Chapter Fifteen. Is told in the Grass Country.

Throughout November Dudley remained in town tied to the House by his official duties, and saw little of Claudia, who had gone into Leicestershire for the hunting. Riding to hounds was her favourite sport, and she was one of the best horse-women within fifty miles of Market Harborough. Each season she went on a visit to Lady Atteridge, whose husband had a box right in the centre of the hunting-country, and at every meet she was a conspicuous figure.

An acquaintance she made in the field with the late Empress of Austria, during a run with the Pytchley across the Grafton country, ripened into a warm friendship, and on many occasions she had entertained her now lamented Majesty at Albert Gate. Nearly every year some foreign royalty or other is the centre of hunting interest. Unable to enjoy the race over the grass in their own land, they come to England for healthful sport, and generally make Harborough their headquarters. That season it was the Grand-Duke Stanislas who rode to nearly every meet, always accompanied by his equerry. Hence Claudia and he frequently met, but since that evening when he had endeavoured to turn her from the man she loved she had avoided him. She purposely refrained from attending any function at which he might possibly be present, and when they were compelled to meet with the hounds she only bowed, and seldom, if ever, offered him her hand.

On his part, he was always fussing about her, scolding her for her too reckless riding across boggy meadows, or at hedges made dangerous by barbed wires, and always holding himself prepared to render her any of those many little services which the hunting-man renders the fair sex in the field. But on her part she was absolutely indifferent to his attentions, and at the same time annoyed that he should thus publicly exhibit his admiration.

Certainly no figure was more neat and chic than hers in its well-cut habit, her dark hair tightly coiled beneath her becoming hunting-hat. In the saddle she looked as if she were part of the animal she rode, and her mare, “Tattie,” was a splendid creature, which always came in for a full share of praise among those who could tell a good hunter when they saw one. The men who ride to hounds in the Harborough country are, as a rule, hard as nails, and as keen and outspoken critics of a woman as of a horse. But Claudia Nevill and “Tattie” were both pronounced first-class, the former because she was so extremely affable with one and all, even to the farmer’s sons who followed the hounds, and blushed with a countryman’s awkwardness when she, the woman of whom the papers spoke, addressed them. There was no pride about her ladyship, and the whole countryside, from Harborough right across to Peterborough, declared her to be “one of the right sort.”

Of course even in the villages there were whispers that she was very friendly with the Grand-Duke, and the usual deductions were made from the fact that the latest foreign star in the hunting-firmament was always riding near her. But in the country the people are very slow to give credence to scandal, and the gossip, though active, was not ill-natured; besides, it had long ago been known that the Foreign Under-Secretary was passionately attached to her. Last season Chisholm had hunted with the Pytchley and had been always at her side, so that the rustics, and even the members of the hunt had come to regard him as her future husband, and had pronounced them to be a well-matched pair.

Late one afternoon towards the close of November the end of a busy day was drawing near. The meet was at Althorpe Park, Earl Spencer’s seat, and the spinneys all around the park were drawn one after the other; but although plenty of pretty hunting took place, the hounds did not do any good. On drawing No-bottle Wood the greater portion of the large field managed to get away with the pack as the hounds raced away up wind in the direction of Harlestone. The first fox led his pursuers over fine grass country to a copse near Floore, where the sight of hounds in full cry, a rare occurrence, caused considerable excitement among the villagers. Continuing past Weedon Beck, the fugitive circled round in the direction of Pattishall, but he was so hotly pressed that he was obliged to take shelter in a drain near Bugbrook, where it was decided to leave him. The second fox, which was started from Dowsby Gorse, gave a fine run of an hour. He travelled first to Byfield, thence across the hilly country back to Weedon Beck, over almost the same district as his predecessor. Near Weedon reynard had an encounter with some terriers belonging to a rabbiting party, but got safely away and finally beat the pack close to the Nene.

