Chapter Twenty Three. Records some Matters of Fact.

The house-party at Wroxeter Castle had broken up, and Dudley Chisholm, having returned to town, had once more taken up his official duties.

Every hour of his day, however, was haunted by the memory of that strange encounter in the library, and its astonishing sequel. That fair-haired girl, whose parentage was so mysterious, and against whom he had been so distinctly warned, was aware of his secret, and, moreover, had openly declared her love for him. Assuredly his was a most complicated and perilous position.

Muriel Mortimer had at every point displayed marvellous tact and ingenuity. She was undoubtedly clever, for at breakfast on the morning following their interview, Lady Meldrum had announced the receipt of a letter which compelled them to leave by the midday train for Carlisle. All sorts of regrets were expressed in the usual conventional manner, but Muriel exchanged a glance with her host, and he understood. No word regarding the midnight interview passed between them; but when she entered the carriage to be driven into Shrewsbury with Sir Henry and his wife, and grasped his hands in farewell, he felt a slight pressure upon his fingers as their eyes met, and knew that it was intended as a mute repetition of her promise to rescue him.

She alone knew the truth. If she so desired she herself could expose him and lay bare his secret. He was utterly helpless in her hands, and in order to save himself had been compelled to accept the strange condition she had so clearly and inexorably laid down. This fair-faced woman, about whom he knew next to nothing, had declared that she could save him by means known only to herself; and this she was now setting forth to do.

Archibald Cator, the resourceful man whose success in learning the diplomatic secrets of foreign states was unequalled, was working towards his exposure, while she, an apparently simple woman, with a countenance full of childlike innocence, had pitted herself against his long experience and cunning mind. The match was unequal, he thought. Surely she must be vanquished. Yet she had saved him from suicide, and somehow, he knew not exactly how, her declarations and her sudden outburst of devotion had renewed the hope of happiness within him.

Public life had never offered more brilliant prizes to a Canning, a Disraeli, or a Randolph Churchill than it did to Dudley Chisholm. To him, it seemed, the future belonged. England was in the mood to surrender herself, not necessarily to a prodigy of genius, a Napoleon of politics, but to a man of marked independence, faith, and capacity. And all these qualities were possessed by the present Parliamentary Under-Secretary—the unhappy man who so short a time before had sat with the fatal glass in front of him.

He was in the hall when Muriel took leave of Claudia. The latter was inclined to be affectionate and bent to kiss her on the cheek, but Muriel pretended not to notice her intention, merely shaking her hand and expressing regret at being compelled to leave so suddenly. Their parting was most decidedly a strained one, and he fell to wondering whether, on his account, any high words had passed between them.

But a fortnight had gone by, the House had reassembled, and he had resumed his duties.

Has it ever occurred to you, my reader, what a terrible sameness marks the careers of front-bench men?

Ancestors who toiled and spun, as some writer in a daily journal has it; Eton and Oxford; the charmed Commons at twenty-eight or thirty, an Under-Secretaryship of State two years later; high Government office three years after that, then a seat in the Cabinet, then the invariable Chief Secretaryship of Ireland, birthplace of reputations, where they take the place of colleagues physically prostrated by Irish persiflage.

As Chief Secretary the typical front-bench man, of course, surprises friends and foes by his unshakable coolness. If he still has any hair, he never turns a particle of it while the Irish members are shrieking their loudest, and branding him with nicknames; which we are instructed to accept as examples of epoch-making humour. Well, we are bound to believe what we are told, but we cannot be described as cordial believers.

Last scene of all, the ignoble, protesting tumble upstairs into the House of Lords; a coronet on the door panels of his brougham; his identity hidden under the name of a London suburb or an obscure village; while his eldest son who is now an “Honourable,” and has always been a zany, remains down below to fritter away illustrious traditions.

Once Dudley Waldegrave Chisholm had marked out for himself a similar career, but the events of the past few months had changed it all. Public life no longer attracted him. He hated the wearying monotony of the House, and each time he rose from the Treasury bench to speak, he trembled lest there should arise a figure from the Opposition to denounce him in scathing terms. The nervous tension of those days was awful. His friends of his own party, noticing his nervousness, put it down to the strain of office, and more than one idling politician of the dining-room had suggested that he should pair and leave town for a bit of a change.

Would, he thought within himself, that he could leave the town for ever!

He had arranged with the woman into whose hands he had given himself unreservedly, providing that she placed him in a position to overthrow his enemies, that she should write to him at his club, the Carlton; but as the weeks crept on and he received no letter he began to be uneasy at her silence.

