Chapter Seven.Unites Reality with Romance.The colonel’s strange premonition was puzzling.Chisholm saw quite plainly that his friendship with Claudia Nevill had caused him to throw his usual carefulness to the winds. Her letter was but another proof of her insincerity; while the statement of the old colonel in respect of the house-party at Fernhurst angered him. He was furious that she should risk her reputation openly in such a manner. At the same time he was filled with regret that from the charming woman of four years ago she should have developed into a brilliant leader of society, acknowledged by all to be the smartest woman in London.It was dark when they drove into the quadrangle of the castle, and Dudley, excusing himself to his friends, dressed and retired to the great library for an hour before dinner in order to examine the official correspondence that had arrived in the morning.From the big Foreign Office envelopes he drew a mass of papers which required his endorsement, and several important letters which he at once answered. The duties of Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs are multitudinous, and the office needs a man who does not hanker after a sinecure. Little leisure was Dudley Chisholm allowed, and seldom could he snatch a few days to run down into the country. His presence in or near town was required always for passing reports; he had to sign here, initial there, and control in a great measure one of the greatest and most important departments of the State.It is generally understood by Parliament that answers to questions put to the Foreign Under-secretary are prescribed by his Chief, His Majesty’s Principal Secretary. Palmerston would never allow an Under-Secretary to answer a supplementary question until his superior had dictated the reply. But under the Gladstonerégimethis rule was gradually relaxed; and such confidence did Lord Stockbridge place in Chisholm’s discretion and power to fence with the Opposition, that, although he was required to meet his Chief at the Foreign Office between the hours of twelve and two each Parliamentary day, he was allowed a practically free hand. Years ago under-secretaries were but the mouthpieces of their chiefs. Old Parliamentary hands recollect seeing Sir William Harcourt at the far end of the Treasury Bench pass the word to Sir Edward Grey at the other end not to answer a supplementary question until he had consulted Lord Rosebery; and once when Lord Edmond Fitzmaurice asked for notice of a supplementary question so that he might consult Earl Granville, the Opposition jeered, and Mr Gladstone jumped up to declare that Lord Edmond Fitzmaurice had done so by his orders. That, however, was all of the past. Dudley Chisholm was entirely in the confidence of the Marquess of Stockbridge. He relied upon him.In that sombre old room where the firelight danced upon the rows and rows of heavy volumes written in days long past, he sat within the zone of the green-shaded reading-lamp, his attention absorbed by some official reports. They were evidently of an unusual nature, for of a sudden an exclamation of profound surprise escaped him, and with growing eagerness he scanned page after page of those written lines.“I don’t believe it!” he exclaimed, speaking to himself. “It can’t be true! My secret is still safe. It cannot possibly be revealed any more than the dead can speak. And yet cock-and-bull stories do not usually emanate from that quarter. It’s certainly startling enough—and if true—well—”He rose from his chair and thoughtfully paced the room, his hands locked behind his back, as was his habit when thinking deeply. The statement contained in the despatch had alarmed him. He scented danger, and his brow was clouded. The whole thing was so unexpected and so extraordinary that he could scarcely credit it, although the signature to the despatch was that of his Chief, Lord Stockbridge. The matter was one demanding his immediate attention, and yet he had allowed the despatch to remain unopened all day.Up and down the polished floor he paced, plunged in apprehensive reflections. It appeared that after he had left the Foreign Office on the previous day the Minister had attended there and had sent him that startling despatch under seal. He paused at the table, and taking up the envelope for the first time discovered that it had not been through the post.Then he touched the bell, and of the man who entered he asked:“Did a messenger from London leave anything for me this morning, Riggs?”“Yes, sir. Two official letters, sir. He arrived at six o’clock, and I placed the letters on the breakfast-table.”“Oh, very well,” his master answered. “You signed the receipt?”“Yes, sir. It was Mr Forbes who brought them, sir. He said he couldn’t wait till you came down as he was driving back to Shrewsbury to catch the eight-ten up to London.”“He didn’t say they were important, or make any remark?”“No, sir.”“Very well.” And then the man, a smart, middle-aged servant in the Chisholm livery, withdrew.“Curious—very curious!” exclaimed Dudley in a low, half-frightened whisper when the man had closed the door. “It’s certainly a matter that requires the most searching investigation, otherwise we shall infallibly find ourselves checkmated, Lord Stockbridge writes. I wonder what it can all mean? Even Stockbridge himself doesn’t see any light through it, apparently.”Again he read the puzzling document, which bore the signature known to every court of Europe as that of the greatest of living statesmen. It bore a postscript also, written by his lordship’s own quill: “When read, please destroy.”He replaced it on the table, and, crossing to the ancient hearth where the big logs were burning, he stood motionless, gazing blankly at the fire.The words he read had aroused within him a suspicion—a grave, terrible, awful suspicion. In those moments of deep contemplation he looked fully ten years older. His hand rested upon the high overmantel of black oak, on which was a carved representation of the simple coat of the Shropshire Chisholms, azure, a chevron, or between three water-bougets argent. His brow rested upon his arm as he gazed at the glowing logs. Truth to tell, that confidential document had caused a flood of recollections to surge through his brain—recollections whose return he did not desire. He had vainly thought the past all buried, and had forgiven and forgotten his enemy. But, reading between the lines of that despatch, he saw that this ghost of the past had again arisen. Lord Stockbridge had, of course, no suspicion of the truth. The confidential communication had been made to him in the ordinary course of events, in order that he might institute secret inquiries in certain quarters, and ascertain the feeling of certain influential members in the House.But if the truth became known? He set his jaws hard, and a deep sigh escaped him. He dared not contemplate the result. It would mean for him ruin, ignominy, shame.He passed his hot hand wearily across his brow, pushing the thick dark hair from his forehead.The dead silence was broken by a low groan—a groan of despair and penitence.“God!” he gasped. “Surely the truth cannot possibly be known? How can it? No,” he went on, murmuring to himself. “Bah! I’m timid—thoughts of it always unnerve me. And yet from this it seems very much as if some secret enemy had waited through these years until I had attained position and popularity in order to strike, to crush, to ruin me for ever!”He was silent again, silent for many minutes. He stood quite motionless, still gazing into the fire.“But dare I face exposure?” he asked himself, his hoarse whisper sounding strangely in that old room. “No. A thousand times no! No—impossible! A thousand times no! I’d prefer death. Yes, suicide. It would be the only way. Death is far preferable to dishonour.”He saw it all—he who could read between those lines. He detected the hand of some secret enemy uplifted against him—an enemy who, he did not doubt, held that secret which through the past six years had been the skeleton in his cupboard. In the esteem of men he had risen rapidly, until to-day he was declared to be one of the shrewdest of England’s legislators, fulfilling all the traditions of his ancient and honourable house. And through out these six years he had striven, and striven, always with an idea of atonement for his cardinal sin; always working in the interests of the nation he had resolved to serve.How strange it was that His Majesty’s Foreign Minister should have actually communicated this to him, of all men! But man works half his own doom, and circumstance the other half.C’est toujours le destin.In his despair there had arisen before him that grim and hideous ghost of the past which had always overshadowed the later years of his life; that incident which he constantly feared might come to light to destroy the position he had created, to wreck his popularity, and to cause his name to be synonymous with all that was base, treacherous, and ignominious. For the fault he had committed—a grave offence which he knew could never be humanly forgiven—he had endeavoured to atone to the best of his ability. Other young men of his wealth would have probably married and taken their ease; but with that secret deep in his heart he had worked and striven for his country’s good, prompted by a desire not merely to become popular, but to accomplish something by means of which to make amends.Men had, of course, never rightly understood his motives. They had believed him to be one of a motley crowd of place-seekers, whose brilliant oratory had fortunately brought him into the front rank, though this was certainly far from being the case Popularity had been heaped upon him as an entirely unwelcome reward. He always declared within himself that he merited nothing—absolutely nothing; and this belief accounted for his utter indifference to the plaudits of the public or the praise bestowed upon him by his Party. He was endeavouring to work out his atonement and make reparation—that was all.Try as he would, however, he could not put aside the grave suggestion that some secret enemy was preparing acoupbeneath which he must fall. The disquieting despatch from Constantinople seemed to portend this. It was a presage of his downfall. To endeavour to prove his innocence, to try to withstand the storm of indignation that must certainly sweep over England, or to prevent exposure of the truth, spelt futility. He was helpless—utterly helpless against the onsweeping tide of retribution.The marquess urged that he—the very man concerned in the disreputable affair—should make secret inquiry into the truth of the report. Was not that a freak of Fate? Surely Nemesis was already upon him. What could he reply to that despatch? How could he act?Many men grudged him his position and the fame he had won. And yet, would they envy him if they were aware of the terrible truth—if they were aware of that awful secret ever burdening his conscience?Suddenly, as though some fresh thought had occurred to him, he crossed to the opposite side of the room, and, pressing against one of the shelves filled with old brown-covered folios, opened a part which concealed a small safe embedded deeply in the wall, hidden from even the keenest eyes in a manner that could scarcely have been improved. From his watch-chain he selected a key, opened the safe and took from one of its drawers a large official-looking envelope. Walking back to the light of the table, he drew out a piece of thin transparent tracing-paper which he opened and spread upon the blotting-pad.Upon this paper a letter in a strange, almost microscopic hand, had been traced. This he read carefully, apparently weighing every word. Twice he went over it, almost as though he wished to commit it to memory; then, with a hard look upon his dark features, he replaced it in the envelope, sealed it with a stick of black wax and put it once more in the safe. From the same drawer he extracted a second paper, folded in a small square. With this in his hand he walked toward the nearest window, so as to be in the best light for his purpose. When he was satisfied in this regard, he undid the packet. It contained a curl of fair hair bound together with sewing silk of a faded pink.As he looked upon it tears welled up into his eyes. That lock of hair brought back to him memories, bitter and tender memories which he always tried to forget, though in vain. Before him arose a woman’s face, pale, fair, with eyes of that deep childlike blue which always proclaims purity of soul. He saw her before him in her simple dress of white linen—a vision of sweet and perfect beauty. The words she had spoken in her gentle voice seemed once again to fall upon his ears with the music that had so invariably charmed him. He remembered what she had said to him—he recollected the whole of that conversation, although years had passed since it had been held. He found it impossible to prevent his thoughts from wandering back to the tender grace of a day that was dead, when, beside the sea, he had for a few hours enjoyed a calm and sunny paradise, which had too quickly changed into a wilderness barren of both roses and angels.He sighed; and down his cheek there crept a single tear. Then he raised the tiny lock of hair to his lips.“May God cherish her always—always,” he murmured.Twice he kissed the lock of hair before, with every sign of reluctance, returning it to the packet and replacing it in the steel drawer. Superstitious persons believe that ill-fortune follows the possession of hair; but Chisholm was never superstitious. This curl, which at rare intervals he was in the habit of taking from its secret hiding-place, always carried his memory back to those brief days when, for the second time in his life, he had experienced perfect happiness. It was an outward and visible sign of a love that had once burned fiercely within two hearts.He had just locked the safe and hidden it in the usual manner, when Benthall burst into the library, and said in a merry tone of voice:“I’ve come just to see what you’re doing, old fellow. The gong went half an hour ago and the colonel says he’s got a ravenous appetite. The soup will be cold.”He had walked across to the table, and stood beside it ready dressed for dinner.“I—oh! I was busy,” his host answered. “A lot of official correspondence from the Foreign Office, you know—things I ought to have seen to this morning instead of shooting. Correspondence always crowds upon me if I go out of town even for a couple of days.”“But you’ve done now—haven’t you?” asked his guest, glancing at the littered table.“Just finished. But I’m awfully sorry to have kept you fellows waiting. The colonel’s so infernally prompt at feeding-time. They say at the Junior that he doesn’t vary five minutes at dinner once in six months.”“Well, come along, old fellow. Don’t wait to finish.” He seated himself on the edge of the big writing-table while Dudley busied himself in replacing some letters he had taken from the steel despatch-box which accompanied him everywhere.Smoking a cigarette, and swinging his legs easily, Benthall waited while his host—who had pointed out that he could not leave confidential documents open for the servants to pry into—straightened his papers, and put them together with the communications littering the table, in the box, afterwards locking it.Only one was left on the table, the despatch which Lord Stockbridge had ordered him to destroy. This he carried to the fire, lit one corner, and held it until it was all consumed, afterwards destroying the tinder with the poker.“What’s that you’re so careful to burn?” asked Benthall, interested.“Oh, nothing, my dear Harry—nothing,” answered the Under-Secretary in a nonchalant manner. “Only a despatch.”“From Stockbridge, or one of the other Ministers, I suppose?”“Yes.”“But why did you burn it?”“In order that it shouldn’t fall into anybody else’s hands.”“Something very confidential, then?”“Yes, something extremely confidential,” answered Chisholm. “But come along, old fellow, let’s go to dinner, or the colonel will never forgive me.”
