Loe raamatut: «The Under-Secretary», lehekülg 12
Chapter Twenty Two.
Requires Solution
With his face to the intruder, Chisholm stood leaning with his hand upon the back of a chair.
“Friends are to me useless, Miss Mortimer,” he answered her.
“Others perhaps are useless, but I may prove to be the exception,” she said very gravely. “You want a friend, and I am ready to become yours.”
“Your offer is a kind one,” he replied, still regarding her with suspicion, for he could not divine the real reason of her visit there, or why she had concealed herself, unless she had done so to learn, if possible, his secret. “I thank you for it, but cannot accept it.”
“But, surely, you do not intend to perform such a cowardly act as to take your own life,” she said in a measured tone of voice, looking at him with her wide-open eyes. “It is my duty to prevent you from committing such a mad action as that.”
“I quite admit that it would be mad,” he said. “But the victim of circumstances can only accept the inevitable.”
“Why, how strangely and despondently you talk, Mr Chisholm! From my hiding-place at the back of those curtains, I’ve been watching you this hour or more. Your nervousness has developed into madness, if you will permit me to criticise. Had it not been for my presence here you would by this time have taken your life. For what reason? Shall I tell you? Because, Mr Chisholm, you are a coward. You are in terror of an exposure that you dare not face.”
“How do you know?” he cried fiercely, springing towards her in alarm. “Who told you?”
“You told me yourself,” she answered. “Your own lips denounced you.”
“What did I say? What foolish nonsense did I utter in my madness?” he demanded, the fact now being plain that she had heard all the wild words that had escaped him. The old colonel had warned him that this woman was not his friend. He reflected that, at all costs he must silence her. She paused for a few moments in hesitation.
“Believing yourself to be here alone, you discussed aloud your secret in all its hideousness – the secret of your sin.”
“And if I did – what then?” he demanded defiantly. His courtliness towards her had been succeeded by an undisguised resentment. To think that she should have been brought into his house to act as eavesdropper, and to learn his secret!
“Nothing, except that I am now in your confidence, and, having rescued you from an ignominious end, am anxious to become your friend,” she answered in a quiet tone of voice. Her face was pale, but she was, nevertheless, firm and resolute.
He was puzzled more than ever in regard to her. With his wild eyes full upon her, he tried to make out whether it was by design or by accident that she was there, locked in that room with him. That she was an inveterate novel-reader he knew, but her excuse that she had come there to obtain a book at so late an hour scarcely bore an air of probability. Besides, she had exchanged her smart dinner-gown for a dark stuff dress. No, she had spied upon him. The thought lashed him to fury.
“To calculate the amount of profit likely to accrue to oneself as the result of a friend’s misfortune is no sign of friendship,” he said in a sarcastic voice. “No, Miss Mortimer, you have, by thus revealing your presence, prolonged my life by a few feverish minutes, but your words certainly do not establish the sincerity of your friendship. Besides,” he added, “we scarcely know each other.”
“I admit that; but let us reconsider all the facts,” she said, leaning a little toward him, across the back of a chair. “Your actions have shown that the matter is to you one of life or death. If so, it manifestly deserves careful and mature consideration.”
He nodded, but no word passed his lips. She seemed a strangely sage person, this girl with the fair hair, whose parentage was so obscure, and whose invitation to his house was due to some ridiculous penchant felt for her by Claudia. Why she had ever been invited puzzled him. He would gladly have asked her to return to town on the day of her arrival if it had been possible to forget the laws of hospitality and chivalry. The whole matter had annoyed him greatly, and this was its climax.
“Well, now,” she went on, in a voice which proved her to be in no way excited, “I gather from your words and actions that you fear to face the truth – that your guilt is such that exposure will mean ruin. Is this so?”
“Well, to speak plainly, it is so,” he said mechanically, looking back at the glassful of death on the table.
“You must avoid exposure.”
“How?”
“By acting like a man, not like a coward.”
He looked at her sharply, without replying. She spoke with all the gravity of a woman twice her years, and he could not decide whether she were really in earnest in the expression of her readiness to become his friend. One thing was absolutely certain, namely, that she was acquainted with the innermost secrets of his heart. In the wild madness of despair he had blurted out his fear and agony of mind, and she had actually been the witness of those moments of sweet melancholy when, at the sight of that lock of hair, he had allowed his thoughts to wander back to the days long dead, when the world was to him so rosy and full of life. Should he conciliate her, or should he, on the other hand, defy her and refuse her assistance? That she, of all women, should in this fashion thrust herself into his life was strange indeed. But had she actually thrust herself upon him, or was her presence there, as she had alleged, a mere freak of fortune?
“You say that I ought to act like a man, Miss Mortimer. Well, I am ready to hear your suggestion.”
“My suggestion is quite simple: it is that you should live, be bold, and face those who seek your downfall.”
He sighed despairingly.
“In theory that’s all very well, but in practice, impossible,” he answered after a short pause.
“Think! You are wealthy, you are famous, with hosts of friends who will come to your aid if you confide in them – ”
“Ah! but I cannot confide in them,” he cried despondently, interrupting her. “You are the only person who knows the secret of my intention.”
