Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  Naturally he was thinking of Lord Pilgrimstone this morning, and guessed, before he opened the note which the servant brought him, who was its writer. But its contents had, nonetheless, an electrical effect upon him. His brow reddened. With a most unusual display of emotion he sprang to his feet, crushing the fragment of paper in his fingers. “Who brought that?” he cried sharply. “Who brought it?” he repeated in a louder tone, before the servant could explain.

  The man had never seen him so moved. “Mr. Scratchley, sir,” he answered.

  “Ha! Then, show him into the library,” was the quick reply. And while the servant went to do his bidding, the Minister hastily changed his dressing-gown for a coat, and ran down a private staircase, reaching the room he had mentioned by one door as Mr. Scratchley, Lord Pilgrimstone’s secretary, entered it through another.

  By that time he had regained his composure, and looked much as usual. Still, when he held up the crumpled note, there was a brusqueness in the gesture which would have surprised his ordinary acquaintances, and did remind Mr. Scratchley of certain “warm nights” in the House.

  “You know the contents of this?” he said without prelude, and in a tone which matched his gesture.

  The visitor bowed. He was a grave middle-aged man, who seemed oppressed and burdened by the load of cares and responsibilities which his smiling chief carried jauntily. People said that he was the proper complement of Lord Pilgrimstone, as the more volatile Atlay was of his leader.

  “And you are aware,” continued Mr. Stafford, almost harshly, “that Lord Pilgrimstone gives yesterday’s agreement to the winds?”

  “I have never seen his lordship so deeply moved,” replied the discreet one.

  “He says: ‘Our former negotiation was ruined by premature talk. But this disclosure can only be referred to treachery or the grossest carelessness.’ What does it mean? I know of no disclosure, Mr. Scratchley. I must have an explanation. And you, I presume, are here to give me one.”

  For a moment the other seemed taken aback. “You have not seen the Times, sir?” he murmured.

  “This morning’s? No. But it is here.”

  He took it, as he spoke, from a table at his elbow, and unfolded it. The secretary approached and pointed to the head of a column — the most conspicuous, the column most readily to be found in the paper. “They are crying it at the street corners I passed,” he added with deference. “There is nothing to be heard in St. James’s Street and Pall Mall but ‘Detailed Programme of the Coalition.’ The other dailies are striking off second editions to include it!”

  Mr. Stafford’s eyes were riveted to the paper. There was a long pause, a pause on his part of dismay and consternation. He could scarcely — to repeat a common phrase — believe his eyes. “It seems,” he muttered at length,— “it seems accurate — a tolerably precise account, at least.”

  “It is a verbatim copy,” the secretary said dryly. “The question is, who furnished it. Lord Pilgrimstone, I am authorised to say, has not permitted his note of the agreement to pass out of his possession — even to the present moment.”

  “And so he concludes” — the Minister said thoughtfully— “it is a fair inference enough, perhaps — that the Times must have procured its information from my note?”

  With deference the secretary objected. “It is not a matter of inference, Mr. Stafford. I am directed to say that. I have inquired, early as it is, at the Times office, and learned that the copy came directly from the hands of your messenger.”

  “Of my messenger!” Mr. Stafford cried, thunderstruck. “You are sure of that?”

  “I am sure that the sub-editor says so.”

  Again there was silence. “This must be looked into,” said Mr. Stafford at length, controlling himself by an effort. “For the present I agree with Lord Pilgrimstone, that it alters the position — and perhaps finally.”

  “Lord Pilgrimstone will be damaged in the eyes of a large section of his supporters — seriously damaged,” Mr. Scratchley said, shaking his head and frowning.

  “Possibly. From every point of view the thing is to be deplored. But I will call on Lord Pilgrimstone,” the Minister continued slowly, “after lunch. Will you tell him so?”

  A curious embarrassment showed itself in the secretary’s manner. He twisted his hat in his hands, and looked suddenly sad — as if he were about to join in the groan at a prayer-meeting.

