The division had been taken, the position of the Government saved, and
the House was "up."
Dudley Chisholm, after driving back in a hansom to his chambers in St.
James's Street, stretched himself before the fire with a weary sigh of
relief, to rest himself after the struggle in which he had been so
prominent a figure. His rooms, almost opposite the Naval and Military
Club, were decorated in that modern style affected by the younger
generation of bachelors, with rich brocade hangings, Turkey carpets, art
pottery, and woodwork painted dead white. A single glance, however,
showed it to be the abode of a man sufficiently wealthy to be able to
indulge in costly works of art and fine old china; and although modern
in every sense of the word, it was, nevertheless, a very snug, tasteful
and well-arranged abode.
The room in which he was sitting, deep in a big armchair of the
"grandfather" type, was a study; not spacious, but lined completely with
well-chosen books, while the centre was occupied by a large, workmanlike
table littered by the many official documents which his secretary had,
on the previous morning, brought to him from the Foreign Office. The
electric lamp on the table was shaded by a cover of pale green silk and
lace, so that he sat in the shadow, with the firelight playing upon his
dark and serious features.
Parsons, his bent, white-haired old servant in livery of an antiquated
cut, had noiselessly entered with his master's whiskey and soda, and
after placing it in its accustomed spot on a small table at his elbow,
was about to retire, when the younger man, deep in reflection, stirred
himself, asking:
"Who brought that letter--the one I found here when I came in?"
"A commissionaire, sir," was the old servitor's response. "It came
about midnight. And somebody rang up on the telephone about an hour
after, but I couldn't catch the name, as I'm always a bit flustered by
the outlandish thing, sir."
His master smiled. That telephone was, he knew, the bane of old
Parsons' existence.
"Ah!" he said. "You're not so young as you used to be, eh?"
"No, Master Dudley," sighed the old fellow with the blanched hair and
thin, white, mutton-chop whiskers. "When I think that I was his
lordship's valet here in London nigh on fifty years ago, and that I've
been in the family every since, I begin to feel that I'm gettin' on a
bit in years."
"Sitting up late every night like this isn't very good for one of your
age," observed his master, mindful of the old fellow's faithful
services. "I'll have Riggs up from Wroxeter, and he can attend to me at
night."
"You're very thoughtful of me, Master Dudley; but I'd rather serve you
myself, sir. I can't abear young men about me. They're only in the
way, and get a-flirtin' with the gals whenever they have a chance."
"Very well, Parsons, just please yourself," answered Chisholm
pleasantly. "But to-morrow morning first pack my bag and then wire to
Wroxeter. I shall be going down there in the afternoon with two friends
for a couple of days' shooting."
"Very well, sir," replied the old fellow in the antique dress suit and
narrow tie. He half turned to walk out, but hesitated and fidgeted;
then, a moment later, he turned back and stood before his master.
"Well, Parsons, anything more?" Chisholm asked. He was used to the old
fellow's confidences and eccentricities, for more than once since he had
come down from college his ancient retainer had given him words of sound
advice, his half-century of service allowing him such licence as very
few servants possessed.
"There's one little matter I wanted to speak to you about, Master
Dudley. I'm an old man, and a pretty blunt 'un at times, that you
know."
"Yes," laughed Dudley. "You can make very caustic remarks sometimes,
Parsons. Well, who's been offending you now?"
"No one, sir," he answered gravely. "It's about something that concerns
yourself, Master Dudley."
His master glanced up at him quickly, not without some surprise, saying:
"Well, fire away, Parsons. Out with it. What have I done wrong this
time?"
"That woman was here this afternoon!" he blurted out.
"What woman?" inquired his master, looking at him seriously.
"Her ladyship."
"Well, and what of that? She called at my invitation. I'm sorry I was
not in."
"And I'm very glad I had the satisfaction of sending that woman away,"
declared the ancient retainer bluntly.
"Why, Parsons? Surely it's hardly the proper thing to speak of a lady
as `that woman'?"
"Master. Dudley," said the old man, "you'll forgive me for speaking
plain, won't you? It would, I know, be called presumption in other
houses for a servant to speak like this to his master, but you are
thirty-three now, and for those thirty-three years I've advised you,
just as I would my own son."
"I know, Parsons, I know. My father trusted you implicitly, just as I
have done. Speak quite plainly. I'm never offended by your
criticisms."
"Well, sir, that woman may have a title, but she's not at all a
desirable acquaintance for you, a rising man."
Chisholm smiled. Claudia Nevill was a smart woman, moving in the best
set in London; something of a lion-hunter, it was true, but a really
good sort, nevertheless.
