Chapter Twenty Eight. Confesses the Truth.

The wintry dawn had scarcely broken; he would have to wait several hours before paying his last visit to Albert Gate. He threw off his great-coat and cast himself wearily into the big armchair, his mind full of conflicting thoughts. Despair had gripped his heart. It was hard that his career should thus be suddenly cut off, harder still that he must leave the sweet and tender woman whom he had loved so fondly for so many years. But he was guilty—yes, guilty; he must suffer the penalty exacted from all those who sin against their Maker.

Parsons entered to inquire if he wanted anything; but he dismissed him, telling him to go and snatch some rest for an hour or two. The faithful old retainer never went to bed before the return of his master, no matter to what hour he might be detained in the House.

When he had gone, Chisholm opened the heavy curtains, drew up the blind and watched the yellow London dawn slowly dispersing the mists over St. James’s Park. Standing at the window he gazed out upon St. James’s Street, dismal and deserted, with its strip of dull sky above. It was the last dawn that he would see, he told himself bitterly, From him all the attractions of the world would very soon be taken away. Well, he left them with only a single regret—Claudia.

He fondly whispered her name. It sounded to him strange, almost unearthly, in that silent room.

Yes, he must see her again for the last time, and confess to her the whole terrible truth. She would hate and despise him, for from the man whose hands are stained with the blood of a fellow-creature it would only be natural for her to shrink. The awful truth he had to confront was—that he was a murderer.

The remembrance of the narrow path in the patch of forest near Godalming came back to him. In a single instant he lived again those terrible moments of his madness—the death-cry rang in his ears. He remembered how quickly he had slipped away through the wood; how at last he found himself standing on the high-road; how he reached a railway station and returned to London.

Then, two days later, the papers were full of it. He recollected all the theories that had been put forward; the many mysterious facts that were produced at the inquest, and the grave suspicion that fell upon another. It was all like some horrible nightmare, so horrible, indeed, that he found himself wondering if he had really lived through it—if he were really an assassin.

Alas! it was only too true. Cator had discovered the real facts, and the crime was now fixed upon him.

He tried to rid himself of these hideous recollections of the past, to brace himself up boldly, and to face his condemnation and self-destruction. But it was too difficult; his strength failed him.

Not only was his secret known to the Intelligence Department, but one, at least, of his fiercest political opponents, a wild-haired demagogue, knew the truth and intended to explode that question in the House, as if it were an infernal machine, in the hope of upsetting the Government by his action.

From his breast pocket he took the tiny talisman, the lock of hair which Muriel Mortimer had so ingeniously stolen, and at last returned to him. When he had opened the paper, he looked at the curl, long and wistfully.

He was thinking—thinking deeply, while the yellow dawn struggled through the canopy of London fog and the hands of the clock before him were slowly creeping forward to mark the hour of his doom.

There were several letters, which had been delivered by the last post on the previous night, awaiting his attention. Out of curiosity he took them up and one by one opened them, throwing them into the waste-paper basket when read, for, as he bitterly reflected, they would need no reply.

One of the letters gave him pause. He re-read it several times, with brows knit and a puzzled expression upon his countenance. Dated from Boodle’s it ran as follows:

“Dear Sir,—I have twice during the past two days endeavoured to see you, once at the House of Commons, and again at the Foreign Office, but have on both occasions been unsuccessful. I shall to-morrow do myself the honour of calling upon you at your chambers, and if you are not in, I shall esteem it a favour if you will kindly leave word with your servant at what hour you will return.

“Yours truly.

“Ralph Brodie.”

His features relaxed into a hard smile. What a curious freak of Fate it was that caused this man, of all others, to write and ask for an appointment! He was a person with whom he had never before held any communication—the husband of the woman who, years before her marriage, had given him that lock of hair as a love-token. She had been one of the loves of his youth, and since her marriage he had never seen her. He knew that she had married a wealthy Anglo-Indian named Brodie, and that he had taken her back with him to India. When he was in that country, after his journey across Bhutan, he had been told they were living on their great estate at Kapurthala, near Jalandhar, in the Punjab; and there were whispers to the effect that the marriage had been anything but a happy one. Brodie neglected her, it was said, and at Simla she was flattered, so went the report, by a host of admirers, mostly military, in the usual manner. It was for that reason that he did not visit Simla. She had never once written to him after her marriage. Although he held her memory sacred, he had no wish to meet her and risk the chance of becoming disillusioned in regard to her character.

He had always suspected that Brodie was aware of the affection which had nearly resulted in their engagement. Hence, he had entertained no desire to meet him. Strange, indeed, that he should so persistently seek him, just at the most critical moment in his life.

“Well,” he laughed at last, tearing up the letter and tossing it into the fire, “I’ve never met the fellow in all my life, and I don’t see why I should put myself out to do so now. The brute treated May badly, infernally badly. If we met I couldn’t be civil to the cad.”

