Chisholm was silent. The two men exchanged glances. Since they were
his best and most confidential friends, he could not be offended in the
least at what they had said, especially as he knew quite well that they
had spoken plain, hard facts.
"Well," he said at last, in a metallic tone of voice, "the truth is, we
have parted."
"Then I cordially congratulate you, my dear fellow," declared the
red-faced old colonel bluntly. "Forgive me, but you've been a fool over
her, an absolute fool, and couldn't see that she was deceiving you on
every hand. Men had begun to sneer and laugh at you behind your back--
and, by Jove! you've had a narrow escape of making a complete ass of
yourself."
"I know. I'm well aware of it," his host replied in a low tone. "But
between ourselves, it's all over."
"Why between ourselves?" inquired Benthall. "The world should, I think,
know, for your own sake? _Pourquoi non_?"
"No. I intend to keep it a secret--for her sake." Both men were
silent. The conversation had, indeed, been a strange one to take place
between a host and his guests. But both men saw that although Claudia
and her lover had parted, there still lingered in Dudley Chisholm's
heart tender thoughts of that pretty, callous woman who was one of the
leaders of smart society in London.
"Very well," said Murray-Kerr at length, after a brief period of
silence. "If you wish us to say nothing, we can only obey. But,
nevertheless, my dear old chap, I, for one, congratulate you most
heartily upon your resolution. A man in your shoes can't afford to risk
his reputation any longer. Forgive me for speaking as I have done,
won't you?"
"Certainly, my dear fellow," he answered with a bitter smile. "You've
both spoken as friends, and I've told you the plain truth, so what more
need be said?"
"Nothing," said the colonel. "Stick to your resolution, and let Claudia
Nevill proceed at her own sweet will. She'll marry some foreign
notability or other, I expect, now that she's in search of big game.
Then you'll be entirely free of her."
Dudley laughed again, and soon afterwards, much to his relief, the
conversation drifted into an easier channel. Her letter, however,
remained in his pocket unopened. What words of mad despair, he
wondered, did it contain?
He sat finishing his breakfast and chatting about various subjects. But
his thoughts were of her--always of her.
When they rose, his two guests went out to see after their guns, while
he, remaining behind upon some pretext, tore open the letter.
It was brief, and had evidently been penned in one of those moments of
remorse which must come sooner or later to such a woman.
"You are cruel to leave me like this," she wrote. "Surely, if you
really loved me, you would not care what the world might say. I have
been foolish, I know, but am now penitent. I see the folly of it all--
the folly of not keeping my secret and playing the hypocrite like other
women. Surely love is not forbidden between us because you happen to
hold an official position! Return to me, Dudley--for I love you!"
He sighed, then, crushing the letter in his hand, he flung it into the
fire, murmuring:
"No. She's played me false--false!"
He recollected what the colonel had said in regard to the Grand-Duke
Stanislas, and saw with chagrin that the world was pitying him.
Before the blazing logs he stood, watching the leaping flames consume
the letter. When the last spark had died from the black crackling
tinder, he sighed again, and reluctantly went out to join his guests.
The morning was dull and grey. As they trudged on past the site of the
old Roman cemetery, down through Altringham Wood, across the wide
stretch of moorland known as Uckington Heath, at last crossing the old
highway of Watling Street and entering the Dean Copse, the sportsmen
agreed that October might have behaved in a handsomer fashion. The
fierce north-east wind that had swept over the Welsh hills had died away
the evening before in a tumbled sea of fiery crimson and dense jagged
drift of sulphurous blue. For days and days it had torn and shaken the
great elms in Wroxeter Park, until it had stripped them of the last
vestige of their autumn foliage, and now in the calm morning the leaves
in park and copse were lying in a deep, moist carpet of shimmering gold.
Nothing but the oaks had been able to withstand the fury of the blast;
these still bore their leafy flags bravely aloft, thousands and
thousands of their family flying proofs of staunchness on the flanks of
many a noble hill. On the grass by the lane-side the dew was held in
uncomfortable abundance, and a few belated blackberries showed sodden in
the hedgerows. On entering the copse the shooters trudged down the
narrow path, which was covered thickly with decaying leaves, and a few
moments later both dogs and guns got to work.
During their walk the conversation had for the most part dealt with the
condition of the birds. The colonel, keen sportsman that he was,
telling of the execution effected by the six guns at Fernhurst;
describing the big bags made up at Lord Morton's place in Cumberland,
and how scarce the grouse had been in various districts in Scotland.
As Marston, the head-keeper, had predicted, birds were plentiful in the
Dean Copse. Although the ground was rather difficult to work, the
guests had good reason to praise the Under-Secretary's preserves. As
for the colonel, who scarcely ever missed, he was now in his element;
the heavier the bag became, the more brightly the old warrior's eyes
sparkled. So excellent had been the sport, and, in consequence, so
quickly had the time passed, that the guests could hardly believe their
ears when the interval for lunch was announced. Dudley, who was an
excellent shot, and who, on an ordinary occasion, would have entered
into the sport with becoming zest, throughout the morning had knocked
down the birds in a merely mechanical way, more to please his friends
than himself. Secretly he wished himself back at the castle, in the
solitude of that old library which he used for his den at such times as
he was all by himself at Wroxeter.
"I think, sir, we ought to try the Holly Wood now," Marston suggested as
soon as they had eaten their sandwiches and drunk their sherry. In
accordance with this view, they tramped down into the valley by Upton
Magna, and presently came to the spot indicated. For the past two
seasons Dudley had been down at Wroxeter but seldom, one of the results
being that birds were very plentiful. All three of the shooters were
kept busy until nearly three o'clock, when, after enjoying a grand day's
sport, the party turned towards the old inn at Uffington, where the
dog-cart was to meet them.
