PARLOUS TIMES
"We are living in parlous times," said the Chief Confidential Clerk, of
the Departmental Head of the South American Section of Her Majesty's
Foreign Office.
Mr. Stanley, Secretary of South American Legation, bowed and said
nothing. Inwardly, he wondered just what "parlous" meant, and made a
mental note to look it up in a dictionary on the first opportunity that
offered.
The Chief Confidential Clerk was the most genial of men, who always
impressed one with the feeling that, diplomatic as he might be at all
other times, this was the particular moment when he would relax his
vigilance and unburden his official heart. As a result, those who came
to unearth his secrets generally ended by telling him theirs.
In this instance neither of the speakers knew anything of the subject in
hand, a treaty relating to the possession of a sand bar at the mouth of
a certain South American river. A matter said to have had its rise in a
fit of royal indigestion, in the sixteenth century. Somehow it had
never been settled. Each new ministry, each new revolutionary
government was "bound to see it through," and the treaty was constantly
on the verge of being "brought to an amicable conclusion," just as it
had been for nearly three hundred years.
The fate of nations had, in short, drifted on that sand-bar and stuck
fast, at least the fate of one nation and the clemency of another.
The Chief Confidential Clerk was not conscious that he was really
ignorant of the subject in hand--no true diplomat ever is--the young
Secretary was painfully aware of his own unenlightenment.
"You are to understand," his Minister had said, "that you know nothing
concerning the status of the Treaty."
"But, I do not know anything, Your Excellency," admitted the Secretary.
"So much the better," replied the Minister, "for then you cannot talk
about it."
The result of this state of affairs was, that at the end of half an hour
the Chief Confidential Clerk had discovered that the Secretary knew
nothing, while the Secretary had discovered--nothing.
"We are living in parlous times," said the English official, "parlous
times, Mr. Stanley."
Then his lunch arrived, and the interview closed in consequence.
"I wonder," said the Secretary, half to himself and half to the horse,
as he trundled clubwards in a hansom, "I wonder if I could write out a
report of that last remark; it might mean so much--or so little."
Stanley did not worry much over his failure to extract information at
the Foreign Office, because he was much more worried over deciding
whether he was really in love with Belle Fitzgerald.
That young lady had been the cause of much anxiety to all those friends
who had his interests at heart, and from whom he had received advice and
covert suggestions, all tending to uphold the joys of a bachelor
existence as compared with the uncertainties of married life. They had
spoken with no uncertain voice. It was he who had wavered, to-day,
believing that she was the one woman on earth for him; to-morrow, sure
that it was merely infatuation. Now his decision had been forced. He was
invited to a house-party at her aunt's, Mrs. Roberts; Belle would be
there, and if he accepted, he would, in all probability, never leave
Roberts' Hall a free man.
Miss Fitzgerald and the Secretary had seen a great deal of each other
during the season just drawing to a close. At first, as he assured
himself and his friends, it was merely "hail, fellow, well met," but
when he came to know the Irish girl better, their relations assumed a
different significance, as he gradually realised the isolated position
she occupied. Interest had changed to pity. He regretted that, for lack
of guidance, she seemed to be her own worst enemy, and feared that her
really sweet nature might be hardened or embittered from contact with
the world. He told himself he must decide at once whether he loved this
wilful girl, and should ask her to give him the right to protect her
from the world and from herself.
Yet Stanley was keenly sensitive of the rashness of the step he
contemplated. The sweet bells of memory ring out whether land or sea
separates us. In spite of much honest effort on his part, the picture of
a beautiful face could not be banished from his mind. Now, just when he
was convincing himself that he could put the past behind him, Inez
crossed his path again.
He grew bitter at the thought. "She did not trust me. She never loved me
or she could not have married that scoundrel, Darcy. It is all over
now--and Belle needs a protector."
On the other hand, he realised how many reasons opposed such a course of
action. His father, his colleagues, and society, demanded something
better of him. That very social position which had put him in the way of
meeting his inamorata required of him in return that he should not make
a mesalliance, while sober common sense assured him with an irritating
persistence that the world could not be persuaded to perceive that Miss
Fitzgerald had any of the necessary qualifications for the position
which he proposed to give her. But he was young and high-spirited, and
these very limitations which society imposed, irritated him into a
desire to do something rash. He was still, however, possessed of a
substratum of worldly wisdom, and knowing that left to his own devices
he would certainly go to Mrs. Roberts', regardless of what might follow,
he resolved to give himself one more chance. If he could not guide
himself, he might, in this crisis, be guided by the stronger will of
another. He determined to ask advice of his friend Kent-Lauriston.