He had loved May—the daughter of a retired colonel—in the days after he and Claudia had drifted apart, he to indulge his cynicism, she to marry Dick Nevill. But his love for her was not that passionate worship of the ideal which had marked his affection for the charming little friend of his youth. It was a mere midsummer madness, the pleasant memory of which lingered always in his mind.

He thought over it all, and smiled bitterly when he recollected the past.

Presently Parsons brought him a cup of black coffee. It was a habit of his, acquired abroad, to take it each morning in bed. When the old servitor, true to his clock-work precision, entered with the tiny Nankin cup upon the tray, Dudley was astonished.

“What? Eight o’clock already?” he exclaimed, starting up.

“Yes, Master Dudley,” the old man replied. “Aren’t you going to bed, sir?”

“No. Well—at least, I don’t know, Parsons,” said the Under-Secretary. “I have several early appointments.”

At that moment the electric bell in the hall rang sharply, and the old man went out to answer the summons.

“There’s a gentleman, Master Dudley,” was Parson’s announcement. “He wishes to see you at once very particularly. He will give no card.”

“Well, show him in,” his master answered with every sign of reluctance, swallowing his coffee at a gulp. As his doom was fixed, what did it matter who called upon him now? He smiled bitterly.

Parsons disappeared for a moment. A few seconds later the heavy portico was drawn aside, and there stood before Dudley the tall, rather well-dressed, figure of a man, who halted upon the threshold without uttering a word.

“You!” gasped Chisholm, springing from his chair. “You! Archibald Cator!”

“Yes,” answered the other gravely, closing the door behind him. “We have met before, and, doubtless, you know my errand.”

“I do,” groaned the despairing man. “Alas! I do.”

“The truth is out, Mr Chisholm!” exclaimed his visitor, in slow, deep tones. “Our inquiries are complete, and there has been discovered against you evidence so plain as to be altogether indisputable. There need be no ceremony between us. You, esteemed by the world, and held in high honour by the Government, are both a traitor and a murderer. Do you deny it?”

There was a silence, deep and painful.

“No, I do not,” was the low, harsh rejoinder of the wretched man, who had sunk back into his chair with his chin upon his breast.

His visitor deliberately drew from the inner pocket of his overcoat a big, official-looking envelope, out of which he took several unmounted photographs.

These he spread before the man whose brilliant career had thus been so suddenly ended.

“Do you recognise these as reproductions of documents handed by you to a certain friend of yours—copies of confidential despatches from Sir Henry Lygon, Her Majesty’s Ambassador at Constantinople?”

Chisholm, his face livid, nodded in the affirmative. Denials were, he knew, utterly useless. The whole ingenious network of the British Intelligence Department on the Continent had been diligently at work piecing together the evidence against him, and had, under the active direction of that prince of spies, Archibald Cator, at last succeeded in unravelling what had for years remained a profound mystery.

His grave-faced, unwelcome visitor, well-satisfied by this admission, next drew a mounted cabinet photograph from his pocket, and, holding it out before his eyes, asked, in a low, distinct voice whether he knew the original.

Chisholm’s countenance turned ashen grey the instant his haggard eyes fell upon the pictured face.

“God!” he cried, wildly starting up, “my God! Cator, spare me that! Hide it from my sight! hide it! I cannot bear it! It’s his portrait—his!”

The clock of St. Anne’s, in Wilton Place, had just chimed eleven, and the yellow sun had now succeeded in struggling through the wintry mist.

Claudia’s carriage with its handsome pair of bays and her powdered footman, with the bearskin rug over his arm, stood awaiting her beneath the dark portico.

As, warmly wrapped in her sables, she descended the wide marble staircase slowly, buttoning her glove, Jackson met her.

“Mr Chisholm has just called, m’lady. He has been shown into the morning-room.”

Her heart gave a quick bound. She dismissed the servant with a nod and walked to the apartment indicated.

Dudley turned quickly from the window as she entered, and greeted her, raising her ungloved hand to his lips with infinite courtliness. In an instant, however, she detected the change in him, for his face was blanched to the lips, his voice hoarse and tremulous.

“My dear Dudley!” she cried in alarm. “Why, whatever is the matter? You are ill.”

He closed the door behind her; then, still holding her hand, looked straight into her dark eyes, and said:

“I have come to you, Claudia, to bid you farewell—to see you for the last time.”

“What do you mean?” she gasped, her cheeks turning pale in an instant at his announcement.

“I mean that our love must end to-day. That in future, instead of entertaining affection for me, you must hate me, as one guilty and unworthy.”

“I really don’t understand, dear,” she answered, bewildered. “You are not yourself to-day.”

“Alas! I am too much myself,” he answered in a low hoarse voice. “I am here, Claudia, to make confession to you. I would, indeed, crave your forgiveness, but I know that that is impossible.” He was holding her hand in his convulsive grasp, and his eyes were riveted on hers in a fierce look full of a passionate devotion.

