The Secretary passed one of the worst nights of his life. His pride, self-esteem, and youthful estimation of his abilities as a diplomat had received a crushing blow. He told himself that he was not fit to copy letters in an office, much less to undertake delicate negotiations in which the honour of his country was involved. The conspirators had known him for what he was, a conceited young ass, and had egregiously fooled him to the top of his bent. They had regained the document without half trying; even Kingsland, whose intellect he had looked down on, had completely taken him in. It seemed as if he must die of shame when it became known. He would be disgraced and turned out of the service with ridicule. Then of his despair was born that resolution to do, which sets all obstacles at naught, and succeeds because it declares the possibility of the impossible.

He must retrieve himself, he must regain that letter, and hereafter his self-reproaches were mingled with every scheme leading to its recovery, that his brain could concoct.

He was downstairs soon after seven.

Entering the great hall, he found Lady Isabelle in sole possession, but equipped to go out.

"Whither so early?" he said.

"I'm going away – that is – out."

"Away?" he queried, as he saw her eyes fill with tears, and noted that she was closely veiled "Can I serve you?"

"No – yes," she replied, uncertain how to answer him. "Could I ask you to do me a very great favour?"

"Most certainly."

"But it's something you won't like to do."

"Lady Isabelle," he said quietly, "we've been very good friends, and I may tell you that I've a suspicion of what you intend to do this morning. Won't you trust me, and allow me to help you in any way in my power?"

"Yes," she said, after a moment's hesitation. "I will, because I'm sure you mean what you say, and I'm in desperate straits. You remember the answer I gave to a question of yours last evening?"

"That you did not care for me – yes."

"I might have added," she said shyly, casting down her eyes, "that I cared for someone else."

"Lieutenant Kingsland?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure you're making a wise choice, Lady Isabelle?" he asked, feeling that he ought not to allow this state of affairs to continue when he was almost certain that the young officer was practically a criminal, whom it might be his duty to have arrested any day, yet prevented by his instructions from preferring any charges against him to Lady Isabelle.

"Don't, please," she said. "You misjudge him."

"I hope I do."

"You do not understand. How should you? Have you ever seen him in his uniform? He is a picture, and you know," sinking her voice, "his family dates from the Conquest."

The Secretary shrugged his shoulders. He'd had enough of warning people for their own good, so he contented himself with remarking that a disregard for the Decalogue seemed compatible with an unbroken descent from the Norman robber.

"Now you're cynical," she cried, "but I shan't argue with you, for I love him, and we're to be married this morning in the chapel. Everything has been arranged, and in fifteen minutes I shall be his wife."

"That's very interesting," said Stanley. "But where do I come in?"

"I need your help."

"Oh, I see. I suppose that if I'd any real interest in your welfare, I ought to refuse, but as you'd do as you please in any event, I'm quite at your service."

"Thanks. Mamma will be here presently. She's announced her intention of attending early service, and if she does – "

"She might interrupt another, and that would be awkward."

"Dreadfully. She does not wish me to marry Lieutenant Kingsland – I think she would rather I married you."

"Is she so bitter? Well, make your own mind easy, I won't ask her."

"But you must."

"What!!!"

"Nothing short of a proposal would deter her from going to service."

"But, I thought you – !"

"Oh, I'll promise to be unavailable by the time you've finished, – Sh! she's coming. Remember your promise to help me, and wish me luck."

"With all my heart," he cried, as she vanished through the door, and the Dowager entered the hall.

Stanley wished the old lady good-morning which she received with chilling condescension, and neither of them spoke for some moments; a precious gain of time, during which her Ladyship put on her gloves, rearranged her cloak, unrolled and re-rolled her sunshade, paced the long hall, alternated glimpses out of the windows by glances up the great stairway, and betrayed every sign of impatient waiting for a tardy companion. The Secretary stood watching her and counting the minutes, which seemed to pass unusually slowly.

Finally the Dowager's patience got the better of her reserve; she faced round and demanded if he had seen her daughter.

"Yes," he replied, very deliberately. "I believe she was in the hall when I came down."

