Loe raamatut: «The Under-Secretary», lehekülg 6
Chapter Ten.
Makes Plain a Woman’s Duty
“And all that philosophy is directed against me?” she asked, looking up at him seriously.
“It is only just that you should see yourself, Claudia, as others see you,” he said in a more sympathetic tone of voice. “It pains me to have to speak like this; to criticise your actions as though I were a man old enough to be your grandfather. But I merely want to point out what is the unvarnished truth.”
“All of us have our failings,” she declared with a pout. “You tell me this because you want to sever your connection with me. Why not admit the truth?”
“No. I tell you this because a woman who seeks to occupy the place you now occupy is exposed to the pitiless gaze of admiration; but little respect, and no love is blended with it. I speak frankly, and say that, however much you have gained in name, in rank, in fortune, you have suffered as a woman.”
“How?”
“Shall I tell you the actual truth?”
“Certainly. You will not offend me, I assure you,” she replied in a cynical tone, coquettishly placing her small foot in its neat silk stocking upon the fender.
“Well, Claudia,” he said, “to tell you the truth, you are no longer the simple-hearted, intelligent, generous, frank and true woman I once knew.”
“Really? You are extremely flattering!” she exclaimed. She began to see that her ruse of boldly returning to him as she had done and waiting him there, even in defiance of old Parsons, was of no avail.
“I do not speak with any desire to hurt your feelings, Claudia,” he went on. “I know my words are harsh ones, but I cannot remain a spectator of your follies without reproving you.”
“You would compel me to return to the deadly dulness of tennis, tea-table gossip, church-decorating and country life in cotton blouses and home-made skirts – eh? Thank you; I object. I had quite sufficient of that at Winchester.”
“I have no right to compel you to do anything,” he answered. “I only suggest moderation, in your own interests. On every side I hear scandalous stories into which your name is introduced.”
“And you believe them?” she asked quickly. “You, my friend, believe all these lying inventions of my enemies?”
“I believe nothing of which I have no proof.”
“Then you believe in what is really proved?”
“Yes.”
“In that case you must believe that, even though I possess all the defects which you have enumerated, I nevertheless love you?”
“In woman’s true love,” he said slowly, emphasising every word, “there is mingled the trusting dependence of a child, for she always looks up to man as her protector and her guide. Man, let him love as he may, has an existence which lies outside the orbit of his affections. He has his worldly interests, his public character, his ambition, his competition with other men – but the woman of noble mind centres all in that one feeling of affection.”
“Really?” She laughed flippantly, toying with her bracelets. “This is a most erudite discourse. It would no doubt edify the House if one night you introduced the subject of love. You’ve grown of late to be quite a philosopher, my dear Dudley. Politics and that horrid old Foreign Office have entirely spoilt you.”
“No, you misunderstand me,” he went on, deeply in earnest. “I merely want to place before you the utter folly of your present actions – all these flirtations about which people in our rank are always talking.”
“Ah!” she laughed; “because you’re jealous. Somebody has been telling you, no doubt, that the Grand-Duke was always at my side at Fernhurst, and probably embellished the story until it forms a very nice little tit-bit of scandal.”
“Well, is it not true that this foreigner was with you so constantly that it became a matter of serious comment?”
“I don’t deny it. Why should I? He was very amusing, and if I found him so I cannot see why people should presume to criticise me. If I had a husband I might be called upon to answer to him, but as poor Dick is dead I consider myself perfectly free.”
“Yes, but not to make a fool of yourself by openly inviting people to cast mud at you,” he burst forth impatiently.
“Upon that point, Dudley, we shall never agree, so let us drop the subject,” she replied, treating his criticisms airily and with utter indifference. “I shall please myself, just as I have always done.”
“I have no doubt you will. That is what I regret, for when a woman loses her integrity and self-respect, she is indeed pitiable and degraded.”
“Really!” she cried; “you are in a most delightful mood, I’m sure. What has upset you? Tell me, and then I’ll forgive you.”
“Nothing has upset me – except your visit,” he answered quite frankly.
“Then I am unwelcome here?”
“While you continue to follow the absurd course you have of late chosen, you are.”
“Thank you,” she replied. “You are at least candid.”
“We have been friends, and you have, I think, always found me honest and outspoken, Claudia.”
“Yes, but I have never before known you to treat me in this manner,” she answered with sudden hauteur. “The other day you declared your intention of severing our friendship, but I did not believe you.”
“Why?”
“Because I knew that we loved each other.”
