but when the Englishman is a brute——! Since I came to this country, I've never written a word to my father that has not been read and—approved!" There was a wealth of scorn in her tones. "Not a word of my sorrows, of the indignities, the insults he had heaped upon me. Any attempt to post a letter on my own account, or to send it by a servant, has resulted in failure, and in the ignominy of having it opened, and destroyed in my presence. My income lies there in the bank. His brother is the banker. I had the choice of drawing cheques to my husband's order, or not drawing them at all."
"Were you then deprived of money? Surely, to keep up outside appearances, and I judge your husband would have desired that, you must have had an allowance?"
"I had unlimited credit in the town," she replied. "I could buy what I pleased and charge it, but not a shilling did I have wherewith to pay. It was my maid, my good Marie, who, when he threatened me with detention, gave me her little all, her savings, and told me to run away—ah, that was bitter! But I knew she meant no disrespect—I accepted it—she shall be repaid a hundred-fold."
"I think you need have no fears of not being restored to all your rights and privileges," he said, "and then?"
"Then I will be free."
"You mean you will procure a separation?"
"A divorce."
"But surely your husband——"
"Oh, he has not even constancy to commend him; he does not even conceal his preferences. He is always receiving letters from some woman—some old friend, he tells me—calling him to London for an hour, or a day, as the case may be, and no matter what plans I may have made, he goes."
"You know her name?"
"She signs her Christian name only—no wonder—but I have her letters and I'll find her out."
"And when you've found her, what then? Will you plead with her?"
"I?" she cried. "I, a De Costa, degrade myself by pleading with a woman of that class!"
The Secretary shrugged his shoulders.
"I think every woman," he said, "has some good in her, low as she may be, some spark of longing for better things, some element of self-respect that never quite dies out."
"You're right," she admitted. "A man is by nature a brute. A woman, even at her worst, is not quite that. Some extra spark of divinity seems to have been given her in compensation for her weakness."
"I believe no woman is wholly bad," said the Secretary. "The worst women of history have, at some moments in their lives, been very near redemption."
"I believe that is so," she replied.
"I am very glad to hear you say that. If you can still find charity in your heart for your own sex, surely I may believe, even in the face of my friends' hostile criticism."
"And is there a woman, whom you—shall we say, 'respect' enough to believe in—no matter what is said of her?"
"There is," he replied.
"Then be sure she has some virtues worthy of that respect. I can picture," she went on, "the woman whom you should marry. You must be, to her, an ideal, and she must live her life in terms of you. Gentle and refined, and knowing more of your home than of the world."
The Secretary sighed.
"These are the women," he said, "that we dream of, not that we marry."
"There are many such in the world," she returned. "Is not the woman you are defending one of them?"
"No," he said, "not like that."
"Then she is not worthy of you, she will grate upon you. Does she ever do so?"
"I love her," he said simply.
"Then you will marry her. I'm so glad!" she returned, offering him her hand.
"I don't know. I don't think so," he replied. "I can't tell how I should act."
"Then you do not love her. Love is blind, it does not reason."
"I love her," he repeated, seeking to justifyhimself. "Certainly I love her, but one should, in this day and generation, love wisely."
"One should love," she replied, "and that is all, neither wisely nor unwisely—love has no limits. You do not love her—you must not marry her—you will be unhappy if you do. I believe she grates on you, you'll never find the good that is in her. That power has been given to some other man."
Stanley raised his hand in protestation, but at that moment, Randell appeared in the doorway, equipped to take Madame De Costa to her hotel, and their private conversation was at an end.
She made her adieux very prettily, not saying too much in the valet's presence, but enough to show how truly deep was her appreciation of the Secretary's kindness, and left him wishing, wondering. He found time before retiring to re-read all Belle's letters for the first time critically, and seriously caught himself wondering if one could really love a woman who wrote slang and whose spelling was not always above suspicion. Subsequently, he remembered, having dismissed Randell for the night, that he had never written that letter to Mrs. Roberts.
