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 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 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!”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.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 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 apot-pourriof 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 achicin 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 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.”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 aréchaufféof 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’samitiésare 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.“Because of a regrettable circumstance,” he answered mysteriously. “Because of a forthcoming exposure which will be startling. In a certainChancelleriein 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 suddenhauteur. “You tell me this, in order to turn me from him.”“No,ma chère, I tell you a secret which is known in theChancellerieof 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!”
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 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 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!”
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.
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 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 apot-pourriof 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 achicin 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 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.”
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 aréchaufféof 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’samitiésare 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.
“Because of a regrettable circumstance,” he answered mysteriously. “Because of a forthcoming exposure which will be startling. In a certainChancelleriein 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 suddenhauteur. “You tell me this, in order to turn me from him.”
“No,ma chère, I tell you a secret which is known in theChancellerieof 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!”
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 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 andchicthan 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 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 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.”“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, 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.”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.”“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 acoup de graceto the Government, reveal the secret.”“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.”“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.”
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 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 andchicthan 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 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 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.”
“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, 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.”
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.”
“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 acoup de graceto the Government, reveal the secret.”
“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.”
“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.”
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 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, 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 her, and always found her seat close to his at the head of the table.On the morning following the revels of Christmas night most of the guests were late down to breakfast save Muriel, who was one of the first to appear. Dudley met her in the great old room and bent over her hand in salutation. She had been the prettiest woman at the dance on the previous night, and her unaffected manner had again attracted him. But as he stood before the big wood-fire, chatting with her and awaiting the others, a curious thought crossed his mind. There, in that very room, a couple of months earlier, he had been warned against her by the blunt old colonel; and yet he was now entertaining her beneath his roof.Their eyes met as they were speaking, and he saw that hers were clear, blue, wide open, with an expression of perfect frankness. Yes, she was altogether charming in her simple morning gown. Why in the world had the colonel so distinctly warned him? What harm could there possibly be in their meeting?Claudia, who, strangely enough, evinced no jealousy because of his constant companionship with her, was standing near the window, handsomely and becomingly clad, chatting with old Sir Henry Meldrum, now and then glancing in the direction of the man for whom she had confessed her love. Dudley noticed these glances, but went on talking, though rather mechanically, with the sweet, ingenuous girl whom the colonel had declared he ought to avoid. Claudia herself had arranged her seat at table close to him; she had even suggested on the previous afternoon that as Muriel liked billiards, her host should play with her, and had herself whispered in his ear at the dance to invite Lady Meldrum’s ward to be his partner in the “Washington Post.”All this puzzled him, as the truth was slowly revealed to him. And, after all, who was this pretty Muriel?From a dozen different sources he had endeavoured to obtain some information regarding her birth and parentage, but all he could gather was of a contradictory nature. One old dowager had told him that she was the only daughter and heiress of the late Charles Mortimer, a great Liverpool ship-owner and intimate friend of Sir Henry’s. From another source he learnt that she was the daughter of a man who had been for some years partner with the ironmaster; while a third person hinted mysteriously that her parentage was unknown, and that she had merely been adopted by Sir Henry and his wife, chiefly because they were childless. All this was perplexing, to say the least of it.He had laughed heartily when the old colonel had warned him against her, declaring that he had no desire to make the acquaintance of the pretty Unknown. But somehow the mystery surrounding her began to attract him, and he became eager to fathom it.Later that morning he met Claudia alone in one of the corridors, and took her aside to arrange the entertainment for the morrow. Then, when they had finished, he put a question to her, point-blank: “Who is Muriel Mortimer?” he asked.She glanced at him quickly, evidently taken somewhat aback by the suddenness of his question.“My dear Dudley,” she laughed, “I should have thought you knew all about your guests by this time. She is Sir Henry Meldrum’s ward.”“I know that,” he said, a trifle impatiently. “But who were her parents?”