  “Lord Pilgrimstone,” he said in a voice he vainly strove to render commonplace, “is going to the Sandown Spring Meeting to-day.”

  The tone was really so lugubrious — to say nothing of a shake of the head with which he could not help accompanying the statement — that a faint smile played on Mr. Stafford’s lips.

  “Then I must take the next possible opportunity,” he said. “I will see him to-morrow.”

  Mr. Scratchley assented to this, and bowed himself out, after another word or two, looking more gloomy and careworn than usual. The interview had not been altogether to his mind. He wished that he had spoken more roundly to Mr. Stafford; even asked for a categorical denial of the charge. But the Minister’s manner had overawed him. He had found it impossible to put the question. And then the pitiful confession which he had had to make for Lord Pilgrimstone! That had put the copingstone to his dissatisfaction.

  “Oh!” the secretary sighed, as he stepped into his cab. “Oh, that men so great should stoop to things so little!”

  It did not occur to him that there is a condition of things even more sad: when little men meddle with great things.

  Meanwhile, Mr. Stafford stood at the window deep in unpleasant thoughts, from which the entrance of the butler, who came to summon him to breakfast, first aroused him. “Stay a moment, Marcus!” he said, turning, as the man prepared to leave the room after doing his errand. “I want to ask you a question. Did you make up the messenger’s bag last evening?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did you notice a letter addressed to the Times office?”

  The servant prepared himself to cogitate. But he found it unnecessary. “Yes, sir,” he replied. “Two.”

  “Two?” Mr. Stafford repeated, dismay in his tone; though this was just what he had reason to expect.

  “Yes, sir. There was one I took from the hand-box, and one Mr. Atlay gave me in the hall at the last moment,” the butler explained.

  “That will do. Thank you. Ask Mr. Atlay if he will come to me. No doubt he will be able to tell me what I want to know.”

  The words were commonplace, but the speaker’s anxiety was so plain that Marcus when he delivered the message — which he did with haste — added a word or two of warning.

  “It is about a letter to the Times, sir, I think. Mr. Stafford seems a good deal put out,” he said, confidentially.

  “Indeed?” Atlay replied. “I will go down.” And he started. But before he reached the library he met some one. Lady Betty looked out of the breakfast-room, and saw him descending the stairs with the butler behind him.

  “Where is Mr. Stafford, Marcus?” she asked impatiently, as she stood with her hand on the door. “Good morning, Mr. Atlay,” she added, her eyes descending to him. “Where is my husband? The coffee is getting cold.”

  “He has requested me to go to him,” Atlay answered. “Marcus tells me there is something in the Times which has annoyed him, Lady Betty. I will send him up as quickly as I can.”

  But Lady Betty had not stayed to receive his assurance. She had drawn back and shut the door quickly; yet not so quickly but that the private secretary had seen her change colour. “Hallo!” he ejaculated to himself — the lady was not much given to blushing— “I wonder what is wrong with her this morning. She is not generally rude — to me.”

  It was not long before he got light on the matter. “Come here, Atlay,” his employer said, the moment he entered the library. “Look at this!”

  The secretary took the Times, and read the important matter. Meanwhile the Minister read the secretary. He saw surprise and co
nsternation on his face, but no trace of guilt. Then he told him what Marcus had said about the two letters which had gone the previous evening from the house addressed to the Times office. “One,” he said, “contained the notes of my speech. The other — —”

  “The other — —” the secretary replied, thinking while he spoke, “was given to me at the last moment by Sir Horace. I threw it to Marcus in the hall.”

  “Ah!” his chief said, trying very hard to express nothing by the exclamation, but not quite succeeding. “Did you see that that letter was addressed to the editor of the Times?”

  The secretary reddened, and betrayed unexpected confusion. “I did,” he said. “I saw so much of the address as I threw the letter on the slab — though I thought nothing of it at the time.”

