"Why, it's not addressed!" he exclaimed, examining the envelope which bore no mark save the initials A. R. in blue, on the flap. "Whom is it to go to?"
"I don't know," replied the Lieutenant, shamefacedly.
"Where did it come from?"
Kingsland looked about for help or an inspiration, and finding neither fell back on the same form of words, repeating, "I don't know."
Miss Fitzgerald had started up on the impulse of the moment, but sank back in her seat as the Secretary said, slipping the missive into the inside pocket of his dress-coat: —
"I am afraid I must constitute myself a dead-letter office, and hold this mysterious document till called for."
CHAPTER III
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.
CHAPTER IV
A LADY IN DISTRESS
After lunch the Secretary returned to the Legation and made out his report to his Minister, concerning the treaty. He had looked up the word "parlous" in the dictionary, and found that it meant, "whimsical, tricky," – a sinister interpretation he felt, when connected with anything diplomatic; moreover the Foreign Office was distressingly uninformed on the subject, another reason for suspicion. Yet, as far as he knew – only the mere formalities of settlement remained, the ratification by vote of his home Government – the exchange of protocols – and behold it was accomplished – much to the credit of his Minister and the satisfaction of all concerned. Doubtless the visit was nothing more than a bit of routine work, and his private affairs seeming for the time more important, he dismissed it from his mind as not worthy of serious consideration and compiled an elaborate report of three pages, not forgetting to mention the arrival of the Chief Clerk's lunch, as matter which might legitimately be used to fill up space. This done, he was about to leave the office in order to meet his appointment with Kent-Lauriston, when John, the genial functionary of the Legation, beamed upon him from the door, presenting him a visiting card, and informing him that a lady was waiting in the ante-room.
"An' she's that 'ansome, sir, it would do your eyes good to see 'er."
The Secretary answered somewhat testily that his eyes were in excellent condition as it was, and that the lady did not deserve to be seen at all for coming so much after office-hours, and delaying him just as he was about to keep an appointment – then his eyes happened to fall on the card and his tone changed at once.
"Madame Darcy!" he exclaimed. "Why, what can have brought her to see me! – John, show the lady in at once, and – say my time is quite at her service."
A glance at his fair chaperon of the night before, as she entered the room, told him that she was in great trouble, and he sprang forward to take both her hands in his, with a warmth of greeting which he would have found it hard to justify, except on an occasion of such evident sorrow.
"Inez – Madame Darcy," he said, leading her to his most comfortable arm-chair – "this is indeed a pleasure – but do not tell me that you are in distress."
"I am in very great trouble."
"Anything that I can do to serve you – I need hardly say," he murmured, and paused, fascinated by this picture of lovely grief.
"I was prompted to come to you," she replied, "by your kindness of last evening, for I knew you had seen and understood, and were still my friend, and also my national representative in a foreign land, to ask your aid for a poor country-woman who is in danger of being deprived of her freedom, if not of her reason."
"But surely you are not speaking of yourself!"
"Yes, of myself."
The young diplomat said nothing for a moment or two, he was arranging his ideas – adjusting them to this new and interesting phase of his experience with Madame Darcy.
As a Secretary of Legation is generally the father confessor of his compatriots – he had ceased to be surprised at anything. People may deceive their physician, their lawyer, or the partner of their joys and sorrows; but to their country's representative in a strange land they unburden their hearts.
"Tell me," he said finally, breaking the silence, "just what your trouble is."
"I need sympathy and help."
"The first you have already," he replied with a special reserve in his manner, for he felt somehow that it was hardly fair that she should bring herself to his notice again, when he had almost made up his mind to marry a lady of whom all his friends disapproved. Indeed, in the last few minutes the force of Kingsland's remarks had made themselves felt very strongly, and he especially exerted himself to be brusque, feeling in an odd kind of way that he owed it to Miss Fitzgerald. So putting on his most official tone he added, "to help you, Madame Darcy, I must understand your case clearly."
"Don't call me by that name – give me my own – as you once did. My husband's a brute."
"Quite so, undoubtedly; but unfortunately that does not change your name."
"Would you mind shutting the door?" she replied somewhat irrelevantly. They were, as has been said, in the Secretary's private office, a dreary room, its furniture, three chairs, a desk and a bookcase full of forbidding legal volumes, its walls littered with maps, and its one window looking out on the unloveliness of a London business street.
As he returned to his seat, after executing her request, she began abruptly: —
"You're not a South American."
"No, my father was a Northerner, but, as you know, he owned large sugar plantations in your country, and if training and sympathy can make me a South American, I am one."
"You're a Protestant."
"Yes, so are you."
"It is my mother's faith, and though I was brought up in a convent at New Orleans, I've not forsaken it. I feel easier in speaking to you on that account."
"You may rest assured, my dear, that what you say to me will go no farther. 'Tis my business to keep secrets."
"Two years ago," she began abruptly, plunging into her story, "after our – after you left home, an Englishman, a soldier returning from the East incapacitated by a fever, and travelling for his health, craved a night's rest at my father's house. As you know, in a country like ours, where decent inns are few and far between, travellers are always welcome. It was the hot season, we pressed him to stay for a day or two, he accepted, and a return of the fever made him our guest for months. He needed constant nursing – I – I was the only white woman on the plantation."
"I see," said Stanley. "You nursed him, he recovered, was grateful, paid you homage."