On the way across the brown fields, Benthall, deep in conversation with
Marston, was somewhat ahead, and Dudley walked at the colonel's side, a
smart, well-set-up figure in his drab shooting-clothes.
He was hesitating whether to broach a subject that was puzzling him.
Presently, however, unable longer to conceal his curiosity, he turned
suddenly to his companion, saying:
"You were speaking of Fernhurst at breakfast. Let's see, hasn't Lady
Meldrum a daughter?"
"A daughter?" observed the colonel, looking at him. "Certainly not.
There's no family."
"That's curious," Dudley said with an affected air of indifference.
"Somebody said she had a daughter named Muriel."
"A daughter named Muriel!" the old officer exclaimed. "No, she has a
girl named Muriel who lives with her--a ward, I believe--and a
confoundedly pretty girl she is, too. She wasn't much _en Evidence_
when I was down there. I have my suspicions that during the house-party
she was sent away to the quieter atmosphere surrounding a maiden aunt."
"Oh, she's a ward, is she?" remarked Chisholm. "What's her name?"
"Muriel Mortimer."
"A ward in Chancery, I suppose?"
"I'm not certain," replied Murray-Kerr hesitatingly. "I only saw her
once, on the day of my arrival at Fernhurst. She left for Hertfordshire
next day. Lady Meldrum, however, seemed devoted to her--went up to town
to see her off, and all that sort of thing. But who's been chattering
to you about her?"
"Oh, I heard her spoken of somewhere. The fellow who told me said she
was rather pretty."
"Yes," the other answered in rather a strange and hesitating manner,
"she is--very pretty, and quite young."
"Do you know absolutely nothing more concerning her?" Chisholm asked.
"You always know everything about everybody when you're in the
smoking-room at the Junior, you know."
"In the club a man may open his mouth, but it isn't always wise when
visiting friends," the colonel replied with a laugh.
"I don't quite follow you," his companion said. "Surely Wroxeter is as
free as Charles Street, isn't it?"
"Well, no, not quite, my dear Dudley--not quite."
"Why?"
"Because there are some things that even I--plain-spoken as I am--would
rather leave unsaid."
Chisholm looked at him and saw the change upon the old fellow's
countenance.
"You're hiding something from me," the younger man said quickly.
"I don't deny that," was the other's response. "But I really can't see
why you should so suddenly become the victim of an intense desire to
know the history of Lady Meldrum's ward. Have you met her?"
"No, never."
"Then don't, that's all," was the mysterious answer.
"What the dickens do you mean, speaking in enigmas like this? Surely
you can speak straight out?"
"No, not in this case, Dudley," the colonel said in a rather softer
tone. "I told you sufficient this morning about Claudia Nevill, and all
I wish to urge is that you should avoid the pretty Muriel quite as
assiduously as you will her ladyship in future."
Chisholm was puzzled. His companion was evidently aware of some fact
which, for a mysterious reason, he was reluctant to disclose.
"But I can't see your object in mystifying me like this!" he protested.
"We are friends--very old friends--surely you can at least tell me the
truth?"
"I've told you the truth, dear boy. Muriel Mortimer is an undesirable
acquaintance for you. Is not that a friendly warning."
"A warning, certainly--but hardly a friendly one," answered Dudley,
swinging over a stile into the highroad. "I mention to you a woman I've
heard about," he went on as the pair were walking side by side again,
"and you at once give me these extraordinary warnings, without offering
any explanation whatsoever. Who is this mysterious ward? What is she?"
"I've already told you who she is," his companion replied, shifting his
gun as he marched onward. "What she is I don't know. All I am sure
about is that the less you see of her the better, Dudley--that's all."
"And how do you know that?"
"Because of something I've discovered," the elder man replied.
"Something about her?"
"Well--yes. Something about her."
"But you speak as though we were intimate, my dear fellow, and as if I
were about to lose my heart to her!" exclaimed Chisholm.
"You'll probably know her soon, but when you are introduced, remember my
warning, and drop her at once like a live coal."
"You're in a delightfully prophetic vein this afternoon," laughed his
host. "I suppose it's the dull weather."
At this the elder man halted, turned upon him suddenly, placed his hand
upon his shoulder, and said in a deep and earnest tone:
"Recollect, Dudley, that what I told you this morning at breakfast was
for your own good. I'm not a fellow given to preaching or moralising,
that you know well. But I tell you straight to your face that before
long you'll know Muriel Mortimer. All I urge upon you is not to allow
yourself to be captivated."
"Then you know something distinctly to her detriment?" Chisholm
suggested, for what his friend had said had shown him plainly that this
girl was mixed up in unsavoury matters.
"I only say that she's not a desirable person for you to know."
Dudley laughed uneasily. These words were all the more remarkable in
the light of old Parsons' statement.
"You speak just as though you feared I might marry her!" he said.
"Well, there are many things more unlikely than that," was the elder
man's reply. "We hear of strange matches nowadays."
"And if I married this fair unknown, what then?"
"Well, before you do that just take my advice and swallow an overdose of
chloral, or something of that sort. It would be a far easier way out of
this work-a-day world than marriage with her." Chisholm looked at him
quickly.
"My dear fellow," he said, "your words imply that marriage with her
would be tantamount to suicide."
"That was exactly the impression I meant to convey, Dudley," was the
strange reply. "I can say no more--indeed, I have no intention of being
more explicit, even were I free to make further explanation. Avoid
her--that's all."