“I’ve never heard,” she replied. “I don’t think any one knows. Possibly it is some family secret. At least, I’ve always thought so.”“Then you have already endeavoured to find out?”“Of course. Curiosity is woman’s nature.”“And have you discovered nothing of her birth, or who she is?”“Nothing whatever. A month ago I even went so far as to ask Lady Meldrum.”“And what was her answer?” he inquired eagerly. “She said that her parentage was a matter that concerned only Muriel herself. Indeed, she seemed quite huffy that I should have dared to broach the subject. But you know how sore that kind of person is in regard to certain points.”“Then Lady Meldrum gave no reason why Muriel was her husband’s ward?”“No. Her reply was a polite negative to all inquiries.”He was silent for a few minutes, leaning against the table and facing her.“How did you first become acquainted with this estimable pair, Claudia? Tell me, for they interest me.”“You mean that Muriel interests you,” she laughed mischievously.“No, I mean that the whole affair appears to me full of mystery.”“I first met Lady Meldrum at a bazaar with which I was connected in aid of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children. We held a stall together.”“You had never met her, or known her before?”“Never. She was the wife of a Glasgow knight, and quite unknown in London.”“Was Muriel with her at the bazaar?”“I did, not see her. I believe she was away visiting somewhere. Lady Meldrum spoke of her, I recollect quite distinctly.”“And it was you who afterwards introduced her in town. I presume she owes all her social success to you?”“Yes, I believe she does,” she replied.“Then I consider it curious that she has never confided in you the secret of Muriel’s birth. She surely could not expect you to stand sponsor for a girl of whom you knew nothing?”“Oh, how absurdly you talk, Dudley!” she laughed airily. “Whatever is in your mind? If Muriel Mortimer amuses you, as apparently she does, what does her parentage matter? Sir Henry and her ladyship are perfectly respectable persons, and even though they may be of somewhat plebeian origin they don’t offend by bad manners. Can it be that your thirst for knowledge is due to a vague idea that Muriel might one day be thechâtelaineof this place, eh?”She looked him full in the face with the dark and brilliant eyes that had always held him spellbound. She was a clever woman, and with feminine intuition knew exactly the power she possessed over the man whom she loved with a passion so fierce and uncurbed that she had been led to overstep the conventionalities.“Muriel Mortimer will never be mistress here,” he said in a hard voice, a trifle annoyed at her final remark. “You yourself have invited her here as my guest, and I am bound to be civil, but beyond that—well, I hope that we shall not meet again after this party breaks up.”“And yet you want to know all about her, with the eagerness of an ardent lover!” she laughed sarcastically.“I have reasons—strong ones,” he answered firmly.Again she raised her eyes to his, but rather furtively, as though she were seeking to discover the reason of this sudden anxiety and was not quite sure of how much he knew.“Then if you consider the matter of sufficient importance, why not ask Lady Meldrum herself?” she suggested. “To you she may perhaps give a more satisfactory answer.”“How can I? Don’t be ridiculous, my dear Claudia,” said the Under-Secretary.“Then if the girl is really nothing to you, let the matter drop,” she urged. “In what way does her parentage concern either you or me?”“It does concern me,” he answered in a hard tone, his brow clouded by thought.“How?”“For reasons known only to myself,” he responded enigmatically. He was thinking of the colonel’s warning, which had been troubling him ever since breakfast. It was the irony of fate that he was now compelled to entertain the very woman against whom his best friend had uttered the strange words he recollected so well. He had broached the matter to Benthall, but it was evident that the latter was not aware of the colonel’s reasons for denouncing her as an undesirable acquaintance.A silence had fallen between the pair, but it was at length broken by Claudia, who said:“Tell me, Dudley, what is it that is troubling you?”“Yes,” he responded promptly, “I will tell you. I wish to know the reason why you invited this family beneath my roof. You had a motive, Claudia. Come now, confess it.”She opened her eyes, startled by his words.“My dear Dudley,” she cried. “Why, I only invited them because Lady Meldrum was my friend. They were extremely kind to me down at Fernhurst, and I thought that you would be pleased to offer them the hospitality of the Castle for Christmas. You had met them at the Duchess of Penarth’s, and both Lady Meldrum and Muriel were never tired of singing your praises. They went one night to hear you address the House, I believe.”“Yes, I know about it. She told me!” exclaimed the Under-Secretary petulantly. “But there’s some hidden motive in their actions—of that I’m absolutely convinced.”
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 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, 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 her, and always found her seat close to his at the head of the table.
On the morning following the revels of Christmas night most of the guests were late down to breakfast save Muriel, who was one of the first to appear. Dudley met her in the great old room and bent over her hand in salutation. She had been the prettiest woman at the dance on the previous night, and her unaffected manner had again attracted him. But as he stood before the big wood-fire, chatting with her and awaiting the others, a curious thought crossed his mind. There, in that very room, a couple of months earlier, he had been warned against her by the blunt old colonel; and yet he was now entertaining her beneath his roof.
Their eyes met as they were speaking, and he saw that hers were clear, blue, wide open, with an expression of perfect frankness. Yes, she was altogether charming in her simple morning gown. Why in the world had the colonel so distinctly warned him? What harm could there possibly be in their meeting?
Claudia, who, strangely enough, evinced no jealousy because of his constant companionship with her, was standing near the window, handsomely and becomingly clad, chatting with old Sir Henry Meldrum, now and then glancing in the direction of the man for whom she had confessed her love. Dudley noticed these glances, but went on talking, though rather mechanically, with the sweet, ingenuous girl whom the colonel had declared he ought to avoid. Claudia herself had arranged her seat at table close to him; she had even suggested on the previous afternoon that as Muriel liked billiards, her host should play with her, and had herself whispered in his ear at the dance to invite Lady Meldrum’s ward to be his partner in the “Washington Post.”
All this puzzled him, as the truth was slowly revealed to him. And, after all, who was this pretty Muriel?