“But surely you will not deliberately seek such an inglorious end – you, the pride and hope of a political party, and one of a race that has century after century been famous for producing noble Englishmen. It is madness – sheer madness!”
“I know it,” he admitted; “but to me birth, position, wealth, popularity are all nothing.”
“I can quite understand that all these qualities may count as nothing to you, Mr Chisholm,” she said in a tone of voice indicative of impatience, “but there is still one reason more why you should hesitate to take the step you have just been contemplating.”
“And what is that?”
For a moment she remained silent, looking straight at him with her splendid eyes, as if to read the book of his heart. At length she made answer:
“Because a woman worships you.”
He started, wondering quickly if his midnight visitor intended those words to convey a declaration of love. With an effort he smiled in a good-humoured way, but almost instantly his dark features regained their tragic expression.
“And if a woman pays me that compliment, is it not a misfortune for her?” he asked. There was a motive in her concealment there. What could it be?
“It surely should not be so, if the love is perfect, as it is in the present case.”
“Well,” he said, smiling, “apparently you are better acquainted with my private affairs than I am myself, Miss Mortimer. But in any case the love of this woman whom you mention can be only a passing fancy. True, I was loved once, long ago. But that all belongs to the past.”
“And the only relic of the bygone romance is that lock of hair? Yes, I know all. I have seen all. And your secret is, I assure you, safe with me.”
“But this woman who – well, who is attracted towards me? What is her name?” he demanded, not without some interest.
“You surely know her,” she answered. “The woman who is your best and most devoted friend – the woman in whom you should surely confide before attempting to take such a step as you are contemplating to-night – Lady Richard Nevill.”
His lips again set themselves hard at the mention of that name. Was it uttered in sarcasm, or was she in real earnest? He regarded her keenly for a moment, and then inclined to the latter opinion.
“The relations existing between Lady Richard and myself are our own affair,” he said, vexed by her reference to a subject which of all others, next to the knowledge of his sin, perturbed him most.
“But your secret concerns her,” Muriel declared. “Many times you have confided in her and asked her help at the various crises in your career. Why not now? Her very life is yours.”
“Am I to understand that you wish to pay me compliments, Miss Mortimer?”
“No. This is hardly the time for paying compliments. I speak the truth, Mr Chisholm. She loves you.”
“Then if that is really so, it seems an additional misfortune has overtaken me,” he replied hoarsely, unable as yet to grasp her motive.
“All the world knows that she is madly in love with you, and would be ready to become your wife to-morrow. Under all the circumstances I must say that your indifference strikes me as almost unbelievable.”
She was pleading for Claudia, a fact which made the mystery surrounding her all the more perplexing. He did not notice that she was calmly watching the effect of her words upon him.
“You hold a brief for Lady Richard, but I fail to see the reason why. We are friends, very old friends, but nothing else. Our future concerns no one but ourselves,” he said.
“Exactly. The future of each of you concerns the other,” she answered triumphantly. “She loves you, and because of this all her thoughts are centred in you.”
“I must really confess, Miss Mortimer, that I do not see the drift of your argument,” he said. “Lady Richard has no connection whatever with the present matter, which is my private affair alone.”
“But since she loves you as devotedly as she does, it concerns her deeply.”
“I repeat that we are friends, not lovers,” he replied with some asperity.
“And I repeat, just as emphatically, that she loves you, and that it is your duty to confide in her,” answered Muriel, determined not to haul down her flag.
“Love!” he cried bitterly, beginning to pace the room, for as soon as he thought of Claudia his attempt to remain calm was less and less effective; “what is love to me? There is no love for such as I.”
“No, Mr Chisholm,” she said earnestly, stretching forth her hand. “Pardon me, I pray, for speaking thus, but to every man and woman both love and happiness are given, if only they will accept it.”
He was thinking of Claudia, and of the fact that she had first seen Cator and had contrived to keep him aloof from the guests. She could surely suspect nothing, otherwise she would have waited to see him after the visitor’s departure. Yes, he knew that everything said by this fair-haired girl was quite true. That was the unfortunate factor in the affair. She loved him.
“Tell me, then,” he demanded at last, “what do you advise? You know that I have a secret; that I intend deliberately to take my life and to trouble no one any further. As you have prevented me from doing so, it is to you I look for help and good counsel.”
“I am ready and eager to give both,” she exclaimed, “only I very much fear that you do not trust me, Mr Chisholm! Well, after all, that is not very remarkable when the short period of our acquaintanceship is borne in mind. Nevertheless, I am Claudia’s friend, and consequently yours. You must really not do anything foolish. Think of your own position, and of the harsh judgment you will naturally provoke by your insane action!”
“I know! I know!” he replied. “But to me the opinion of the world counts for absolutely nothing. I have sinned, and, like other men, must bear the penalty. For me there is no pardon on this side of the grave.”
“There is always pardon for the man who is loved.”
“A love that must turn to hate when the truth is discovered,” he added bitterly, with a short, dry laugh. “No, I much prefer the alternative of death. I do not fear the end, I assure you. Indeed, I really welcome it,” and he laughed again nervously, as though suicide were one of the humours of life.
