Parlous Times: A Novel of Modern Diplomacy

"Why, Tim!" he said, recognising the driver as one of Mrs. Roberts' servants. "You've had a spill!"

"Axle broke, sir. That's what it is, and if it hadn't been as the carrier" – indicating a second cart on the further side – "had happened to come up just now, I don't know as Mister Kingsland would have got his luggage."

"Lieutenant – Kingsland – is he going away?"

"Why, didn't you know that, sir? Called sudden on the death of his uncle – Miss Fitzgerald there – she – "

"Don't spend all the afternoon gossiping, Tim," broke in that young lady, sharply – "but attend to your work. Drive round somehow, can't you?" – she continued, addressing the Secretary – "or we shall be late for dinner?"

"Don't you see it's impossible? Besides I want to help Tim."

"Nonsense, turn round and we'll drive back – some other way. Tim and the carrier can help themselves," she cried petulantly.

"I'm not so sure of that," drawled the driver. "Them chests are powful heavy – for all the Lieutenant said they contained glass picture slides – it's more like lead."

"Mr. Riddle's slides, eh?" said Stanley, jumping down, despite his fair companion's remonstrances. "Then we mustn't let Lieutenant Kingsland go without them;" and he seized the handle of one of the boxes, and pulling it off the partially overturned cart, dragged it along the road, while Miss Fitzgerald sat holding the pony, and biting her lips in ill-disguised vexation.

"Gad! They are heavy!" admitted the Secretary, as, with the carrier's help, he swung it into the cart, and returned for another.

Four were transported safely, but in lifting the fifth chest, whose cover seemed a trifle loose, Stanley turned his foot on a round stone, and losing his grip on the handle, the chest fell to the ground bottom side up.

"No great harm done, we'll hope," he said, righting it, and helping the carrier to lift it beside the others.

"Why, bless me," ejaculated that official, "if there ain't a bran new sovereign lying in the dust!"

The Secretary regarded it critically, and plunging his hands into his trousers pockets, fished out a lot of loose change, which he examined carefully, saying:

"I must have dropped it in bending over; thank you for finding it. There's a shilling for your trouble." And straightening up, he realised that Miss Fitzgerald was regarding him intently.

Half an hour later the wreck was sufficiently cleared for them to resume their homeward way.

The remainder of the afternoon was not a success, including, as it did, a drive home in the teeth of a wind which had suddenly sprung up; which, finding them hot and dusty, left them at their destination cold and cross, and utterly fagged out; Stanley with a twinge of rheumatism, devoutly hoping that Lady Isabelle had got it over, and Miss Fitzgerald with a splitting headache, realising that she had lost a move in the game.

They both looked forward to dinner as a salve for all evils, though when they entered the drawing-room just in time to go down, they were naturally surprised, Miss Fitzgerald at being committed to the charge of Kent-Lauriston, and the Secretary to Lady Isabelle – for the latter of which arrangements the Dowager was directly responsible – indeed, she had held an interview with her hostess a few minutes before, which had left that lady very much excited.

As soon as they were seated at table, he noticed that he was separated from Miss Fitzgerald as far as might be, so he lost no time in putting Lady Isabelle at her ease by engaging her in conversation. Knowing what he did, he felt that to give her a chance to talk about her husband would be most acceptable to her, and probably useful to him; so, noting his absence, he told her of accidentally hearing of his departure.

"I suppose," he said, "that as he was carrying so much of value, he'll stop in London before going north?"

"Of value," she said. "I do not understand."

"Why, five cases of stereopticon slides for Mr. Riddle. I helped the carrier to reload them, and very heavy they were."

"He said nothing to me of it," she replied; "but he certainly is going to stop in London one night."

"I wish I'd known, I'd have asked him to cash a cheque for me. It's so hard to do that sort of thing in the country, and I imagine we bank at the same place."

"He banks at the Victoria Street branch of the Bank of England. I'm sure he would have been glad to have done it for you."

"Thanks, but it really doesn't matter," replied Stanley, who, having thus learned the probable destination of Mr. Riddle's chests of sovereigns was contented to change the subject, saying: "I do hope that the Lieutenant unburdened his soul to your mother before he left."

She then told him all the events of the afternoon, even the interview with her mother, the whole in a conversational tone of voice. The Secretary sat dazed as the magnitude of what he had let himself in for dawned upon him; and her Ladyship's eager explanations and apologies, which presently died down to a whisper, as there came a lull in the conversation, fell unheeded on his ears. Suddenly he became intuitively aware that everyone was looking at him – no, at them. His hostess was making a feeble attempt to smile at him from far down the table – he felt a horrible premonition of coming catastrophe; he looked at Lady Isabelle, she was white to the lips.

"My friends," came Mrs. Roberts' voice, trembling a little, "Lady Port Arthur has just told me some interesting news, with the request that I would transmit it to you all; so I am going to ask you to drink your first glass of champagne this evening in honour of the engagement of Lady Isabelle McLane and Mr. Aloysius Stanley."