From a dozen different sources he had endeavoured to obtain some information regarding her birth and parentage, but all he could gather was of a contradictory nature. One old dowager had told him that she was the only daughter and heiress of the late Charles Mortimer, a great Liverpool ship-owner and intimate friend of Sir Henry’s. From another source he learnt that she was the daughter of a man who had been for some years partner with the ironmaster; while a third person hinted mysteriously that her parentage was unknown, and that she had merely been adopted by Sir Henry and his wife, chiefly because they were childless. All this was perplexing, to say the least of it.
He had laughed heartily when the old colonel had warned him against her, declaring that he had no desire to make the acquaintance of the pretty Unknown. But somehow the mystery surrounding her began to attract him, and he became eager to fathom it.
Later that morning he met Claudia alone in one of the corridors, and took her aside to arrange the entertainment for the morrow. Then, when they had finished, he put a question to her, point-blank: “Who is Muriel Mortimer?” he asked.
She glanced at him quickly, evidently taken somewhat aback by the suddenness of his question.
“My dear Dudley,” she laughed, “I should have thought you knew all about your guests by this time. She is Sir Henry Meldrum’s ward.”
“I know that,” he said, a trifle impatiently. “But who were her parents?”
“I’ve never heard,” she replied. “I don’t think any one knows. Possibly it is some family secret. At least, I’ve always thought so.”
“Then you have already endeavoured to find out?”
“Of course. Curiosity is woman’s nature.”
“And have you discovered nothing of her birth, or who she is?”
“Nothing whatever. A month ago I even went so far as to ask Lady Meldrum.”
“And what was her answer?” he inquired eagerly. “She said that her parentage was a matter that concerned only Muriel herself. Indeed, she seemed quite huffy that I should have dared to broach the subject. But you know how sore that kind of person is in regard to certain points.”
“Then Lady Meldrum gave no reason why Muriel was her husband’s ward?”
“No. Her reply was a polite negative to all inquiries.”
He was silent for a few minutes, leaning against the table and facing her.
“How did you first become acquainted with this estimable pair, Claudia? Tell me, for they interest me.”
“You mean that Muriel interests you,” she laughed mischievously.
“No, I mean that the whole affair appears to me full of mystery.”
“I first met Lady Meldrum at a bazaar with which I was connected in aid of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children. We held a stall together.”
“You had never met her, or known her before?”
“Never. She was the wife of a Glasgow knight, and quite unknown in London.”
“Was Muriel with her at the bazaar?”
“I did, not see her. I believe she was away visiting somewhere. Lady Meldrum spoke of her, I recollect quite distinctly.”
“And it was you who afterwards introduced her in town. I presume she owes all her social success to you?”
“Yes, I believe she does,” she replied.
“Then I consider it curious that she has never confided in you the secret of Muriel’s birth. She surely could not expect you to stand sponsor for a girl of whom you knew nothing?”
“Oh, how absurdly you talk, Dudley!” she laughed airily. “Whatever is in your mind? If Muriel Mortimer amuses you, as apparently she does, what does her parentage matter? Sir Henry and her ladyship are perfectly respectable persons, and even though they may be of somewhat plebeian origin they don’t offend by bad manners. Can it be that your thirst for knowledge is due to a vague idea that Muriel might one day be thechâtelaineof this place, eh?”
She looked him full in the face with the dark and brilliant eyes that had always held him spellbound. She was a clever woman, and with feminine intuition knew exactly the power she possessed over the man whom she loved with a passion so fierce and uncurbed that she had been led to overstep the conventionalities.
“Muriel Mortimer will never be mistress here,” he said in a hard voice, a trifle annoyed at her final remark. “You yourself have invited her here as my guest, and I am bound to be civil, but beyond that—well, I hope that we shall not meet again after this party breaks up.”
“And yet you want to know all about her, with the eagerness of an ardent lover!” she laughed sarcastically.
“I have reasons—strong ones,” he answered firmly.
Again she raised her eyes to his, but rather furtively, as though she were seeking to discover the reason of this sudden anxiety and was not quite sure of how much he knew.
“Then if you consider the matter of sufficient importance, why not ask Lady Meldrum herself?” she suggested. “To you she may perhaps give a more satisfactory answer.”
“How can I? Don’t be ridiculous, my dear Claudia,” said the Under-Secretary.
“Then if the girl is really nothing to you, let the matter drop,” she urged. “In what way does her parentage concern either you or me?”
“It does concern me,” he answered in a hard tone, his brow clouded by thought.
“How?”
“For reasons known only to myself,” he responded enigmatically. He was thinking of the colonel’s warning, which had been troubling him ever since breakfast. It was the irony of fate that he was now compelled to entertain the very woman against whom his best friend had uttered the strange words he recollected so well. He had broached the matter to Benthall, but it was evident that the latter was not aware of the colonel’s reasons for denouncing her as an undesirable acquaintance.