"She dresses too well to suit your old-fashioned tastes, eh? In your
days women wore curls and crinolines."
"No, Master Dudley. It isn't her dress, sir. I don't like the woman."
"Why?"
"Because--well, you'll permit me to speak quite frankly, sir--because to
my mind it's dangerous for a young man like you to be so much in the
company of an attractive young person. And, besides, she's playing some
deep game, depend upon it."
Dudley's dark brows contracted for a moment at the old man's words. It
was quite true that he was very often in Claudia Nevill's society,
because he found her both charming and amusing. But the suggestion of
her playing some game caused him to prick up his ears in quick interest.
Parsons was a shrewd old fellow, that he knew.
"And what kind of double game is Lady Richard playing?" he asked in a
rather hard voice.
"Well, sir, you'll remember that she called here just after luncheon the
day before yesterday, and had an elderly lady with her. You had gone
down to the Foreign Office; but I expected you back every moment, so
they waited. When they were together in the drawing-room with the door
closed I heard that woman explain to her companion that you were the
most eligible man in London. They had spoken of your income, of
Wroxeter, of his lordship's failing health, and all the rest of it, when
that woman made a suggestion to her companion--namely, that you might be
induced to marry some woman they called Muriel."
"Muriel? And who in the name of fortune is Muriel?"
"I don't know, sir. That, however, was the name that was mentioned."
"Who was the lady who accompanied her ladyship? Had you ever seen her
before?"
"No, sir, never. She didn't give a card. She was elderly, dressed in
deep mourning. They waited best part of an hour for you, then drove
away in her ladyship's brougham."
"I wonder who she could have been," remarked Dudley Chisholm
reflectively. "I haven't the honour of knowing any lady named Muriel,
and, what's more, I have no desire to make her acquaintance. But how
was it, Parsons, that if the door was closed, you overheard this very
edifying conversation?"
"I listened at the keyhole, sir. Old men have long ears, you know."
His master laughed.
"Slow at the telephone, quick at the keyhole, eh, Parsons?" he said.
"Well, somehow, you don't like her ladyship. Why is it?"
"I've already told you, Master Dudley. First, because you are too much
with her. There's no woman more dangerous to men like yourself than a
wealthy young person of her attractions; secondly, because she has some
extraordinary design upon you on behalf of this mysterious Muriel--
whoever she is."
What the old man had said was certainly puzzling. What possible object
could Claudia have, he wondered, in bringing there a strange woman and
suggesting to her that he should marry a third person? He would put the
question point-blank to her to-morrow. Claudia Nevill and he were old
friends--very old friends. Years ago, long before she had married his
friend Dick Nevill, a noble lord who sat for Huntingdon, they had been
close acquaintances, and now, Nevill having died two years after the
marriage, leaving Claudia sole mistress of the huge estate, together
with that princely house in Albert Gate, he had naturally become her
confidant and adviser.
She was now only twenty-six, one of the smartest women in London, and
one of the prettiest. After a brief period of mourning, she had again
thrown herself into all the dissipations of the following season, and
was seen everywhere. She had been so often in the company of Dudley
Chisholm that their close friendship had for months past been remarked.
The Parliamentary Under-Secretary had, of course, heard the gossip, and
laughed at it. He naturally admired her, and once, long before her
marriage, he thought he was in love with her; but after a rigid
self-examination he came to the conclusion that he had not been really
desperately in love with any woman in his life, and promised himself not
to commit any such folly now. Therefore, he laughed heartily at his old
servant's ominous but well-meant warning.
"I'm not the sort of man to marry, Parsons," he said. "Truth to tell,
I'm too much of an old fogey for women to care for me. And as for this
unknown Muriel, well, I don't think you need have much fear that I shall
commit any matrimonial indiscretion with her. I expect her ladyship was
only joking, and you took her words seriously."
"No, she wasn't joking," declared the old man in all seriousness. "You
mark my words, Master Dudley, that woman is not your friend."
Again Chisholm laughed airily, and sipped his whiskey, while the old
man, satisfied with his parting shot, went out, giving a grunt of
dissatisfaction as he closed the door noiselessly behind him.
"Poor old Parsons! He thinks I'm going to the devil! Well, I wonder
what's in the wind?" observed Dudley aloud to himself when he was again
alone. "I've noticed a curious change in Claudia's manner of late.
What can be her object in bringing about my marriage, except that
perhaps my alliance with one or other of the insipid young ladies who
are so often passed before me for inspection, might stifle the ugly
scandal that seems to have arisen about us. She's a clever woman--the
cleverest woman in London, but horribly indiscreet. I wonder whether
that's really the truth. But marriage! _Au grand jamais_!" and he
raised his glass again and took a deep draught.