The colonel’s strange premonition was puzzling.
Chisholm saw quite plainly that his friendship with Claudia Nevill had caused him to throw his usual carefulness to the winds. Her letter was but another proof of her insincerity; while the statement of the old colonel in respect of the house-party at Fernhurst angered him. He was furious that she should risk her reputation openly in such a manner. At the same time he was filled with regret that from the charming woman of four years ago she should have developed into a brilliant leader of society, acknowledged by all to be the smartest woman in London.
It was dark when they drove into the quadrangle of the castle, and Dudley, excusing himself to his friends, dressed and retired to the great library for an hour before dinner in order to examine the official correspondence that had arrived in the morning.
From the big Foreign Office envelopes he drew a mass of papers which required his endorsement, and several important letters which he at once answered. The duties of Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs are multitudinous, and the office needs a man who does not hanker after a sinecure. Little leisure was Dudley Chisholm allowed, and seldom could he snatch a few days to run down into the country. His presence in or near town was required always for passing reports; he had to sign here, initial there, and control in a great measure one of the greatest and most important departments of the State.
It is generally understood by Parliament that answers to questions put to the Foreign Under-secretary are prescribed by his Chief, His Majesty’s Principal Secretary. Palmerston would never allow an Under-Secretary to answer a supplementary question until his superior had dictated the reply. But under the Gladstonerégimethis rule was gradually relaxed; and such confidence did Lord Stockbridge place in Chisholm’s discretion and power to fence with the Opposition, that, although he was required to meet his Chief at the Foreign Office between the hours of twelve and two each Parliamentary day, he was allowed a practically free hand. Years ago under-secretaries were but the mouthpieces of their chiefs. Old Parliamentary hands recollect seeing Sir William Harcourt at the far end of the Treasury Bench pass the word to Sir Edward Grey at the other end not to answer a supplementary question until he had consulted Lord Rosebery; and once when Lord Edmond Fitzmaurice asked for notice of a supplementary question so that he might consult Earl Granville, the Opposition jeered, and Mr Gladstone jumped up to declare that Lord Edmond Fitzmaurice had done so by his orders. That, however, was all of the past. Dudley Chisholm was entirely in the confidence of the Marquess of Stockbridge. He relied upon him.
In that sombre old room where the firelight danced upon the rows and rows of heavy volumes written in days long past, he sat within the zone of the green-shaded reading-lamp, his attention absorbed by some official reports. They were evidently of an unusual nature, for of a sudden an exclamation of profound surprise escaped him, and with growing eagerness he scanned page after page of those written lines.
“I don’t believe it!” he exclaimed, speaking to himself. “It can’t be true! My secret is still safe. It cannot possibly be revealed any more than the dead can speak. And yet cock-and-bull stories do not usually emanate from that quarter. It’s certainly startling enough—and if true—well—”
He rose from his chair and thoughtfully paced the room, his hands locked behind his back, as was his habit when thinking deeply. The statement contained in the despatch had alarmed him. He scented danger, and his brow was clouded. The whole thing was so unexpected and so extraordinary that he could scarcely credit it, although the signature to the despatch was that of his Chief, Lord Stockbridge. The matter was one demanding his immediate attention, and yet he had allowed the despatch to remain unopened all day.
Up and down the polished floor he paced, plunged in apprehensive reflections. It appeared that after he had left the Foreign Office on the previous day the Minister had attended there and had sent him that startling despatch under seal. He paused at the table, and taking up the envelope for the first time discovered that it had not been through the post.
Then he touched the bell, and of the man who entered he asked:
“Did a messenger from London leave anything for me this morning, Riggs?”
“Yes, sir. Two official letters, sir. He arrived at six o’clock, and I placed the letters on the breakfast-table.”
“Oh, very well,” his master answered. “You signed the receipt?”
“Yes, sir. It was Mr Forbes who brought them, sir. He said he couldn’t wait till you came down as he was driving back to Shrewsbury to catch the eight-ten up to London.”
“He didn’t say they were important, or make any remark?”
“No, sir.”
“Very well.” And then the man, a smart, middle-aged servant in the Chisholm livery, withdrew.
“Curious—very curious!” exclaimed Dudley in a low, half-frightened whisper when the man had closed the door. “It’s certainly a matter that requires the most searching investigation, otherwise we shall infallibly find ourselves checkmated, Lord Stockbridge writes. I wonder what it can all mean? Even Stockbridge himself doesn’t see any light through it, apparently.”
Again he read the puzzling document, which bore the signature known to every court of Europe as that of the greatest of living statesmen. It bore a postscript also, written by his lordship’s own quill: “When read, please destroy.”
He replaced it on the table, and, crossing to the ancient hearth where the big logs were burning, he stood motionless, gazing blankly at the fire.
The words he read had aroused within him a suspicion—a grave, terrible, awful suspicion. In those moments of deep contemplation he looked fully ten years older. His hand rested upon the high overmantel of black oak, on which was a carved representation of the simple coat of the Shropshire Chisholms, azure, a chevron, or between three water-bougets argent. His brow rested upon his arm as he gazed at the glowing logs. Truth to tell, that confidential document had caused a flood of recollections to surge through his brain—recollections whose return he did not desire. He had vainly thought the past all buried, and had forgiven and forgotten his enemy. But, reading between the lines of that despatch, he saw that this ghost of the past had again arisen. Lord Stockbridge had, of course, no suspicion of the truth. The confidential communication had been made to him in the ordinary course of events, in order that he might institute secret inquiries in certain quarters, and ascertain the feeling of certain influential members in the House.
But if the truth became known? He set his jaws hard, and a deep sigh escaped him. He dared not contemplate the result. It would mean for him ruin, ignominy, shame.
He passed his hot hand wearily across his brow, pushing the thick dark hair from his forehead.
The dead silence was broken by a low groan—a groan of despair and penitence.
“God!” he gasped. “Surely the truth cannot possibly be known? How can it? No,” he went on, murmuring to himself. “Bah! I’m timid—thoughts of it always unnerve me. And yet from this it seems very much as if some secret enemy had waited through these years until I had attained position and popularity in order to strike, to crush, to ruin me for ever!”
He was silent again, silent for many minutes. He stood quite motionless, still gazing into the fire.
“But dare I face exposure?” he asked himself, his hoarse whisper sounding strangely in that old room. “No. A thousand times no! No—impossible! A thousand times no! I’d prefer death. Yes, suicide. It would be the only way. Death is far preferable to dishonour.”
He saw it all—he who could read between those lines. He detected the hand of some secret enemy uplifted against him—an enemy who, he did not doubt, held that secret which through the past six years had been the skeleton in his cupboard. In the esteem of men he had risen rapidly, until to-day he was declared to be one of the shrewdest of England’s legislators, fulfilling all the traditions of his ancient and honourable house. And through out these six years he had striven, and striven, always with an idea of atonement for his cardinal sin; always working in the interests of the nation he had resolved to serve.
How strange it was that His Majesty’s Foreign Minister should have actually communicated this to him, of all men! But man works half his own doom, and circumstance the other half.C’est toujours le destin.
In his despair there had arisen before him that grim and hideous ghost of the past which had always overshadowed the later years of his life; that incident which he constantly feared might come to light to destroy the position he had created, to wreck his popularity, and to cause his name to be synonymous with all that was base, treacherous, and ignominious. For the fault he had committed—a grave offence which he knew could never be humanly forgiven—he had endeavoured to atone to the best of his ability. Other young men of his wealth would have probably married and taken their ease; but with that secret deep in his heart he had worked and striven for his country’s good, prompted by a desire not merely to become popular, but to accomplish something by means of which to make amends.
Men had, of course, never rightly understood his motives. They had believed him to be one of a motley crowd of place-seekers, whose brilliant oratory had fortunately brought him into the front rank, though this was certainly far from being the case Popularity had been heaped upon him as an entirely unwelcome reward. He always declared within himself that he merited nothing—absolutely nothing; and this belief accounted for his utter indifference to the plaudits of the public or the praise bestowed upon him by his Party. He was endeavouring to work out his atonement and make reparation—that was all.
Try as he would, however, he could not put aside the grave suggestion that some secret enemy was preparing acoupbeneath which he must fall. The disquieting despatch from Constantinople seemed to portend this. It was a presage of his downfall. To endeavour to prove his innocence, to try to withstand the storm of indignation that must certainly sweep over England, or to prevent exposure of the truth, spelt futility. He was helpless—utterly helpless against the onsweeping tide of retribution.
The marquess urged that he—the very man concerned in the disreputable affair—should make secret inquiry into the truth of the report. Was not that a freak of Fate? Surely Nemesis was already upon him. What could he reply to that despatch? How could he act?
Many men grudged him his position and the fame he had won. And yet, would they envy him if they were aware of the terrible truth—if they were aware of that awful secret ever burdening his conscience?
Suddenly, as though some fresh thought had occurred to him, he crossed to the opposite side of the room, and, pressing against one of the shelves filled with old brown-covered folios, opened a part which concealed a small safe embedded deeply in the wall, hidden from even the keenest eyes in a manner that could scarcely have been improved. From his watch-chain he selected a key, opened the safe and took from one of its drawers a large official-looking envelope. Walking back to the light of the table, he drew out a piece of thin transparent tracing-paper which he opened and spread upon the blotting-pad.
Upon this paper a letter in a strange, almost microscopic hand, had been traced. This he read carefully, apparently weighing every word. Twice he went over it, almost as though he wished to commit it to memory; then, with a hard look upon his dark features, he replaced it in the envelope, sealed it with a stick of black wax and put it once more in the safe. From the same drawer he extracted a second paper, folded in a small square. With this in his hand he walked toward the nearest window, so as to be in the best light for his purpose. When he was satisfied in this regard, he undid the packet. It contained a curl of fair hair bound together with sewing silk of a faded pink.
As he looked upon it tears welled up into his eyes. That lock of hair brought back to him memories, bitter and tender memories which he always tried to forget, though in vain. Before him arose a woman’s face, pale, fair, with eyes of that deep childlike blue which always proclaims purity of soul. He saw her before him in her simple dress of white linen—a vision of sweet and perfect beauty. The words she had spoken in her gentle voice seemed once again to fall upon his ears with the music that had so invariably charmed him. He remembered what she had said to him—he recollected the whole of that conversation, although years had passed since it had been held. He found it impossible to prevent his thoughts from wandering back to the tender grace of a day that was dead, when, beside the sea, he had for a few hours enjoyed a calm and sunny paradise, which had too quickly changed into a wilderness barren of both roses and angels.