A silence had fallen between the pair, but it was at length broken by Claudia, who said:
“Tell me, Dudley, what is it that is troubling you?”
“Yes,” he responded promptly, “I will tell you. I wish to know the reason why you invited this family beneath my roof. You had a motive, Claudia. Come now, confess it.”
She opened her eyes, startled by his words.
“My dear Dudley,” she cried. “Why, I only invited them because Lady Meldrum was my friend. They were extremely kind to me down at Fernhurst, and I thought that you would be pleased to offer them the hospitality of the Castle for Christmas. You had met them at the Duchess of Penarth’s, and both Lady Meldrum and Muriel were never tired of singing your praises. They went one night to hear you address the House, I believe.”
“Yes, I know about it. She told me!” exclaimed the Under-Secretary petulantly. “But there’s some hidden motive in their actions—of that I’m absolutely convinced.”
Chapter Seventeen.Recounts Curious Circumstances.Even though the House stood prorogued for yet another ten days, formidable packets of documents continually reached Dudley Chisholm from the Foreign Office, sometimes through the post, and at others by special messenger. England’s relations with the Powers were, as usual, not very reassuring, hence the Parliamentary Under-Secretary was kept busy, and every moment he could snatch from his guests was spent in the library among the heaps of papers with which his table was always littered. Wrey, his private secretary, was absent on leave, for the holidays, and, therefore, the whole of the work fell upon him.Each night, after the men had finished their whiskey and their gossip in the smoking-room, he would retire to the big, book-lined chamber, and plunge into the work, often difficult and tedious, which the nation expected of him.Usually during the half hour before dinner some of the guests would assemble in the great, brown, old room to gossip, and the cosy-corner beside the big wood-fire was a favourite resting-place of Muriel’s. She generally dressed early, and with one or other of the younger men would sit there and chat until the dinner-bell sounded. The fine old chamber, with its overmantel bearing the three water-bougets argent, its lining of books, and its oaken ceiling was quiet and secluded from the rest of the house, the ideal refuge of a studious man.Dudley, having occasion to enter there on the second evening following his conversation with Claudia, related in the foregoing chapter, found Sir Henry’s ward sitting alone in the cosy-corner, half hidden by the draperies. The light from the green-shaded lamp, insufficient to illuminate the whole place, only revealed the table with its piles of papers, but upon her face the firelight danced, throwing her countenance into bold relief. As she sat there in her pale-blue dress she made a picture of a most contenting sort.“What! alone!” he exclaimed pleasantly as he advanced to meet her, settling his dress-tie with his hand, for he had just come in from a drive and had slipped into his clothes hurriedly.“Yes,” she laughed, stretching forth her small foot coquettishly upon the red Turkey rug before the fire. “You men are so long making your toilette; and yet you blame us for all our fal-lals.”“Haven’t you been out?”“Yes,” she answered; “I went this afternoon into Shrewsbury with Lady Richard to do some shopping. What a curious old town it is! I’ve never been there before, and was most interested.”“True it’s old-fashioned, and far behind the times, Miss Mortimer,” he said, smiling, as he stood before her, his back to the fire. “But I always thought that you did not care for the antique.”“The antique! Why, I adore it! This splendid castle of yours is unique. I confess to you that I’ve slipped away and wandered about it for hours, exploring all sorts of winding stairways and turret-chambers unknown to any one except the servants. I had no idea Wroxeter was so charming. One can imagine oneself back in the Middle Ages with men in armour, sentries, knights, lady-loves and all the rest of it.”He laughed lightly, placed his hands behind his back, and looked straight at her.“I’m very glad the old place interests you,” he replied. “Fernhurst is comparatively modern, is it not?”“Horribly modern as compared with Wroxeter,” she said, leaning back and gazing up at him with her clear blue eyes. “Sir Henry was sadly imposed upon when he bought it three years ago—at least, so I believe.”Dudley was at heart rather annoyed at finding her there alone, for a glance at his littered table caused him to recollect that among those papers there were several confidential documents which had reached him that morning, and which he had been in the act of examining when called to go out driving with two of his guests. Usually he locked the library door on such occasions, but with his friends in the house the act of securing the door of one of the most popular of the apartments was, he thought, a measure not less grave than a spoken insult.He was suspicious of the fair-eyed girl. Although he could not account for it in the least, the strange suspicion had grown upon him that she was not what she represented herself to be. And yet, on the other hand, neither in actions nor words was she at all obtrusive, but, on the contrary, extremely popular with every one, including Claudia, who had herself declared her to be charming. He wondered whether she had been amusing herself by prying into the heap of papers spread upon his blotting-pad, and glanced across at them. No. They lay there just in the same position, secured by the heavy paper-weight under which he had put them earlier in the afternoon.And yet, after all, he was a fool to run such risks, he told himself. To fear to offend the susceptibilities of his guests was all very well, but with the many confidential documents in his possession he ought in all conscience to be more careful.As the evening was biting cold and the keen north-east wind had caught his face while driving, in the warmth his cheeks were burning hot. Muriel, practised flirt that she was, believed their redness to be due to an inward turmoil caused by her presence. Hence she presumed to coquet with him, laughing, joking, chaffing in a manner which displayed her conversational, mobility to perfection. He, on his part, allowed her to proceed, eager to divine her motive.