The Under-Secretary

“Was Muriel with her at the bazaar?”

“I did, not see her. I believe she was away visiting somewhere. Lady Meldrum spoke of her, I recollect quite distinctly.”

“And it was you who afterwards introduced her in town. I presume she owes all her social success to you?”

“Yes, I believe she does,” she replied.

“Then I consider it curious that she has never confided in you the secret of Muriel’s birth. She surely could not expect you to stand sponsor for a girl of whom you knew nothing?”

“Oh, how absurdly you talk, Dudley!” she laughed airily. “Whatever is in your mind? If Muriel Mortimer amuses you, as apparently she does, what does her parentage matter? Sir Henry and her ladyship are perfectly respectable persons, and even though they may be of somewhat plebeian origin they don’t offend by bad manners. Can it be that your thirst for knowledge is due to a vague idea that Muriel might one day be the châtelaine of this place, eh?”

She looked him full in the face with the dark and brilliant eyes that had always held him spellbound. She was a clever woman, and with feminine intuition knew exactly the power she possessed over the man whom she loved with a passion so fierce and uncurbed that she had been led to overstep the conventionalities.

“Muriel Mortimer will never be mistress here,” he said in a hard voice, a trifle annoyed at her final remark. “You yourself have invited her here as my guest, and I am bound to be civil, but beyond that – well, I hope that we shall not meet again after this party breaks up.”

“And yet you want to know all about her, with the eagerness of an ardent lover!” she laughed sarcastically.

“I have reasons – strong ones,” he answered firmly.

Again she raised her eyes to his, but rather furtively, as though she were seeking to discover the reason of this sudden anxiety and was not quite sure of how much he knew.

“Then if you consider the matter of sufficient importance, why not ask Lady Meldrum herself?” she suggested. “To you she may perhaps give a more satisfactory answer.”

“How can I? Don’t be ridiculous, my dear Claudia,” said the Under-Secretary.

“Then if the girl is really nothing to you, let the matter drop,” she urged. “In what way does her parentage concern either you or me?”

“It does concern me,” he answered in a hard tone, his brow clouded by thought.

“How?”

“For reasons known only to myself,” he responded enigmatically. He was thinking of the colonel’s warning, which had been troubling him ever since breakfast. It was the irony of fate that he was now compelled to entertain the very woman against whom his best friend had uttered the strange words he recollected so well. He had broached the matter to Benthall, but it was evident that the latter was not aware of the colonel’s reasons for denouncing her as an undesirable acquaintance.

A silence had fallen between the pair, but it was at length broken by Claudia, who said:

“Tell me, Dudley, what is it that is troubling you?”

“Yes,” he responded promptly, “I will tell you. I wish to know the reason why you invited this family beneath my roof. You had a motive, Claudia. Come now, confess it.”

She opened her eyes, startled by his words.

“My dear Dudley,” she cried. “Why, I only invited them because Lady Meldrum was my friend. They were extremely kind to me down at Fernhurst, and I thought that you would be pleased to offer them the hospitality of the Castle for Christmas. You had met them at the Duchess of Penarth’s, and both Lady Meldrum and Muriel were never tired of singing your praises. They went one night to hear you address the House, I believe.”

“Yes, I know about it. She told me!” exclaimed the Under-Secretary petulantly. “But there’s some hidden motive in their actions – of that I’m absolutely convinced.”

Chapter Seventeen.

Recounts Curious Circumstances

Even though the House stood prorogued for yet another ten days, formidable packets of documents continually reached Dudley Chisholm from the Foreign Office, sometimes through the post, and at others by special messenger. England’s relations with the Powers were, as usual, not very reassuring, hence the Parliamentary Under-Secretary was kept busy, and every moment he could snatch from his guests was spent in the library among the heaps of papers with which his table was always littered. Wrey, his private secretary, was absent on leave, for the holidays, and, therefore, the whole of the work fell upon him.

Each night, after the men had finished their whiskey and their gossip in the smoking-room, he would retire to the big, book-lined chamber, and plunge into the work, often difficult and tedious, which the nation expected of him.

Usually during the half hour before dinner some of the guests would assemble in the great, brown, old room to gossip, and the cosy-corner beside the big wood-fire was a favourite resting-place of Muriel’s. She generally dressed early, and with one or other of the younger men would sit there and chat until the dinner-bell sounded. The fine old chamber, with its overmantel bearing the three water-bougets argent, its lining of books, and its oaken ceiling was quiet and secluded from the rest of the house, the ideal refuge of a studious man.