"Believe. Do you not know, Mr. Stanley?"

"I certainly caught a glimpse of her," he admitted.

"But she's not here now."

The Secretary made a careful inspection, from his point of vantage on the hearthstone, of every cobweb and corner of the great apartment, and in the end found himself forced to agree with the Marchioness' statement.

"Where has she gone, then?" was her next question.

"Really," he replied, "it is not your daughter's custom to keep me posted as to her movements."

"But you've eyes, haven't you?" she retorted, testily. "At least you know how she left this hall."

The Secretary sighed as he saw the end of his little manœuvre.

"She went out at the front door," he said.

"Why couldn't you have told me that to begin with?"

"You didn't ask me."

"Don't be so distressingly literal. I'm late for the service as it is. My daughter has probably misunderstood our arrangements, and is waiting for me at the church." And the Marchioness showed unmistakable signs of preparing to leave.

Even allowing a most liberal leeway to the maundering old parson, Stanley knew he could not yet have reached that passage beginning, "All ye that are married," and ending in "amazement," for which there is a canonical time-allowance of at least five minutes; it therefore behoved him to play his last trump.

The Dowager, like a hen preening her feathers, had given the last touches to her garments, and was already half-way to the door, when the Secretary, stepping forward, arrested her progress by remarking:

"I feel that I owe you some explanation of what occurred last night, Lady Port-Arthur."

"Perhaps it's as well that you should explain," she replied, pausing at the door, "though I should have supposed it would have been unnecessary after our last interview."

"I've not forgotten it."

"You appeared to have done so last evening."

"Really, you know," he said, piqued by her rudeness, "I couldn't refuse to escort your daughter down to dinner when my hostess requested me to do so."

"If Mrs. Roberts so honoured you as to permit you to take in Lady Isabelle, naturally – "

"Yes, that is the way I should have put it."

"I do not pretend to say how you should have expressed yourself, but I wish to point out that your place at dinner was no excuse for your place afterwards."

"Oh, in the conservatory. Well, you see, the fact is, I was telling Lady Isabelle – "

"Yes, Mr. Stanley. What were you telling my daughter?"

He glanced at the clock. Seven minutes had elapsed since the Dowager entered the hall. He hoped they would shorten the service.

"I was asking her a question," he continued.

"Well?"

The Dowager was far below zero.

"I asked her if she cared for me."

"And she naturally referred you to her mother."

"She told me a few minutes ago that you were coming here," he replied, noticing that his companion's mercury was rapidly rising.

"I'm glad," continued the Marchioness, "that you've taken so early an opportunity to explain what I could only consider as very singular conduct. For dear Isabelle's sake I'll consent to overlook what has occurred in the past, and if you can make suitable provision – "

Five minutes only remained before the time of early service. He thought his income large enough to fill the interval, and interrupted with:

"The woman I marry would have – ," and then he told the Dowager all about it, in sterling and decimal currency.

"I think," said that lady, with a sigh of relief at the end of his narration, which, it may be remarked, took the best part of half an hour, "I think dear Isabelle's happiness should outweigh any social disparity, and that we may consider her as good as married."

"Yes," he replied, remembering that the church bells had stopped ringing some fifteen minutes before. "Yes, your Ladyship, I think we may."

A few minutes later Stanley found himself in one of the secluded stretches of the park, breathing in the fresh keen morning air with a new sense of delight, after the inherent stuffiness of the Dowager.

He trusted that Lady Isabelle would break the news to her mother at once, and get it over before he returned; but even then he had an unpleasant interview before him. As an accepted suitor the Marchioness would owe him an apology, which he could not avoid accepting. He hoped he could do the heart-broken and disappointed lover, whose feelings were tempered by the calm repression of high gentility. It was the rôle he had figured for himself, and he thought it excellent.

All his ideas, however, were centred on the problem of recovering the lost document; some means of entry to that secret tower there must be, and he must find it. He could not, of course, be certain that the paper contained Darcy's instructions; but it was admittedly important, and its loss had done him an injury which could only be atoned for by its recovery.

