He saw the folly of his dalliance at the side of Claudia Nevill _en plein jour_. He put to himself the question whether or not he really loved her, and somehow could not bring himself to return a distinct negative. She was graceful, charming and handsome, the centre of the smartest set in London, a _grande dame_ whose aid had been useful to him in more ways than one. As he sat there in the silence of the night, he recollected those pleasant hours spent with her at Albert Gate, where they so often dined together, and where she would afterwards sing to him those old Italian love-songs in her sweet contralto, beaming upon him with her coquettish smile, half languid, half _moquer_; those drives together in the park, and those long walks they had taken when, accompanied by her mother, she had visited him at Wroxeter Castle. Yes, all were pleasant memories, yet he felt that between him and her love was an impossibility. As this was the case, the less they saw of one another in the future, even _en bon camarade_, the better for them both.

This was not a pleasant decision, for Dudley Chisholm made few friends, and was nothing of a ladies' man. He looked upon life around him as _contes pour rire_. His friends were mostly bachelors like himself, and in all the wide range of his acquaintances he had scarcely any women a.s.sociates, and, except Claudia, not a single one in whom he could confide. Women courted him everywhere, of course. It was not to be supposed that a popular, good-looking man of his wealth and fame was not actively angled for in various directions; but to all attempted flirtations he gave a polite negative. Hence it was that these disappointed women revenged themselves by starting the ill-natured gossip about his relations with Claudia Nevill, the smart little widow, who was still young, who gave such lavish entertainments, who moved in the most select set in London, and at whose side he was so frequently to be seen.

The old baron, his father, who lived the life of a recluse up at Dunkeld, had written to him upon the subject only a few weeks before, and to-night even his own servant had frankly expressed his opinion of her. _Dieu le veut_.

Dudley Chisholm sighed. He was an honest man, and these thoughts troubled him greatly. He feared for her reputation more than for his own. As he was a man, what did it matter? It did not occur to him how much it flattered that voluptuous _reveuse_ to possess as her cavalier the man of the hour, the man about whom half England was at that moment talking. All he felt was that they had both been indiscreet--horribly indiscreet.

Yes; to-morrow he must end it all. The tongue of scandal must be silenced at once and for ever.

He had risen to stir the fire when the stillness was suddenly broken by the sharp ring of the telephone-bell outside the room. A moment later Parsons announced that some one desired to speak with him. As it was no uncommon occurrence for him to be rung up in the middle of the night by the Foreign Office officials, he walked up to the instrument and inquired who was there.

"Is that you, Dudley?" asked the soft voice he knew so well. "I called this afternoon, and I've been waiting for you ever since half-past two, when the House rose. You've had my note, of course. Why don't you come? Justine will open the door to you. I know it's very indiscreet, but I must see you to-night on an important matter--at once. Do you understand, Dudley?"

CHAPTER THREE.

IN WHICH DUDLEY CHISHOLM IS FRANK.

The mellow autumn sunlight streamed full into the bright morning-room at Albert Gate where Dudley Chisholm was standing before the great wood-fire with his hands behind his back. It was a handsome apartment, solidly furnished and fully in keeping with the rest of the rooms in the huge mansion, which was acknowledged to be one of the finest in the West End.

Before him, nestling in the cosy depths of her luxurious chair, sat its owner, young, dark-haired, with soft languorous eyes, her long and radiant tresses bound carelessly and hanging in as loose and rippled a luxuriance as the hair of the _Venus a la Coquille_. No toilette was more becoming than her pale blue _neglige_ of softest Indian texture, with its profusion of chiffon about the arms and bosom, a robe the very negligence of which was the supreme perfection of art; no _chaussure_ more shapely than the little Cairene slipper fantastically broidered with gold and pearls, into which the tiny foot she held out to the fire to warm was slipped. At that moment, perhaps, Claudia Nevill, who was exquisitely beautiful at all hours, looked her freshest and loveliest.

She sat there thinking, while the sunbeams shone on the dazzling whiteness of her skin, on the luminous depths of her wonderful eyes, on her loosely bound tresses, and on the plain gold circlet on her fair left hand--the badge of her alliance with a dead lord and the signet of her t.i.tle to reign a Queen of Society.