“Confession?” she asked quickly. “What secrets have you from me? Has some other woman usurped my place in your heart? If so, tell me, Dudley. Do not hesitate.”

“No,” he answered, trying to preserve an outward calm, “it is not that. I love no woman but your own dear self. Surely you do not doubt me?”

“I have never doubted you. Sometimes I have been jealous—madly jealous, I confess—but always without reason, for you have always been loyal to me.”

“I was loyal because I loved no other woman save yourself,” he cried, kissing her passionately upon the lips. “But all the joy must wither. I am here to make confession, to reveal a ghastly chapter in my life, and to take leave of you—and of life.”

She saw how terribly agitated he was, and her woman’s solicitude for his welfare calmed her. “Come,” she said tenderly, leading him towards a chair. “Sit down and remain quiet for a little. You are nervous and overworked.” She placed her small, soft hand upon his hot brow, and brushed back the dark hair from his forehead.

Refusing to sit, he stood before her, grasping the chair to steady himself.

“No, Claudia; do not trouble about me. It is all useless now. The end has come. Let me confess all to you. I know that what I am about to disclose will turn your love to hatred; that my very memory will become repugnant to you, and that mere mention of my name will fill you with indignation and disgust. But hear the secret chapter of my life’s history before you judge. Let me tell you all,” he added hoarsely. “Let me lay bare the terrible secret that I have carried these six years buried within my heart. Let me confess to you, the woman I love.”

His words filled her with amazement. Her brows contracted, and her breath came and went in short, quick gasps. Was she actually to lose him? It seemed impossible.

“I am all attention, Dudley,” she replied in a low, mechanical voice. “Your confession, whatever its nature, shall find in me a safe guardian.”

“I cannot ask you to forgive, Claudia,” he said, “I can only beg of you to think that I have hidden the truth from you because I dearly loved you and knew that exposure must result in the abrupt termination of our love-dream.”

“Tell me all,” she urged. “Have no secrets from me.”

“Then hear me,” he said, his hard face white and drawn, while with his strong hands he gripped the chair, striving valiantly to remain calm. “I will relate to you all the hideous facts in their proper sequence; you will see what a canker-worm of guilt has existed within me all these years. For me, there is now no life, no hope, no love—”

“Except mine,” she interrupted quickly.

“Ah! yours must turn to hatred, Claudia! I cannot hope for the pardon of man or woman. I have suffered; I have repented deeply on my knees before my Maker. But God’s judgment is upon me, and the end is near. My story is a tragic one indeed. I think you will recollect that, long ago, after I had come down from Oxford, it was our custom to take happy walks round Winchester, over to King’s Worthy, across the Down to Hursley, or through the Crab Wood to Sparsholt—do you remember those still summer evenings in the golden sun-down, dearest, when youth was buoyant and careless, and our love was perfect?”

“Remember them?” she cried. “Ah! yes. I live those happy hours over again very often in my day-dreams, when I am alone. They are the tenderest memories of all my past,” she answered in a deep voice, tremulous with an emotion which stirred her to the very depths of her being.

“Your marriage came as a natural sequence, Claudia, for as the old adage has it, the course of true love never did run smooth. We separated, and you carried my farewell kiss of benediction upon your brow. I became lonely and melancholy when you, the sun of my life, had gone out. In order to occupy myself, as you had urged me to do, I obtained by family influence the appointment of private secretary to Lord Stockbridge, Her Majesty’s Foreign Minister. You were abroad with Dick, spending the winter at Cannes, when I became acquainted with a girl named May Lennox, the daughter of a retired officer who had spent much of the latter part of his life on the Continent. I missed you as my constant companion, and it was merely for the sake of her bright companionship that I allowed myself to become attracted by her. Father and daughter were devoted to each other, and as the colonel was a widower, the pair lived in furnished lodgings, a drawing-room floor in Hereford Road, which turns out of Westbourne Grove, close to Whiteley’s. I rather liked the colonel. By reason of my frequent visits, we became very friendly. During the hot days of August they moved down to Hastings, taking up their quarters at the Queen’s, to which place I often ran down to see them, for I must here confess that a midsummer madness grew upon me, and I at last found myself in love with her. From the first, however, I had been quick to perceive that although the colonel was a thoroughgoing cosmopolitan and a lighthearted fellow whose only occupation seemed to be the study of foreign politics from the newspapers—for knowing my official position he often discussed and criticised with me points in Lord Stockbridge’s policy—yet he was nevertheless entirely opposed to my suit. I did my utmost to ingratiate myself with him, for at the time I believed myself to be hopelessly in love with May.”

He paused in hesitation, for he knew that his confession must be a cruel and terrible disillusionment for Claudia.

But he had taken the initial step, and was now compelled to describe to the bitter end his downfall, and thus to lose the treasure of her esteem.