“No,” he said in a hard tone, “do not let us speak of love. Speak of it to those men who dance attendance upon you everywhere, but with me, Claudia, be as frank as I am with you.”
“Dudley! It is cruel of you to speak like this!” she cried with a sudden outburst of emotion, for she now saw quite plainly that the power she once exerted over him had disappeared.
Chisholm had been sadly disillusioned. During the past few weeks the bitter truth had gradually been forced upon him. Instead of remaining a real, dignified, high-minded woman of unblemished integrity, Claudia Nevill had grown callous and artificial, and in other ways hostile to true womanhood. But Dudley had always admired her, and once she had been his ideal.
He had admired her simplicity of heart. Unquestionably that is a great charm in a woman, though not a charm so illuminating as integrity, because it consists more in the ignorance of evil, and, consequently, of temptation, than in the possession of principle strong enough to withstand both. In the days before her marriage her simplicity of heart was the child of that unruffled serenity of soul which suspects no mischief to be lurking beneath the fair surface of things – which trusts, confides and is happy in this confidence, because it has never been deceived, and because it has never learned that most fatal of all arts, the mystery of deceiving others.
But all was now changed. She was no longer the Claudia of old. She had degenerated into a smart, brilliant woman, full of arts and subterfuges, with no thoughts beyond her engagements, her toilettes, and her vainglorious triumphs.
“I have only spoken what I feel, Claudia!” exclaimed the man still standing before her. “I have no power to compel you to heed my warning.”
“Oh, do let us drop the subject, my dear Dudley!” she cried impatiently. “This lecture of yours upon my duty towards society may surely be continued on another occasion. Let us go along to the Duchess’s. As I’ve already said, the House has entirely spoilt you.”
“I don’t wish to continue the discussion. Indeed, I’ve said all that I intend saying. My only regret is that you are heedless of my words – that you are blind to the truth, and have closed your ears to all this gossip.”
“Let them gossip. What does it matter to me? Now to you, of course, it matters considerably. You can’t afford to imperil your official position by allowing all this chatter to go on. I quite understand that.”
“And yet you come here to-night and ask me to take you to the Duchess’s?” he said.
“For the last time, Dudley,” she answered, looking up at him with that sweet, sympathetic look of old. “This is the last of our engagements, and it is an odd fancy of mine that you should take me to the ball – for the last time.”
“Yes,” he repeated hoarsely, in a deep voice full of meaning; “for the last time, Claudia.”
“You speak as though you were doomed to some awful fate,” she remarked, looking up at him with a puzzled expression on her face. Little did the giddy woman think that her words, like the sword of the angel at the entrance to Paradise, were double-edged.
“Oh,” he said, rousing himself and endeavouring to smile, “I didn’t know. Forgive me.”
“You’ve changed somehow, Dudley,” she said, rising. She went near to him and took his hand tenderly. “Why don’t you tell me what is the matter? Something is troubling you. What is it?”
“You are, for one thing,” he answered promptly, looking straight into her splendid eyes. As she stood there in that beautiful gown, with the historic pearls of the Nevills upon her white neck, Dudley thought he had never seen her look so magnificent. Well might she be called the Empress of Mayfair.
“But why trouble your head about me?” she asked in a low, musical voice, pressing his hand tenderly. “You have worries enough, no doubt.”
“The stories I hear on every hand vex me horribly.”
“You are jealous of that man who was at the Meldrums’ house-party. It’s useless to deny it. Well, perhaps I was foolish, but if I promise never to see him again, will you forgive me?”
“It is not for me to forgive,” he said in an earnest voice. “I have, I suppose, no right to criticise your actions, or to exact any promises.”
“Yes, Dudley, you, of all men, have that right,” she answered, her beautiful breast, stirred by emotion, rising and falling quickly. “All that you have just said is, I know, just and honest; and it comes straight from your heart. You have spoken to me as you would to your own sister – and, well, I thank you for your good advice.”
“And will you not promise to follow it?” he asked, taking her other hand. “Will you not promise me, your oldest man friend, to cut all these people and return to the simple, dignified life you led when Dick was still alive? Promise me.”
“And if I promise, what do you promise me in exchange?” she asked. “Will you make me your wife?”
The look of eagerness died out of his face; he stood as rigid as one turned to stone. What was she suggesting? Only a course that they had discussed, times without number, in happier days. And yet, what could he answer, knowing well that before a few hours passed he might be compelled to take his own life, so as to escape from the public scorn which would of necessity follow upon his exposure.