CHAPTER XXIV

A VERY AWKWARD PREDICAMENT

Had Mrs. Roberts' interests not led her in another direction, she must have felt no small gratification at the effect which her speech produced. It was a great coup for any hostess, and of tremendous force, because absolutely unexpected.

A number of guests had been invited for this particular evening to swell the party, making a dinner of sixteen, and it was delightful to witness the manner in which they took the announcement. The men received it in silence, while the women broke instantly into a confused, joyous cackled exclamation, surprise and curiosity.

The Dowager was the person who probably derived the most satisfaction from the scene, for her work was over and she could survey it calmly; but Stanley, though the table and the guests whirled before his eyes, caught some lightning glimpses of various expressions, which he was destined never to forget.

He saw the Marchioness' satisfied smile, which said as plainly as words could: "There, what did I tell you? You see how successfully I have brought about this affair." He caught the glance of sympathy which his hostess shot at Miss Fitzgerald, and he caught the glance of vindictive rage which that young lady bestowed upon him, though he did not see the smile which followed it.

It needed no one to tell Miss Fitzgerald that she held the whip now, or to teach her how to use it. Her lover should smart for this.

One other glimpse the Secretary caught in that moment – a disgusted shrug of the shoulders from Kent-Lauriston, and this latter hurt him the most keenly of all. He wondered how all these people could be so stupid as not to see the ghastly mistake they were making, the awful position in which they were placing them both; and then he understood that Lady Isabelle's pallor and his own flushed face might as easily be traced to natural embarrassment as to utter confusion. What a shocking complication – but if it was so bad for him, what must it be for her? Thank Heavens, he was not to blame for it – he had only done what she had asked him. What would people say when they learned the truth? What would Inez think – what – Good Heavens! Why were all the men rising from their seats? He must rise too – to drink his health. He felt fairly dazed from agitation. They drained their glasses, he drank with them. The champagne served to steady him; he was himself once more, ready to do battle for his honour and hers. What was that they were saying – some idiot at the far end of the table was crying "Speech – Speech!" Stanley made a mental note that, despite laws against duelling, he'd run him through before breakfast to-morrow morning, or know the reason why. Now all the others were taking it up, every one was crying: "Speech! Speech! Speech!" Good Heavens, what could he say! Would it not be better to stand up and tell the truth of this miserable matter? One look at the bent head of Lady Isabelle, and her nervous fingers clutching the tablecloth, determined his course of action – he could not expose her to the criticism of this table of scandal-mongers. She sat there, almost fainting, hanging on his every word; chivalry, honour, manliness, left but one course open – he must sacrifice himself to save her. The future would decide itself – his duty lay clear before him. He saw that he must speak – and that he must by his words deceive the company, and yet not compromise either her or himself. He raised his hand to command attention; the rest sat down – it gave him thirty seconds for reflection, an infinitesimal amount of time in which to take action, but ample space in which to take thought: then he spoke: —

"My friends: —

"You have just done us the honour to drink a toast to our united happiness. I thank you for your kind intention. Those who are already married have, by drinking this toast, very gracefully assured me of my own future happiness, and those who are single have given me the opportunity to express a hearty wish that it may some day be my privilege to drink a similar toast to them."

Had Mr. Stanley never given other evidence of his fitness for a diplomatic career, this speech alone would have conclusively furnished it. He resumed his seat, and the look of gratitude which his companion gave him was sufficient reward.

How that dinner passed off the Secretary never knew. It was a horrible nightmare, and it seemed interminable; but it did come to an end at last, and he repaired to the smoking-room where even a worse purgatory awaited him. Kent-Lauriston distinctly avoided him, the rest evidently regarded him as their lawful prey. His over-taxed nerves were beginning to give way. He laughed hysterically, threw his cigar into the fireplace, and, begging to be excused, left the room. A burst of laughter followed him. He knew what it meant – every action of his must henceforth be misinterpreted.

His appearance in the drawing-room was the signal for a preparatory giggle, and then an, only too apparent, ignoring of his presence, accompanied by meaning glances towards the conservatory. He took the hint, and went in that direction, to find Lady Isabelle weeping her eyes out on a divan.

"There's no use crying over spilt milk," he said to her, cheerfully; "but you must admit it's a deuce of a mess."

"How can I ever sufficiently thank you, Mr. Stanley?" she exclaimed, looking up at him in undisguised admiration. "You were splendid."

"Oh, not at all – but I'll admit your mother's announcement rather staggered me."

"I tried to prepare you."

"I'm afraid you didn't succeed," he replied coldly, for he felt that he had been ill-used.

"I assure you," she said, "if I'd had the remotest idea of what mamma intended doing, I would have faced all possibilities and told her the truth, rather than have exposed you to what has occurred. I can never, never forgive myself for it."

"It was really more my fault than yours. I gave your mother permission to announce our engagement whenever you gave your consent."

"I never gave it!" she cried.

"Of course," he continued, "I never supposed that your mother would so far forget herself as to force you."