In the Morning Post he had noticed two lines in the fashionable intelligence, which ran as follows:

“Sir Henry and Lady Meldrum with Miss Muriel Mortimer have left Green Street for the Continent.” The announcement was vague, but purposely so, he thought. He tried to calm himself by plunging with redoubled energy into the daily political struggle.

Claudia after leaving the castle had gone to Paris with her almost inseparable friend, the Duchess of Penarth, gowns being the object of the visit. Hors de Paris, hors du monde was Claudia’s motto always. They usually went over together, without male encumbrances, twice or three times yearly, stayed at the Athenée, and spent the greater part of their time in the ateliers of Doeuillet and Paquin, or shopping in the Vendôme quarter, that little area of the gay city so dear to the feminine heart.

The visit had lasted a fortnight, and Claudia was back again at Albert Gate. She had sent him a brief note announcing her arrival, but he had not called, for, truth to tell, because of the fresh development springing from Muriel Mortimer’s policy he felt unable to continue his fervent protestations of love. The web of complications was drawing round him more tightly every moment. He tried to struggle against it, but the feeble effort was utterly hopeless.

One evening, however, he accepted, under absolute compulsion, her invitation to dine. In that handsome, well-remembered room, with its snowy cloth, its shining glass, its heavy plate and big silver épergne of hot-house flowers, he sat with her tête-à-tête, listening to the story of her visit to the French capital, her account of the pretty evening gowns which were on their way to her—new and exclusive “models” for which she had been compelled to pay terribly dear—all about her meeting with the old Comtesse de Montigny while driving in the Avenue des Acacias, and the warm invitation, which she had accepted, to the latter’s salon, one of the most exclusive in all Paris. Moreover, she and the Duchess had dined one evening with Madame Durand, one of her old companions at the pension at Enghien, and now wife of the newly appointed Minister of the Interior. Yes, in Paris she had, as usual, a most enjoyable time. And how had he fared?

As Jackson, the solemn-faced and rather pompous butler, who had been in poor Dick Nevill’s service for a good many years, was pouring out his wine, he hesitated to speak confidentially until he had left.

Claudia certainly looked charming. She was dressed in black, and had a large bunch of Neapolitan violets in her low corsage. They were his favourite flowers, and he knew that she wore them in honour of his visit.

“I wrote to you twice from Paris, and received no reply, Dudley,” she said, leaning toward him when the man had gone. “Why didn’t you answer?”

“Forgive me, Claudia,” he answered, placing his hand upon hers and looking into her handsome face. “I have been so very busy of late—and I expected you back in London every day.”

“You have only written to me once since I left Wroxeter,” she said, pouting. “It is really too bad of you.”

“I can only plead heavy work and the grave responsibilities of office,” he answered. “I’ve been literally driven to death. You’ve no doubt seen the papers.”

“Yes, I have seen them,” she answered. “And my candid opinion is, Dudley, that the Government has not come out particularly well in regard to the question of Crete. I’m quite with you as to your declaration in the House last night, that we are not nearly strong enough in the Mediterranean.”

Jackson entered again, and, as their conversation was of necessity prevented from taking on an intimate tone, they kept to a discussion of matters upon which Dudley had been speaking in the House during the past week. She had always been his candid critic, and often pointed out to him his slips and shortcomings, just as she had criticised him in their youthful days and stirred within him the ambition to enter public life.

If she knew of the secret compact that he had made with Muriel Mortimer what would she say? He dreaded to contemplate the exposure of the truth.

“Have you heard anything of the Meldrums?” he inquired, as the thought flashed into his mind that from her very probably he might be able to learn their whereabouts.

“Oh! they’re abroad,” she replied. “They left us very suddenly at the castle, for what reason I’ve not yet been able to make out. Do you know, I’ve a horrible suspicion that Lady Meldrum was offended, or something, but what it was I really have no idea. She was scarcely civil when we parted.”

“That’s very strange,” he said, pricking up his ears and looking at her in astonishment. “Who was the culprit? One of the guests, I suppose.”

“I suppose so,” his hostess answered. “But at any rate, whatever the cause, she was gravely offended. The excuse to leave was a palpably false one, for there chanced to be no letters for her that morning.”

“Where are they now?”

“They first went up to Dumfries, and then came to town and left for Brussels. I heard from Muriel a week ago from Florence.”

“From Muriel!” he exclaimed. “Then she is with them?”

“Yes. Her letter says that they were contemplating taking a villa there for the winter, but were hesitating on account of Lady Meldrum’s health. It appears that her London doctor did not recommend Florence on account of the cold winds along the Arno.”