“We go south at the end of January,” she said at last, in answer to his question. “Sir Henry thinks of taking a villa at Beaulieu this season. Last year we were in Nice, but found it too crowded and noisy at Carnival.”“Beaulieu is charming,” he said. “More especially that part known asLa Petite Afrique.”“That’s where the villa is situated—facing the sea. One of those four white villas in the little bay.”“The most charming spot on the whole Riviera. By the way,” he added, “one of my old friends is already in Cannes, Colonel Murray-Kerr. Do you happen to know him? He was military attach at Vienna, Rome and Paris until he retired.”A curious expression passed over her countenance as he mentioned the name. But it vanished instantly, as, glancing up, she looked at him with the frank look that was so characteristic.“No. I don’t think we have ever met. Murray-Kerr? No. The name is not familiar. He was in the diplomatic service, you say?”“Yes, for about fifteen years. I had hoped he would have been one of the party here, but he slipped away a week ago, attracted, as usual in winter, by the charms of Cannes.”“He gambles at Monte Carlo, I suppose?”“I think not. He’s, nowadays, one of the old fogies of the Junior United Service, and thinks of nothing but the lustre of his patent-leather boots and the chance of shooting with friends. But he’s so well-known in town, I felt sure that you must have met him,” added Dudley meaningly.“One meets so many people,” she replied carelessly, “and so many are not introduced by name, that it is difficult to recollect. We haven’t the least knowledge of the names of people we’ve known by sight for months. And I’m awfully bad at recollecting names. I always remember faces, but can’t furnish them with names. The position is often extremely awkward and ludicrous.”The false note in her explanation did not escape his sensitive hearing. Her sudden glances of surprise and annoyance when he had mentioned the colonel’s name had roused suspicion in his mind, and he felt convinced that she was well acquainted with the man who had warned him against her in such mysterious terms.“If I remember aright,” he said, “the colonel once mentioned you.”“Mentioned me?” she exclaimed with undisguised surprise, and not without an expression of alarm. In an instant, however, she recovered her self-possession. “Did he say any nice things of me?”“Of course,” he laughed. “Could he say otherwise?”“Ah! I don’t know. He might if he was not acquainted with me.”“Then he is acquainted with you?” exclaimed Dudley quickly.“No, why—how silly! I really do not know your friend. Indeed, I have never heard of him. It seems that if what you tell me is correct I have an unknown admirer.”Dudley smiled. He was reflecting upon the colonel’s warning, and her replies to his questions made it all the more plain that she was denying knowledge of a man with whom she was well acquainted.“Did he say when he had met me?” she asked.“I don’t really recollect. The conversation took place while several other persons were talking loudly, and many of his words were lost to me.”“He discussed my merits before we met at the duchess’s, I presume?”“Yes. As I had not at that time the honour of your acquaintance, I took but little heed of the conversation.”She looked at him with a covert glance, and with her fingers turned one of her rings round and round in a quick, nervous way. What, she was wondering, had Colonel Murray-Kerr said about her? The fact that she had been discussed by him was to her extremely disconcerting.“Well,” she exclaimed a moment later, with a forced laugh, “as long as your friend did not speak ill of me, I suppose I ought not to complain of having my personal points openly discussed! Most smart women court the publicity of a smoking-room discussion.”“Yes,” he replied in a hard voice, wondering whether her words were directed against Claudia, “unfortunately they do. But there are smart women and smart women. I trust, Miss Mortimer, that you have no desire to develop into one of the latter.”“Certainly not,” she answered in all earnestness.Half rising, she put her hand into her dress pocket, ostensibly to obtain her handkerchief, but in reality to place there a small piece of paper which she had crushed into her palm and held concealed when Dudley entered.Her deft movement as she hid the paper was so swift that it entirely escaped his notice, while at the same moment Claudia, accompanied by two of the male guests, came into the library, thus putting an end to theirtête-à-tête.Dudley, still standing before the burning logs, continued chatting to Sir Henry’s ward, but, owing to the arrival of his other guests, it was no longer possible to keep the conversation in the same channel.As he sat at dinner he could not prevent his eyes from wandering across to Muriel and from allowing strange thoughts to flit through his mind. At what had the colonel hinted in that very room months ago, when he had warned him to beware of her? He knew Murray-Kerr to be an easy-going cosmopolitan, whose acquaintance with diplomatic Europe was perhaps more extensive than that of any other living man, yet what possible object could he have had in urging him to be careful when he met that innocent-looking woman scarcely out of her teens?Why Claudia had invited a woman who might become her rival in his affections was another enigma which was puzzling. There was some distinct object in this