In a case of this sort, Lionel Kent-Lauriston was thoroughly in his
element, having assisted at hundreds of the little comedies and
tragedies of life, which do more to determine the future of men and
women than any great crisis.
His creed may be summed up in the fact that he loved all things to be
done "decently and in order." In a word he was a connoisseur of life,
and the good things thereof. Unobtrusive, always harmonious, he knew
everyone worth knowing, went everywhere worth going. Lucky the youth who
had him for his guide, philosopher and friend. He could show him life's
pleasantest paths.
Stanley was one of these favoured few. They had met soon after he came
to England, and the younger man had conceived a genuine admiration for
the older.
It seems hardly necessary to say, that Kent-Lauriston, though (or
because) a bachelor, was an authority on matchmaking. He had reduced it
to a fine art. His keen eye saw the subtle distinction between the
vulgar buying and selling of a woman, with the consequent desecration of
the marriage service, and the blind love, which, hot-headed, sacrifices
all the considerations of wisdom to the passion of the hour.
"Never marry without love," he would say, "but learn to love wisely."
It was to this man that the Secretary determined to make confession.
Kent-Lauriston, he was sure, did not approve of the match and would use
his strongest arguments to dissuade him from it. Stanley knew this was
the moral tonic he needed. He did not believe it would be successful,
but he determined to give it a fair trial.
The Secretary reached his decision and his destination at one and the
same moment, and feeling that his good resolutions would be the better
sustained by a little nutriment, made his way to the luncheon table for
which this particular club was justly famous; indeed, few people
patronised it for anything else, situated as it was, almost within city
limits, and boasting, as its main attraction, an excellent view of the
most uninteresting portion of the Thames.
Happening to look in the smoking-room, on his way upstairs, Stanley
caught sight of Lieutenant Kingsland.
"Hello!" he said. "You lunching here?"
"I don't know," returned the other, laughing uneasily. "I'm inclined to
think not. Viscount Chilsworth asked me to meet him here to-day; but, as
he's half an hour late already----"
"You think your luncheon is rather problematical?"
"I was just coming to that conclusion."
"Make it a certainty, then, and lunch with me."
"My dear fellow, you forget that I dined with you last night."
"What of that? When I first came to London, I was told that an English
club was a place where one went to be alone--but I prefer company to
custom."
"Yes--but there are limits to imposing on a friend's hospitality. While
I'm about it, I might as well share your breakfast and bed."
"Not the latter, in any event, as long as I'm in small bachelor
quarters."
The Lieutenant laughed.
"Well, then," he began, "if you'll forgive me----"
"There's one thing I won't forgive you," interrupted the Secretary, "and
that is keeping me a moment longer from my lunch, for I'm ravenously
hungry. I just want to send a telegram to Kent-Lauriston, asking him to
meet me at the club this afternoon, and then I'll be with you."
Once they were settled at the table and the orders given, their
conversation turned to general subjects.
"I suppose we'll all meet at the end of the week in Sussex," said the
Lieutenant.
"Yes," replied Stanley, "at Mrs. Roberts'."
"Is it to be a large party?"
"I don't imagine so. Sort of house-warming. They've just inherited the
estate. Belle Fitzgerald, you and I, and the Port Arthurs-- I don't
know who else."
"That reminds me," exclaimed Kingsland, "I must hurry through lunch. I
promised the Marchioness I'd do a picture exhibition with her Ladyship
at three, and it's nearly two, now."
"Under orders as usual, I see," said his host, and the Lieutenant
shrugged his shoulders and looked sheepish. He was weak, impecunious,
handsome and dashing, and rumour said just a bit wild, and, moreover,
was known throughout the social world of London as the tame cat of the
Dowager Marchioness of Port Arthur; a very distant relative of his, and
as the especially privileged companion of her only daughter, Lady
Isabelle McLane, on the tacit understanding that he would never so far
forget himself as to aspire to that daughter's hand.
"I say," remarked that officer, who did not relish the turn which the
conversation had taken, "tell me something about your country."
"Do you desire a complete geographical and political disquisition?"
asked the Secretary, laughing.
"Hardly. What's it like?"
"The climate and Government of my country are both tropical."