He sighed; and down his cheek there crept a single tear. Then he raised the tiny lock of hair to his lips.
“May God cherish her always—always,” he murmured.
Twice he kissed the lock of hair before, with every sign of reluctance, returning it to the packet and replacing it in the steel drawer. Superstitious persons believe that ill-fortune follows the possession of hair; but Chisholm was never superstitious. This curl, which at rare intervals he was in the habit of taking from its secret hiding-place, always carried his memory back to those brief days when, for the second time in his life, he had experienced perfect happiness. It was an outward and visible sign of a love that had once burned fiercely within two hearts.
He had just locked the safe and hidden it in the usual manner, when Benthall burst into the library, and said in a merry tone of voice:
“I’ve come just to see what you’re doing, old fellow. The gong went half an hour ago and the colonel says he’s got a ravenous appetite. The soup will be cold.”
He had walked across to the table, and stood beside it ready dressed for dinner.
“I—oh! I was busy,” his host answered. “A lot of official correspondence from the Foreign Office, you know—things I ought to have seen to this morning instead of shooting. Correspondence always crowds upon me if I go out of town even for a couple of days.”
“But you’ve done now—haven’t you?” asked his guest, glancing at the littered table.
“Just finished. But I’m awfully sorry to have kept you fellows waiting. The colonel’s so infernally prompt at feeding-time. They say at the Junior that he doesn’t vary five minutes at dinner once in six months.”
“Well, come along, old fellow. Don’t wait to finish.” He seated himself on the edge of the big writing-table while Dudley busied himself in replacing some letters he had taken from the steel despatch-box which accompanied him everywhere.
Smoking a cigarette, and swinging his legs easily, Benthall waited while his host—who had pointed out that he could not leave confidential documents open for the servants to pry into—straightened his papers, and put them together with the communications littering the table, in the box, afterwards locking it.
Only one was left on the table, the despatch which Lord Stockbridge had ordered him to destroy. This he carried to the fire, lit one corner, and held it until it was all consumed, afterwards destroying the tinder with the poker.
“What’s that you’re so careful to burn?” asked Benthall, interested.
“Oh, nothing, my dear Harry—nothing,” answered the Under-Secretary in a nonchalant manner. “Only a despatch.”
“From Stockbridge, or one of the other Ministers, I suppose?”
“Yes.”
“But why did you burn it?”
“In order that it shouldn’t fall into anybody else’s hands.”
“Something very confidential, then?”
“Yes, something extremely confidential,” answered Chisholm. “But come along, old fellow, let’s go to dinner, or the colonel will never forgive me.”
Chapter Eight.Shows a Politician and a Policy.Dudley Chisholm, with the excuse that his presence was urgently required at the Foreign Office, returned to town by the first train on the following day, leaving the colonel and Benthall to continue their sport. He would probably return in a couple of days, he said, but Lord Stockbridge wished to explain to him the line of policy which he intended to adopt towards France, with a view to lessening the tension between the two nations, and to give him certain instructions as to the conduct of the forthcoming debate in the House.As both his guests understood that a man holding such a position was liable at any moment to be called up to town, they made the best of their disappointment, wished him good luck when the time came for his departure, and went out with the head-keeper for a day’s sport in Parnholt Wood.That same afternoon, in the fading light, the Under-Secretary was closeted with his Chief, the Most Noble the Marquess of Stockbridge, K.G., Prime Minister of England, and Her Majesty’s Principal Secretary of State, in his private room at Downing Street.Next to the Sovereign, this tall, thin-faced, grey-bearded man, with the rather ascetic, aquiline features and keen dark eyes that age had not dimmed, was the most potent personage in the British Empire. The room in which he was sitting at the big pedestal writing-table was on the first floor of the Foreign Office, a spacious apartment, solidly furnished and of a very business-like appearance. In that room Ambassadors and Envoys Plenipotentiary had discussed matters of such importance, in such a way, that if those walls had ears to listen and tongues to repeat, the whole of Europe would have been in arms on many an occasion. Placed as far from the door as possible, the most conspicuous object in the room was the Prime Minister’s table, standing on the right, close to the fireplace of black and white marble, with a plain, gilt-framed mirror above, and one of those ordinary square marble clocks which may be found in almost every middle-class dining-room. In a small bookcase close to his lordship’s left hand was a library of reference works; while to his right, in the centre of the apartment, was a round table covered with books, where the current issue of theTimeswas lying.In front of the great statesman was a long lounge, upholstered in dark green leather, as was the rest of the furniture, and upon the wall behind the lounge a rack containing a large number of maps. Two or three deep armchairs, a couple of other tables and several revolving bookcases completed the furniture of the private room of the head of the Cabinet. At the table sat the marquess toying idly with his quill, while upon the leather-covered lounge before him sat Chisholm, the Under-secretary of State for Foreign Affairs.They were alone, with the door closed against intruders. The greyness of the short afternoon had become more and more pronounced during their conversation, and as neither had risen to switch on the electric light the room was in semi-darkness. Chisholm was thankful, for he was uneasy, and feared that his face might betray him to that keen and practised statesman beneath whose calm gaze many a diplomatist, whether British or foreign, had so often trembled. A rather cold, but exceedingly courteous man, Lord Stockbridge always spoke with slow deliberation, and with a gentleness that one would scarcely have expected from a man of such an austere manner. He was an autocrat both at the Foreign Office and in the Cabinet, always ruling with a firm hand, exhibiting a strange individualism in responsibility, bestowing but little praise upon any of Britain’s hard-working representatives abroad; but he was a patriot, and every inch a gentleman. Representatives of certain of the Powers at the Court of St. James held him in dread—they even hated him, because of his integrity, his calm dignity, and his shrewd foresight. They knew that he was not a man to be tricked, and that in his anger the British lion showed its teeth.To this rather melancholy man with the grave face and the quick dark eyes the British nation chiefly owed the retention of its position as the first Power in the world. During his fifteen years of office the European outlook had, times without number, been of a grim blackness, and the war-cloud had hovered on the political horizon almost incessantly; yet, by means of his careful statesmanship and the marvellous tact andfinesseconstantly exhibited by him, this splendid politician had succeeded in piloting the ship of state into quieter waters.Like his trusted Under-Secretary, he was a man who hated popularity, although he was equally popular in England and throughout the great Empire oversea. He detested cheap notoriety; he always declared that he left that sort of thing to the Opposition benches. In a word, he was an honest, straightforward, patriotic Englishman, the most trusted of Her Majesty’s Ministers, and the greatest living statesman in Europe.Had he not acted with firmness and discretion, as well as with quick foresight, Great Britain would a dozen times have been at war with her jealous neighbours. More than once conspiracies, deeply laid and skilfully engineered, had been in progress in some diplomatic circles for the purpose of inveigling England into hostilities; but his power of keen penetration and swift deduction had caused the efforts of our enemies to be thwarted and they themselves to be discomfited by some remarkablecoupin quite another direction. It was the cackling cry of certain leader-writers that English diplomacy was abortive, that other nations left us behind in the race, and that our Ambassadors and Ministers were merely bunglers. These prophets (hired at the rate of two guineas a column) always conveniently overlooked the fact that the world virtually owed its peace and consequent prosperity to the thin-faced, rather haggard-looking, man who was the personal friend, confidant and adviser of his venerated and peace-loving Sovereign.He sat there in the half light twisting his quill in his thin hands, a sign that he was puzzled.“The situation is undoubtedly critical, Chisholm,” he said in a low voice. “I confess I cannot make it out in the least. The whole thing appears to me an enigma at present.”“Have you received no further despatch from Vienna?” inquired the Under-Secretary.“Yes. One came through in cipher a couple of hours ago. But it tells us nothing. Farncombe is apparently without information.”The younger man breathed more freely. He had feared that the truth was already known. Up to the present, then, he was safe; but the tension was terrible. He did not know from one moment to another by what avenue his exposure, which would mean his inevitable degradation and ruin, would come. A despatch from Lord Farncombe, the British Ambassador at Vienna, revealing the truth, would be his death-warrant, for he had determined to commit suicide rather than face the terrible exposure that would necessarily ensue were his secret to become known.By making a supreme effort he had succeeded in carrying on this private consultation with his chief without betraying undue apprehension. He had shown some alarm, it is true, but the marquess put this down to his natural anxiety in regard to the serious complications in Europe which, as it seemed, had been created by what had so mysteriously leaked out from Vienna and Constantinople.“I can’t understand why Farncombe has not some information on the matter,” his lordship went on deliberately, almost as though he were speaking to himself. “It’s scandalous that we should be working entirely in the dark. But for the present we must wait. Our only chance of success is to keep our own counsel and not show our hand. We are weak in this affair, Chisholm, horribly weak. If the Opposition got wind of it we should have a poor chance, I’m afraid. It’s just what they’ve been longing for these three years.”“But they must know nothing!” exclaimed. Chisholm quickly. “If the secret of our weakness comes out, all Europe will be ablaze.”“Exactly, that’s just what I fear!” the Minister answered. “It must be kept from them at all hazards. You are the only man in London besides myself who has the slightest inkling of the situation. You will, of course, regard it as strictly confidential.”“Absolutely.”“And you destroyed the despatch I sent you to Wroxeter?”“I burnt it.”“Good!” exclaimed the marquess, leaning both elbows upon the table and looking across again at the man sitting there in the falling darkness. “And now we must form some plan of action. We must save the situation. Have you anything to suggest?”“I really don’t know what to suggest,” Dudley faltered. “The whole affair is so mysterious, and we seem to have nothing to go upon. To me, it doesn’t seem possible that our friends in Constantinople have suddenly turned antagonistic.”“Certainly not. Our relations with the Porte are excellent—and you can tell the House so. It is that very fact which puzzles me. The only solution of the enigma, as far as I can see, is that it is the outcome of that dastardly betrayal to Russia of our policy towards the Porte a year or two ago. You will recollect it, and how nearly it resulted in war?”“Yes,” answered Dudley in a faltering voice, “I remember it.” Then he added quickly, as though to change the subject: “As far as I can see, the conspiracy is being worked from one of the other capitals.”Her Majesty’s Under-Secretary knew the truth, but made a clever pretence of being no less mystified than his chief.“Perhaps so, perhaps so,” the great statesman remarked. “But this affair shows that there is once again a desperate attempt being made against us—from what quarter we are unable at present to detect.”“Rome is not the centre of activity, I feel sure,” Chisholm observed. “We only see its effect there.”“An effect which may alienate us from Italy at any moment. With the Saracco Government in power there, matters are by no means upon a firm basis.”“But Rathmore is one of our best men. He’ll surely see that such acontretempsdoes not occur.”“Difficult—my dear Chisholm,” replied the grey-haired Minister. “Diplomacy is often as difficult in Rome as it is in Petersburg. The undercurrents against us are quite as many. The Powers are jealous of Italy’s friendship towards us and of her resolve to assist us in the Mediterranean if necessary. That is the wholecruxof the matter. Happily, they are not aware of the terms I made with Rudini two years ago, or the war-cloud would probably have burst some time back. We can’t afford to risk hostilities while Italy is so weak. In two years her new armaments will be complete, and then—”“And then we shall be able to defy them,” added the Under-Secretary with a smile.The great Minister rubbed his gold-framed glasses and nodded in the affirmative.“But the most curious aspect of this sudden development—if the information is correct, as we suppose it to be—is the apparent boldness of the diplomatic move on the part of the Porte,” the elder man went on. “It is an absolute enigma how they dare to attempt such acoupwithout being absolutely certain of success.”“But how could they be?” queried the Under-secretary in a strained voice.“Only by the possession of secret information,” the other replied. “It is the outcome of our base betrayal five years ago.”“Surely nothing further has leaked out!” exclaimed the man seated upon the leather-covered lounge.“No. There are spies in London—a crowd of them. Melville from Scotland Yard handed me a list of twenty or so of the interesting gentlemen last week. But we have nothing to fear from them—absolutely nothing. What I dread is that there is a traitor here, in my own Department.”“Then what is your private opinion?”“Well,” said the great man, still slowly twisting his quill between his fingers, “it seems to me, Chisholm, very much as though the person who is responsible for this clever move to checkmate our influence in the Mediterranean, like the man who betrayed us before, knows our secret, and is possessed of absolute self-confidence. He evidently knows of the agreement made five years ago, or else he possesses influence in some quarter or other which may prove detrimental to us.”Dudley Chisholm held his breath. Truth lived in the last words that had fallen from the lips of his chief. The man responsible for the remarkablecoupthat had been forecasted from Vienna did indeed possess influence—over himself—an influence for life or death. After a great effort he contrived to remain calm, and, in a voice which to him sounded cavernous in that great room, he merely said:“Yes. I thoroughly agree with your theory—thoroughly.”“Then in that case, Chisholm, you must make a distinct statement in the House to-morrow regarding our policy abroad and the defence of the Empire. If thecoupis really attempted, we must have public opinion entirely with us. This is not a party matter. You follow me?”“Entirely. I will have a supplementary question put to-morrow, and reply to it.”“Speak fearlessly and straight to the point. Assure the House that at this moment we are in a stronger position than we ever were, and that our allies are eager to assist us whenever war may break out. Hint at certain secret understandings with regard to the Mediterranean, and also at an Anglo-American alliance. I detest to play this game, but it is necessary—highly necessary, having regard to the extreme gravity of the outlook.”“Very well,” replied Chisholm, rising, anxious to escape from that astute man’s presence before his pallid face should confess a part of the truth. “I will carry out your instructions. I quite understand the line to be adopted—one of nonchalance and self-satisfaction.”And then, after a brief conversation upon other topics, the Under-Secretary, when he had switched on the light for his chief, walked out, and went down the great staircase into Downing Street.