Dudley, having occasion to enter there on the second evening following his conversation with Claudia, related in the foregoing chapter, found Sir Henry’s ward sitting alone in the cosy-corner, half hidden by the draperies. The light from the green-shaded lamp, insufficient to illuminate the whole place, only revealed the table with its piles of papers, but upon her face the firelight danced, throwing her countenance into bold relief. As she sat there in her pale-blue dress she made a picture of a most contenting sort.

“What! alone!” he exclaimed pleasantly as he advanced to meet her, settling his dress-tie with his hand, for he had just come in from a drive and had slipped into his clothes hurriedly.

“Yes,” she laughed, stretching forth her small foot coquettishly upon the red Turkey rug before the fire. “You men are so long making your toilette; and yet you blame us for all our fal-lals.”

“Haven’t you been out?”

“Yes,” she answered; “I went this afternoon into Shrewsbury with Lady Richard to do some shopping. What a curious old town it is! I’ve never been there before, and was most interested.”

“True it’s old-fashioned, and far behind the times, Miss Mortimer,” he said, smiling, as he stood before her, his back to the fire. “But I always thought that you did not care for the antique.”

“The antique! Why, I adore it! This splendid castle of yours is unique. I confess to you that I’ve slipped away and wandered about it for hours, exploring all sorts of winding stairways and turret-chambers unknown to any one except the servants. I had no idea Wroxeter was so charming. One can imagine oneself back in the Middle Ages with men in armour, sentries, knights, lady-loves and all the rest of it.”

He laughed lightly, placed his hands behind his back, and looked straight at her.

“I’m very glad the old place interests you,” he replied. “Fernhurst is comparatively modern, is it not?”

“Horribly modern as compared with Wroxeter,” she said, leaning back and gazing up at him with her clear blue eyes. “Sir Henry was sadly imposed upon when he bought it three years ago – at least, so I believe.”

Dudley was at heart rather annoyed at finding her there alone, for a glance at his littered table caused him to recollect that among those papers there were several confidential documents which had reached him that morning, and which he had been in the act of examining when called to go out driving with two of his guests. Usually he locked the library door on such occasions, but with his friends in the house the act of securing the door of one of the most popular of the apartments was, he thought, a measure not less grave than a spoken insult.

He was suspicious of the fair-eyed girl. Although he could not account for it in the least, the strange suspicion had grown upon him that she was not what she represented herself to be. And yet, on the other hand, neither in actions nor words was she at all obtrusive, but, on the contrary, extremely popular with every one, including Claudia, who had herself declared her to be charming. He wondered whether she had been amusing herself by prying into the heap of papers spread upon his blotting-pad, and glanced across at them. No. They lay there just in the same position, secured by the heavy paper-weight under which he had put them earlier in the afternoon.

And yet, after all, he was a fool to run such risks, he told himself. To fear to offend the susceptibilities of his guests was all very well, but with the many confidential documents in his possession he ought in all conscience to be more careful.

As the evening was biting cold and the keen north-east wind had caught his face while driving, in the warmth his cheeks were burning hot. Muriel, practised flirt that she was, believed their redness to be due to an inward turmoil caused by her presence. Hence she presumed to coquet with him, laughing, joking, chaffing in a manner which displayed her conversational, mobility to perfection. He, on his part, allowed her to proceed, eager to divine her motive.

“We go south at the end of January,” she said at last, in answer to his question. “Sir Henry thinks of taking a villa at Beaulieu this season. Last year we were in Nice, but found it too crowded and noisy at Carnival.”

“Beaulieu is charming,” he said. “More especially that part known as La Petite Afrique.”

“That’s where the villa is situated – facing the sea. One of those four white villas in the little bay.”

“The most charming spot on the whole Riviera. By the way,” he added, “one of my old friends is already in Cannes, Colonel Murray-Kerr. Do you happen to know him? He was military attach at Vienna, Rome and Paris until he retired.”

A curious expression passed over her countenance as he mentioned the name. But it vanished instantly, as, glancing up, she looked at him with the frank look that was so characteristic.

“No. I don’t think we have ever met. Murray-Kerr? No. The name is not familiar. He was in the diplomatic service, you say?”

“Yes, for about fifteen years. I had hoped he would have been one of the party here, but he slipped away a week ago, attracted, as usual in winter, by the charms of Cannes.”

“He gambles at Monte Carlo, I suppose?”