Parlous Times: A Novel of Modern Diplomacy

"Oh, but I do," she replied, somewhat mollified. "A deep interest, the interest of a friend."

She made it a point to qualify any statement that might be open to possible misconstruction.

"I see I shall have to throw myself on your mercy, and tell you the whole truth," said Stanley, which he proceeded not to do. "I intended to write a letter."

"It isn't necessary. I would accept your word – "

"But you'd still have a lingering suspicion of me in your heart. As I was saying – I intended to write to Mrs. Roberts, declining her invitation, and forgot to do so till this morning, and then I made a virtue of necessity, and as it was too late to refuse, telegraphed my hour of arrival."

Had the light been a little stronger, he would have noted the quiet smile which played about Lady Isabelle's face, though her silence was, in itself, suggestive of the fact that she did not believe him.

"I probably shan't stay more than a few days, long enough to do the proper thing, you know."

"Have you seen your friend?"

"Miss Fitzgerald? On my word, I haven't laid eyes on her. The fact is, I've quite decided to follow your advice. You must be my guardian angel."

Her Ladyship looked dubious at this, though the rôle of guardian angel to an attractive young man has ever been dear to the feminine heart. However that may be, her ultimate decision was perforce relegated to another interview, by the appearance before them of the subject of their conversation – Miss Belle Fitzgerald.

This much discussed lady was dressed in the apparent simplicity which tells of art. Her costume, the very finest of white muslins, suggested the lithe movements of the body it encased, with every motion she made, and her simple bodice was of the fashion of thirty years ago, a fashion which always inspired wonder that the clothes stayed on, and awe at the ingenuity with which that miracle must have been accomplished. A broad frill of the same material, caught with a knot of white ribbon at her breast, framed her dazzling throat and neck, and a yellow sash, whose end nearly touched the floor, encircled her waist; a sash whose colour just matched the tint of that glorious hair, which, astonishing to relate, hung loose down her back, and was surmounted by a very tiny white bow, which was evidently a concession to the demands of conventionality, as it could have been of no possible use in retaining her tresses. That Miss Fitzgerald was able not only to adopt this style, but to carry it off with unqualified success, and the approval of all unprejudiced observers, was its own justification.

"I always wear my hair like this in the country," she had said at lunch. "It is so much easier, and I'm really not old enough to paste it over my forehead and go in for a bun behind" – this with a glance at Lady Isabelle, which caused the Dowager Marchioness to exclaim, quite audibly, that it was scandalous for that young person – she was sure she had forgotten her name – to wear her hair as if she wasn't yet eighteen. Lady Isabelle, it may be remarked, could lay no claim to anything under twenty.

But certainly in this case, the end justified the deed, and Miss Fitzgerald, rejuvenated, was one of the most simple, blithesome and gay young maidens that the sun shone on.

Possibly this was the reason that she never saw or comprehended the meaning of Lady Isabelle's uplifted eyebrows and steely glare, as she drew up before the couple and violated the first rule of fair and open warfare by interrupting their tête-à-tête.

"Well, Jimsy," she said, using a form of address that the rack would never have wrung from his companion, "How are you? Feeling fit?"

He smiled uneasily, and, for the sake of saying something, since her Ladyship preserved an ominous silence, remarked:

"There's no need of putting that question to you."

"Rather not. Once I'm in the country, I'm as frisky as a young colt," she rattled on. "I'm going to have such fun with you and Kingsland, and I expect to be, as usual, quite spoiled. Now, how are you going to begin?"

"Really," he faltered, rising in an access of agitation, for Lady Isabelle's expression was fearful to behold.

"You shall run along with me to Mrs. Roberts," she continued, not giving him an opportunity to flounder, "and tell her that she must send us down to dinner together. Because you're a diplomat and will have a post of honour, and the butler has given me the tip that we're to have just one round of '80 champagne before the dessert, and you know we really must have the first of the bottle, there is sure to be sediment farther down."

"You must excuse me, but you see – Lady Isabelle," and he indicated that stony personage.

"Oh, I beg Lady Isabelle's pardon – it was so dark I didn't see her!" she cried in a fit of demure shyness, and added – "If I have said anything indiscreet, do explain it, there's a dear, good Jimsy."

"It's not necessary," came the icy tones of his companion. "I shouldn't think of keeping you, Mr. Stanley, from such congenial society."

"At least, let me escort you to the drawing-room."

"Don't trouble yourself, I beg. I dare say I shall find some people there who are contented to wait till their proper precedence has been allotted to them," and she turned away.