Dudley Chisholm, with the excuse that his presence was urgently required at the Foreign Office, returned to town by the first train on the following day, leaving the colonel and Benthall to continue their sport. He would probably return in a couple of days, he said, but Lord Stockbridge wished to explain to him the line of policy which he intended to adopt towards France, with a view to lessening the tension between the two nations, and to give him certain instructions as to the conduct of the forthcoming debate in the House.
As both his guests understood that a man holding such a position was liable at any moment to be called up to town, they made the best of their disappointment, wished him good luck when the time came for his departure, and went out with the head-keeper for a day’s sport in Parnholt Wood.
That same afternoon, in the fading light, the Under-Secretary was closeted with his Chief, the Most Noble the Marquess of Stockbridge, K.G., Prime Minister of England, and Her Majesty’s Principal Secretary of State, in his private room at Downing Street.
Next to the Sovereign, this tall, thin-faced, grey-bearded man, with the rather ascetic, aquiline features and keen dark eyes that age had not dimmed, was the most potent personage in the British Empire. The room in which he was sitting at the big pedestal writing-table was on the first floor of the Foreign Office, a spacious apartment, solidly furnished and of a very business-like appearance. In that room Ambassadors and Envoys Plenipotentiary had discussed matters of such importance, in such a way, that if those walls had ears to listen and tongues to repeat, the whole of Europe would have been in arms on many an occasion. Placed as far from the door as possible, the most conspicuous object in the room was the Prime Minister’s table, standing on the right, close to the fireplace of black and white marble, with a plain, gilt-framed mirror above, and one of those ordinary square marble clocks which may be found in almost every middle-class dining-room. In a small bookcase close to his lordship’s left hand was a library of reference works; while to his right, in the centre of the apartment, was a round table covered with books, where the current issue of theTimeswas lying.
In front of the great statesman was a long lounge, upholstered in dark green leather, as was the rest of the furniture, and upon the wall behind the lounge a rack containing a large number of maps. Two or three deep armchairs, a couple of other tables and several revolving bookcases completed the furniture of the private room of the head of the Cabinet. At the table sat the marquess toying idly with his quill, while upon the leather-covered lounge before him sat Chisholm, the Under-secretary of State for Foreign Affairs.
They were alone, with the door closed against intruders. The greyness of the short afternoon had become more and more pronounced during their conversation, and as neither had risen to switch on the electric light the room was in semi-darkness. Chisholm was thankful, for he was uneasy, and feared that his face might betray him to that keen and practised statesman beneath whose calm gaze many a diplomatist, whether British or foreign, had so often trembled. A rather cold, but exceedingly courteous man, Lord Stockbridge always spoke with slow deliberation, and with a gentleness that one would scarcely have expected from a man of such an austere manner. He was an autocrat both at the Foreign Office and in the Cabinet, always ruling with a firm hand, exhibiting a strange individualism in responsibility, bestowing but little praise upon any of Britain’s hard-working representatives abroad; but he was a patriot, and every inch a gentleman. Representatives of certain of the Powers at the Court of St. James held him in dread—they even hated him, because of his integrity, his calm dignity, and his shrewd foresight. They knew that he was not a man to be tricked, and that in his anger the British lion showed its teeth.
To this rather melancholy man with the grave face and the quick dark eyes the British nation chiefly owed the retention of its position as the first Power in the world. During his fifteen years of office the European outlook had, times without number, been of a grim blackness, and the war-cloud had hovered on the political horizon almost incessantly; yet, by means of his careful statesmanship and the marvellous tact andfinesseconstantly exhibited by him, this splendid politician had succeeded in piloting the ship of state into quieter waters.
Like his trusted Under-Secretary, he was a man who hated popularity, although he was equally popular in England and throughout the great Empire oversea. He detested cheap notoriety; he always declared that he left that sort of thing to the Opposition benches. In a word, he was an honest, straightforward, patriotic Englishman, the most trusted of Her Majesty’s Ministers, and the greatest living statesman in Europe.
Had he not acted with firmness and discretion, as well as with quick foresight, Great Britain would a dozen times have been at war with her jealous neighbours. More than once conspiracies, deeply laid and skilfully engineered, had been in progress in some diplomatic circles for the purpose of inveigling England into hostilities; but his power of keen penetration and swift deduction had caused the efforts of our enemies to be thwarted and they themselves to be discomfited by some remarkablecoupin quite another direction. It was the cackling cry of certain leader-writers that English diplomacy was abortive, that other nations left us behind in the race, and that our Ambassadors and Ministers were merely bunglers. These prophets (hired at the rate of two guineas a column) always conveniently overlooked the fact that the world virtually owed its peace and consequent prosperity to the thin-faced, rather haggard-looking, man who was the personal friend, confidant and adviser of his venerated and peace-loving Sovereign.
He sat there in the half light twisting his quill in his thin hands, a sign that he was puzzled.
“The situation is undoubtedly critical, Chisholm,” he said in a low voice. “I confess I cannot make it out in the least. The whole thing appears to me an enigma at present.”
“Have you received no further despatch from Vienna?” inquired the Under-Secretary.
“Yes. One came through in cipher a couple of hours ago. But it tells us nothing. Farncombe is apparently without information.”
The younger man breathed more freely. He had feared that the truth was already known. Up to the present, then, he was safe; but the tension was terrible. He did not know from one moment to another by what avenue his exposure, which would mean his inevitable degradation and ruin, would come. A despatch from Lord Farncombe, the British Ambassador at Vienna, revealing the truth, would be his death-warrant, for he had determined to commit suicide rather than face the terrible exposure that would necessarily ensue were his secret to become known.
By making a supreme effort he had succeeded in carrying on this private consultation with his chief without betraying undue apprehension. He had shown some alarm, it is true, but the marquess put this down to his natural anxiety in regard to the serious complications in Europe which, as it seemed, had been created by what had so mysteriously leaked out from Vienna and Constantinople.
“I can’t understand why Farncombe has not some information on the matter,” his lordship went on deliberately, almost as though he were speaking to himself. “It’s scandalous that we should be working entirely in the dark. But for the present we must wait. Our only chance of success is to keep our own counsel and not show our hand. We are weak in this affair, Chisholm, horribly weak. If the Opposition got wind of it we should have a poor chance, I’m afraid. It’s just what they’ve been longing for these three years.”
“But they must know nothing!” exclaimed. Chisholm quickly. “If the secret of our weakness comes out, all Europe will be ablaze.”
“Exactly, that’s just what I fear!” the Minister answered. “It must be kept from them at all hazards. You are the only man in London besides myself who has the slightest inkling of the situation. You will, of course, regard it as strictly confidential.”
“Absolutely.”
“And you destroyed the despatch I sent you to Wroxeter?”
“I burnt it.”
“Good!” exclaimed the marquess, leaning both elbows upon the table and looking across again at the man sitting there in the falling darkness. “And now we must form some plan of action. We must save the situation. Have you anything to suggest?”
“I really don’t know what to suggest,” Dudley faltered. “The whole affair is so mysterious, and we seem to have nothing to go upon. To me, it doesn’t seem possible that our friends in Constantinople have suddenly turned antagonistic.”
“Certainly not. Our relations with the Porte are excellent—and you can tell the House so. It is that very fact which puzzles me. The only solution of the enigma, as far as I can see, is that it is the outcome of that dastardly betrayal to Russia of our policy towards the Porte a year or two ago. You will recollect it, and how nearly it resulted in war?”
“Yes,” answered Dudley in a faltering voice, “I remember it.” Then he added quickly, as though to change the subject: “As far as I can see, the conspiracy is being worked from one of the other capitals.”
Her Majesty’s Under-Secretary knew the truth, but made a clever pretence of being no less mystified than his chief.
“Perhaps so, perhaps so,” the great statesman remarked. “But this affair shows that there is once again a desperate attempt being made against us—from what quarter we are unable at present to detect.”
“Rome is not the centre of activity, I feel sure,” Chisholm observed. “We only see its effect there.”
“An effect which may alienate us from Italy at any moment. With the Saracco Government in power there, matters are by no means upon a firm basis.”
“But Rathmore is one of our best men. He’ll surely see that such acontretempsdoes not occur.”
“Difficult—my dear Chisholm,” replied the grey-haired Minister. “Diplomacy is often as difficult in Rome as it is in Petersburg. The undercurrents against us are quite as many. The Powers are jealous of Italy’s friendship towards us and of her resolve to assist us in the Mediterranean if necessary. That is the wholecruxof the matter. Happily, they are not aware of the terms I made with Rudini two years ago, or the war-cloud would probably have burst some time back. We can’t afford to risk hostilities while Italy is so weak. In two years her new armaments will be complete, and then—”
“And then we shall be able to defy them,” added the Under-Secretary with a smile.
The great Minister rubbed his gold-framed glasses and nodded in the affirmative.
“But the most curious aspect of this sudden development—if the information is correct, as we suppose it to be—is the apparent boldness of the diplomatic move on the part of the Porte,” the elder man went on. “It is an absolute enigma how they dare to attempt such acoupwithout being absolutely certain of success.”
“But how could they be?” queried the Under-secretary in a strained voice.
“Only by the possession of secret information,” the other replied. “It is the outcome of our base betrayal five years ago.”
“Surely nothing further has leaked out!” exclaimed the man seated upon the leather-covered lounge.