The run had been a very fast one, but both Claudia and Stanislas were among the few in at the finish. As many of the hunters jogged homeward along the Daventry road, the Grand-Duke managed to take up his position by the side of the beautiful woman whom he so greatly admired. Stanislas, who was an excellent rider, had left his equerry far behind in the mad race across hedges, ditches, stubble and ploughed land. Somewhat bespattered by mud, he sat his horse with perfect ease and with almost imperial dignity. To the casual observer there was nothing to distinguish him from any of the other hunters, for in his well-worn riding-breeches, gaiters and black coat his appearance was devoid of that elegance which had distinguished him in London society, and he looked more like a country squire than the son of an emperor.

They were descending the slope towards a small hamlet of thatched cottages, when of a sudden he drew his horse closer to hers and, turning to her, exclaimed in English of rather a pleasant accent:

“Madame is, I fear, fatigued—of my company?”

“Oh dear no,” she laughed, turning her fine dark eyes mischievously towards him. “Why should I be? When you are so self-sacrificing as to leave Muriel Mortimer to Captain Graydon’s charge and ride with me, I surely ought not to complain.”

“Why do you speak of Mam’zelle Mortimer?” he asked, at once grown serious.

“Because you have been flirting with her outrageously all day. You can’t deny it,” she declared, turning to him in her saddle.

“I was merely pleasant to her,” he admitted. “But you English declare that a man is a flirt if he merely extends the most commonplace courtesies to a woman. It is so different in other countries.”

“Yes,” she laughed. “Here, in England, woman is fortunately respected, but it is not so on the Continent.”

“I trust that madame has not found me indiscreet,” he said earnestly. “If I have been, I must crave forgiveness, because I am so unused to English manners.”

“I don’t think any one need blame you for indiscretion, providing that Muriel does not object.”

“Object? I do not follow you,” he said.

“Well, she may object to her name being bandied about as a woman with whom you are carrying on an open flirtation.”

“You appear to blame me for common civility to her,” he observed. “I cannot, somehow, understand madame of late. She has so changed.”

“Yes,” she answered with a bitter smile; “I have grown older—and wiser.”

“Wisdom always adds charm to a woman,” he replied, endeavouring to turn her sarcasm into a compliment.

“And age commands respect,” she answered.

He laughed uneasily, for he knew well her quick and clever repartee.

“I have been wishing to have a word with madame for a long time,” he said, at last breaking a silence that had fallen between them. “You have pointedly avoided me for several weeks. Have I given you offence? If so, I beg a thousand pardons.”

She did not answer for some time. At heart she despised this Imperial Prince, before whom half the women in London bowed and curtsied. She had once allowed him to pay court to her in his fussy, foreign manner, amused and flattered that one of his degree should find her interesting; but all that was now of the past. In those brief moments as they rode together along the country road in the wintry twilight, recollections of summer days at Fernhurst came back to her, and she hated herself. In those days she had actually forgotten Dudley. And then she also remembered how this man had condemned her lover: how he had urged her to break off the acquaintance, and how he had hinted at some secret which, when exposed, must result in Dudley’s ruin.

Those enigmatical words of his had caused her much thought. At what had he hinted? A thousand times had she endeavoured to discover his meaning, but had utterly failed. If such a secret actually existed, and if its revelation could cause the downfall of Dudley Chisholm, then it was surely her duty to discover it and to seek its suppression. This latter thought caused her to hesitate, and to leave unsaid the hasty answer that had flashed into her mind.

“Well,” she said at length, “now that you have spoken plainly, I may as well confess that I have been annoyed—very much annoyed.”

“I regret that!” he exclaimed with quick concern. “If I have caused madame any annoyance, I assure her it was not in the least intentional. But tell me how I have annoyed you.”

“Oh, it was a small matter, quite a trivial one,” she said with affected carelessness, settling her habit and glancing furtively at the man who had declared that he held her lover’s secret.

“But you will tell me,” he urged. “Please do. I have already apologised.”

“Then that is sufficient,” she replied.