“I – I can’t promise that,” he faltered, uttering his refusal with difficulty.
She shrank from him, as if he had struck her a blow.
“Then the truth is as I suspected. Some other woman has attracted you!”
“No,” he answered in a hard voice, his dark brow clouded, “no other woman has attracted me.”
“Then – well, to put it plainly – you believe all these scandalous tales that have been circulated about me of late? Because of these you’ve turned from me, and now abandon me like this!”
“It is not that,” he protested.
“Then why do you refuse to repeat your promise, when you know, Dudley, that I love you?”
“For a reason which I cannot tell you.”
She looked at him puzzled by his reticence. He was certainly not himself. His face was bloodless, and for the first time she noticed round his eyes the dark rings caused by the insomnia of the past two nights.
“Tell me, Dudley,” she implored, clinging to him in dismay. “Can’t you see this coldness of yours is driving me to despair – killing me? Tell me the truth. What is it that troubles you?”
“I regret, Claudia, that I cannot tell you.”
“But you always used to trust me. You have never had secrets from me.”
“No, only this one,” he answered in a dull, monotonous manner.
“And is it this secret which prevents you from making the compact I have just suggested?”
“Yes.”
“It has nothing to do with any woman who has come into your life?” she demanded eagerly.
“No.”
“Will you swear that?”
“I swear it.”
“You only tell me that we cannot marry, that is all? Can I have no further explanation?”
“No, none.”
“Your decision is not owing to the scandal which you say is talked everywhere? You give your word of honour that it is not?”
“Yes, I give my word of honour,” he answered. “My inability to renew my offer of marriage is owing to a circumstance which I am powerless to control.”
“And you refuse to tell me its nature?”
“I regret, Claudia, that I must refuse,” he said, pressing her hand. His lips twitched, and she saw that tears stood in his eyes. She knew that the man who had been her lover in the days of her girlhood spoke the truth when he added, “This circumstance must remain my own secret.”
Chapter Eleven.
Discloses an Ugly Truth
With hands interlocked they stood together in silence for some minutes. Neither spoke. Their hearts were full to overflowing.
This woman, whose remarkable beauty had made it possible for her to ride rough-shod over discretion, was in those moments of silence seized by remorse. She saw that he was suffering, and with a woman’s quick sympathy strove to alleviate his distress. In a manner that was neither hysterical nor theatrical, she carried his hand to her soft lips. Then, with a sudden burst of affection, she raised her beautiful face to his, saying:
“All the hard words you have spoken, Dudley, belong entirely to the past. I only know that I love you.”
He looked at her steadfastly for a few moments, then said:
“No, Claudia. Our love must end. It is not fair to you that it should continue.”
“You desire that it should end?” she asked in a strained voice.
“No. I am bound to leave you by force of circumstances,” he replied. “We can never marry – never.”
“But why? I really can’t understand you. Of late you have been so strange, so preoccupied, and so unusually solicitous for my good name.”
“Yes,” he admitted, “it must have struck you as strange. But I have been thinking of your future.”
“Did you never think of it in the past?”
“Of the future – when you are alone, I mean,” he said gravely.
“What? Are you going abroad?”
He was silent again, his eyes fixed blankly upon the carpet.
“Perhaps,” he said at last.
“And may I not go with you?” she asked in a tender tone of voice.
“No; that would be impossible – quite impossible.” His strangely despondent state of mind puzzled her. She tried to penetrate the mystery which had so suddenly surrounded him, but was unable to see any light. She saw, however, that he was nervous and troubled, as though in fear of some dreadful catastrophe, and endeavoured by low words and soft caresses to induce him to lay bare his heart. She, who knew his every mood and every expression, had never seen him so utterly despondent or pathetic. At first she was inclined to attribute it to the failure of some move on the political chessboard; but he had assured her that such was not the case. She could only soothe him by making him feel the depth of her love.
The words she uttered recalled to him memories of days long past, recollections of the hours when innocence and youth combined to make them happy. Her voice was the same, as sweet and tender as of old; her face not less beautiful, her lips not less soft, her form just as slim and supple. Ah! how madly he had loved her in the days beyond recall!
He stood listening to her, but making no response. She was speaking of her devotion to him; of her regret that she had allowed herself to flirt with others. She did not know that her lover was hopeless and despairing – a man condemned to death by his own edict.