A light footfall interrupted his meditations, and looking up, he saw, standing before him, half screened by the bushes which she was holding back, to give her free access to the main path which he was pursuing, the graceful figure and sad, sweet face of Madame Darcy.

A shade of annoyance passed over his brow as he remembered the scene of the night before, and his companion was quick to interpret his mood. "Ah, Mr. Stanley," she said, "you've seen my husband."

"Yes," he admitted. "He came up to the Hall last night."

"I hope he didn't make himself a nuisance," she said.

"Well, I'm afraid he did rather," he returned, and added, "but it's nothing," for he felt that it would be impossible for him to tell her what had really occurred.

"I'm so sorry," she cried. "I only bring you trouble."

"No, indeed," he hastened to assure her, "far from it. These little talks with you are a positive rest and refreshment to me. I hate this playing the spy."

"I suppose it won't do for me to ask how you're progressing, and what you've found out?"

"I've found out that I've made an awful fool of myself," he said. "Mr. Riddle – "

"I could have told you who Mr. Riddle was yesterday," she said.

The Secretary shrugged his shoulders.

"I'm afraid that would have been of little use."

"Be very careful," she warned him. "There are others besides Mr. Riddle whom you have to look out for."

Could it be possible, he asked himself, that she suspected her husband? Aloud, he said:

"Whom do you mean?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "It's not for me to belie my own sex," she retorted, "but – "

"You mean there is a woman in the case?"

She nodded.

The Secretary drew himself up very stiffly.

"It's an impossibility that we will not discuss," he said. "Your prejudices mislead you."

Yet, in spite of his apparent calmness, he was greatly disturbed, for this was the second time that day that doubt had been cast upon Miss Fitzgerald.

CHAPTER XXI
THE RESOURCES OF DIPLOMACY

Determined to drive these unjust suspicions from his mind, the Secretary turned the conversation into other channels, and spent a most delightful hour in the park with Madame Darcy, in which they came to understand each other marvellously well. Prompted by that subtle instinct which invariably suggests to the feminine mind the proper course with a man she cares to impress, she relegated her own woes to the uncertain future, and led the conversation into reminiscences of their common country. So time fled by unnoticed, till Stanley had arrived at the dangerous point of wondering why fate had not ordained his life differently before she had married that brute, or he had – no, no, he did not mean that! He was a very lucky dog, and Belle was much too good for him – and, in short, he must go back to the Hall.

To this, however, his fair companion strongly objected. She was lonely, she wished to be diverted. His time was his own. Considering that he was partially engaged to two ladies, the Secretary felt this statement admitted of qualifications. Besides, they were at the entrance of the farmhouse where she was staying – it was a most ideal spot – he must step in and see it.

But his reasons were of a more solid nature, and he laughingly confided to her that his wish to depart arose not from a desire to avoid her society, but from the fact that he had, as yet, had no breakfast.

"But it is my own case," she cried with a ringing laugh. "I'm starving, actually starving – it is a most droll coincidence."

Stanley assured her he would not detain her a moment longer, but this was equally repugnant to his hostess' views of hospitality. She declared that a breakfast for one was a breakfast for two; if not, more should be ordered. Her appetite was that of a bird; the repast was humble, but it was a sin to go without sampling the housewife's eggs and cream – there were none so good at the Hall, she was sure.

The Secretary told her that he could not dream of staying, and found himself within five minutes ensconced at Madame Darcy's table.

No liquids, other than fresh milk and pure spring water were served at this repast, yet Stanley arose fully assured that they were the most intoxicating beverages he had ever tasted, and betook himself Hall-wards towards noon, through a maze of black eyes, and dazzling flashes of beauty, his brain vibrating with a voice, whose tones were the poetry of sound.

A vision of the Dowager Marchioness of Port Arthur, placidly seated on the lawn, under a green umbrella, with a book in her lap, and evidently on the borderland of sleeping and waking, brought him to earth once more.

It would be better to interrupt her matutinal slumbers, and get one of his two dreaded interviews over. She looked rather too composed, he thought, for a disappointed mother, and he was sure she would be that, did she know the truth. He coughed discreetly, and approached, slowly enough to permit her Ladyship to quite recover her senses, before he arrived by her side.