“No. There are spies in London—a crowd of them. Melville from Scotland Yard handed me a list of twenty or so of the interesting gentlemen last week. But we have nothing to fear from them—absolutely nothing. What I dread is that there is a traitor here, in my own Department.”
“Then what is your private opinion?”
“Well,” said the great man, still slowly twisting his quill between his fingers, “it seems to me, Chisholm, very much as though the person who is responsible for this clever move to checkmate our influence in the Mediterranean, like the man who betrayed us before, knows our secret, and is possessed of absolute self-confidence. He evidently knows of the agreement made five years ago, or else he possesses influence in some quarter or other which may prove detrimental to us.”
Dudley Chisholm held his breath. Truth lived in the last words that had fallen from the lips of his chief. The man responsible for the remarkablecoupthat had been forecasted from Vienna did indeed possess influence—over himself—an influence for life or death. After a great effort he contrived to remain calm, and, in a voice which to him sounded cavernous in that great room, he merely said:
“Yes. I thoroughly agree with your theory—thoroughly.”
“Then in that case, Chisholm, you must make a distinct statement in the House to-morrow regarding our policy abroad and the defence of the Empire. If thecoupis really attempted, we must have public opinion entirely with us. This is not a party matter. You follow me?”
“Entirely. I will have a supplementary question put to-morrow, and reply to it.”
“Speak fearlessly and straight to the point. Assure the House that at this moment we are in a stronger position than we ever were, and that our allies are eager to assist us whenever war may break out. Hint at certain secret understandings with regard to the Mediterranean, and also at an Anglo-American alliance. I detest to play this game, but it is necessary—highly necessary, having regard to the extreme gravity of the outlook.”
“Very well,” replied Chisholm, rising, anxious to escape from that astute man’s presence before his pallid face should confess a part of the truth. “I will carry out your instructions. I quite understand the line to be adopted—one of nonchalance and self-satisfaction.”
And then, after a brief conversation upon other topics, the Under-Secretary, when he had switched on the light for his chief, walked out, and went down the great staircase into Downing Street.
Chapter Nine.Defines the Dazzling Degradation.At “question-time” on the following afternoon Dudley Chisholm, as mouthpiece of the Foreign Office, rose to reply to a very pointed and seemingly awkward supplementary question put to him by an obscure Member. There was a big House, and owing to the continual allegations of England’s unpreparedness made by the alarmist section of the Press, the answer was listened to with almost breathless interest.The man who stood there addressing the House affected a calmness which he certainly did not feel. He knew not but that at any moment some Member of the Opposition might rise and there publicly show him up as a political impostor, a man who was sailing under false colours, and who knew of England’s danger yet dare not speak because to do so would be to expose his own crime. Nevertheless, even though the terrible tension had worked havoc with him throughout the long night, preventing him from sleeping and causing him to tramp for hours the deserted streets of London, he stood there speaking in his well-known deliberate manner, from time to time making home-thrusts at his political opponents, and eloquently assuring the House and the public that the Empire was safe from attack.In the course of his brilliant reply he deprecated the popular assumption that in diplomacy we were always left behind, and hinted, as Lord Stockbridge had instructed him to do, at certain secret agreements which, having been of late effected, placed England in an almost invulnerable position. Never during the century, he declared, had Great Britain been on more amicable terms with her neighbours, and never had her position as the first among nations been more secure. Then he went on to speak of the two great tasks Her Majesty’s Ministers had themselves undertaken—the task of drawing all members of this vast Empire, all the dependencies of the crown in every quarter of the world, into a close and more organic unity, and the task of providing adequate defences for this great Empire. He admitted that it was sometimes held abroad that this awakening on our part to the obligations of Empire denoted a new spirit of antagonism in this country towards the legitimate aims and aspirations of European Powers. That was not so. The spirit in which we took up our portion of the task was not one of antagonism, but of generous emulation, with a view to seeing which of the favoured nations of the world could do most in the shortest time to perform the duty owed by them to the countries still oppressed by savagery, barbarism, or imperfect civilisation. That spirit was embodied in a certain secret agreement which he could not, of course, mention. The tasks he had spoken of could not be undertaken by their opponents, who in essential questions were distracted and apathetic. While the Government would foster true Imperialism, they would not neglect social and domestic legislation. The Opposition were living on the ghosts of the past and amid the tombs of dead policies.As he resumed his seat there was an outburst of applause. The country had long been waiting for some reassuring declaration from the Government, and this, flashed by the wires from the Press Gallery above, would in a few hours have the effect of allaying any public misgivings.But Chisholm, having performed his duty, gathered up his papers and at once left the House. In the Lobby one or two men congratulated him, but he only smiled that rather melancholy smile they knew so well.The House of Commons nowadays is not such an austere assembly as it was even a decade ago. True, Members are sometimes called to St. Stephen’s in October and November, and thus have their vacation plans for Cairo or the Riviera considerably disarranged; yet the patriotic M.P. now finds the House the best and cheapest club in London, where he can, if he chooses, live upon ninepenny steaks and drink gin at twopence a glassful! Indeed, nowadays there seems more dining than politics, and more brilliant entertaining than brilliant oratory. There are many distinct coteries in the House, as there must always be among men divided in political opinion, but the coterie of entertainers is quite definite and distinct. Its members are those who have entered upon a Parliamentary career as a gentleman’s due. They are the political drones. They rarely, if ever, speak, but with their many smart lady-guests support the social side of Parliament right royally. Harry Benthall was one of these butterflies among legislators. When he spoke, the subject was usually connected with the personal comfort of Members. Among the boiled-shirt brigade was a man who had sat in the House for thirty years, and had only spoken once—a speech that lasted one minute; while Mr Kinnear, the Parliamentary diarist, has placed it on record that a certain gentleman representing a county division sat in three successive Governments without finding his way to the vote office! The whole life of such men is taken up in hunting for a “pair.” It is one of the first duties he feels he owes to himself and to his friends of the dining-room, or of that latter-day annexe to Mayfair, the Terrace. Indeed, so popular became the Terrace a couple of seasons ago that each afternoon it was crowded bygrandes damesand young legislators, and flirting, tea-drinking, and strawberry-eating went on to such an extent that the merrymaking seriously threatened to stop legislation altogether. So that awe-inspiring functionary, the Serjeant-at-Arms, acting quietly but firmly, issued such orders that “at homes” in Parliament were suddenly discontinued, and the daily crush at Westminster became less of a public scandal.To put it plainly, a new House has grown up. The old austerity of legislation in the days of Palmerston and Beaconsfield has nearly disappeared, and to-day the gentlemen upon whom the right to add M.P. to their name is bestowed, find to their delight that legislation is really very largely an arrangement come to between the two front Benches.As Chisholm passed through the Lobby, pausing at Mr Pike’s office to obtain some letters, some one cried “Saunderson’s up,” and all the idlers knew that the debate upon another matter had commenced, and that “fun” might be expected.The Under-Secretary thrust the letters into his pocket, put on his overcoat, and walked back to the Foreign Office, where some documents were awaiting his signature, and where he had some instructions to give his secretary. On his way across Palace Yard and along Parliament Street his eyes were fixed upon the pavement, for he was deep in thought and heedless of all about him. He walked like a man in a dream.Before long the blow must fall, he told himself. How long would it be deferred? How many days of grace would his secret enemy give him?Hour after hour had he endeavoured to find some solution of the problem how to repel the threatened vengeance. But there seemed to be no satisfactory way—absolutely none.A word from him to his chief might save the situation. That would mean open and complete confession. No, he could not confess to the great statesman who had reposed such entire confidence in him, and who had given him the high and responsible office he now held. He could not; he dare not face the wrath of Lord Stockbridge, of all men.He had sinned, and must suffer. A dozen times during the past night as he had paced the silent streets of London the suggestion had occurred to him to resign everything and go abroad at once. Yet what would that avail him? To escape would be only to exhibit cowardice. The sleep from which there was no awakening was by far the best mode of release at which to aim.Upon a seat at the kerb in Piccadilly, with a ragged outcast as companion, he had sat a full hour in the most silent watch of the night thinking the matter over. After all, he told himself, he was little better than the shivering wretch beside him.And now, as he turned the corner of Downing Street, he sighed heavily, wondering on how many more occasions he would return to his official headquarters. Not many, alas! Nemesis was at his heels.That night he dined at his club, the Carlton, but returned to his chambers immediately afterwards.As he entered his sitting-room, a woman in a striking evening toilet of pale-blue, turning from the fire, rose to greet him. It was Claudia Nevill.“My dear Dudley!” she cried, stretching forth both her hands to him. “I’ve been awaiting you for half an hour or more. Wherever have you been?”He had drawn back in annoyance at the moment when she faced him so unexpectedly. She was the last person he wished to meet at that moment.“Oh,” he answered rather coldly, taking her hands in greeting, “I dined at the Club. I’m not very well,” he added wearily.“But not too queer to go to the Duchess’s ball?”“The Duchess’s ball? I don’t understand,” he said, looking at her puzzled.“Why, surely you keep a note of your engagements, or Wrey does for you? It’s quite three weeks ago since we arranged to go there together.”“To go where?”“Why, to the Duchess of Penarth’s ball. You of course remembered that she asked us both, and we promised. You had a card, no doubt.”“Perhaps I had,” he said blankly, for he received so many invitations that he always left it to Wrey, his private secretary, to attend to the resulting correspondence. He had gone little into society, except when Claudia Nevill took him as her escort.“Perhaps?” she exclaimed. “Why, whatever is the matter with you, Dudley? You’ve not been at all yourself for some days past. Now, tell me—do.”He was silent for a few moments.“I told you when I was last at Albert Gate,” he said at length very seriously. “I thought my words were quite plain, Claudia.”“You spoke all sorts of absurd things about scandals and gossip,” she laughed, reseating herself and motioning him to a chair on the opposite side of the fireplace. “But you were not yourself, so I didn’t take any heed of it.”“I told you exactly what I intended doing,” he answered, standing before her, with his back to the fire. “I am surprised to find you here.”“And who has been putting all these absurd ideas into your head, my dear Dudley?” asked the brilliant woman in the magnificent Dôeuillet ball toilette. “You know that we love each other, so what’s the use of kicking against the pricks? Now go and put on a dress-coat and a pair of gloves and take me to Penarth House, there’s a good fellow—the Duchess expects us.”“Her Grace doesn’t expect me, for I declined.”“You declined!” cried his fair companion. “Why?”“Wrey declined. He has recently had orders from me to decline all such invitations. Dances only bore me. I’m too much occupied with official business.”“Official business! Bosh! Leave it alone for a time and enjoy yourself. You are really becoming quite the old crony.”“Better that than—well, than to be one of the set who were down at Fernhurst Abbey.”She glanced at him swiftly, with a curious, half-apprehensive look.“At Fernhurst? What do you mean?”“I mean, Claudia, that there were certain incidents at Fernhurst which do not reflect much credit upon either the man or the woman.”“And I am the woman, of course?”He nodded.“And the man? Name him.”“A certain foreigner.”“Ah!” she laughed lightly. “So you’ve heard all about it already. You mean the Grand-Duke. He was such fun, such a soft-headed fool. He actually thought himself in love with me.”“And you allowed him to entertain that impression. I know the whole of the facts,” he said harshly.“What you know is, I presume, some absurd tittle-tattle about us,” she replied, a shadow of annoyance upon her face.“I know sufficient, Claudia, to cause me to alter my opinion regarding you,” he answered very gravely.“Oh! so you would condemn me unheard? That is unlike you, Dudley. I cannot think chivalry and justice are dead in you.”“I condemn you,” he said quickly, looking straight at her. “I condemn you for casting aside all your womanly instincts in this mad craze of yours to lead society and retain your position as a so-called smart woman. You cannot see that smartness is merely a synonym for fastness, and that you are rapidly flinging your reputation to the winds.”“That, my dear Dudley, is a stale story. You have already told me so before. Without offence to you, I would point out that my reputation is entirely my own affair.”“It concerns me, as well as yourself,” he blurted out. “You cannot afford to run the risks you are running. You love distinction, Claudia, and that is a passion of a deep and dangerous nature. In a man that passion is ambition. In a woman it is a selfish desire to stand apart from the many; to be, as far as is possible, unique; to enjoy what she does enjoy and to appropriate the tribute which society offers her, without caring a rap for the sisterhood to which she belongs. To be the idol of society is synonymous with being the butt of ridicule and of scandal, especially to all who have failed in the same career.”“Oh,” she laughed, “you are such a funny old philosopher, Dudley. You grow worse and worse.”“I know this,” he went on, “that no sooner does a woman begin to feel herself a leader of society, as you are at this moment, than she finds in her daily path innumerable temptations, of which she had never before dreamed. Her exalted position is maintained, not by the universal suffrage of her friends, for at least one-half of them would tear her down from her pedestal, if they were able, but by the indefatigable exercise of ingenuity in the way of evading, stooping, conciliating, deceiving; as well as by a continued series of efforts to be cheerful when depressed, witty when absolutely dull, and animated, brilliant, and amusing when disappointed, weary, or distressed.”“Oh,” she cried impatiently, “I thought we had enough of moralising the last time we met! And now you want to re-open the old question.”“No, Claudia,” he answered, placing his hand tenderly upon her shoulder, which was covered only by the strap of pale-blue embroidered satin which held her handsome corsage. “I only want to show you plainly how in a woman simplicity of heart cannot be allied to ambition. The woman who aspires to be the idol of her fellows, as you do, must be satisfied to lose this lily from her wreath. And when a woman’s simplicity of heart is gone, then she is no longer faithful as a wife or safe as a friend. Her fame is, after all, nothing more than dazzling degradation.”