"Remember I was brought up in a convent. I was so alone and so unhappy. He told me you had married. I believed him – trusted him.
"Quite so. His name was Darcy. He is a liar."
"He is – my husband."
"A gentleman – I suppose?"
"The world accords him that title," she replied coldly.
"I understand – He's a man of means?"
"He has nothing but his pay."
"And you – but that question is unnecessary. Señor De Costa's name and estates are well known – and you are his only child."
"Yes, you're right," she burst out. "It's my money, my cursed money! Why do men call it a blessing! Oh, if I could trust him, I'd give him every penny of it. But I cannot, it's the one hold I have on him, and because I will not beggar myself to supply means for his extravagances he dares – "
"Not personal violence, surely?"
"To put me away somewhere – in a retreat, he calls it. That means a madhouse."
"My dear Madame Darcy!"
"Call me Inez De Costa, I will not have that name of Darcy, I hate it."
"My dear Inez, then; your fears are groundless; they can't put sane people in madhouses any longer in England, except in cheap fiction – it's against the law."
"It's very easy for you to sit there and talk of law. You, who are protected by your office, but for me, for a poor woman whose liberty is threatened!"
"I assure you that you're in no such danger as you apprehend."
"But if I were put away, you would help me?"
"You shall suffer no injustice that we can prevent. You may return home and rest easy on that score."
"I shall never return to that man."
"Why not return to your father?"
"Would that I could!" she exclaimed, her eyes brimming with tears. "But how can I, with no money and no friends?"
"I thought you said – " began the Secretary, but his interruption was lost in the flow of her eloquence.
"I've not a penny. I can cash no cheque that's not made to his order, and to come to you I must degrade myself by borrowing a sovereign from my maid. I've travelled third-class!"
The Secretary smiled at the ante-climax, saying:
"Many people of large means travel third-class habitually."
"But not a De Costa," she broke in, and then continued her narration with renewed ardour.
"I've no roof to shelter me to-night. No where to go. No clothes except what I wear. No money but those few shillings; but I would rather starve and die in the streets than go back to him. I'm rich. I've powerful friends. You can't have the heart to turn away from me. Have you forgotten the old friendship? You must do something – something to save me – " and in the passion, of her southern nature she threw herself at his feet, and burst into an agony of tears.
Stanley assisted her to rise, got her a glass of water, and had cause, for the second time in that interview, to thank his stars that love had already shot another shaft, because if it were not for Belle, his official position, and the fact that the Señora had one husband already – well – it was a relief to be forced to tell her that legations were not charitable institutions, and that much as he might desire to aid her, neither he nor his colleagues could interfere in her private affairs.
"Then you refuse to assist me – you leave me to my fate!" she cried, starting up, a red flush of anger mantling her cheek.
"Not at all," he hastened to say. "On the contrary, I'm going to help you all I know how. I can't interfere myself, but I can refer you to a friend of mine, whom you can thoroughly trust, and who's in a position to aid you in the matter."
"And his name?"
"His name is Peter Sanks, the lawyer of the Legation, a gentleman, truly as well as technically. A countryman of yours who has practised both here and at home, and who always feels a keen interest in the affairs of his compatriots. He has chambers in the Middle Temple. I'll give you his address on my card."
"You're most kind – I'll throw myself without delay on the clemency of this Señor – "
"Sanks."
"Madre de Dios! What a name!"
"I dare say he was Don Pedro Sanchez at home, but that would hardly go here. I've written him a line on my visiting card, requesting him to do everything he can for you, and, of course, I need hardly say to you, as a friend, not as an official, that my time and service are entirely devoted to your interests. There is nothing that I possess which you may not command."
"And for me, you do this?" she asked, looking up wistfully in his face.
He took her two little hands in his, and bending over, kissed the tips of their fingers.
"I cannot express the gratitude," she began.
"Don't," he said, cutting short her profuse thanks. "It's nothing, I assure you. Here is my card to Sanks. Better go to him at once, or you may miss him. It's nearly three o'clock." And feeling that it was unsafe to trust himself longer in her presence, he touched the bell, saying to the confidential clerk who answered it: —
"The door, John."
A moment later she was gone, leaving only the subtle perfume of her presence in the room. Stanley threw himself moodily into the nearest chair. It was too bad that this bewitching woman should be married to a brute. It was too bad that he couldn't do more to help her, and it was – yes, it really was too bad, that she should have come again into his life just at the present moment. She was so exactly like what he had fancied the ideal woman he was to marry ought to be. But she wasn't a bit like Belle, and the reflection was decidedly disturbing. And now, he supposed, she would get a divorce, and – oh, pshaw! it wasn't his affair anyway, and he was late for his appointment with Kent-Lauriston.
He rang his office bell sharply, picking up his hat and gloves as he did so, and saying to the messenger who answered his summons: —
"Give this report to his Excellency, John, and let me have some visiting cards, will you – No, no, not any official ones. Some with my private address on."
"Very sorry Sir, but they're all out. I ordered some more day before yesterday, Sir. They should have come by now."
"Just my luck, why didn't you attend to them earlier?"
"Isn't there one on your desk, Sir. I'm sure I saw one lying there this morning."
"Why, yes, so there was." And he turned hastily back, only to exclaim after a moment's hopeless rummaging: —
"Confound it! I must have given it to Señora De Costa!"