It would not do to appear too downcast before being informed of the hopelessness of his suit, so putting on his best society manner, and reflecting that an adversary disconcerted is an adversary at a disadvantage, he asked, as if it were quite the most ordinary of questions:

"How beautiful are your feet – Lady Port Arthur?"

"Dear me, young man!" exclaimed her Ladyship, now thoroughly awake, "they've always been considered beautiful; but why should you ask?"

"My reference was scriptural, purely scriptural, I assure you – I was referring to the feet of the messengers upon the mountains, who bring good tidings. You'll find it in Isaiah. Are you one of them?"

"There are no mountains in Sussex, and the rising generation knows entirely too much," snapped out the Dowager. "As for you – I've conferred with my daughter – "

She has told her, thought the Secretary, preparing to draw down his mouth to the requisite expression of woe.

" – And it gives me great happiness to tell you – " she continued, beaming on Stanley in spite of his flippancy, at which that gentleman drew down his mouth in good earnest, as he realised that she was still undeceived.

" – It gives me great happiness to tell you, that I believe your suit will have a favourable termination. She has promised to consider it."

"Oh," said the Secretary; and then, recollecting himself, added:

"It's very good of her, I'm sure."

If he had the opportunity, after lunch, he mentally determined to give Lady Isabelle a piece of his mind.

"It's an honest soul," continued her Ladyship, not noticing the interruption, "which refuses the promptings of her heart. Her hesitancy is quite natural, I assure you, and most becoming. When his Lordship asked the honour of my hand – " The Dowager sighed at the sweetness of reminiscence, and again took up the thread of her discourse.

"My daughter told me that she could not, without reflection, be certain of the state of her affections. Make allowance for her, Mr. Stanley, she is very young. Believe me, I should not speak as I do, were it not for the fact that I have known the world well – in my youthful days – though this you would scarcely believe, I dare say – I was one of the acknowledged leaders of the court."

"Your Ladyship's wit and beauty are a bye-word in all good society, and one has only to see you, to realise that they have been enhanced by the added grace of years," murmured the Secretary, doing his prettiest.

"You're a deceitful diplomat, and I don't believe you," said the Dowager, giggling and pretending to be very angry, but vastly pleased, none the less; and, giving him a flabby pat with one of her expansive hands, she continued:

"You must not be downhearted, however; leave everything to me."

The Secretary assured her that he felt quite safe to trust his heart in the keeping of one who had held the custody of so many, and was rewarded for his flattery by a further proof of the Dowager's confidence.

"Take my advice, dear James – " she began; but Stanley felt this was a step too far, and hastened to put himself on the defensive.

"That is not my name, Lady Port Arthur," he said, quietly.

"But surely," she continued, pressing her point, "your friends call you by a disrespectful contraction of it.

"Jim?" he asked, laughing. "Oh, that's because my Christian name is quite unfitted for ordinary usage – it's only brought out on state occasions."

"May I inquire what it is?"

"Aloysius."

"Dear me, no, I don't think I could call you that; but as I was saying, if you take my advice you'll see as little as possible of Isabelle to-day. Leave her to herself; it's far wiser."

The Secretary felt decidedly relieved.

"I quite agree with you," he replied. "You may depend on my following your advice to the letter," and he turned towards the house.

"One point more," she said, detaining him with a gesture, "I strongly disapprove of secret engagements. I don't wish the insinuations made against my daughter that one hears about that impudent young minx, Miss Fitzgerald. – Why, they actually hinted that she was engaged to you!"

"Dear me! Did they?" murmured Stanley.

"If there is the happy issue that we both wish, I should desire that our friends here, if not society in general, should know it immediately."

"My dear lady," said the Secretary impressively, "the moment that your daughter tells you definitely that she accepts my offer of marriage, you may announce it to the whole world; till that time, however, I must insist, that for her sake as well as mine, you be most discreet," and he bowed himself from her presence.