At “question-time” on the following afternoon Dudley Chisholm, as mouthpiece of the Foreign Office, rose to reply to a very pointed and seemingly awkward supplementary question put to him by an obscure Member. There was a big House, and owing to the continual allegations of England’s unpreparedness made by the alarmist section of the Press, the answer was listened to with almost breathless interest.
The man who stood there addressing the House affected a calmness which he certainly did not feel. He knew not but that at any moment some Member of the Opposition might rise and there publicly show him up as a political impostor, a man who was sailing under false colours, and who knew of England’s danger yet dare not speak because to do so would be to expose his own crime. Nevertheless, even though the terrible tension had worked havoc with him throughout the long night, preventing him from sleeping and causing him to tramp for hours the deserted streets of London, he stood there speaking in his well-known deliberate manner, from time to time making home-thrusts at his political opponents, and eloquently assuring the House and the public that the Empire was safe from attack.
In the course of his brilliant reply he deprecated the popular assumption that in diplomacy we were always left behind, and hinted, as Lord Stockbridge had instructed him to do, at certain secret agreements which, having been of late effected, placed England in an almost invulnerable position. Never during the century, he declared, had Great Britain been on more amicable terms with her neighbours, and never had her position as the first among nations been more secure. Then he went on to speak of the two great tasks Her Majesty’s Ministers had themselves undertaken—the task of drawing all members of this vast Empire, all the dependencies of the crown in every quarter of the world, into a close and more organic unity, and the task of providing adequate defences for this great Empire. He admitted that it was sometimes held abroad that this awakening on our part to the obligations of Empire denoted a new spirit of antagonism in this country towards the legitimate aims and aspirations of European Powers. That was not so. The spirit in which we took up our portion of the task was not one of antagonism, but of generous emulation, with a view to seeing which of the favoured nations of the world could do most in the shortest time to perform the duty owed by them to the countries still oppressed by savagery, barbarism, or imperfect civilisation. That spirit was embodied in a certain secret agreement which he could not, of course, mention. The tasks he had spoken of could not be undertaken by their opponents, who in essential questions were distracted and apathetic. While the Government would foster true Imperialism, they would not neglect social and domestic legislation. The Opposition were living on the ghosts of the past and amid the tombs of dead policies.
As he resumed his seat there was an outburst of applause. The country had long been waiting for some reassuring declaration from the Government, and this, flashed by the wires from the Press Gallery above, would in a few hours have the effect of allaying any public misgivings.
But Chisholm, having performed his duty, gathered up his papers and at once left the House. In the Lobby one or two men congratulated him, but he only smiled that rather melancholy smile they knew so well.
The House of Commons nowadays is not such an austere assembly as it was even a decade ago. True, Members are sometimes called to St. Stephen’s in October and November, and thus have their vacation plans for Cairo or the Riviera considerably disarranged; yet the patriotic M.P. now finds the House the best and cheapest club in London, where he can, if he chooses, live upon ninepenny steaks and drink gin at twopence a glassful! Indeed, nowadays there seems more dining than politics, and more brilliant entertaining than brilliant oratory. There are many distinct coteries in the House, as there must always be among men divided in political opinion, but the coterie of entertainers is quite definite and distinct. Its members are those who have entered upon a Parliamentary career as a gentleman’s due. They are the political drones. They rarely, if ever, speak, but with their many smart lady-guests support the social side of Parliament right royally. Harry Benthall was one of these butterflies among legislators. When he spoke, the subject was usually connected with the personal comfort of Members. Among the boiled-shirt brigade was a man who had sat in the House for thirty years, and had only spoken once—a speech that lasted one minute; while Mr Kinnear, the Parliamentary diarist, has placed it on record that a certain gentleman representing a county division sat in three successive Governments without finding his way to the vote office! The whole life of such men is taken up in hunting for a “pair.” It is one of the first duties he feels he owes to himself and to his friends of the dining-room, or of that latter-day annexe to Mayfair, the Terrace. Indeed, so popular became the Terrace a couple of seasons ago that each afternoon it was crowded bygrandes damesand young legislators, and flirting, tea-drinking, and strawberry-eating went on to such an extent that the merrymaking seriously threatened to stop legislation altogether. So that awe-inspiring functionary, the Serjeant-at-Arms, acting quietly but firmly, issued such orders that “at homes” in Parliament were suddenly discontinued, and the daily crush at Westminster became less of a public scandal.
To put it plainly, a new House has grown up. The old austerity of legislation in the days of Palmerston and Beaconsfield has nearly disappeared, and to-day the gentlemen upon whom the right to add M.P. to their name is bestowed, find to their delight that legislation is really very largely an arrangement come to between the two front Benches.
As Chisholm passed through the Lobby, pausing at Mr Pike’s office to obtain some letters, some one cried “Saunderson’s up,” and all the idlers knew that the debate upon another matter had commenced, and that “fun” might be expected.
The Under-Secretary thrust the letters into his pocket, put on his overcoat, and walked back to the Foreign Office, where some documents were awaiting his signature, and where he had some instructions to give his secretary. On his way across Palace Yard and along Parliament Street his eyes were fixed upon the pavement, for he was deep in thought and heedless of all about him. He walked like a man in a dream.
Before long the blow must fall, he told himself. How long would it be deferred? How many days of grace would his secret enemy give him?
Hour after hour had he endeavoured to find some solution of the problem how to repel the threatened vengeance. But there seemed to be no satisfactory way—absolutely none.
A word from him to his chief might save the situation. That would mean open and complete confession. No, he could not confess to the great statesman who had reposed such entire confidence in him, and who had given him the high and responsible office he now held. He could not; he dare not face the wrath of Lord Stockbridge, of all men.
He had sinned, and must suffer. A dozen times during the past night as he had paced the silent streets of London the suggestion had occurred to him to resign everything and go abroad at once. Yet what would that avail him? To escape would be only to exhibit cowardice. The sleep from which there was no awakening was by far the best mode of release at which to aim.
Upon a seat at the kerb in Piccadilly, with a ragged outcast as companion, he had sat a full hour in the most silent watch of the night thinking the matter over. After all, he told himself, he was little better than the shivering wretch beside him.
And now, as he turned the corner of Downing Street, he sighed heavily, wondering on how many more occasions he would return to his official headquarters. Not many, alas! Nemesis was at his heels.
That night he dined at his club, the Carlton, but returned to his chambers immediately afterwards.
As he entered his sitting-room, a woman in a striking evening toilet of pale-blue, turning from the fire, rose to greet him. It was Claudia Nevill.
“My dear Dudley!” she cried, stretching forth both her hands to him. “I’ve been awaiting you for half an hour or more. Wherever have you been?”
He had drawn back in annoyance at the moment when she faced him so unexpectedly. She was the last person he wished to meet at that moment.
“Oh,” he answered rather coldly, taking her hands in greeting, “I dined at the Club. I’m not very well,” he added wearily.
“But not too queer to go to the Duchess’s ball?”
“The Duchess’s ball? I don’t understand,” he said, looking at her puzzled.
“Why, surely you keep a note of your engagements, or Wrey does for you? It’s quite three weeks ago since we arranged to go there together.”
“To go where?”
“Why, to the Duchess of Penarth’s ball. You of course remembered that she asked us both, and we promised. You had a card, no doubt.”
“Perhaps I had,” he said blankly, for he received so many invitations that he always left it to Wrey, his private secretary, to attend to the resulting correspondence. He had gone little into society, except when Claudia Nevill took him as her escort.
“Perhaps?” she exclaimed. “Why, whatever is the matter with you, Dudley? You’ve not been at all yourself for some days past. Now, tell me—do.”
He was silent for a few moments.
“I told you when I was last at Albert Gate,” he said at length very seriously. “I thought my words were quite plain, Claudia.”
“You spoke all sorts of absurd things about scandals and gossip,” she laughed, reseating herself and motioning him to a chair on the opposite side of the fireplace. “But you were not yourself, so I didn’t take any heed of it.”
“I told you exactly what I intended doing,” he answered, standing before her, with his back to the fire. “I am surprised to find you here.”
“And who has been putting all these absurd ideas into your head, my dear Dudley?” asked the brilliant woman in the magnificent Dôeuillet ball toilette. “You know that we love each other, so what’s the use of kicking against the pricks? Now go and put on a dress-coat and a pair of gloves and take me to Penarth House, there’s a good fellow—the Duchess expects us.”
“Her Grace doesn’t expect me, for I declined.”
“You declined!” cried his fair companion. “Why?”
“Wrey declined. He has recently had orders from me to decline all such invitations. Dances only bore me. I’m too much occupied with official business.”
“Official business! Bosh! Leave it alone for a time and enjoy yourself. You are really becoming quite the old crony.”
“Better that than—well, than to be one of the set who were down at Fernhurst Abbey.”
She glanced at him swiftly, with a curious, half-apprehensive look.
“At Fernhurst? What do you mean?”
“I mean, Claudia, that there were certain incidents at Fernhurst which do not reflect much credit upon either the man or the woman.”
“And I am the woman, of course?”
He nodded.
“And the man? Name him.”
“A certain foreigner.”
“Ah!” she laughed lightly. “So you’ve heard all about it already. You mean the Grand-Duke. He was such fun, such a soft-headed fool. He actually thought himself in love with me.”
“And you allowed him to entertain that impression. I know the whole of the facts,” he said harshly.
“What you know is, I presume, some absurd tittle-tattle about us,” she replied, a shadow of annoyance upon her face.
“I know sufficient, Claudia, to cause me to alter my opinion regarding you,” he answered very gravely.
