The Under-Secretary

Chapter Thirteen.

Takes Dudley by a By-Path

To love faithfully is to love with singleness of heart and sameness of purpose, through all the temptations which society presents, and under all the assaults of vanity both from within and without. It is so pleasant for a woman to be admired and so soothing to her to be loved, that the grand trial of female constancy is to refrain from adding one more conquest to her triumphs when it is evidently in her power to do so. Obviously her chief protection is to restrain the first indefinite thoughts which, if allowed to gain clearness and swiftness, may lead her fancy astray. Even the ideas which commonly float through the mind of woman are so rapid and so indistinctly shaped, that when the door is opened to such thoughts as these they pour in like a torrent. Then first will arise a sudden perception of deficiency in the object of her love, or some additional impression of his unkindness or neglect, with comparisons between him and other men, and regret that he has not some quality which they possess; sadness under a conviction of her future destiny, pining for sympathy under that sadness, and, lastly, the commencement of some other intimacy, which at first she has no idea of converting into love.

Such is the manner in which, in thousands of cases, the faithfulness of woman’s love has been destroyed, and destroyed far more effectually than if assailed by an open, and, apparently, more formidable foe. And what a wreck has followed! For when woman loses her integrity and her self-respect, she is indeed pitiable and degraded. While her faithfulness remains unshaken, it is true she may, and probably will, have much to suffer; but let her destiny in this life be what it may, she will walk through the world with a firm and upright step. To live solitary may be the cost of her noble behaviour; but often this solitude will represent a decoration more splendid than any to be received from the hands of queens and emperors.

I may be accused of a cold philosophy in speaking of such consolation being efficacious under the suffering which arises from unkindness and desertion; but who would not rather be the one to bear injury than the one to inflict it? The very act of bearing it meekly and reverently, as from the hand of God, has a purifying and solemnising effect upon the soul, which the faithless and the fickle never can experience.

Dudley Chisholm sat before the fire in his room until the dawn, trying to unravel a thousand knots, his mind filled with sad memories and with bitter regrets in plenty.

Muriel Mortimer had interested him, just as a child sometimes interests the pedantic philosopher. He had found hers a frank, open, girlish nature, as yet unspoiled by its contact with the smart, well-dressed, vicious set into which the ambitious Lady Meldrum had seen fit to plunge her. He admired her as one standing apart from most of the women he knew, for she had displayed an intelligence and a knowledge of political affairs that surprised him. She, on her side, seemed to regard him rather fearfully, as one of the powers of the State. This amused him, and he assured her that he could not honestly claim to be more than the mouthpiece of the Foreign Office. Yes, she was as charming as she was ingenuous.

And Claudia? He reflected upon all that he had said, and upon all her answers; yet somehow he could not make up his mind whether she were really false.

When he recollected the quick passion of her caresses, the tenderness of her words, the gentle sympathy with which she had asked him to confide in her, he found it difficult to believe that she could actually forget him five minutes after leaving him in that ballroom, and waltz airily with the man with whose name her own was being everywhere coupled.

To him, honest, upright man that he was, this seemed an absolute impossibility. He refused to believe it. Surely she loved him, in spite of her perplexing caprices; surely she had been seized by remorse for her own fickleness.

He endeavoured to compare the two women, but the comparison caused him to start up in quick impatience.

“No!” he cried aloud in a fierce voice. “A thousand times no! I love Claudia – no one else! – no one else in all the world!”

Next day when he entered his room at Downing Street, Wrey, his secretary, put before him a quantity of documents requiring attention. He held the responsible office of superintending under-secretary of the Commercial Department of Her Majesty’s Foreign Office, the business of which consisted of correspondence with our Ministers and Consuls abroad; with the representatives of the Foreign Powers in England, and with the Board of Trade and other departments of the Government. He had been absorbed in these papers for some hours, snatching only a few minutes for a glass of sherry and a biscuit at luncheon-time, when Wrey returned to remind him of a long-standing engagement that evening at the little town of Godalming, which was in his constituency, four miles from Albury.

He glanced up from his writing and gave vent to a sharp ejaculation of annoyance.

“Are you quite certain it is to-night?” he asked, for the reminder was to him a most unpleasant one. He avoided speaking in his constituency whenever he could.

“Yes. I put it down in the diary a month ago – a dinner given by the Lodge of Odd Fellows in aid of a local charity.”

Dudley groaned. He knew too well those charity dinners given in a small room among his honest but rather uncouth supporters. He dreaded the tinned soups, the roast beef, the tough fowls, and the surreptitious tankards of ale in lieu of wine, to be followed by those post-prandial pipes and strong cigars. He shuddered. The dense atmosphere always turned him sick, so that he usually made his speech while it was still possible to see across the room. He was very fond of the working-man, and subscribed liberally to all charitable objects and associations, from those with a political aim down to the smallest coal club in the outlying villages; but why could not those honest sons of toil leave him in peace?