"No," he went on, "Claudia is never so charming as when she has some
little intrigue or other on hand; but I must really get at the bottom of
this, and find out the _belle inconnue_. Parsons is no fool, but the
old boy is a Methodist, and hates everything in petticoats," and he
laughed lightly to himself as he recollected the old fellow's sage, and
perhaps justifiable, reprimands in his wilder college days. "I know
I've been a fool--an absolute, idiotic fool with Claudia--and she's been
equally foolish. People have talked, but without any foundation for
their impertinent gossip, and now she, of course, finds herself in a
hole. Dick Nevill was the best of good fellows, but she never loved
him. Her marriage was merely one of her _caprices de coeur_. I don't
think she could really love anybody for longer than a week. Yes,
Parsons is right. He always is. I've been an ass--a downright ass!" he
added with sudden emphasis. "I must go and see her tomorrow, and end
all this confounded folly."
From the table he took up the letter he had received on his return home,
and about which he had questioned his servant. Again he read it
through, stroking his dark moustache thoughtfully, and knitting his
brows.
"Writing is woman's _metier_. I wonder what she wants to see me about
so particularly," he went on, still speaking to himself. "I wired to
her saying, `The House is sitting late,' so she surely couldn't be
expecting me. But it's rather unusual for her to send out urgent notes
at midnight. No, _la belle capricieuse_ has no discretion--she never
will have."
And although the great marble clock on the mantelshelf chimed four, he
sat with his dark and serious eyes fixed upon the embers, reviewing the
chapters of his past.
He saw the folly of his dalliance at the side of Claudia Nevill _en
plein jour_. He put to himself the question whether or not he really
loved her, and somehow could not bring himself to return a distinct
negative. She was graceful, charming and handsome, the centre of the
smartest set in London, a _grande dame_ whose aid had been useful to him
in more ways than one. As he sat there in the silence of the night, he
recollected those pleasant hours spent with her at Albert Gate, where
they so often dined together, and where she would afterwards sing to him
those old Italian love-songs in her sweet contralto, beaming upon him
with her coquettish smile, half languid, half _moquer_; those drives
together in the park, and those long walks they had taken when,
accompanied by her mother, she had visited him at Wroxeter Castle. Yes,
all were pleasant memories, yet he felt that between him and her love
was an impossibility. As this was the case, the less they saw of one
another in the future, even _en bon camarade_, the better for them both.
This was not a pleasant decision, for Dudley Chisholm made few friends,
and was nothing of a ladies' man. He looked upon life around him as
_contes pour rire_. His friends were mostly bachelors like himself, and
in all the wide range of his acquaintances he had scarcely any women
associates, and, except Claudia, not a single one in whom he could
confide. Women courted him everywhere, of course. It was not to be
supposed that a popular, good-looking man of his wealth and fame was not
actively angled for in various directions; but to all attempted
flirtations he gave a polite negative. Hence it was that these
disappointed women revenged themselves by starting the ill-natured
gossip about his relations with Claudia Nevill, the smart little widow,
who was still young, who gave such lavish entertainments, who moved in
the most select set in London, and at whose side he was so frequently to
be seen.
The old baron, his father, who lived the life of a recluse up at
Dunkeld, had written to him upon the subject only a few weeks before,
and to-night even his own servant had frankly expressed his opinion of
her. _Dieu le veut_.
Dudley Chisholm sighed. He was an honest man, and these thoughts
troubled him greatly. He feared for her reputation more than for his
own. As he was a man, what did it matter? It did not occur to him how
much it flattered that voluptuous _reveuse_ to possess as her cavalier
the man of the hour, the man about whom half England was at that moment
talking. All he felt was that they had both been indiscreet--horribly
indiscreet.
Yes; to-morrow he must end it all. The tongue of scandal must be
silenced at once and for ever.
He had risen to stir the fire when the stillness was suddenly broken by
the sharp ring of the telephone-bell outside the room. A moment later
Parsons announced that some one desired to speak with him. As it was no
uncommon occurrence for him to be rung up in the middle of the night by
the Foreign Office officials, he walked up to the instrument and
inquired who was there.
"Is that you, Dudley?" asked the soft voice he knew so well. "I called
this afternoon, and I've been waiting for you ever since half-past two,
when the House rose. You've had my note, of course. Why don't you
come? Justine will open the door to you. I know it's very indiscreet,
but I must see you to-night on an important matter--at once. Do you
understand, Dudley?"