“Oh! so you would condemn me unheard? That is unlike you, Dudley. I cannot think chivalry and justice are dead in you.”
“I condemn you,” he said quickly, looking straight at her. “I condemn you for casting aside all your womanly instincts in this mad craze of yours to lead society and retain your position as a so-called smart woman. You cannot see that smartness is merely a synonym for fastness, and that you are rapidly flinging your reputation to the winds.”
“That, my dear Dudley, is a stale story. You have already told me so before. Without offence to you, I would point out that my reputation is entirely my own affair.”
“It concerns me, as well as yourself,” he blurted out. “You cannot afford to run the risks you are running. You love distinction, Claudia, and that is a passion of a deep and dangerous nature. In a man that passion is ambition. In a woman it is a selfish desire to stand apart from the many; to be, as far as is possible, unique; to enjoy what she does enjoy and to appropriate the tribute which society offers her, without caring a rap for the sisterhood to which she belongs. To be the idol of society is synonymous with being the butt of ridicule and of scandal, especially to all who have failed in the same career.”
“Oh,” she laughed, “you are such a funny old philosopher, Dudley. You grow worse and worse.”
“I know this,” he went on, “that no sooner does a woman begin to feel herself a leader of society, as you are at this moment, than she finds in her daily path innumerable temptations, of which she had never before dreamed. Her exalted position is maintained, not by the universal suffrage of her friends, for at least one-half of them would tear her down from her pedestal, if they were able, but by the indefatigable exercise of ingenuity in the way of evading, stooping, conciliating, deceiving; as well as by a continued series of efforts to be cheerful when depressed, witty when absolutely dull, and animated, brilliant, and amusing when disappointed, weary, or distressed.”
“Oh,” she cried impatiently, “I thought we had enough of moralising the last time we met! And now you want to re-open the old question.”
“No, Claudia,” he answered, placing his hand tenderly upon her shoulder, which was covered only by the strap of pale-blue embroidered satin which held her handsome corsage. “I only want to show you plainly how in a woman simplicity of heart cannot be allied to ambition. The woman who aspires to be the idol of her fellows, as you do, must be satisfied to lose this lily from her wreath. And when a woman’s simplicity of heart is gone, then she is no longer faithful as a wife or safe as a friend. Her fame is, after all, nothing more than dazzling degradation.”
Chapter Ten.Makes Plain a Woman’s Duty.“And all that philosophy is directed against me?” she asked, looking up at him seriously.“It is only just that you should see yourself, Claudia, as others see you,” he said in a more sympathetic tone of voice. “It pains me to have to speak like this; to criticise your actions as though I were a man old enough to be your grandfather. But I merely want to point out what is the unvarnished truth.”“All of us have our failings,” she declared with a pout. “You tell me this because you want to sever your connection with me. Why not admit the truth?”“No. I tell you this because a woman who seeks to occupy the place you now occupy is exposed to the pitiless gaze of admiration; but little respect, and no love is blended with it. I speak frankly, and say that, however much you have gained in name, in rank, in fortune, you have suffered as a woman.”“How?”“Shall I tell you the actual truth?”“Certainly. You will not offend me, I assure you,” she replied in a cynical tone, coquettishly placing her small foot in its neat silk stocking upon the fender.“Well, Claudia,” he said, “to tell you the truth, you are no longer the simple-hearted, intelligent, generous, frank and true woman I once knew.”“Really? You are extremely flattering!” she exclaimed. She began to see that her ruse of boldly returning to him as she had done and waiting him there, even in defiance of old Parsons, was of no avail.“I do not speak with any desire to hurt your feelings, Claudia,” he went on. “I know my words are harsh ones, but I cannot remain a spectator of your follies without reproving you.”“You would compel me to return to the deadly dulness of tennis, tea-table gossip, church-decorating and country life in cotton blouses and home-made skirts—eh? Thank you; I object. I had quite sufficient of that at Winchester.”“I have no right to compel you to do anything,” he answered. “I only suggest moderation, in your own interests. On every side I hear scandalous stories into which your name is introduced.”“And you believe them?” she asked quickly. “You, my friend, believe all these lying inventions of my enemies?”“I believe nothing of which I have no proof.”“Then you believe in what is really proved?”“Yes.”“In that case you must believe that, even though I possess all the defects which you have enumerated, I nevertheless love you?”“In woman’s true love,” he said slowly, emphasising every word, “there is mingled the trusting dependence of a child, for she always looks up to man as her protector and her guide. Man, let him love as he may, has an existence which lies outside the orbit of his affections. He has his worldly interests, his public character, his ambition, his competition with other men—but the woman of noble mind centres all in that one feeling of affection.”“Really?” She laughed flippantly, toying with her bracelets. “This is a most erudite discourse. It would no doubt edify the House if one night you introduced the subject of love. You’ve grown of late to be quite a philosopher, my dear Dudley. Politics and that horrid old Foreign Office have entirely spoilt you.”“No, you misunderstand me,” he went on, deeply in earnest. “I merely want to place before you the utter folly of your present actions—all these flirtations about which people in our rank are always talking.”“Ah!” she laughed; “because you’re jealous. Somebody has been telling you, no doubt, that the Grand-Duke was always at my side at Fernhurst, and probably embellished the story until it forms a very nice little tit-bit of scandal.”“Well, is it not true that this foreigner was with you so constantly that it became a matter of serious comment?”“I don’t deny it. Why should I? He was very amusing, and if I found him so I cannot see why people should presume to criticise me. If I had a husband I might be called upon to answer to him, but as poor Dick is dead I consider myself perfectly free.”“Yes, but not to make a fool of yourself by openly inviting people to cast mud at you,” he burst forth impatiently.“Upon that point, Dudley, we shall never agree, so let us drop the subject,” she replied, treating his criticisms airily and with utter indifference. “I shall please myself, just as I have always done.”“I have no doubt you will. That is what I regret, for when a woman loses her integrity and self-respect, she is indeed pitiable and degraded.”“Really!” she cried; “you are in a most delightful mood, I’m sure. What has upset you? Tell me, and then I’ll forgive you.”“Nothing has upset me—except your visit,” he answered quite frankly.“Then I am unwelcome here?”“While you continue to follow the absurd course you have of late chosen, you are.”“Thank you,” she replied. “You are at least candid.”“We have been friends, and you have, I think, always found me honest and outspoken, Claudia.”“Yes, but I have never before known you to treat me in this manner,” she answered with suddenhauteur. “The other day you declared your intention of severing our friendship, but I did not believe you.”“Why?”“Because I knew that we loved each other.”“No,” he said in a hard tone, “do not let us speak of love. Speak of it to those men who dance attendance upon you everywhere, but with me, Claudia, be as frank as I am with you.”“Dudley! It is cruel of you to speak like this!” she cried with a sudden outburst of emotion, for she now saw quite plainly that the power she once exerted over him had disappeared.Chisholm had been sadly disillusioned. During the past few weeks the bitter truth had gradually been forced upon him. Instead of remaining a real, dignified, high-minded woman of unblemished integrity, Claudia Nevill had grown callous and artificial, and in other ways hostile to true womanhood. But Dudley had always admired her, and once she had been his ideal.He had admired her simplicity of heart. Unquestionably that is a great charm in a woman, though not a charm so illuminating as integrity, because it consists more in the ignorance of evil, and, consequently, of temptation, than in the possession of principle strong enough to withstand both. In the days before her marriage her simplicity of heart was the child of that unruffled serenity of soul which suspects no mischief to be lurking beneath the fair surface of things—which trusts, confides and is happy in this confidence, because it has never been deceived, and because it has never learned that most fatal of all arts, the mystery of deceiving others.But all was now changed. She was no longer the Claudia of old. She had degenerated into a smart, brilliant woman, full of arts and subterfuges, with no thoughts beyond her engagements, her toilettes, and her vainglorious triumphs.“I have only spoken what I feel, Claudia!” exclaimed the man still standing before her. “I have no power to compel you to heed my warning.”“Oh, do let us drop the subject, my dear Dudley!” she cried impatiently. “This lecture of yours upon my duty towards society may surely be continued on another occasion. Let us go along to the Duchess’s. As I’ve already said, the House has entirely spoilt you.”“I don’t wish to continue the discussion. Indeed, I’ve said all that I intend saying. My only regret is that you are heedless of my words—that you are blind to the truth, and have closed your ears to all this gossip.”“Let them gossip. What does it matter to me? Now to you, of course, it matters considerably. You can’t afford to imperil your official position by allowing all this chatter to go on. I quite understand that.”“And yet you come here to-night and ask me to take you to the Duchess’s?” he said.“For the last time, Dudley,” she answered, looking up at him with that sweet, sympathetic look of old. “This is the last of our engagements, and it is an odd fancy of mine that you should take me to the ball—for the last time.”“Yes,” he repeated hoarsely, in a deep voice full of meaning; “for the last time, Claudia.”“You speak as though you were doomed to some awful fate,” she remarked, looking up at him with a puzzled expression on her face. Little did the giddy woman think that her words, like the sword of the angel at the entrance to Paradise, were double-edged.“Oh,” he said, rousing himself and endeavouring to smile, “I didn’t know. Forgive me.”“You’ve changed somehow, Dudley,” she said, rising. She went near to him and took his hand tenderly. “Why don’t you tell me what is the matter? Something is troubling you. What is it?”“You are, for one thing,” he answered promptly, looking straight into her splendid eyes. As she stood there in that beautiful gown, with the historic pearls of the Nevills upon her white neck, Dudley thought he had never seen her look so magnificent. Well might she be called the Empress of Mayfair.“But why trouble your head about me?” she asked in a low, musical voice, pressing his hand tenderly. “You have worries enough, no doubt.”“The stories I hear on every hand vex me horribly.”“You are jealous of that man who was at the Meldrums’ house-party. It’s useless to deny it. Well, perhaps I was foolish, but if I promise never to see him again, will you forgive me?”“It is not for me to forgive,” he said in an earnest voice. “I have, I suppose, no right to criticise your actions, or to exact any promises.”“Yes, Dudley, you, of all men, have that right,” she answered, her beautiful breast, stirred by emotion, rising and falling quickly. “All that you have just said is, I know, just and honest; and it comes straight from your heart. You have spoken to me as you would to your own sister—and, well, I thank you for your good advice.”“And will you not promise to follow it?” he asked, taking her other hand. “Will you not promise me, your oldest man friend, to cut all these people and return to the simple, dignified life you led when Dick was still alive? Promise me.”“And if I promise, what do you promise me in exchange?” she asked. “Will you make me your wife?”The look of eagerness died out of his face; he stood as rigid as one turned to stone. What was she suggesting? Only a course that they had discussed, times without number, in happier days. And yet, what could he answer, knowing well that before a few hours passed he might be compelled to take his own life, so as to escape from the public scorn which would of necessity follow upon his exposure.“I—I can’t promise that,” he faltered, uttering his refusal with difficulty.She shrank from him, as if he had struck her a blow.“Then the truth is as I suspected. Some other woman has attracted you!”“No,” he answered in a hard voice, his dark brow clouded, “no other woman has attracted me.”“Then—well, to put it plainly—you believe all these scandalous tales that have been circulated about me of late? Because of these you’ve turned from me, and now abandon me like this!”“It is not that,” he protested.“Then why do you refuse to repeat your promise, when you know, Dudley, that I love you?”“For a reason which I cannot tell you.”She looked at him puzzled by his reticence. He was certainly not himself. His face was bloodless, and for the first time she noticed round his eyes the dark rings caused by the insomnia of the past two nights.“Tell me, Dudley,” she implored, clinging to him in dismay. “Can’t you see this coldness of yours is driving me to despair—killing me? Tell me the truth. What is it that troubles you?”“I regret, Claudia, that I cannot tell you.”“But you always used to trust me. You have never had secrets from me.”“No, only this one,” he answered in a dull, monotonous manner.“And is it this secret which prevents you from making the compact I have just suggested?”“Yes.”“It has nothing to do with any woman who has come into your life?” she demanded eagerly.“No.”“Will you swear that?”“I swear it.”“You only tell me that we cannot marry, that is all? Can I have no further explanation?”“No, none.”“Your decision is not owing to the scandal which you say is talked everywhere? You give your word of honour that it is not?”“Yes, I give my word of honour,” he answered. “My inability to renew my offer of marriage is owing to a circumstance which I am powerless to control.”“And you refuse to tell me its nature?”“I regret, Claudia, that I must refuse,” he said, pressing her hand. His lips twitched, and she saw that tears stood in his eyes. She knew that the man who had been her lover in the days of her girlhood spoke the truth when he added, “This circumstance must remain my own secret.”