policy, but its real nature he was quite unable to fathom.That night there was, as usual, a dance in the old banqueting hall, the high-roofed chamber that had long ago echoed to the boisterous merrymaking of those armoured knights whose coats of mail now stood round, and whose tattered banners hung above. Until half a century back, the old stone flooring, worn hollow by the tramp of generations of retainers, still existed, but Dudley’s grandfather had had an oak flooring placed over it, and it now served as the ballroom, even though at one end was the enormous hearth, where an ox could be roasted whole, while the wooden benches, at which the banqueters used to hold revel, served as seats for those who did not dance.Few of the guests, however, refrained from the waltzing, so delightful were the attendant circumstances. Once during the evening Dudley found himself taking a turn with Claudia.“I’ve wanted to speak to you for nearly an hour past,” she whispered to him, so low that none could overhear. “Some man, apparently an undesirable person, has called to see you.”“To see me—at this hour? Why, it’s past midnight!” he exclaimed in astonishment.“He will not give any details regarding his business,” she went on. “He only expressed a desire that none of the guests should be aware of his presence, and that he might have an interview alone with you.”“A rather curious request at this time of night,” her companion observed. She noticed that he had turned pale, and that the hand holding hers perceptibly trembled. Their glances met, and he saw in her dark and brilliant eyes the love-look of old that was so unmistakable. Upon her countenance there was a look of concern, and this he strove at once to dispel by saying airily:“I suppose it is some one who wants assistance or something. Where is he?”“In your secretary’s room. I had him shown there, in order that his wish regarding the secrecy of his visit should be respected.”“Then you have seen him?”“Yes. You were not to be found at the moment, so, hearing the message he had given the servant, I saw him myself. He’s middle-aged, and rather shabbily dressed. From the state of his clothes I should think that he’s walked over from Shrewsbury. He told me that the matter on which he desired to see you was of the greatest urgency, and apologised for calling at such an hour.”“Well,” he answered, “I suppose I’d better go and see the fellow, whoever he is. He may be some political crank or other. There are so many about.”“Yes,” Claudia urged; “if I were you I’d go at once, and get rid of him. It appears that Riggs told him you could not be seen until the morning, but he absolutely refused to be sent away.”“Very well, I’ll go and see who he is,” replied the Under-Secretary, only remaining calm by dint of the most strenuous effort. Then, leading his partner to a seat, he bowed, took leave of her, and slipped away from the ball through several arched doors and down the two long corridors until he came to a door at the end.He was in the east wing of the castle, a part to which the visitors did not penetrate, for to do so it was necessary to cross the kitchen.Before the closed door he paused, held his breath, and placed his hand instinctively upon his heart, as though to still its beating. He dared not advance farther.Who, he wondered, was his visitor? Could it be that the blow which he had expected for so long had at length fallen?
Even though the House stood prorogued for yet another ten days, formidable packets of documents continually reached Dudley Chisholm from the Foreign Office, sometimes through the post, and at others by special messenger. England’s relations with the Powers were, as usual, not very reassuring, hence the Parliamentary Under-Secretary was kept busy, and every moment he could snatch from his guests was spent in the library among the heaps of papers with which his table was always littered. Wrey, his private secretary, was absent on leave, for the holidays, and, therefore, the whole of the work fell upon him.
Each night, after the men had finished their whiskey and their gossip in the smoking-room, he would retire to the big, book-lined chamber, and plunge into the work, often difficult and tedious, which the nation expected of him.
Usually during the half hour before dinner some of the guests would assemble in the great, brown, old room to gossip, and the cosy-corner beside the big wood-fire was a favourite resting-place of Muriel’s. She generally dressed early, and with one or other of the younger men would sit there and chat until the dinner-bell sounded. The fine old chamber, with its overmantel bearing the three water-bougets argent, its lining of books, and its oaken ceiling was quiet and secluded from the rest of the house, the ideal refuge of a studious man.
Dudley, having occasion to enter there on the second evening following his conversation with Claudia, related in the foregoing chapter, found Sir Henry’s ward sitting alone in the cosy-corner, half hidden by the draperies. The light from the green-shaded lamp, insufficient to illuminate the whole place, only revealed the table with its piles of papers, but upon her face the firelight danced, throwing her countenance into bold relief. As she sat there in her pale-blue dress she made a picture of a most contenting sort.
“What! alone!” he exclaimed pleasantly as he advanced to meet her, settling his dress-tie with his hand, for he had just come in from a drive and had slipped into his clothes hurriedly.
“Yes,” she laughed, stretching forth her small foot coquettishly upon the red Turkey rug before the fire. “You men are so long making your toilette; and yet you blame us for all our fal-lals.”
“Haven’t you been out?”
“Yes,” she answered; “I went this afternoon into Shrewsbury with Lady Richard to do some shopping. What a curious old town it is! I’ve never been there before, and was most interested.”