As she stood there, the diamonds on her wrist flashing in the lamplight, he looked at her long and earnestly, and once again marvelled at the radiant completeness of her beauty. Was there any wonder that such a woman was the leader of the smart world, or that every fad or fancy of hers should become the mode? No. She was even more lovely than in the old days at Winchester. Her splendid toilettes, often the envy of other women, suited her handsome features better even than the prim dresses she used to wear during her girlhood, and she wore jewels with the easy air of one born to the purple.
Their eyes met, and she with her woman’s intuition saw that he was admiring her, not less ardently than had been his custom until a week ago. In his eyes she detected a wistful look, as though he wished to lay his secret before her, yet dare not. There was a sadness, a look of blank desolation, in his face that she had never before seen there. It set her wondering.
She knew well the many grave official matters with which he was constantly called upon to deal at the Foreign Office; of the strain of speech-making in the House, and of the many weary hours spent in his private room with his secretary. Many a time he had confided to her the causes of his nervousness and gravity; and not infrequently she had been in possession of official secrets, which, unlike the majority of her sex, she always preserved, knowing well that to divulge them would seriously compromise him.
Often and often, after an exhausting evening in the House, he had come to her at Albert Gate and cast himself wearily upon the blue sofa in her own cosy boudoir, while she, sitting at his side, had tenderly smoothed his brow. It was in those quiet hours that he had made her his confidante.
She referred to those occasions, and asked him whether he believed her any less trustworthy now.
“No, not at all, Claudia,” he answered, speaking mechanically. “You cannot understand. The secret is mine – the secret of an incident of my past.”
She was silent. His words were surprising. She thought that she was aware of all his past – even of follies perpetrated when he was sowing his wild oats; but it appeared that there was one incident, the incident now troubling him, which he had always carefully concealed from her.
“If the secret so closely concerns yourself,” she said at last, “surely I am the person who may know.”
“No,” he replied briefly.
“But you have told me many other things of a delicate nature concerning yourself – why may I not know this, and help you to bear your trouble?” she asked coaxingly. “However much you may despise me for my frivolity and vanity, you surely do not think me capable of betraying your confidence, do you?”
“No,” he replied. “You have never betrayed any secret I have told you, Claudia, and I have no reason to suppose you would do so now. But this matter concerns myself – only myself.”
“And you will tell me absolutely nothing?”
“I – I cannot,” he declared brokenly.
A long silence again fell between the pair whose names had so long been coupled by the gossips. They certainly looked well suited to each other – he, tall, dark-faced, and undoubtedly handsome; she, brilliant and beautiful.
“Dudley, dear,” she murmured after a pause, placing her hand tenderly upon his arm, “you are certainly not yourself to-night. You are in trouble over some small matter which your own apprehensions have unduly exaggerated. Probably you’ve been working too hard, or perhaps you’ve made a long speech to-day – have you?”
“I spoke this afternoon,” he replied. The tone of his voice was unusually harsh.
“You want a little brightness and relaxation. Let us go on to the Duchess’s together, and we will waltz – perhaps for the last time.”
Those words fell upon his ears with a terrible significance. Yes, it would be for the last time. In his gloomy state of mind her suggestion commended itself to him. What matter if people gossiped about them? They might surely enjoy one last evening in each other’s society. And how many waltzes they had had together during the past two seasons! Yet this was to be the last – actually the last.
She saw his indecision, and hastened to strengthen her argument.
“Your words to-night, Dudley, have shown me plainly your intention is that we should drift apart. This being the case, you will not, I’m sure, refuse me the favour I ask. You will take me to the Duchess’s. My brougham is below. I told Faulkes to return at eleven,” she added, as she glanced at the clock. “Will you not have one last dance with me, if only as a tribute to the old happiness?” She spoke in the soft and persuasive voice that always charmed him. There were tears in her wonderful eyes.
“I am really in no mood for a ballroom crush,” he answered. “You know that I don’t care for the Penarth set at any time.”
“I know that. But surely you will let me have my own way just once more?”
“Very well,” he answered reluctantly, with a deep sigh. “We will go, if you really wish it.”
“Of course!” she cried gladly. She flung her arms about his neck and kissed him fervently on the lips.
Did she really love him? he wondered. And if she did, why did she act as it was reported that she had acted, flirting outrageously at all times and in all places with men whose companionship was detrimental to any woman’s good name? Why had she been planning for him to marry a girl who was unknown to him? No. He could not understand her in the least.
He touched the bell, and when Parsons came he ordered him to put out his dress-coat and gloves.
The old man glared at the visitor, for whom he used a title no more distinguished than “that woman,” and went off with a bad grace to do his master’s bidding.
