The Under Secretary Part 10

The Under-Secretary thrust the letters into his pocket, put on his overcoat, and walked back to the Foreign Office, where some doc.u.ments were awaiting his signature, and where he had some instructions to give his secretary. On his way across Palace Yard and along Parliament Street his eyes were fixed upon the pavement, for he was deep in thought and heedless of all about him. He walked like a man in a dream.

Before long the blow must fall, he told himself. How long would it be deferred? How many days of grace would his secret enemy give him?

Hour after hour had he endeavoured to find some solution of the problem how to repel the threatened vengeance. But there seemed to be no satisfactory way--absolutely none.

A word from him to his chief might save the situation. That would mean open and complete confession. No, he could not confess to the great statesman who had reposed such entire confidence in him, and who had given him the high and responsible office he now held. He could not; he dare not face the wrath of Lord Stockbridge, of all men.

He had sinned, and must suffer. A dozen times during the past night as he had paced the silent streets of London the suggestion had occurred to him to resign everything and go abroad at once. Yet what would that avail him? To escape would be only to exhibit cowardice. The sleep from which there was no awakening was by far the best mode of release at which to aim.

Upon a seat at the kerb in Piccadilly, with a ragged outcast as companion, he had sat a full hour in the most silent watch of the night thinking the matter over. After all, he told himself, he was little better than the s.h.i.+vering wretch beside him.

And now, as he turned the corner of Downing Street, he sighed heavily, wondering on how many more occasions he would return to his official headquarters. Not many, alas! Nemesis was at his heels.

That night he dined at his club, the Carlton, but returned to his chambers immediately afterwards.

As he entered his sitting-room, a woman in a striking evening toilet of pale blue, turning from the fire, rose to greet him. It was Claudia Nevill.

"My dear Dudley!" she cried, stretching forth both her hands to him.

"I've been awaiting you for half an hour or more. Wherever have you been?"

He had drawn back in annoyance at the moment when she faced him so unexpectedly. She was the last person he wished to meet at that moment.

"Oh," he answered rather coldly, taking her hands in greeting, "I dined at the Club. I'm not very well," he added wearily.

"But not too queer to go to the d.u.c.h.ess's ball?"

"The d.u.c.h.ess's ball? I don't understand," he said, looking at her puzzled.

"Why, surely you keep a note of your engagements, or Wrey does for you?

It's quite three weeks ago since we arranged to go there together."

"To go where?"

"Why, to the d.u.c.h.ess of Penarth's ball. You of course remembered that she asked us both, and we promised. You had a card, no doubt."

"Perhaps I had," he said blankly, for he received so many invitations that he always left it to Wrey, his private secretary, to attend to the resulting correspondence. He had gone little into society, except when Claudia Nevill took him as her escort.

"Perhaps?" she exclaimed. "Why, whatever is the matter with you, Dudley? You've not been at all yourself for some days past. Now, tell me--do."

He was silent for a few moments.

"I told you when I was last at Albert Gate," he said at length very seriously. "I thought my words were quite plain, Claudia."

"You spoke all sorts of absurd things about scandals and gossip," she laughed, reseating herself and motioning him to a chair on the opposite side of the fireplace. "But you were not yourself, so I didn't take any heed of it."

"I told you exactly what I intended doing," he answered, standing before her, with his back to the fire. "I am surprised to find you here."

"And who has been putting all these absurd ideas into your head, my dear Dudley?" asked the brilliant woman in the magnificent Doeuillet ball toilette. "You know that we love each other, so what's the use of kicking against the p.r.i.c.ks? Now go and put on a dress coat and a pair of gloves and take me to Penarth House, there's a good fellow--the d.u.c.h.ess expects us."

"Her Grace doesn't expect me, for I declined."

"You declined!" cried his fair companion. "Why?"

"Wrey declined. He has recently had orders from me to decline all such invitations. Dances only bore me. I'm too much occupied with official business."

"Official business! Bos.h.!.+ Leave it alone for a time and enjoy yourself. You are really becoming quite the old crony."

"Better that than--well, than to be one of the set who were down at Fernhurst Abbey."

She glanced at him swiftly, with a curious, half-apprehensive look.

"At Fernhurst? What do you mean?"

"I mean, Claudia, that there were certain incidents at Fernhurst which do not reflect much credit upon either the man or the woman."

"And I am the woman, of course?"

He nodded.

"And the man? Name him."

"A certain foreigner."

"Ah!" she laughed lightly. "So you've heard all about it already. You mean the Grand-Duke. He was such fun, such a soft-headed fool. He actually thought himself in love with me."

"And you allowed him to entertain that impression. I know the whole of the facts," he said harshly.

"What you know is, I presume, some absurd t.i.ttle-tattle about us," she replied, a shadow of annoyance upon her face.

"I know sufficient, Claudia, to cause me to alter my opinion regarding you," he answered very gravely.

"Oh! so you would condemn me unheard? That is unlike you, Dudley. I cannot think chivalry and justice are dead in you."

"I condemn you," he said quickly, looking straight at her. "I condemn you for casting aside all your womanly instincts in this mad craze of yours to lead society and retain your position as a so-called smart woman. You cannot see that smartness is merely a synonym for fastness, and that you are rapidly flinging your reputation to the winds."

"That, my dear Dudley, is a stale story. You have already told me so before. Without offence to you, I would point out that my reputation is entirely my own affair."

"It concerns me, as well as yourself," he blurted out. "You cannot afford to run the risks you are running. You love distinction, Claudia, and that is a pa.s.sion of a deep and dangerous nature. In a man that pa.s.sion is ambition. In a woman it is a selfish desire to stand apart from the many; to be, as far as is possible, unique; to enjoy what she does enjoy and to appropriate the tribute which society offers her, without caring a rap for the sisterhood to which she belongs. To be the idol of society is synonymous with being the b.u.t.t of ridicule and of scandal, especially to all who have failed in the same career."

"Oh," she laughed, "you are such a funny old philosopher, Dudley. You grow worse and worse."

"I know this," he went on, "that no sooner does a woman begin to feel herself a leader of society, as you are at this moment, than she finds in her daily path innumerable temptations, of which she had never before dreamed. Her exalted position is maintained, not by the universal suffrage of her friends, for at least one-half of them would tear her down from her pedestal, if they were able, but by the indefatigable exercise of ingenuity in the way of evading, stooping, conciliating, deceiving; as well as by a continued series of efforts to be cheerful when depressed, witty when absolutely dull, and animated, brilliant, and amusing when disappointed, weary, or distressed."

"Oh," she cried impatiently, "I thought we had enough of moralising the last time we met! And now you want to re-open the old question."

"No, Claudia," he answered, placing his hand tenderly upon her shoulder, which was covered only by the strap of pale blue embroidered satin which held her handsome corsage. "I only want to show you plainly how in a woman simplicity of heart cannot be allied to ambition. The woman who aspires to be the idol of her fellows, as you do, must be satisfied to lose this lily from her wreath. And when a woman's simplicity of heart is gone, then she is no longer faithful as a wife or safe as a friend.

Her fame is, after all, nothing more than dazzling degradation."