“True it’s old-fashioned, and far behind the times, Miss Mortimer,” he said, smiling, as he stood before her, his back to the fire. “But I always thought that you did not care for the antique.”
“The antique! Why, I adore it! This splendid castle of yours is unique. I confess to you that I’ve slipped away and wandered about it for hours, exploring all sorts of winding stairways and turret-chambers unknown to any one except the servants. I had no idea Wroxeter was so charming. One can imagine oneself back in the Middle Ages with men in armour, sentries, knights, lady-loves and all the rest of it.”
He laughed lightly, placed his hands behind his back, and looked straight at her.
“I’m very glad the old place interests you,” he replied. “Fernhurst is comparatively modern, is it not?”
“Horribly modern as compared with Wroxeter,” she said, leaning back and gazing up at him with her clear blue eyes. “Sir Henry was sadly imposed upon when he bought it three years ago—at least, so I believe.”
Dudley was at heart rather annoyed at finding her there alone, for a glance at his littered table caused him to recollect that among those papers there were several confidential documents which had reached him that morning, and which he had been in the act of examining when called to go out driving with two of his guests. Usually he locked the library door on such occasions, but with his friends in the house the act of securing the door of one of the most popular of the apartments was, he thought, a measure not less grave than a spoken insult.
He was suspicious of the fair-eyed girl. Although he could not account for it in the least, the strange suspicion had grown upon him that she was not what she represented herself to be. And yet, on the other hand, neither in actions nor words was she at all obtrusive, but, on the contrary, extremely popular with every one, including Claudia, who had herself declared her to be charming. He wondered whether she had been amusing herself by prying into the heap of papers spread upon his blotting-pad, and glanced across at them. No. They lay there just in the same position, secured by the heavy paper-weight under which he had put them earlier in the afternoon.
And yet, after all, he was a fool to run such risks, he told himself. To fear to offend the susceptibilities of his guests was all very well, but with the many confidential documents in his possession he ought in all conscience to be more careful.
As the evening was biting cold and the keen north-east wind had caught his face while driving, in the warmth his cheeks were burning hot. Muriel, practised flirt that she was, believed their redness to be due to an inward turmoil caused by her presence. Hence she presumed to coquet with him, laughing, joking, chaffing in a manner which displayed her conversational, mobility to perfection. He, on his part, allowed her to proceed, eager to divine her motive.
“We go south at the end of January,” she said at last, in answer to his question. “Sir Henry thinks of taking a villa at Beaulieu this season. Last year we were in Nice, but found it too crowded and noisy at Carnival.”
“Beaulieu is charming,” he said. “More especially that part known asLa Petite Afrique.”
“That’s where the villa is situated—facing the sea. One of those four white villas in the little bay.”
“The most charming spot on the whole Riviera. By the way,” he added, “one of my old friends is already in Cannes, Colonel Murray-Kerr. Do you happen to know him? He was military attach at Vienna, Rome and Paris until he retired.”
A curious expression passed over her countenance as he mentioned the name. But it vanished instantly, as, glancing up, she looked at him with the frank look that was so characteristic.
“No. I don’t think we have ever met. Murray-Kerr? No. The name is not familiar. He was in the diplomatic service, you say?”
“Yes, for about fifteen years. I had hoped he would have been one of the party here, but he slipped away a week ago, attracted, as usual in winter, by the charms of Cannes.”
“He gambles at Monte Carlo, I suppose?”
“I think not. He’s, nowadays, one of the old fogies of the Junior United Service, and thinks of nothing but the lustre of his patent-leather boots and the chance of shooting with friends. But he’s so well-known in town, I felt sure that you must have met him,” added Dudley meaningly.
“One meets so many people,” she replied carelessly, “and so many are not introduced by name, that it is difficult to recollect. We haven’t the least knowledge of the names of people we’ve known by sight for months. And I’m awfully bad at recollecting names. I always remember faces, but can’t furnish them with names. The position is often extremely awkward and ludicrous.”
The false note in her explanation did not escape his sensitive hearing. Her sudden glances of surprise and annoyance when he had mentioned the colonel’s name had roused suspicion in his mind, and he felt convinced that she was well acquainted with the man who had warned him against her in such mysterious terms.
“If I remember aright,” he said, “the colonel once mentioned you.”
“Mentioned me?” she exclaimed with undisguised surprise, and not without an expression of alarm. In an instant, however, she recovered her self-possession. “Did he say any nice things of me?”
“Of course,” he laughed. “Could he say otherwise?”
“Ah! I don’t know. He might if he was not acquainted with me.”
“Then he is acquainted with you?” exclaimed Dudley quickly.
“No, why—how silly! I really do not know your friend. Indeed, I have never heard of him. It seems that if what you tell me is correct I have an unknown admirer.”
Dudley smiled. He was reflecting upon the colonel’s warning, and her replies to his questions made it all the more plain that she was denying knowledge of a man with whom she was well acquainted.