It was certainly an unfortunate oversight, but it was too late now; he would telegraph his regrets in the morning, and he fell asleep while making up his mind that he was very glad he had decided not to go.
He arose refreshed and altogether philosophic,relegated Madame De Costa to past diplomatic experiences, and in the light of that youthful folly which wears the guise of wisdom, told himself, as he walked across the Green Park to his office, that he was glad the incident was over. But nevertheless, while he thought of the fair Señora many times during the morning, the existence of Miss Fitzgerald, or of her aunt, never occurred to him till force of circumstances brought it to his mind.
Force of circumstances, in this instance, found actual embodiment in the person of Randell, who put in an appearance at the Legation about noon. The valet had never been there before in his life, and his appearance in Stanley's office was assurance in itself that something most unusual must have happened. The instant he set eyes on him, the Secretary was prepared for a fire or the death of a relative—at least.
"Well?" he said. "What is it?"
"A gentleman 'as called to see you, sir, at the house."
"You didn't come all the way down here to tell me that!" he exclaimed, immensely relieved.
"Yes, sir. You see, sir, it was some particular gentleman."
"Who?"
"Colonel Darcy, sir."
"Good Heavens!"
"And very excited, sir."
"Naturally; but how did he know that Madame De Costa—Mrs. Darcy, I mean. That is, why didn't he come to the Legation?"
"You see, sir, as he told me the story——" and Randell paused uneasily.
"Well, out with it, man: what did he tell you?"
"That the lady had written him—which he got this morning, that she had placed herself in your care, and all her belongings were to be sent to your address."
"What, my private address?"
"Yes, sir. Quite correct, sir. He showed it to me in her letter."
"It's all because I gave her my private card by mistake," and Mr. Stanley cursed a number of people and things under his breath.
"He asked plenty of questions, which I didn't answer, more than I was in duty bound. But when he learned as you was a bachelor, sir, and the lady had been at your rooms last evening, he was that upset——"
The Secretary tilted his office chair back on its hind legs and gave vent to a long, low, meditative whistle.
"I explained to him that there was nothing to be displeased about; but he wouldn't have none of it and said——"
"Yes, yes, what did he say?"
"He said a good many things, some of which I wouldn't repeat, sir, not being respectful; but he asked for your official address, which I wouldn't give him, and said as he'd call you out—and spoke of bringing suit—and called you—wel-l, most everything, sir."
"You need not particularise, Randell."
"No, sir."
"Is that all?"
"Yes, sir. Except to my mind, he didn't seem really very much displeased over the matter."
Stanley grunted significantly. He thought he understood. Darcy could have wished for nothing better.
"I took the liberty, sir," continued the valet, serenely, "to bring your bag, ready packed, and your travelling rug and umbrella, thinking as you might be leaving town to-day, sir."
"Confound you, Randell, I believe you think me guilty after all."
"I thought as you were going to Mrs. Roberts' to-day, sir. You spoke of it to me a week ago, and had forgotten to give directions about your things, sir."
"Yes," said Stanley meditatively, and rang his bell. "John," he continued to the functionary who appeared, "did I send Mrs. Roberts of Roberts' Hall, Sussex, a telegram this morning?"
"No, sir."
"Well, please wire her at once that I'll arrive this afternoon. Leave in an hour. Is his Excellency disengaged?"
"Yes, sir."
"Thanks, that will do," and as John departed he added to Randell: "You might go ahead and reserve a corner seat in a first-class carriage for me. Facing the engine. Liverpool Street—you know."
"Yes, sir."
"Where is Colonel Darcy?"
"Waiting at your rooms for an answer."
"Ah," said Stanley, "that gives me time to explain things to the Chief. If Colonel Darcy is there when you return after seeing me off, tell him I don't know anything about his wife, and if that isn't good enough he can call on his Excellency. Say I'm away in the country for an indefinite time."
"Yes, sir."
"You don't know where."
"Quite right, sir," and Randell departed for the station.
"Quite right!" groaned Stanley as he sought the Sanctum Sanctorum of the Legation. "I only wish it were!"