“And all that philosophy is directed against me?” she asked, looking up at him seriously.
“It is only just that you should see yourself, Claudia, as others see you,” he said in a more sympathetic tone of voice. “It pains me to have to speak like this; to criticise your actions as though I were a man old enough to be your grandfather. But I merely want to point out what is the unvarnished truth.”
“All of us have our failings,” she declared with a pout. “You tell me this because you want to sever your connection with me. Why not admit the truth?”
“No. I tell you this because a woman who seeks to occupy the place you now occupy is exposed to the pitiless gaze of admiration; but little respect, and no love is blended with it. I speak frankly, and say that, however much you have gained in name, in rank, in fortune, you have suffered as a woman.”
“How?”
“Shall I tell you the actual truth?”
“Certainly. You will not offend me, I assure you,” she replied in a cynical tone, coquettishly placing her small foot in its neat silk stocking upon the fender.
“Well, Claudia,” he said, “to tell you the truth, you are no longer the simple-hearted, intelligent, generous, frank and true woman I once knew.”
“Really? You are extremely flattering!” she exclaimed. She began to see that her ruse of boldly returning to him as she had done and waiting him there, even in defiance of old Parsons, was of no avail.
“I do not speak with any desire to hurt your feelings, Claudia,” he went on. “I know my words are harsh ones, but I cannot remain a spectator of your follies without reproving you.”
“You would compel me to return to the deadly dulness of tennis, tea-table gossip, church-decorating and country life in cotton blouses and home-made skirts—eh? Thank you; I object. I had quite sufficient of that at Winchester.”
“I have no right to compel you to do anything,” he answered. “I only suggest moderation, in your own interests. On every side I hear scandalous stories into which your name is introduced.”
“And you believe them?” she asked quickly. “You, my friend, believe all these lying inventions of my enemies?”
“I believe nothing of which I have no proof.”
“Then you believe in what is really proved?”
“Yes.”
“In that case you must believe that, even though I possess all the defects which you have enumerated, I nevertheless love you?”
“In woman’s true love,” he said slowly, emphasising every word, “there is mingled the trusting dependence of a child, for she always looks up to man as her protector and her guide. Man, let him love as he may, has an existence which lies outside the orbit of his affections. He has his worldly interests, his public character, his ambition, his competition with other men—but the woman of noble mind centres all in that one feeling of affection.”
“Really?” She laughed flippantly, toying with her bracelets. “This is a most erudite discourse. It would no doubt edify the House if one night you introduced the subject of love. You’ve grown of late to be quite a philosopher, my dear Dudley. Politics and that horrid old Foreign Office have entirely spoilt you.”
“No, you misunderstand me,” he went on, deeply in earnest. “I merely want to place before you the utter folly of your present actions—all these flirtations about which people in our rank are always talking.”
“Ah!” she laughed; “because you’re jealous. Somebody has been telling you, no doubt, that the Grand-Duke was always at my side at Fernhurst, and probably embellished the story until it forms a very nice little tit-bit of scandal.”
“Well, is it not true that this foreigner was with you so constantly that it became a matter of serious comment?”
“I don’t deny it. Why should I? He was very amusing, and if I found him so I cannot see why people should presume to criticise me. If I had a husband I might be called upon to answer to him, but as poor Dick is dead I consider myself perfectly free.”
“Yes, but not to make a fool of yourself by openly inviting people to cast mud at you,” he burst forth impatiently.
“Upon that point, Dudley, we shall never agree, so let us drop the subject,” she replied, treating his criticisms airily and with utter indifference. “I shall please myself, just as I have always done.”
“I have no doubt you will. That is what I regret, for when a woman loses her integrity and self-respect, she is indeed pitiable and degraded.”
“Really!” she cried; “you are in a most delightful mood, I’m sure. What has upset you? Tell me, and then I’ll forgive you.”
“Nothing has upset me—except your visit,” he answered quite frankly.
“Then I am unwelcome here?”
“While you continue to follow the absurd course you have of late chosen, you are.”
“Thank you,” she replied. “You are at least candid.”
“We have been friends, and you have, I think, always found me honest and outspoken, Claudia.”
“Yes, but I have never before known you to treat me in this manner,” she answered with suddenhauteur. “The other day you declared your intention of severing our friendship, but I did not believe you.”
“Why?”
“Because I knew that we loved each other.”
“No,” he said in a hard tone, “do not let us speak of love. Speak of it to those men who dance attendance upon you everywhere, but with me, Claudia, be as frank as I am with you.”
“Dudley! It is cruel of you to speak like this!” she cried with a sudden outburst of emotion, for she now saw quite plainly that the power she once exerted over him had disappeared.
Chisholm had been sadly disillusioned. During the past few weeks the bitter truth had gradually been forced upon him. Instead of remaining a real, dignified, high-minded woman of unblemished integrity, Claudia Nevill had grown callous and artificial, and in other ways hostile to true womanhood. But Dudley had always admired her, and once she had been his ideal.
He had admired her simplicity of heart. Unquestionably that is a great charm in a woman, though not a charm so illuminating as integrity, because it consists more in the ignorance of evil, and, consequently, of temptation, than in the possession of principle strong enough to withstand both. In the days before her marriage her simplicity of heart was the child of that unruffled serenity of soul which suspects no mischief to be lurking beneath the fair surface of things—which trusts, confides and is happy in this confidence, because it has never been deceived, and because it has never learned that most fatal of all arts, the mystery of deceiving others.
But all was now changed. She was no longer the Claudia of old. She had degenerated into a smart, brilliant woman, full of arts and subterfuges, with no thoughts beyond her engagements, her toilettes, and her vainglorious triumphs.
“I have only spoken what I feel, Claudia!” exclaimed the man still standing before her. “I have no power to compel you to heed my warning.”
“Oh, do let us drop the subject, my dear Dudley!” she cried impatiently. “This lecture of yours upon my duty towards society may surely be continued on another occasion. Let us go along to the Duchess’s. As I’ve already said, the House has entirely spoilt you.”
“I don’t wish to continue the discussion. Indeed, I’ve said all that I intend saying. My only regret is that you are heedless of my words—that you are blind to the truth, and have closed your ears to all this gossip.”
“Let them gossip. What does it matter to me? Now to you, of course, it matters considerably. You can’t afford to imperil your official position by allowing all this chatter to go on. I quite understand that.”
“And yet you come here to-night and ask me to take you to the Duchess’s?” he said.
“For the last time, Dudley,” she answered, looking up at him with that sweet, sympathetic look of old. “This is the last of our engagements, and it is an odd fancy of mine that you should take me to the ball—for the last time.”
“Yes,” he repeated hoarsely, in a deep voice full of meaning; “for the last time, Claudia.”
“You speak as though you were doomed to some awful fate,” she remarked, looking up at him with a puzzled expression on her face. Little did the giddy woman think that her words, like the sword of the angel at the entrance to Paradise, were double-edged.
“Oh,” he said, rousing himself and endeavouring to smile, “I didn’t know. Forgive me.”
“You’ve changed somehow, Dudley,” she said, rising. She went near to him and took his hand tenderly. “Why don’t you tell me what is the matter? Something is troubling you. What is it?”
“You are, for one thing,” he answered promptly, looking straight into her splendid eyes. As she stood there in that beautiful gown, with the historic pearls of the Nevills upon her white neck, Dudley thought he had never seen her look so magnificent. Well might she be called the Empress of Mayfair.
“But why trouble your head about me?” she asked in a low, musical voice, pressing his hand tenderly. “You have worries enough, no doubt.”
“The stories I hear on every hand vex me horribly.”
“You are jealous of that man who was at the Meldrums’ house-party. It’s useless to deny it. Well, perhaps I was foolish, but if I promise never to see him again, will you forgive me?”
“It is not for me to forgive,” he said in an earnest voice. “I have, I suppose, no right to criticise your actions, or to exact any promises.”
“Yes, Dudley, you, of all men, have that right,” she answered, her beautiful breast, stirred by emotion, rising and falling quickly. “All that you have just said is, I know, just and honest; and it comes straight from your heart. You have spoken to me as you would to your own sister—and, well, I thank you for your good advice.”
“And will you not promise to follow it?” he asked, taking her other hand. “Will you not promise me, your oldest man friend, to cut all these people and return to the simple, dignified life you led when Dick was still alive? Promise me.”
“And if I promise, what do you promise me in exchange?” she asked. “Will you make me your wife?”
The look of eagerness died out of his face; he stood as rigid as one turned to stone. What was she suggesting? Only a course that they had discussed, times without number, in happier days. And yet, what could he answer, knowing well that before a few hours passed he might be compelled to take his own life, so as to escape from the public scorn which would of necessity follow upon his exposure.
“I—I can’t promise that,” he faltered, uttering his refusal with difficulty.
She shrank from him, as if he had struck her a blow.
“Then the truth is as I suspected. Some other woman has attracted you!”
“No,” he answered in a hard voice, his dark brow clouded, “no other woman has attracted me.”
“Then—well, to put it plainly—you believe all these scandalous tales that have been circulated about me of late? Because of these you’ve turned from me, and now abandon me like this!”
“It is not that,” he protested.
“Then why do you refuse to repeat your promise, when you know, Dudley, that I love you?”
“For a reason which I cannot tell you.”
She looked at him puzzled by his reticence. He was certainly not himself. His face was bloodless, and for the first time she noticed round his eyes the dark rings caused by the insomnia of the past two nights.
“Tell me, Dudley,” she implored, clinging to him in dismay. “Can’t you see this coldness of yours is driving me to despair—killing me? Tell me the truth. What is it that troubles you?”
“I regret, Claudia, that I cannot tell you.”
“But you always used to trust me. You have never had secrets from me.”
“No, only this one,” he answered in a dull, monotonous manner.
“And is it this secret which prevents you from making the compact I have just suggested?”
“Yes.”
“It has nothing to do with any woman who has come into your life?” she demanded eagerly.
“No.”
“Will you swear that?”
“I swear it.”
“You only tell me that we cannot marry, that is all? Can I have no further explanation?”
“No, none.”
“Your decision is not owing to the scandal which you say is talked everywhere? You give your word of honour that it is not?”
“Yes, I give my word of honour,” he answered. “My inability to renew my offer of marriage is owing to a circumstance which I am powerless to control.”
“And you refuse to tell me its nature?”
“I regret, Claudia, that I must refuse,” he said, pressing her hand. His lips twitched, and she saw that tears stood in his eyes. She knew that the man who had been her lover in the days of her girlhood spoke the truth when he added, “This circumstance must remain my own secret.”