“Parsons doesn’t like me in the least,” she said with a laugh. “I wonder why?”
Though Chisholm knew the reason, he only smiled, and turned aside the rather awkward question.
Then, when the old man had put his head into the room, announcing that his master’s coat was ready, Claudia Nevill was left alone.
“I wonder what’s on his mind?” she mused, sinking into a low chair before the fire and resting her elbows upon her knees. “Something unusual has certainly occurred. I wonder what story has come to his ears? – something about me, of course.” The white forehead so beautifully shaded by her dark hair, which had been well-dressed by her French maid, Justine, clouded slightly, and she stared straight before her, plunged in a deep reverie; she was indeed a voluptuous rêveuse. Life that was comme il faut had no attraction for her. She was reflecting upon all that he had said; upon the harsh criticisms and the ominous warnings of this man whom she had once believed she would marry. Yes, what he had said was only too true. Her conscience told her that she had been at fault; that she had set his affection at nought, and had, in her mad struggle for supremacy in society, flung prudence to the winds. And those ugly scandals whispered here and there? What of them? The mere thought of them caused her teeth to set firmly, and her shapely hands to clasp her cheeks with sudden vehemence.
“No,” she said aloud in a mournful voice; “his affection for me has been killed by my own mad folly. It cannot have survived all this deception. To-night is our last night together – the death of our love.”
At that moment Dudley re-entered, having exchanged his dinner-jacket for a white vest and dress-coat, in the lappel of which was a gardenia. Claudia roused herself quickly, and when she turned towards him her face betrayed no sign of the tristesse of a moment before.
“I’m quite ready,” he said, as, after buttoning his gloves and his coat, he turned towards the door to open it.
“This is my last visit to you, Dudley,” she said, sighing deeply and gazing round the room with a lingering glance. “My presence here is no longer welcome.”
What could he reply? He only looked at her in silence.
She was standing close to him, her pale face anxiously raised to his. He divined her unuttered request, and slowly bent until his lips met hers.
Then she burst suddenly into tears.
He put his arm tenderly round her waist saying what he could to console her, for her emotion distressed him. Complex as was her character, he saw that his plain, outspoken words had had their effect. When he had told her of his decision that morning at Albert Gate she had been defiant, treating the matter with utter unconcern; but now, as the result apparently of full reflection, she had become filled by a bitter remorse, and was penitent enough to beseech forgiveness.
How little we men know of the true hearts of women! Could we but follow the whole course of feeling in the feminine mind; could we trace accurately the links that connect certain consequences with remote causes, which often render what we most condemn a necessity from which there was never a single chance of escape; could we, in short, see as a whole, and see it clearly, what at present our lack of the right vision causes us to see in part, and obscurely – all that tempted to wrong, all that blinded to right – we should not then presume to theorise so glibly; to set ourselves up as accusers, judges, executioners, in such unbecoming haste. We should have mercy upon women, as befits honest men.
At heart Dudley Chisholm loved the woman he was striving to comfort, even though his association with her had so nearly wrecked his chance of succeeding in an official career. But he hated the artificiality of the smarter set; he detested the fickleness of the flirt; and he had been sadly disillusioned by the gossip that had of late sprung up in connection with the woman who for so long had represented his ideal.
He would have forgiven her without further parley had it not been for the knowledge that vengeance was already close behind him, and that before long she must be left without his love and protection. His secret caused him to preserve silence; but she, ignorant of the truth, believed that the spell she had exercised so long was at last broken.
In the hour of her despair she uttered many passionate words of love, and many, many times their lips met in fervent kisses. Nevertheless, both felt that a gulf yawned between them – a wide gulf caused by her own folly and recklessness.
At length she succeeded in stifling her emotion, drying her eyes, and concealing the traces of her tears by means of the eau de Cologne he handed her and a few dexterous dabs with her tiny powder-puff.
Now that she was calmer, he kissed her upon the forehead, drew her cloak over the still tumultuous breast, and then led her below, where her brougham was awaiting them.
During the drive to Penarth House, that old-fashioned but well-known mansion at the western end of Piccadilly, they sat together in silence.
Their hands were clasped. Both hearts were too full for words. They, who had loved one another for so many years, were now together for the last time.
A deep and bitter sigh escaped Chisholm. He was going to this ball, always one of the most brilliant entertainments in London – for the duchess was a political hostess and frequently entertained “for the Party” – to drink the cup of pleasure to the dregs, because on the morrow his place in English officialdom would be empty.
