The colonel's strange premonition was puzzling.
Chisholm saw quite plainly that his friendship with Claudia Nevill had
caused him to throw his usual carefulness to the winds. Her letter was
but another proof of her insincerity; while the statement of the old
colonel in respect of the house-party at Fernhurst angered him. He was
furious that she should risk her reputation openly in such a manner. At
the same time he was filled with regret that from the charming woman of
four years ago she should have developed into a brilliant leader of
society, acknowledged by all to be the smartest woman in London.
It was dark when they drove into the quadrangle of the castle, and
Dudley, excusing himself to his friends, dressed and retired to the
great library for an hour before dinner in order to examine the official
correspondence that had arrived in the morning.
From the big Foreign Office envelopes he drew a mass of papers which
required his endorsement, and several important letters which he at once
answered. The duties of Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs are
multitudinous, and the office needs a man who does not hanker after a
sinecure. Little leisure was Dudley Chisholm allowed, and seldom could
he snatch a few days to run down into the country. His presence in or
near town was required always for passing reports; he had to sign here,
initial there, and control in a great measure one of the greatest and
most important departments of the State.
It is generally understood by Parliament that answers to questions put
to the Foreign Under-secretary are prescribed by his Chief, His
Majesty's Principal Secretary. Palmerston would never allow an
Under-Secretary to answer a supplementary question until his superior
had dictated the reply. But under the Gladstone _regime_ this rule was
gradually relaxed; and such confidence did Lord Stockbridge place in
Chisholm's discretion and power to fence with the Opposition, that,
although he was required to meet his Chief at the Foreign Office between
the hours of twelve and two each Parliamentary day, he was allowed a
practically free hand. Years ago under-secretaries were but the
mouthpieces of their chiefs. Old Parliamentary hands recollect seeing
Sir William Harcourt at the far end of the Treasury Bench pass the word
to Sir Edward Grey at the other end not to answer a supplementary
question until he had consulted Lord Rosebery; and once when Lord Edmond
Fitzmaurice asked for notice of a supplementary question so that he
might consult Earl Granville, the Opposition jeered, and Mr. Gladstone
jumped up to declare that Lord Edmond Fitzmaurice had done so by his
orders. That, however, was all of the past. Dudley Chisholm was
entirely in the confidence of the Marquess of Stockbridge. He relied
upon him.
In that sombre old room where the firelight danced upon the rows and
rows of heavy volumes written in days long past, he sat within the zone
of the green-shaded reading-lamp, his attention absorbed by some
official reports. They were evidently of an unusual nature, for of a
sudden an exclamation of profound surprise escaped him, and with growing
eagerness he scanned page after page of those written lines.
"I don't believe it!" he exclaimed, speaking to himself. "It can't be
true! My secret is still safe. It cannot possibly be revealed any more
than the dead can speak. And yet cock-and-bull stories do not usually
emanate from that quarter. It's certainly startling enough--and if
true--well--"
He rose from his chair and thoughtfully paced the room, his hands locked
behind his back, as was his habit when thinking deeply. The statement
contained in the despatch had alarmed him. He scented danger, and his
brow was clouded. The whole thing was so unexpected and so
extraordinary that he could scarcely credit it, although the signature
to the despatch was that of his Chief, Lord Stockbridge. The matter was
one demanding his immediate attention, and yet he had allowed the
despatch to remain unopened all day.
Up and down the polished floor he paced, plunged in apprehensive
reflections. It appeared that after he had left the Foreign Office on
the previous day the Minister had attended there and had sent him that
startling despatch under seal. He paused at the table, and taking up
the envelope for the first time discovered that it had not been through
the post.
Then he touched the bell, and of the man who entered he asked:
"Did a messenger from London leave anything for me this morning, Riggs?"
"Yes, sir. Two official letters, sir. He arrived at six o'clock, and I
placed the letters on the breakfast-table."
"Oh, very well," his master answered. "You signed the receipt?"
"Yes, sir. It was Mr. Forbes who brought them, sir. He said he
couldn't wait till you came down as he was driving back to Shrewsbury to
catch the eight-ten up to London."
"He didn't say they were important, or make any remark?"
"No, sir."
"Very well." And then the man, a smart, middle-aged servant in the
Chisholm livery, withdrew.
"Curious--very curious!" exclaimed Dudley in a low, half-frightened
whisper when the man had closed the door. "It's certainly a matter that
requires the most searching investigation, otherwise we shall infallibly
find ourselves checkmated, Lord Stockbridge writes. I wonder what it
can all mean? Even Stockbridge himself doesn't see any light through
it, apparently."