“No,” she cried in earnestness, laying her hand gently on his arm. “Listen to reason, Mr Chisholm. I know I have no right to speak to you like this – only the right of a fellow-creature who would prevent you from taking the rash step you contemplate. But I want you fully to realise your responsibility towards the woman who so dearly loves you.”
“Our love is ended,” he blurted out, with a quick, furtive look at the glass upon the writing-table. “I have no further responsibility.”
“Has it really ended?” she asked anxiously. “Can you honestly and truthfully say before your Maker that you entertain no love for Lady Richard – that she is never in your thoughts?”
Her question nonplussed him. A lie arose to his lips, but remained there unuttered.
“You are thinking of that former love,” she went on; “of that wild, impetuous affection of long ago, that madness which has resulted so disastrously, eh? Yes, I know. You still love Lady Richard, while she, for her part, entertains a loving thought for no other man but you. And yet there is a sad, sweet memory within you which you can neither stifle nor forget.” There was a tone of distinct melancholy in her voice.
“You have guessed aright,” he answered in a strained tone. “The tragedy of it all is before me day and night, and it is that alone which holds me at a distance from Claudia.”
“Why not make full confession to her?” she suggested, after a short pause.
Surely it was very strange, he thought, that she, who was little more than a mere girl, should venture to debate with him his private affairs. To him it appeared suspiciously as though she had already discussed the situation with the woman who had introduced her beneath his roof. Had they arranged all this between them? But if his madness had not blinded him, he would have detected the contemptuous curl of the lip when she uttered Claudia’s name.
“I have neither the wish nor the intention to confess anything,” he answered. “You alone know my secret, Miss Mortimer, and I rely upon your honesty as a woman to divulge nothing.”
For answer she walked quickly to the table, took up the glass, and flung its contents upon the broad, old-fashioned hearthstone.
“I solemnly promise you,” she said, as she replaced the empty tumbler and confronted him again. “I promise you that as long as you hold back from this suicidal madness the world shall know nothing. Live, be brave, grapple with those who seek your downfall, and reciprocate the love of the woman who is both eager and ready to assist and defend you.”
It struck him that in the last words of this sentence she referred to herself. If so, hers was, indeed, a strange lovemaking.
“No,” replied the despondent man. “My position is hopeless – utterly hopeless.”
As his head was turned away, he did not notice the strange glint in her eyes. For a single instant the fierce fire of hatred burned there, but in a moment it had vanished, and she was once more the same calm, persuasive woman as throughout the conversation she had been.
“But your position is really not so serious as you imagine,” she declared. “If you will only place confidence in me I can help you ever so much. Indeed, I anticipate that, if I so wish, I can rescue you from the exposure and ruin that threatens you.”
“You?” he cried incredulously. “How can you hope to rescue me?” he demanded sharply, taking a step toward her in his eagerness to know what the answer to his question would be.
“By means known only to myself,” she said, watching him with panther-like intensity. She had changed her tactics.
“From your words it would appear that my future is to be controlled in most respects by you, Miss Mortimer,” he observed with a slight touch of sarcasm in his hard voice.
“You have spoken correctly. It is.”
“And for what reason, pray?” he inquired, frowning in his perplexity.
“Because I alone know the truth, Mr Chisholm,” she said distinctly. “I am aware of the secret of your sin. All of these hideous facts are in my possession.”
He started violently, glaring at her open-mouthed, as though she were some superhuman monstrosity.
“You believe that I am lying to you, but I declare that I am not. I am in full possession of the secret of your sin, even to its smallest detail. If you wish, I will defend you, and show you a means by which you can defy those who are seeking to expose you. Shall I give you proof that I am cognisant of the truth?”
He nodded in the affirmative, still too dumbfounded to articulate.
Moving suddenly she stepped forward to the table, took up a pen, and wrote two words upon a piece of paper, which she handed to him in silence.
He grasped it with trembling fingers. No sooner had his eyes fallen upon it than a horrible change swept over his countenance.
“My God! Yes!” he gasped, his face blanched to the lips. “It was that name. Then you really know my terrible guilt. You – a comparative stranger!”
“Yes,” she answered. “I know everything, and can yet save you, if you will place your trust in me – even though I am little more than a stranger.”
“And if I did – if I allowed you to strive on my behalf? What then?”
She looked straight at him. The deep silence of the night was again broken by the musical chimes high up in the ancient turret.
“Shall I continue to speak frankly?” she asked at last.
“Most certainly. In this affair there can be no concealment between us, Miss Mortimer, for it seems that my future is entirely in your hands.”
“It is,” she answered, in a deep, intense voice. “And in return for my silence and defence of yourself I make one condition.”
“And that is?”
She again placed her soft hand tenderly upon the arm of the nervous, haggard-faced man whom she had just rescued from self-destruction, and looked earnestly into his pallid face.
“My sole condition is that you shall give me yourself,” she answered in a wild, hoarse voice; “that you shall cast aside this other woman and give me your love.”
“Then you actually love me!” he exclaimed in his astonishment.
“Yes,” she cried fiercely, her clear eyes looking anxiously up into his face. “Yes, I frankly confess that I love you.”
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.