  Mr. Stafford looked at him fixedly. “Come,” he said, “this is a grave matter, Atlay. You noticed, I can see, the handwriting. Was it Sir Horace’s?”

  “No,” the secretary replied.

  “Whose was it?”

  “I think — I think, Mr. Stafford — that it was Lady Betty’s. But I should be sorry, having seen it only for a moment — to say that it was hers.”

  “Lady Betty’s?”

  Mr. Stafford repeated the exclamation three times, in surprise, in anger, a third time in trembling. In this last stage he walked away to the window, and turning his back on his companion looked out. He recalled his wife’s petulant exclamation of yesterday, the foolish desire expressed, as he had supposed in jest. Had she been in earnest? And had she carried out her threat? Had she — his wife — done this thing so compromising to his honour, so mischievous to the country, so mad, reckless, wicked? Impossible. It was impossible. And yet — and yet Atlay was a man to be trusted, a gentleman, his own kinsman! And Atlay’s eye was not likely to be deceived in a matter of handwriting. That Atlay had made up his mind he could see.

  The statesman turned from the window, and walked to and fro, his agitation betrayed by his step. The third time he passed in front of his secretary — who had riveted his eyes to the Times and appeared to be reading the money article — he stopped. “If this be true — mind I say if, Atlay—” he cried jerkily, “what was Lady Betty’s motive? I am in the dark! blindfold! Help me! Tell me what has been passing round me that I have not seen. You would not have my wife — a spy?”

  “No! no! no!” the other cried, as he dropped the paper, his vehemence showing that he felt the pathos of the appeal. “It is not that. Lady Betty is jealous, if I dare venture to judge, of your devotion to the country — and to politics. She sees little of you. You are wrapped up in public affairs and matters of state. She feels herself neglected and — set aside. And — may I say it? — she has been married no more than a year.”

  “But she has her society,” the Minister objected, compelling himself to speak calmly, “and her cousin, and — many other things.”

  “For which she does not care.” returned the secretary.

  It was a simple answer, but something in it touched a tender place. Mr. Stafford winced and cast an odd startled look at the speaker. Before he could reply, however — if he intended to reply — a knock came at the door, and Marcus put in his head. “My lady is waiting breakfast, sir,” he suggested timidly. What could a poor butler do between an impatient mistress and an obdurate master?

  “I will come,” Mr. Stafford said hastily. “I will come at once. For this matter, Atlay,” he continued when the door was closed again, “let it rest for the present where it is. I know I can depend upon your” — he paused, seeking a word— “your discretion. One thing is certain, however. There is an end of the arrangement made yesterday. Probably the Queen will send for Templetown. I shall see Lord Pilgrimstone to-morrow, and — that will be the end of it.”

  Atlay retired, marvelling at his coolness; trying to retrace the short steps of their conversation, and to discern how far the Minister had gone with him, and where he had turned off upon a resolution of his own. He failed to find the clue, however, and marvelled still more as the day went on and others succeeded it; days of political crisis. Out of doors the world, or that small piece of it which has its centre at Westminster, was in confusion. The newspapers, morning or evening, found ready sale, and had no need to rely on murder-panics or prurient discussions. The Coalition scandal, the resignation of Ministers, the sending for Lord This and Mr. That, the certainty of a dissolution, provided matter enough. In all this Atlay found nothing at which to wonder. He had seen it all before. That which did cause him surprise was the calm — the unnatural calm, as it seemed to him — which prevailed in the house in Carlton Terrace. For a day or two, indeed, there was much running to and fro, much closeting and button-holing; for rather longer the secretary read anxiety and apprehension in one countenance — Lady Betty’s. Then things settled down. The knocker began to find peace, such comparative peace as falls to knockers in Carlton Terrace. Lady Betty’s brow grew clear as her eye found no reflection of its anxiety in Mr. Stafford’s face. In a word the secretary looked long but could discern no faintest sign of domestic trouble.