Again he read the puzzling document, which bore the signature known to
every court of Europe as that of the greatest of living statesmen. It
bore a postscript also, written by his lordship's own quill: "When read,
please destroy."
He replaced it on the table, and, crossing to the ancient hearth where
the big logs were burning, he stood motionless, gazing blankly at the
fire.
The words he read had aroused within him a suspicion--a grave, terrible,
awful suspicion. In those moments of deep contemplation he looked fully
ten years older. His hand rested upon the high overmantel of black oak,
on which was a carved representation of the simple coat of the
Shropshire Chisholms, azure, a chevron, or between three water-bougets
argent. His brow rested upon his arm as he gazed at the glowing logs.
Truth to tell, that confidential document had caused a flood of
recollections to surge through his brain--recollections whose return he
did not desire. He had vainly thought the past all buried, and had
forgiven and forgotten his enemy. But, reading between the lines of
that despatch, he saw that this ghost of the past had again arisen.
Lord Stockbridge had, of course, no suspicion of the truth. The
confidential communication had been made to him in the ordinary course
of events, in order that he might institute secret inquiries in certain
quarters, and ascertain the feeling of certain influential members in
the House.
But if the truth became known? He set his jaws hard, and a deep sigh
escaped him. He dared not contemplate the result. It would mean for
him ruin, ignominy, shame.
He passed his hot hand wearily across his brow, pushing the thick dark
hair from his forehead.
The dead silence was broken by a low groan--a groan of despair and
penitence.
"God!" he gasped. "Surely the truth cannot possibly be known? How can
it? No," he went on, murmuring to himself. "Bah! I'm timid--thoughts
of it always unnerve me. And yet from this it seems very much as if
some secret enemy had waited through these years until I had attained
position and popularity in order to strike, to crush, to ruin me for
ever!"
He was silent again, silent for many minutes. He stood quite
motionless, still gazing into the fire.
"But dare I face exposure?" he asked himself, his hoarse whisper
sounding strangely in that old room. "No. A thousand times no! No--
impossible! A thousand times no! I'd prefer death. Yes, suicide. It
would be the only way. Death is far preferable to dishonour."
He saw it all--he who could read between those lines. He detected the
hand of some secret enemy uplifted against him--an enemy who, he did not
doubt, held that secret which through the past six years had been the
skeleton in his cupboard. In the esteem of men he had risen rapidly,
until to-day he was declared to be one of the shrewdest of England's
legislators, fulfilling all the traditions of his ancient and honourable
house. And through out these six years he had striven, and striven,
always with an idea of atonement for his cardinal sin; always working in
the interests of the nation he had resolved to serve.
How strange it was that His Majesty's Foreign Minister should have
actually communicated this to him, of all men! But man works half his
own doom, and circumstance the other half. _C'est toujours le destin_.
In his despair there had arisen before him that grim and hideous ghost
of the past which had always overshadowed the later years of his life;
that incident which he constantly feared might come to light to destroy
the position he had created, to wreck his popularity, and to cause his
name to be synonymous with all that was base, treacherous, and
ignominious. For the fault he had committed--a grave offence which he
knew could never be humanly forgiven--he had endeavoured to atone to the
best of his ability. Other young men of his wealth would have probably
married and taken their ease; but with that secret deep in his heart he
had worked and striven for his country's good, prompted by a desire not
merely to become popular, but to accomplish something by means of which
to make amends.
Men had, of course, never rightly understood his motives. They had
believed him to be one of a motley crowd of place-seekers, whose
brilliant oratory had fortunately brought him into the front rank,
though this was certainly far from being the case Popularity had been
heaped upon him as an entirely unwelcome reward. He always declared
within himself that he merited nothing--absolutely nothing; and this
belief accounted for his utter indifference to the plaudits of the
public or the praise bestowed upon him by his Party. He was
endeavouring to work out his atonement and make reparation--that was
all.
Try as he would, however, he could not put aside the grave suggestion
that some secret enemy was preparing a _coup_ beneath which he must
fall. The disquieting despatch from Constantinople seemed to portend
this. It was a presage of his downfall. To endeavour to prove his
innocence, to try to withstand the storm of indignation that must
certainly sweep over England, or to prevent exposure of the truth, spelt
futility. He was helpless--utterly helpless against the onsweeping tide
of retribution.
The marquess urged that he--the very man concerned in the disreputable
affair--should make secret inquiry into the truth of the report. Was
not that a freak of Fate? Surely Nemesis was already upon him. What
could he reply to that despatch? How could he act?