The Marchioness sank back in her chair with a sigh of placid contentment. Her work in life was, she believed, on the eve of successful accomplishment, and that most agonising period to a mother – the time from her daughter's coming out to that young lady's engagement – was safely over. On the whole her child had behaved unusually well; but of late she had suffered some inquietude of spirit, owing to the attentions of Kingsland, whom she, in common with all mothers of the social world, listed as belonging to the most dangerous and formidable class of youths that a girl, who has any pretensions to being a partie, can encounter.

In the case of the Lieutenant, however, Lady Port Arthur flattered herself that she had nipped matters in the bud, by the best of all cures for a romantic, impossible lover, i. e. a prospective husband. True, Mr. Stanley was not of noble family, she feared his people might even be called commercial; but he was eminently safe, and possessed of a substantial income wherewith to support the glories of the noble name of Port Arthur. In short, he was an admirable solution of the difficulty.

The Marchioness felt she was justified in taking forty winks, and did so.

Luncheon rather amused the Secretary than otherwise. He obeyed the Dowager's instructions to the letter, sat as far from Lady Isabelle as possible, and by the caprice of fate, found himself next to Miss Fitzgerald, who, with admirable foresight, treated him exactly as if nothing had happened, and that being half engaged to a man was the normal state of her existence. This put Stanley quite at his ease, and even Belle's fictitious claim on his services for the afternoon, based on her unsupported declaration that he had asked her to drive with him in the pony cart at four, a proposition he would never have dreamed of making, was accepted by him as a matter of course. A proceeding which elicited an expansive smile from the Dowager, who considered it a deep-laid diplomatic plot, in furtherance of her suggested plan of campaign.

The Secretary's attention was, however, mainly directed to Kingsland and Lady Isabelle, who sat side by side at table, and who acted, in his opinion like a pair of fools, till it seemed as if everyone present must guess the true state of affairs. As a matter of fact, no one did, and Stanley, seeing this, was once more reassured; for he did not wish to play his little part to more of an audience than was absolutely necessary.

Mr. Riddle, towards whom the Secretary, in view of the night's disclosures, felt even a stronger antipathy, was in high spirits, until he was silenced by Mrs. Roberts, who assured the company that she had caught him in the act of aiding and abetting the cottager's children to make mud pies in the public highway.

"I really couldn't help it," he said, excusing himself shamefacedly, "the dear little things were pining for some one to play with, and we did have such fun – and got so grubby;" and there was such a genuine ring of honest pleasure in his tones, that Stanley again found cause to wonder which was the true man.

Something like an hour later, the Secretary emerged on the driveway, to find the pony cart and Belle, got up in faultless style; and as he looked on the technical mistress of his heart, she seemed so exceedingly fair and gracious, that his morbid imaginings vanished away like smoke, under the spell of her presence.

"I'm afraid you'll be very angry with me," she said, apologetically; "but when I proposed our drive this afternoon, I'd quite forgotten a promise I made to Mr. Lambert to go and see a poor, sick, old woman, a parishioner of his."

"Then I suppose the drive is off?"

"Not at all, if you'll be a dear, good, self-sacrificing Jimsy, and do what you're told."

"What's that?"

"Just jump into the cart and take it round to the north gate – it's a couple of miles I know – but I'll walk straight across the fields, make my visit, and be at our rendezvous almost as soon as you are. I'll promise not to keep you waiting over ten minutes at the longest. Will you do it?"

"Certainly, if I may solace myself with a cigar while I wait."

"Two, if you like; but you won't have time to smoke them. Now off you go," and waving her hand to him, she watched him disappear round the corner of the house.

Once he was out of sight, Miss Fitzgerald lost no time in producing, from the mysterious recesses of her pocket, a telegram, the delivery of which she had intercepted, which she surveyed long and critically.

A telegram is generally regarded as best serving its purpose when most promptly delivered; but in the case of this message, Miss Fitzgerald evidently felt it would improve by keeping, for it had arrived during the morning, and was now some hours old. The time had come, however, when it should be delivered to its proper owner, and she accordingly went in search of Lieutenant Kingsland.