“No, it is not sufficient I must know my offence, to be fully cognisant of its gravity.”

Her brows contracted slightly, but in the fading light he did not notice the shadow of annoyance that passed across her countenance.

“As I have told you, the offence was not a grave one,” she declared. “I was merely annoyed, that is all.”

“Annoyed by my actions, or by my words?”

“By your words.”

“On what occasion?”

“On the last occasion you dined at my house.”

For a moment his face assumed a puzzled expression, then in an instant the truth flashed upon him.

“Ah!” he cried; “I recollect, of course. Madame has been offended at what I said regarding her friend, the Under-Secretary. I can only repeat my apologies.”

“You repeat them because what you told me was untrue!” she exclaimed, turning and looking him full in the face. They had allowed their horses to walk, in order to be able to converse.

“I much regret, madame, that it was true,” he replied.

“All of it?”

“All of it.”

“And there exists somewhere or other a document which inculpates Dudley Chisholm?”

“Yes, it inculpates him very gravely, I am sorry to say.”

“Sorry! Why?”

“Well, because he is madame’s friend—her very best friend, if report speaks the truth.” There was a sarcastic ring in his words which she did not fail to detect, and it stung her to fury.

“I cannot see why you should entertain the least sympathy for my friend,” she remarked in a hard voice. “More especially for one unknown to you.”

“Oh, we have met!” her companion said. “We met in Paris long since on an occasion when I was travelling incognito, and I liked him. Indeed, he was dining at the Carlton a week ago at the next table to me.”

“And you are aware of the nature of this secret, which, according to what you tell me, must some day or other bring about his utter downfall?”

“Ah, no. Madame misunderstands me entirely,” he hastened to protest. “I am not a diplomatist, nor have I any connection, official or otherwise, with diplomacy. I merely told you of a matter which had come to my knowledge. Recollect, that a young man in Chisholm’s position of responsibility must have a large number of jealous enemies. Perhaps it will be owing to one of these that the secret will leak out.”

“It will be used for a political purpose, you mean?”

“Exactly,” replied the Grand-Duke. “Your Government, what with the two or three contending parties, is always at war, as it were, and the Opposition, as you term it, may, as a coup de grace to the Government, reveal the secret.”

“But you told me that it was a document, and that it reposed safely in one of the Chancelleries in a foreign capital, if I remember aright,” she said. “Now, tell me honestly, is St. Petersburg the capital you refer to?”

“No, it is not,” he replied promptly.

“And the Embassy in London that is aware of the truth is not in Chesham Place?”

“Most assuredly not, madame,” he replied.

“Cannot you be more explicit,” she urged. “Cannot you, if you are my friend, as you have more than once declared yourself to be, tell me more regarding this extraordinary matter which is to create such a terrible scandal?”

“No, it is impossible—utterly impossible. If I could, I would tell madame everything. But my information really carries me no further than the bare fact that a certain Power antagonistic to England has been able to secure a document which must prove the ruin of the most brilliant and promising of the younger English statesmen.”

“And have you really no idea whatever as to the nature of the secret?”

“None.”

“From what you tell me one would almost infer that Dudley Chisholm had been guilty of some crime. Have you no suspicion of its nature?”

“Absolutely none,” her companion declared. “The only other fact I know is the whereabouts of the document in question, and that I must keep a secret, according to my solemn promise.”

“You promised not to divulge the direction in which danger lies?” she said suspiciously. “Why did you do so? You surely must have had some motive!”

“I had none. The affair was mentioned to me confidentially, and I was compelled to promise that I would give no indication as to what person held the incriminating paper. I told madame of its existence merely to warn her, and perhaps to prepare her for an unwelcome revelation.”

“You refuse to tell me more?” she asked quickly, “even though you must be aware how deeply this extraordinary matter affects me?”

“I am compelled to refuse, madame,” he answered in the same calm, unruffled tone. “I cannot break my word of honour.”