Sitting there among her soft cushions she was indeed a lovely woman, an almost girlish figure, with a face oval and perfect, a countenance sweet and winning, a true type of English beauty, who had been portrayed in a very notable picture by a famous Academician. Acknowledged on all hands to be one of the prettiest women in London, she was proud and splendid in the abundance of the power she exercised over her world, which was enchanted by her fascination and obedient to her magic, let her place her foot upon its neck and rule it as she would. There was swung for her the rich incense of worship wherever she moved; and she gave out life and death, as it were, with her smile and her frown, with a soft-whispered word or a _moue boudeuse_. From a station of comparative obscurity, where her existence had threatened to pa.s.s away in cotton blouses amid the monotony of a dull cathedral town, her beauty had lifted her to dazzling rank as wife of one of England's wealthiest men, and her tact had taught her to grace it so well that, forgetting to carp, high society agreed to bow before her. In the exclusive set in which she moved she created a _furore_; she became the mode; she gave the law and made the fashion. Thus by the double right of her own resistless fascination and the dignity of her late lord's name, Claudia Nevill was a power in smart London, and an acknowledged leader of her own spheres of _ton_, pleasure and coquetry.

Her ladyship was herself, and was all-sufficient for herself. On her _debut_ she was murmured at, and society had been a little slow to receive her; but her delicate azure veins were her _sangre azul_, her white hands were her _seize quartiers_, her marvellous black tresses were her _bezants d'or_, and her splendidly luminous eyes her blazonry.

Of a verity, Venus needs no Pursuivant's marshalling.

As she sat gazing pensively into the fire a flush had spread over the fairness of her brow, her fingers played idly with her chiffons, and the corners of her lips twitched slightly. Her thoughts were not pleasing.

The man who had been held to her by her magical witchery had been speaking, and she had shrunk slightly when she heard him. He had not obeyed her wilful caprice and visited her when she summoned him, but had waited until morning.

The words he had just uttered, outspoken and manly, had been fraught with all she would willingly have buried in oblivion for ever: they awoke remembrances that caused her to wince; they were of a kind to fret and embitter her haughty life. With his calm words there came back to her all the shame she burned to ignore and put behind her, as though it never had been; they brought with them all the echoes of that early and innocent affection to which she had so soon been faithless and disloyal.

She was cold, though she knew coldness to be base; she was restless under his eyes, though she knew that so much love looked at her from them; she was stung with impatience and with false pride, though she knew that in him she saw the very saviour of her existence.

Her eyelids fell, her white forehead flushed, her soft cheeks burned as she heard him. She breathed quickly in agitation; at the sound of his voice the warm and reverent tenderness of long ago once more sprang to light in her heart.

He watched her, accurately reading her emotions and gazing at the marvellous change wrought in her. She was superb; she was like a n.o.ble sculptor's dream of Aspasia. He looked at her for several minutes, while speechlessness held them both as captives.

At last she raised her head, and with a sudden pang of unbearable agony, cried:

"You are cruel, Dudley!--cruel! I cannot bear such words from you!"

"I have only spoken the truth, Claudia," he replied in the same low, calm tone as he had before used. Their eyes met. She knew that he read her soul; she knew that he had not lied.

She--now become keenly critical, scornfully indifferent, and very difficult to impress--was struck as she had never been before by the authority, the dignity, the pure accent of his voice, and his steady, thorough manliness.

He stood gazing down at her with a look under which her dark eyes sank.

There was a sternness in his words that moved her with a sense almost of fear. The greatness, the singularity, the mystery of this life, that had so long been interwoven with her own, bewildered her; she could not fully comprehend these qualities.

Little by little she had been drawn away from him, till between them scarcely a bond remained. As he fixed his eyes upon her lovely face, it occurred to him to wonder whether, after all, he would have been so selfishly in error, so blind a traveller in the mists of pa.s.sion, if he had kept her in his own hands, under his own law and love? Would he not have made her happiness far purer, her future safer, because nearer G.o.d, than they now were, brilliant, imperious, pampered, exquisite creature though she had become? She was great, she was lovely, she was popular, she entertained princes, she was unrivalled; but where was that "divine nature" with which he had once, in the bygone days, believed her to be dowered? Where was it now?

"Your words are cruel, Dudley! That you should speak like this! My G.o.d! Tell me that you don't mean it!" she cried suddenly, after a long silence, restless beneath the fixed and melancholy look which she could not meet.

"Listen, Claudia," he said, still quite calmly, standing erect with his back to the fire. "What I have just said I have long wanted to say, but have always put it off for fear of hurting your feelings--for fear of reproaching you for what is mainly my own folly."

"But you have reproached me!" she cried in a hard voice. "You tell me this with such a _nonchalant_ air that it has at last awakened me to the bitter truth--you don't love me!"