In Florence! It was strange, he thought, that if she could write civilly to the woman who was her rival, whom she had scarcely saluted at parting, she did not send a single line to him. Then the strange thought flitted through his mind that Archibald Cator was attach in Rome. Could her visit to Italy have any connection with the task which she had taken upon herself to fulfil?

In the blue drawing-room later, after they had taken their coffee and were alone, she rose slowly and stood with him before the tiled hearth. She saw by his heavy brow that he was preoccupied, and without a word she took his hand and raised it with infinite tenderness to her lips.

He turned his eyes upon her, uttering no word, for he hated himself for his duplicity. Why had he been persuaded to visit her? How could he endure to feign an affection and fill her heart with unrealisable hopes? It was disloyal of him, and cruel to her.

She, a woman of infinite tact and finesse, had suffered bitterly from the harsh words he had spoken weeks ago, yet she had never upbraided him. She had suffered in patience and in silence, as the true woman does when the man she loves causes her unhappiness. Jealousy may engender fury; but the woman whose soul is pure and whose heart is honest in her love is always patient and long-suffering, always willing to believe that her ideal is represented by the man she loves. And it was so with Claudia. Gossips had tried to injure her good name by alleging things that were untrue, yet she had never once complained. “Tiens!” she would exclaim. That was all. It was true that she had allowed herself to flirt with the young Russian because, being a woman, she could not resist that little piece of harmless coquetry. Nevertheless she had never for a single instant forgotten the sacred love of her youth.

She was essentially a smart woman, whose doings were chronicled almost daily in the fashionable intelligence of the newspapers; and every woman of her stamp may always be sure of being persecuted by malignant gossips. Were she a saint she could not escape them. The eternal feminine is prolific of aspersions where a pretty member of its own sex is under examination, and especially if she be left lonely and unprotected while she is still quite young. It was so with Claudia Nevill. She allowed people to talk, and was even amused at the wild and often scandalous tales whispered about her, for she knew that the man she loved would give no credence to them.

Dudley had loved her long ago in her schoolgirl days, and she knew that he loved her now. For her, that was all-sufficient.

But his preoccupied manner that night caused her considerable apprehension. He was not his old self. Once, while at dinner, she had caught a strange, haunted look in his eyes.

“Tell me, Dudley,” she urged, holding his hand and looking earnestly up to him. “Be frank with me, and tell me what ails you.”

“Nothing,” he laughed uneasily, carrying her soft hand to his lips. “But whatever made you ask such a question?”

“Because you seem upset,” she answered, smoothing his hair tenderly from his brow. “If there is any matter that is worrying you, why not confide in me, as you have done so often before, and let me help you.”

“No, really,” he protested with a forced laugh.

“Nothing worries me—only matters down at the House.”

She looked at him in silence. In those dark, brilliant eyes of hers was a love-look that was unmistakable. She was a woman believed by men to be utterly frivolous and heartless, yet she loved Dudley Chisholm with all the fierce passion possible to her ardent soul. His face told her that he had been suffering in her absence, and she strove to discover the reason.

“Why, Dudley,” she exclaimed at last, “now that I reflect, you have not been quite the same since the midnight visit paid you at the castle by the mysterious man who was so very careful that his presence should not be made known! You have never told me who he was, or what was his business.”

He started so quickly that she could not fail to notice it. This set her wondering.

“Oh!” he replied with affected carelessness next moment, “the tall shabby man who called on the night of the dance you mean? He was a confidential messenger, that was all.”

“I suppose I was mistaken, but his face and voice both seemed quite familiar to me,” she remarked. “I meant to tell you before, but it entirely slipped my memory. The likeness to some one I have met was very striking, but I cannot recollect where I’ve met him before. Is he an official messenger?”

“Yes,” answered her lover vaguely, although alarmed that she should so nearly have recognised Cator; “he’s attached to the Foreign Office. I urged him to stay the night, but he was compelled to return at once to town.”

“And he brought you some bad news? Admit the truth, dear.”

“He certainly brought some official intelligence that was not altogether reassuring,” her lover said.

“Are you quite certain that it was official, and did not concern yourself?” she asked in a low voice which sounded to him full of suspicion.

“Certain? Why, of course,” he laughed. “Whatever strange ideas are you entertaining, Claudia?”

“Well,” she answered, “to tell the truth, Dudley, I have a notion that he came to see you on some private business, because ever since that night you have been a changed man.”

“I really had no idea that. I had changed,” he said. “You surely don’t mean that I have changed towards you?”

“Yes,” she answered gravely, her small hand trembling slightly in his nervous grasp,—“yes, I think you have changed—even towards me.”