"Oh, yes," the irrepressible Belle called after her. "I just sent Kingsland up there. He's been showing me bank notes in the billiard-room. I thought I'd never get rid of him."

If her Ladyship heard this information she betrayed no sign of the fact, and Miss Fitzgerald returned to more congenial fields.

"You behaved disgracefully," said Stanley, as they went in search of Mrs. Roberts, "and I shall have to spend most of this evening in trying to make my peace with Lady Isabelle."

"Poor, proper Jimsy! Was he shocked? But I really couldn't help it, you know – she's such a funny old thing."

The Secretary wisely changed the subject.

When they discovered Mrs. Roberts she assured them that their proposed arrangement at table suited her exactly, but could not forbear whispering in her niece's ear:

"I shouldn't think you'd have thought it necessary to ask. Of course, I'd arranged it that way."

To which Miss Belle whispered in return:

"Don't be stupid!"

CHAPTER XI

AFTER DINNER

When the Secretary entered the drawing-room he received a distinct shock of surprise.

The one person in the party unknown to him was Mr. Riddle. Yet those high cheek-bones, that prominent nose between the deep-set, restless eyes, peering out under their shaggy eyebrows, were strangely familiar. He had seen them once before when they and their owner occupied a cab together with his fair dinner partner. He was on the point of saying so to her, but restrained himself, he hardly knew why, in deference, perhaps, to his diplomatic training, which forbade him ever to say anything unnecessary.

Fate placed him next to the Dowager Marchioness, who was manifestly displeased at his presence, and lost no time in making him feel thoroughly uncomfortable.

"I had always supposed," she began, before he was fairly seated at the table, "that at this season of the year there was a great deal of activity in the diplomatic world."

"There is," answered Stanley hastily, scenting danger, and anxious to turn the conversation from his own affairs. "Most countries have a little leisure, and, like Satan, expend the time in making and finding mischief."

"That is, of course, a matter of which I am no judge, Mr. Stanley, but I should have supposed, under the circumstances, you would naturally be much occupied."

"We are," he replied, a trifle flippantly. Flippancy, he had noticed, was the one thing that drove the Marchioness to the verge of desperation. "My Minister and my colleagues are working like draught-horses."

"While you – " began her Ladyship.

"I'm working also – hard," and he turned himself and the conversation to the fair Miss Fitzgerald, while the Dowager said things in a loud tone of voice about youthful diplomacy to Mr. Lambert, the local incumbent, who had taken her down to dinner.

The Secretary was no more fortunate with his dinner partner. Not that she rated him; far from it; but she was evidently making conversation, and he could not help feeling that the cordial good fellowship which had hitherto existed between them was now lacking, and that a restraint had taken its place, which, to say the least, did not promote their mutual ease. But there, he would have a talk with her when opportunity offered, and they would understand each other and be as good friends as ever; nothing more. He knew himself now. He was sure she had never been so foolish as to suppose for an instant that their intimacy could mean anything further. She would probably laugh at him if he proposed to her – which he would not do, of course – but all the same he must make some sort of an explanation, and – what was she saying? – he had not spoken for a whole course – what must she be thinking of him? He pulled himself together, and rattled on, till his hostess gave the signal for the ladies to leave the table.

The interval for rest, refreshment, and tobacco promised to be somewhat wearisome, for Kingsland seemed moody and abstracted, and Riddle and the Reverend Reginald Lambert offered, to Stanley's mind, little hope of amusement.

The good pastor was a bit of an archæologist, an enthusiast on the subject of early ecclesiastical architecture, and the nominal duties of his living left him much spare time for the exploitation of this harmless fad. He was possessed of considerable manual dexterity and a certain nicety in the manipulation of whatever he undertook, whether it were the restoration of parchments or the handling of leaden coffins, but apart from his hobby he was as prosy as the most typical member of his calling.

As the Secretary could not tell a nave from a chapter house, a very few minutes served to exhaust his interest in the good old gentleman, and he turned to Mr. Riddle in sheer desperation. Stanley had conceived a dislike for the stranger from the first moment he had heard he was a fellow-guest, either from his reputation for beneficence or his mysterious acquaintance with Miss Fitzgerald. He had at once put him down as a hypocrite, and his attitude towards him was reserved in consequence. This sort of man, he told himself, takes a pride in his good deeds, and can be most easily approached on that subject. Accordingly he drew up his chair and opened the conversation with some allusion to the chests of stereopticon fittings.

"Yes, they're bulky," replied Mr. Riddle, "and I was almost ashamed to bring them with me – I trust they've not annoyed you."