"I have spoken as much for your own good as for mine," he answered. "We must end this folly, Claudia--we--"

"Folly! You call my love folly!" she exclaimed, starting forward. Life had been so fair with her. The years had gone by in one continual blaze of triumph. She was the smart Lady Richard Nevill, whose name was on everybody's tongue; she was satiated with offers of love. And yet this man had coldly exposed to her the naked truth. Intoxicated with homage, indulgence, extravagance and pleasure, her conscience had become stifled and her memory killed; her heart scarcely knew how to beat without the throbs of vanity or triumph. So she had lived her life in freedom-- absolute freedom. Vague rumours had been whispered in the boudoirs of Berkeley Square and Grosvenor Gardens concerning her, but with the sceptre of her matchless loveliness and the skill of a born tactician, she cleared all obstacles, overruled all opponents, bore down all hesitations, and silenced all sneers. "Folly?--you call my love folly, Dudley?"

"We have both been foolish, Claudia--very foolish," he answered, facing her and looking gravely into her dark eyes, in which shone the light of unshed tears. "People are talking, and we must end our folly."

"And you fear that the teacup t.i.ttle-tattle of my enemies may endanger your official position and r.e.t.a.r.d your advancement, eh?" she asked, knitting her dark brows slightly.

"Of late our names have been coupled far too frequently--mainly owing to our own indiscretions."

"Well, and if they have?" she asked defiantly. "What matters? The amiable gossips have coupled my name quite falsely with a dozen different men during the past twelve months, and am I a penny the worse for it? Not in the least. No, my dear Dudley, you may just as well admit the truth. Your father has written to you about your too frequent presence in my society and our too frequent teas on the terrace--he told Lady Uppingham so, and she, of course, told me. He has asked you to cut me as a--well, as an undesirable acquaintance."

"What my father has written is my own affair, Claudia," he answered.

"You know me well, and we have hidden few secrets from one another.

Surely we may part friends."

"Then you actually mean what you've said?" she asked, opening her magnificent eyes to their full extent, as with a sigh she raised herself from her former att.i.tude of luxurious laziness.

"Most certainly! It has pained me to speak as I have done, and I can only crave your forgiveness if anything I've said has caused you annoyance. But we have to face the hard and melancholy fact that we must end it all."

"Simply because you fear that a spiteful paragraph regarding us may appear in _Truth_, or some similar paper, and that your official chief may demand an explanation. Well, _mon cher_, I gave you credit for possessing the proverbial pluck and defiance of the Chisholms. It seems, however, that I was mistaken."

He looked at her without making an immediate reply. He was thinking of what old Parsons had alleged on the previous night in regard to the mysterious Muriel. Should he mention it, or should he reserve to himself the knowledge of her inexplicable resolve to effect his marriage with an unknown girl?

As became a discreet man, who dealt daily in the secrets of a nation, he reflected for a moment. He quickly came to the conclusion that silence, at least for the present, was the most judicious policy.

He had once loved this woman, long ago in the golden days of youth, and their love had been of a purely platonic character. But during the past couple of years, now that she was released from the marital bond, Claudia's actions had exceeded all the bounds of discretion. And even now, when the silent pa.s.sion which he had struggled against so long as merely a selfish and vain desire was conquered, he was, nevertheless, to a great extent still under the spell of her marvellous witchery.

"I regret, Claudia, that you should upbraid me for speaking so frankly and for thus consulting our mutual interests," he said at last, as, crossing to the table and leaning against it easily, he regarded her with a melancholy expression upon his face. "We have been friends for a good many years; indeed, ever since you were a child and I was at college. Do you remember those days, long ago, when at Winchester we were boy and girl lovers? Do you remember?" he went on, advancing to her and placing his strong hand tenderly upon her shoulder. "Do you ever recall those sunny afternoons when we used to meet clandestinely, and go for long walks through the meadows round Abbots Barton in deadly terror of every one we met lest we should be recognised? Do you remember how, beneath the stars that sweet-scented night in July, we swore eternal friendship and eternal love?"

She nodded in the affirmative, but no word pa.s.sed the lips so tightly pressed together.

"And what followed?" he continued. "We drifted apart, I to Oxford, and on into the world; and you, like myself, forgot. You married the man who was my best friend; but for what purpose? Claudia, let me speak plainly, as one who is still your friend, although no longer your lover.

You married d.i.c.k Nevill in order to escape the deadly dulness of Abbots Barton and to enter the kingdom of omnipotence, pleasure and triumphant vanity, as a sure deliverance from all future chance of obscurity. You became at once the idol, the leader, the reigning beauty of your sphere.

Poor d.i.c.k was the slave of your flimsiest caprice; he ministered to your wishes and was grateful for your slightest smile. He died--died while you were away enjoying yourself on the Riviera--and I--"

"No!" she exclaimed wildly, rising to her feet and covering her face with her hands in deep remorse. "No, Dudley! Spare me all that! I know. My G.o.d! I know--I know, alas! too well! I never loved him!"

"Then if you regard our folly in a proper light, Claudia," he said earnestly, with his hand placed again upon her shoulder, "you will at once see that my decision is for the best."