The Under-Secretary

“No, it is not,” he replied promptly.

“And the Embassy in London that is aware of the truth is not in Chesham Place?”

“Most assuredly not, madame,” he replied.

“Cannot you be more explicit,” she urged. “Cannot you, if you are my friend, as you have more than once declared yourself to be, tell me more regarding this extraordinary matter which is to create such a terrible scandal?”

“No, it is impossible – utterly impossible. If I could, I would tell madame everything. But my information really carries me no further than the bare fact that a certain Power antagonistic to England has been able to secure a document which must prove the ruin of the most brilliant and promising of the younger English statesmen.”

“And have you really no idea whatever as to the nature of the secret?”

“None.”

“From what you tell me one would almost infer that Dudley Chisholm had been guilty of some crime. Have you no suspicion of its nature?”

“Absolutely none,” her companion declared. “The only other fact I know is the whereabouts of the document in question, and that I must keep a secret, according to my solemn promise.”

“You promised not to divulge the direction in which danger lies?” she said suspiciously. “Why did you do so? You surely must have had some motive!”

“I had none. The affair was mentioned to me confidentially, and I was compelled to promise that I would give no indication as to what person held the incriminating paper. I told madame of its existence merely to warn her, and perhaps to prepare her for an unwelcome revelation.”

“You refuse to tell me more?” she asked quickly, “even though you must be aware how deeply this extraordinary matter affects me?”

“I am compelled to refuse, madame,” he answered in the same calm, unruffled tone. “I cannot break my word of honour.”

Chapter Sixteen.

Suggests a Double Problem

Fashion, as we call it, is in these decadent days at the mercy of any millionaire pork-butcher, or any enterprising adventurer from across the seas. Victorian literature has declined into the “short story” and the “problem play,” taking its heroines from among women with a past and its heroes from the slums. In prose, in verse, and in conversation, the favourite style is the Cockney slang of the costermonger, the betting-ring, and the barrack canteen. Is it not appalling that the reek of the pot-house, the music-hall, the turf, the share-market, the thieves’ doss-house infects our literature, our manners, our amusements, and our ideals of life? Yet is it not the truth?

Dudley, yielding to Claudia’s persuasion, gave a large house-party at Wroxeter during the Christmas recess. As he was too much occupied with his public duties to be able to arrange the affair himself, she returned from Market Harborough and went down to Shropshire to make his arrangements. Truth to tell, he was wearied of the nightly discussions in the House and his daily work at the Foreign Office, and looked forward to a brief period of relaxation and gaiety, when he could entertain his friends. He left everything to her, just as he had done on several previous occasions. Very soon after his decision to ask his friends down to the old feudal castle, Wroxeter was the scene of much cleaning and garnishing.

Claudia, whose charm of manner was unequalled, was an admirable hostess of striking individuality, and her own entertainments were always brilliant successes. Royalties came to her small parties, and every one who was any one was seen at her receptions. She it was who decided what guests should be asked to Wroxeter, and who sent out the invitations; then, after seeing that all was in complete readiness, she returned again to town. She was a born entertainer, and never so happy as when arranging a social function, whether it was a dinner, private theatricals, a bazaar, or a theatre supper at the Carlton. It follows that as regards the arrangement of Dudley’s house-party at Wroxeter she was entirely in her element.

A paragraph crept into the papers announcing how the popular Under-Secretary intended to spend the recess. This was copied into hundreds of papers all over the country with that rapidity with which the personal paragraph always travels.

Of course the invitations were sent out in Dudley’s name, and the fact that Claudia had arranged the whole matter was carefully concealed. As the relict of Dick Nevill she had a perfect right to act as hostess on Chisholm’s behalf if she so desired, but Dudley had strenuously refused to allow this, for people might renew their ill-natured gossip. He had no desire to submit either Claudia or himself to a fresh burst of scandal.

The House rose. Three days later the guests began to assemble at Wroxeter, making the old halls echo with their laughter in a manner in which they had not echoed for many years. Claudia herself did not arrive until a couple of days later, but the arrangements she had made with the housekeeper were perfect.

The guests numbered thirty-three, nearly all of them Dudley’s most intimate friends, including a Cabinet Minister and a sprinkling of political notabilities. Among them were, of course, some smart women and pretty girls; and with a perfect round of entertainment the Christmas festival was kept in a right royal manner, worthy the best traditions of the Chisholms. Holly boughs and mistletoe were suspended in the great oak-panelled hall, while a boar’s head and other old-world dishes formed part of the fare on Christmas Day. Outside, the weather was intensely cold, for snow had fallen heavily and had now frozen, giving the park and the surrounding hills quite a fairy-like appearance. It was in every respect such a festival as we most of us desire, “an old-fashioned Christmas.”