"I suppose you mean intense, and subject to violent changes."
The Secretary looked out of the window at the most uninteresting view of
the Thames, saying:
"I think we're going to have a thunderstorm."
"Am I to take that remark in a political sense?" inquired the
Lieutenant.
"I don't believe I've told you," said his host abruptly, discontinuing
an inopportune subject, "that I'm a South American only by force of
circumstances. My parents were born in the States."
"My dear fellow," Kingsland hastened to assure him, "I never had the
least intention of prying into your affairs, domestic or diplomatic. I
was merely wondering if the country you represent brought forth any
staple products, which would yield a profitable return to foreign
investment?"
The Secretary mentioned one--which was said to be connected prominently
with the treaty which was the subject of his recent visit to the Foreign
Office--and so was naturally uppermost in his mind--"but," he added,
"that staple is practically a monopoly, controlled by a firm of
manufacturers, whose headquarters are in London, and, unless they fail,
the outside public would have little chance in the same field."
"I suppose their failure is hardly likely."
"I'm not so sure of that--it all depends on a treaty now pending between
your Government and mine. Frankly, if I had any money to invest, I would
not expend it in that direction."
"Thank you. By the way, if your land doesn't produce good investments,
it certainly brings forth beautiful women. What wonderful beauty that
Madame Darcy has, who dined with us last night."
"Our fathers are old friends," replied Stanley.
"Ah, what a pity," said the Lieutenant.
"I don't understand."
"That she should not have married you, I mean, instead of that bounder
Darcy. I have heard his name more than once in official circles, and
there's precious little to be said in his favour. But his wife--ah,
there's a woman any man might be proud to marry. Such beauty, such
refinement, so much reserve. Rather a contrast to our fascinating Belle,
eh?"
"I have the greatest respect for Miss Fitzgerald," said the Secretary
stiffly.
"Yes, but not of the marriageable quality," said the Lieutenant,
speaking _ex cathedra_ as one who had also been in the fair Irish girl's
train. "Oh no, my dear fellow, a woman of Madame Darcy's type is the
woman for you. The Fitzgerald, believe me, would break a man's heart or
his bank account, in no time."
"Look here," said Stanley shortly, "I don't like that sort of thing."
"Don't turn nasty, old chap," said Kingsland. "I'm only speaking for
your good. I'd be the last man to run down a woman. I love the whole
sex, and the little Fitzgerald is no end jolly, to play with, but to
marry--! By the way, have you heard of her latest exploit. The town's
ringing with it. She----"
"Thanks, I'd rather not hear it," replied the Secretary, who just now
was trying to forget some phases of her nature.
"By Jove!" broke in the Lieutenant--"speaking of angels--there she is
now."
"What, down in this section of the city?"
"Yes, in a hansom cab."
"An angel in a hansom!" cried the Secretary, "that's certainly a
combination worth seeing," and rising, he stepped to the window,
followed by Kingsland. The two men were just in time to see the lady in
question dash by along the Embankment, and to note that she was not
alone. Indeed, even the fleeting glimpse which they caught of her
companion was sufficiently startling to engrave his likeness indelibly
on their minds.
He was an oldish man, of say sixty, clad in a nondescript grey suit of
no distinguishable style or date, surmounted by a soft felt hat of the
type which distinguished Americans are said to affect in London, while
his high cheek bones and prominent nose might have given him credit for
having Indian blood in his veins, had not his dead white skin belied the
charge. He was possessed, moreover, of huge bushy brows, beneath which a
ferret's keen eyes peeped out, and were never for an instant still.
"Gad!" exclaimed the Lieutenant, "this promises to be the strangest
escapade of all."
"Who the devil is he?" demanded Stanley, facing around, with almost an
accusing note in his voice.
The Lieutenant returned his glance squarely.
"Why, he's the man who gave her--I mean, who was talking to her last
night at the Hyde Park Club."
"Last night? I don't remember seeing him."
"It was when you were waltzing up and down stairs in search of a
chaperon."
"Who is he?"
"Don't know, I'm sure," replied the Lieutenant brusquely, lighting a
cigarette, and thrusting his hands in his trousers' pockets.
"But you must have some idea?"
"Never saw him before last night, I assure you. Must be off now, old
chap. Late for my appointment already. Thanks awfully for the lunch. See
you at Lady Rainsford's tea this afternoon? Yes. All right. Hansom!"
And he was gone.