“Did he say when he had met me?” she asked.
“I don’t really recollect. The conversation took place while several other persons were talking loudly, and many of his words were lost to me.”
“He discussed my merits before we met at the duchess’s, I presume?”
“Yes. As I had not at that time the honour of your acquaintance, I took but little heed of the conversation.”
She looked at him with a covert glance, and with her fingers turned one of her rings round and round in a quick, nervous way. What, she was wondering, had Colonel Murray-Kerr said about her? The fact that she had been discussed by him was to her extremely disconcerting.
“Well,” she exclaimed a moment later, with a forced laugh, “as long as your friend did not speak ill of me, I suppose I ought not to complain of having my personal points openly discussed! Most smart women court the publicity of a smoking-room discussion.”
“Yes,” he replied in a hard voice, wondering whether her words were directed against Claudia, “unfortunately they do. But there are smart women and smart women. I trust, Miss Mortimer, that you have no desire to develop into one of the latter.”
“Certainly not,” she answered in all earnestness.
Half rising, she put her hand into her dress pocket, ostensibly to obtain her handkerchief, but in reality to place there a small piece of paper which she had crushed into her palm and held concealed when Dudley entered.
Her deft movement as she hid the paper was so swift that it entirely escaped his notice, while at the same moment Claudia, accompanied by two of the male guests, came into the library, thus putting an end to theirtête-à-tête.
Dudley, still standing before the burning logs, continued chatting to Sir Henry’s ward, but, owing to the arrival of his other guests, it was no longer possible to keep the conversation in the same channel.
As he sat at dinner he could not prevent his eyes from wandering across to Muriel and from allowing strange thoughts to flit through his mind. At what had the colonel hinted in that very room months ago, when he had warned him to beware of her? He knew Murray-Kerr to be an easy-going cosmopolitan, whose acquaintance with diplomatic Europe was perhaps more extensive than that of any other living man, yet what possible object could he have had in urging him to be careful when he met that innocent-looking woman scarcely out of her teens?
Why Claudia had invited a woman who might become her rival in his affections was another enigma which was puzzling. There was some distinct object in this policy, but its real nature he was quite unable to fathom.
That night there was, as usual, a dance in the old banqueting hall, the high-roofed chamber that had long ago echoed to the boisterous merrymaking of those armoured knights whose coats of mail now stood round, and whose tattered banners hung above. Until half a century back, the old stone flooring, worn hollow by the tramp of generations of retainers, still existed, but Dudley’s grandfather had had an oak flooring placed over it, and it now served as the ballroom, even though at one end was the enormous hearth, where an ox could be roasted whole, while the wooden benches, at which the banqueters used to hold revel, served as seats for those who did not dance.
Few of the guests, however, refrained from the waltzing, so delightful were the attendant circumstances. Once during the evening Dudley found himself taking a turn with Claudia.
“I’ve wanted to speak to you for nearly an hour past,” she whispered to him, so low that none could overhear. “Some man, apparently an undesirable person, has called to see you.”
“To see me—at this hour? Why, it’s past midnight!” he exclaimed in astonishment.
“He will not give any details regarding his business,” she went on. “He only expressed a desire that none of the guests should be aware of his presence, and that he might have an interview alone with you.”
“A rather curious request at this time of night,” her companion observed. She noticed that he had turned pale, and that the hand holding hers perceptibly trembled. Their glances met, and he saw in her dark and brilliant eyes the love-look of old that was so unmistakable. Upon her countenance there was a look of concern, and this he strove at once to dispel by saying airily:
“I suppose it is some one who wants assistance or something. Where is he?”
“In your secretary’s room. I had him shown there, in order that his wish regarding the secrecy of his visit should be respected.”
“Then you have seen him?”
“Yes. You were not to be found at the moment, so, hearing the message he had given the servant, I saw him myself. He’s middle-aged, and rather shabbily dressed. From the state of his clothes I should think that he’s walked over from Shrewsbury. He told me that the matter on which he desired to see you was of the greatest urgency, and apologised for calling at such an hour.”
“Well,” he answered, “I suppose I’d better go and see the fellow, whoever he is. He may be some political crank or other. There are so many about.”
“Yes,” Claudia urged; “if I were you I’d go at once, and get rid of him. It appears that Riggs told him you could not be seen until the morning, but he absolutely refused to be sent away.”
“Very well, I’ll go and see who he is,” replied the Under-Secretary, only remaining calm by dint of the most strenuous effort. Then, leading his partner to a seat, he bowed, took leave of her, and slipped away from the ball through several arched doors and down the two long corridors until he came to a door at the end.
He was in the east wing of the castle, a part to which the visitors did not penetrate, for to do so it was necessary to cross the kitchen.
Before the closed door he paused, held his breath, and placed his hand instinctively upon his heart, as though to still its beating. He dared not advance farther.
Who, he wondered, was his visitor? Could it be that the blow which he had expected for so long had at length fallen?