The Grand-Duke was in Paris, and Dudley was secretly glad that on this account he could not be invited. But among the guests were the portly Lady Meldrum, whose black satin seemed a fixed part of her, her inoffensive husband, Sir Henry, and pretty, fair-haired Muriel Mortimer. Benthall, the Member for East Glamorganshire, was, of course, there, but the colonel, who had been his fellow-guest for the shooting, had gone to Cannes for the winter, in accordance with his usual habit.

With such a party, a woman’s directing influence was, of course, indispensable, but Claudia acted the part of hostess in a manner so unobtrusive that no one could demur. So skilfully planned was the whole affair that a perfect round of gaiety was enjoyed each day, with some amusement to attract everybody.

Compelled to be civil and affable to everybody, Dudley somehow found himself more often in the company of Muriel Mortimer than in that of Claudia. Whether it was that Lady Meldrum’s ward deliberately sought his society, or whether chance threw them together so often, he could not decide. At any rate, he played billiards with her, danced with her, and always found her seat close to his at the head of the table.

On the morning following the revels of Christmas night most of the guests were late down to breakfast save Muriel, who was one of the first to appear. Dudley met her in the great old room and bent over her hand in salutation. She had been the prettiest woman at the dance on the previous night, and her unaffected manner had again attracted him. But as he stood before the big wood-fire, chatting with her and awaiting the others, a curious thought crossed his mind. There, in that very room, a couple of months earlier, he had been warned against her by the blunt old colonel; and yet he was now entertaining her beneath his roof.

Their eyes met as they were speaking, and he saw that hers were clear, blue, wide open, with an expression of perfect frankness. Yes, she was altogether charming in her simple morning gown. Why in the world had the colonel so distinctly warned him? What harm could there possibly be in their meeting?

Claudia, who, strangely enough, evinced no jealousy because of his constant companionship with her, was standing near the window, handsomely and becomingly clad, chatting with old Sir Henry Meldrum, now and then glancing in the direction of the man for whom she had confessed her love. Dudley noticed these glances, but went on talking, though rather mechanically, with the sweet, ingenuous girl whom the colonel had declared he ought to avoid. Claudia herself had arranged her seat at table close to him; she had even suggested on the previous afternoon that as Muriel liked billiards, her host should play with her, and had herself whispered in his ear at the dance to invite Lady Meldrum’s ward to be his partner in the “Washington Post.”

All this puzzled him, as the truth was slowly revealed to him. And, after all, who was this pretty Muriel?

From a dozen different sources he had endeavoured to obtain some information regarding her birth and parentage, but all he could gather was of a contradictory nature. One old dowager had told him that she was the only daughter and heiress of the late Charles Mortimer, a great Liverpool ship-owner and intimate friend of Sir Henry’s. From another source he learnt that she was the daughter of a man who had been for some years partner with the ironmaster; while a third person hinted mysteriously that her parentage was unknown, and that she had merely been adopted by Sir Henry and his wife, chiefly because they were childless. All this was perplexing, to say the least of it.

He had laughed heartily when the old colonel had warned him against her, declaring that he had no desire to make the acquaintance of the pretty Unknown. But somehow the mystery surrounding her began to attract him, and he became eager to fathom it.

Later that morning he met Claudia alone in one of the corridors, and took her aside to arrange the entertainment for the morrow. Then, when they had finished, he put a question to her, point-blank: “Who is Muriel Mortimer?” he asked.

She glanced at him quickly, evidently taken somewhat aback by the suddenness of his question.

“My dear Dudley,” she laughed, “I should have thought you knew all about your guests by this time. She is Sir Henry Meldrum’s ward.”

“I know that,” he said, a trifle impatiently. “But who were her parents?”

“I’ve never heard,” she replied. “I don’t think any one knows. Possibly it is some family secret. At least, I’ve always thought so.”

“Then you have already endeavoured to find out?”

“Of course. Curiosity is woman’s nature.”

“And have you discovered nothing of her birth, or who she is?”

“Nothing whatever. A month ago I even went so far as to ask Lady Meldrum.”

“And what was her answer?” he inquired eagerly. “She said that her parentage was a matter that concerned only Muriel herself. Indeed, she seemed quite huffy that I should have dared to broach the subject. But you know how sore that kind of person is in regard to certain points.”

“Then Lady Meldrum gave no reason why Muriel was her husband’s ward?”

“No. Her reply was a polite negative to all inquiries.”

He was silent for a few minutes, leaning against the table and facing her.

“How did you first become acquainted with this estimable pair, Claudia? Tell me, for they interest me.”

“You mean that Muriel interests you,” she laughed mischievously.

“No, I mean that the whole affair appears to me full of mystery.”

“I first met Lady Meldrum at a bazaar with which I was connected in aid of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children. We held a stall together.”

“You had never met her, or known her before?”

“Never. She was the wife of a Glasgow knight, and quite unknown in London.”