Many men grudged him his position and the fame he had won. And yet,
would they envy him if they were aware of the terrible truth--if they
were aware of that awful secret ever burdening his conscience?
Suddenly, as though some fresh thought had occurred to him, he crossed
to the opposite side of the room, and, pressing against one of the
shelves filled with old brown-covered folios, opened a part which
concealed a small safe embedded deeply in the wall, hidden from even the
keenest eyes in a manner that could scarcely have been improved. From
his watch-chain he selected a key, opened the safe and took from one of
its drawers a large official-looking envelope. Walking back to the
light of the table, he drew out a piece of thin transparent
tracing-paper which he opened and spread upon the blotting-pad.
Upon this paper a letter in a strange, almost microscopic hand, had been
traced. This he read carefully, apparently weighing every word. Twice
he went over it, almost as though he wished to commit it to memory;
then, with a hard look upon his dark features, he replaced it in the
envelope, sealed it with a stick of black wax and put it once more in
the safe. From the same drawer he extracted a second paper, folded in a
small square. With this in his hand he walked toward the nearest
window, so as to be in the best light for his purpose. When he was
satisfied in this regard, he undid the packet. It contained a curl of
fair hair bound together with sewing silk of a faded pink.
As he looked upon it tears welled up into his eyes. That lock of hair
brought back to him memories, bitter and tender memories which he always
tried to forget, though in vain. Before him arose a woman's face, pale,
fair, with eyes of that deep child-like blue which always proclaims
purity of soul. He saw her before him in her simple dress of white
linen--a vision of sweet and perfect beauty. The words she had spoken
in her gentle voice seemed once again to fall upon his ears with the
music that had so invariably charmed him. He remembered what she had
said to him--he recollected the whole of that conversation, although
years had passed since it had been held. He found it impossible to
prevent his thoughts from wandering back to the tender grace of a day
that was dead, when, beside the sea, he had for a few hours enjoyed a
calm and sunny paradise, which had too quickly changed into a wilderness
barren of both roses and angels.
He sighed; and down his cheek there crept a single tear. Then he raised
the tiny lock of hair to his lips.
"May God cherish her always--always," he murmured.
Twice he kissed the lock of hair before, with every sign of reluctance,
returning it to the packet and replacing it in the steel drawer.
Superstitious persons believe that ill-fortune follows the possession of
hair; but Chisholm was never superstitious. This curl, which at rare
intervals he was in the habit of taking from its secret hiding-place,
always carried his memory back to those brief days when, for the second
time in his life, he had experienced perfect happiness. It was an
outward and visible sign of a love that had once burned fiercely within
two hearts.
He had just locked the safe and hidden it in the usual manner, when
Benthall burst into the library, and said in a merry tone of voice:
"I've come just to see what you're doing, old fellow. The gong went
half an hour ago and the colonel says he's got a ravenous appetite. The
soup will be cold."
He had walked across to the table, and stood beside it ready dressed for
dinner.
"I--oh! I was busy," his host answered. "A lot of official
correspondence from the Foreign Office, you know--things I ought to have
seen to this morning instead of shooting. Correspondence always crowds
upon me if I go out of town even for a couple of days."
"But you've done now--haven't you?" asked his guest, glancing at the
littered table.
"Just finished. But I'm awfully sorry to have kept you fellows waiting.
The colonel's so infernally prompt at feeding-time. They say at the
Junior that he doesn't vary five minutes at dinner once in six months."
"Well, come along, old fellow. Don't wait to finish." He seated
himself on the edge of the big writing-table while Dudley busied himself
in replacing some letters he had taken from the steel despatch-box which
accompanied him everywhere.
Smoking a cigarette, and swinging his legs easily, Benthall waited while
his host--who had pointed out that he could not leave confidential
documents open for the servants to pry into--straightened his papers,
and put them together with the communications littering the table, in
the box, afterwards locking it.
Only one was left on the table, the despatch which Lord Stockbridge had
ordered him to destroy. This he carried to the fire, lit one corner,
and held it until it was all consumed, afterwards destroying the tinder
with the poker.
"What's that you're so careful to burn?" asked Benthall, interested.
"Oh, nothing, my dear Harry--nothing," answered the Under-Secretary in a
nonchalant manner. "Only a despatch."
"From Stockbridge, or one of the other Ministers, I suppose?"
"Yes."
"But why did you burn it?"
"In order that it shouldn't fall into anybody else's hands."
"Something very confidential, then?"
"Yes, something extremely confidential," answered Chisholm. "But come
along, old fellow, let's go to dinner, or the colonel will never forgive
me."