  The late Minister indeed was taking things with wonderful coolness. Lord Pilgrimstone had failed to taunt him, and the triumph of old foes had failed to goad him into a last effort. Apparently he was of opinion that the country might for a time exist without him. He was standing aside with a shade on his face, and there were rumours that he would take a long holiday.

  A week saw all these things happen. And then, one day as Atlay sat writing in the library — Mr. Stafford being out — Lady Betty came into the room for something. Rising to supply her with the article she wanted, he held the door open for her to pass out. She paused.

  “Shut the door, Mr. Atlay,” she said, pointing to it. “I want to ask you a question.”

  “Pray do, Lady Betty,” he answered. “It is this,” she said, meeting his eyes boldly — and a brighter, a more dainty creature than she looked had seldom tempted man. “Mr. Stafford’s resignation — had it anything, Mr. Atlay, to do with” — her face coloured a very little— “something that was in the Times this day week?”

  His own cheek coloured violently enough. “If ever,” he was saying to himself, “I meddle or mar between husband and wife again, may I — —” But aloud he answered quietly, “Something perhaps.” The question was sudden. Her eyes were on his face. He found it impossible to prevaricate. “Something perhaps,” he said.

  “My husband has never spoken to me about it,” she replied, breathing quickly.

  He bowed, having no words adapted to the situation. But he repeated his resolution (as above) more furiously.

  “He has never appeared aware of it,” she persisted. “Are you sure that he saw it?”

  He wondered at her innocence, or her audacity. That such a baby should do so much mischief. The thought irritated him. “It was impossible that he should not see it, Lady Betty,” he said, with a touch of asperity. “Quite impossible!”

  “Ah,” she replied, with a faint sigh. “Well, he has never spoken to me about it. And you think it had really something to do with his resignation, Mr. Atlay?”

  “Most certainly,” he said. He was no longer inclined to spare her.

  She nodded thoughtfully, and then with a quiet “Thank you” she went out.

  “Well,” muttered the secretary to himself when the door was fairly shut behind her, “she is — upon my word, she is a fool! And he” — appealing to the inkstand— “he has never said a word to her about it. He is a new Don Quixote! a modern Job! a second Sir Isaac Newton! I do not know what to call him!”

  It was Sir Horace, however, who precipitated the catastrophe. He happened to come in about teatime that afternoon, before, in fact, my lady had had an opportunity of seeing her husband. He found her alone and in a brown study, a thing most unusual with her and portending something. He watched her for a time in silence: seemed to draw courage from a still longer inspection of his boots, and then said, “So the cart is clean over, Betty?”
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  She nodded.

  “Driver much hurt?”

  “Do you mean, does Stafford mind?” she replied impatiently.

  He nodded.

  “Well, I do not know. It is hard to say.”

  “Think so?” he persisted.

  “Good gracious, Horry!” my lady retorted, losing patience, “I say I do not know, and you say, ‘Think so!’ If you want to learn so particularly, ask him yourself. Here he is!”

  Mr. Stafford had just entered the room. Perhaps she really wished to satisfy herself as to the state of his feelings. Perhaps she only desired in her irritation to put her cousin in a corner. At any rate she turned to her husband and said, “Here is Horace wishing to know if you mind being turned out?”

  Mr. Stafford’s face flushed a little at the home-thrust which no one else would have dared to deal. But he showed no displeasure. “Well, not so much as I should have thought,” he answered, pausing to weigh a lump of sugar, and, as it seemed, his feelings. “There are compensations, you know.”

  “Pity all the same — those terms came out,” Sir Horace grunted.

  “It was.”

  “Stafford!” Lady Betty asked on a sudden, speaking fast and eagerly, “is it true, I want to ask you, is it true that that led you to resign?”

  Naturally he was startled, and he showed that he was. She was the last person who should have put that question to him, but his long training in self-control stood him in good stead.