His presence, of course, gave importance to the occasion, but if they had found it possible to spare him the ordeal of sitting through their dinner he would have been thankful. Out of fifty invitations to banquets of various kinds, openings of bazaars, flower-shows, lectures, concerts, entertainments and penny-readings, he usually declined forty-nine. As he could not absolutely cut himself aloof from his Division, on rare occasions he accepted, and spent an evening at Albury, or Godalming, or some of the less important local centres of political thought.

The pot-house politician, who forms his ideas of current events from the ultra-patriotic screeches of certain popular newspapers, was a common object in his constituency; but in Godalming, at any rate, the great majority of his supporters were honest working-men. The little town is a quaint, old-world place with a long High Street of ancient houses, many of them displaying the oak-beams of the sixteenth century, and its politics were just as staunch and old-fashioned as the borough itself. True, a new town of comfortable villas has sprung up of late around it, and high upon the hill are to be seen the pinnacles of Charterhouse School; but, notwithstanding these innovations, Godalming has not marched with the times. Because of this the blatant reformer has but little chance there, and the Parliamentary Seat is always a safe one for the Conservatives.

Much as he disliked the duty, he saw that it was absolutely necessary to go down and make pretence of having a meal with that estimable Society of Odd Fellows. He rose from his seat at the littered table, at once feeling a sudden desire for fresh air after the closeness of his room, and a few minutes later was driving in a cab to Waterloo. To dress for such a function was quite unnecessary. Working-men do not approve of their Member wearing a dinner-jacket when among them, for they look upon a starched shirt as a sign of superiority. He was always fond of the country round Godalming, where he had once spent a summer, and as it was a sunshiny afternoon saw in the occasion an opportunity of taking a walk through some of the most picturesque lanes in Surrey.

He was tired, world-weary, utterly sick of life. The duties of his office pressed heavily upon him; but most burdensome of all was the ever-present dread that the threatened blow should fall and crush him. He wanted air: he wanted to be alone to think.

And so, when that afternoon he alighted at Godalming and returned the salutes of the station-master and book-stall keeper, he started off up the steep road as far as the Charterhouse, and from that point struck off by a narrow footpath which led away across the brown ploughed fields to where the Hog’s Back stretched before him in the blue distance. The autumn sun shone brightly in the clear, grey sky, and the trees in all their glory of brown and gold shed their leaves upon him as he passed.

Save the station-master and the book-stall clerk, none had recognised him. This was fortunate, for now he was free, out in the open country with its rich meadows and picturesque hills and valleys, until the hour when he must dine with his supporters and utter some trite sayings regarding the work of the Government and its policy abroad.

He was fond of walking, and was glad to escape from Downing Street and from the House for a single evening; so he strode along down the path with a swinging gait, though with a heart not light enough for the full enjoyment of his lovely surroundings.

The by-path he had taken was that which leads over the hills from Godalming past Field Place to the little old-world village of Compton. Having crossed the ploughed lands, he entered a thick coppice, where the path began to run down with remarkable steepness into wide meadows, on the other side of which lay a dark wood. The narrow path running through the coppice terminated at a stile which gave entrance to the park-like meadow-land.

Descending this path he halted at the stile, leaning against it. Alone in that rural solitude, far removed from the mad hurry of London life, he stood to think. Each gust of wind brought down a shower of brown leaves from the oaks above, and the only other sound was the cry of a pheasant in the wood.

For at least five minutes he stood motionless. Then he suddenly roused himself, and some words escaped his lips:

“How strange,” he murmured, “that my footsteps should lead me to this very spot, of all others! Why, I wonder, has Fate directed me here?”

He turned and gazed slowly round upon the scene spread before him, the green meadows, the dark wood, the sloping hill with its bare, brown fields, and the Hog’s Back rising in the far distance, with the black line of the telegraph standing out against the sky. With slow deliberation he took in every feature of the landscape. Then, facing about, with his back to the stile, his eyes wandered up the steep path by which he had just descended from the crest of the hill.

“No,” he went on in a strange, low voice, speaking to himself, “it has not changed – not in the least. It is all just the same to-day, as then – just the same.” He sighed heavily as he leaned back upon the wooden rail and gazed up the ascent, brown with its carpet of acorns and fallen leaves. “Yes,” he continued at last, “it is destiny that has led me here, to this well-remembered spot for the last time before I die – the justice which demands a life for a life.”

Throughout the district it would not have been easy to find a more secluded spot than the small belt of dense wood, half of which lay on either side of the footpath. So steep was this path that considerable care had to be exercised during its descent, especially in autumn, when the damp leaves and acorns were slippery, or in winter, when the rain-channels were frozen into precipitous slides.

“A life for a life!” he repeated slowly with a strange curl of the lip. He permitted himself to speak aloud because in that rural, solitude he had no fear of eavesdroppers. “I have lived my life,” he said, “and now it is ended. My attempted atonement is all to no purpose, for to-day, or to-morrow, a voice as from the grave will arise to condemn me – to drive me to take my life!”

He glanced at his watch.

“Yes,” he sighed. “Four o’clock! – at this very spot – at this hour on a wet day in mid-winter – ”

And his eyes fixed themselves blankly upon the ground a couple of yards distant from where he was standing. “Six years have gone, and it has remained ever a mystery!”