MR. FAULKS TALKS.
Mr. Faulks was rather fond of good living, and, as a rule, he never allowed official cares to interfere with his lunch, a meal brought in on a tray from an eating-house in the Strand. To make a proper selection from the bill of fare sent in every morning was a weighty matter, taking precedence over any other work, however pressing.
But to-day he scarcely enjoyed the haricot of lamb with new potatoes and young peas that he found waiting, and slightly cold, when he went downstairs to his own room.
"For two pins I'd take my retirement; I can claim it; where would they be then?"
This estimable personage shared with thousands the strange superstition that the world cannot do without them.
"This cook is falling off most terribly. The lamb is uneatable, the potatoes are waxy, and the peas like pills. Ugh! I never made a worse lunch!"
A large cigar and the perusal of the long-neglected Times did not pacify him much, and he was still fretting and fuming when his messenger brought in a three-cornered note and asked if there was any reply.
"The lady, sir—a real lady, I should think—'ave brought it in her own bruffam, and was most particular, sir, as you should 'ave it at once."
Mr. Faulks took the letter and examined it carefully.
"From that charming woman, Mrs. Wilders, my cousin, or rather Stanny's cousin; but his relations are mine. I am his uncle; some day, if he lives, I shall be uncle to an earl. They will treat me better perhaps when I have all the Essendine interest at my back. Whippersnappers like this Fothergill will scarcely dare to snub me then. A good lad Stanislas; I always liked him. I wish he was back amongst us, and not at that horrid war."
"The lady, sir, is most anxious, sir, to have a answer," put in the messenger, recalling Mr. Faulks's attention to the letter.
"Ah! to be sure. One moment," and he read the note:—
"Cannot I see you?" it said. "I am oppressed with fears for our dear Stanislas. Do please spare me a few minutes of your valuable time.
"Cyprienne W."
"I will go down to her at once, say." And, seizing his hat, Mr. Faulks followed the messenger into the street, where he found Mrs. Wilders in her tiny brougham, at the door of the office.
"Oh, how good of you!" she said, putting out a little hand in a perfectly-fitting grey glove. "I would not disturb you for worlds, but I was so anxious."
"What has happened? Nothing serious, I trust?"
"I do not know. I cannot say. I am terribly upset."
"Do tell me all about it."
"Of course; that is why I came. But it will take some time. Will you get into the carriage? Are you going anywhere? I can take you, and tell you upon the road."
"I am afraid I cannot leave just at present." He had misgivings as to his arbitrary young chief. "But if I might suggest, and if you will honour me so far, will you not come upstairs to my room?"
"Oh! willingly, if you will allow me."
This was all that she wished. Very soon, escorted by her obsequious friend, she found herself in his arm-chair, pouring forth a long and intricate, not to say incomprehensible, story about Stanislas McKay. She had heard, she said—it was not necessary to say how--that they meant to send him on some secret expedition, full of danger, she understood, and she thought it such a pity—so wrong, so unfair!
"He ought really to return to England and take up his proper position," she went on. "Lord Essendine wishes it, and so, I am sure, must you."
"No one will be more pleased to welcome him back than myself," said Mr. Faulks. "I should be glad indeed of his countenance and support just now. They do not treat me too well here."
"Can it be possible!" she exclaimed, in a voice of tenderest interest. "You whom I have always thought one of the most useful, estimable men in the public service."
"Things are not what they were, my dear lady; they do not appreciate me here. They deny me the smallest, the most trifling recognition. Would you believe it that, after five-and-thirty years of uninterrupted service, they still hesitate to give me a decoration? I ought to have had the Companionship of the Bath at the last change of Ministry."
"Of course you ought; I have often heard Lord Essendine say so."
"Has he now, really?" asked Mr. Faulks, much flattered.
"Frequently," went on Mrs. Wilders, fluently, availing herself readily of the opening he had given her. "I am sure he has only to know that you are disappointed in this matter and he will give you the warmest support. You know he belongs to the party now in power, and a word from him—"
"If he will deign to interest himself on my behalf the matter is, of course, settled."
"And he shall, rely on me for that."
"How can I ever thank you sufficiently, dear lady, for your most gracious, most generous encouragement? If I can serve you in any way, command me."
"Well, you can oblige me in a little matter I have much at heart."
"Only name it," he cried, earnestly.
"Come and dine with me to-night in Thistle Grove."
"Is that all? I accept with enthusiasm."
"Only a small party: four at the most. You know I am still in deepest mourning. My poor dear general—" she dropped her voice and her eyes.
"Ah!" said Mr. Faulks, sympathetically; "you have known great sorrows. But you must not brood, dear lady: we should struggle with grief." He took her hand, and looked at her in a kindly, pitying way.
The moment was ill-timed for interruption, but the blame was Sir Humphrey's, who now sent the messenger with a fresh and more imperious summons for the attendance of Mr. Faulks.
He got up hurriedly, nervously, saying—
"I must leave you, dear lady; there are matters of great urgency to be dealt with to-day."
"No apologies: it's my fault for trespassing here. I will run away. To-night—do not forget me, at eight," and Mrs. Wilders took her departure.
The little house in Thistle Grove wore its most smiling aspect at evening, with its soft-shaded lamps, pretty hangings, and quantities of variegated, sweet-smelling flowers; it was radiant with light, full of perfume, bright in colour.
Mrs. Wilders's guests were three—Mrs. Jones, a staid, hard-featured, middle-aged lady in deep black, an officer's widow like herself, as she explained, who lived a few doors down, and was an acquaintance of the last month or two, Mr. Hobson, and Mr. Faulks.
The dinner was almost studied in simplicity, but absolutely perfect of its kind. Clear soup, salmon cutlets, a little joint, salad, and quail in vine-leaves. The only wine was a sound medium claret, except at dessert, when, after the French fashion, Mrs. Wilders gave champagne.
Through dinner the talk had been light and trivial, but with dessert and coffee it gradually grew more serious, and touched upon the topics of the day.
"These must be trying times for you Government officials," said Mr. Hobson, carelessly.
"Yes, indeed," replied Mr. Faulks, with a deep sigh. "I often feel that life is hardly worth having."
"The public service is no bed of roses," remarked Mrs. Jones. "It killed my poor dear husband."
"It is so disheartening to slave day after day as you do," went on Mrs. Wilders to Mr. Faulks, "and get no thanks."
"Very much the other thing!" cried Mr. Hobson; "you are about the best abused people in the world, I should say, just now."
"It is hard on us, for I assure you we do our best. We are constantly, uninterruptedly at work. I never know a moment that I may not be wanted—that some special messenger may not be after me. I have to leave my address so that they can find me wherever I am, and at any time."
"Is it so now?" asked Mrs. Wilders. "Cannot you even give me the pleasure of your society for an hour or two without its being known?"
"I do it in this way, dear lady. I leave a sealed envelope on my hall table, which is only opened in case of urgency."
"You don't expect to be summoned to-night, I hope?" inquired the fair hostess.
"I cannot say; it is quite probable."
"There are, perhaps, important movements intended in the Crimea?" asked Mr. Hobson, as he picked his strawberries and prepared himself a sauce of sugar and cream.
"You have heard so?" replied Mr. Faulks.
"There was something in the Times this morning from their special correspondent. Some new expedition was talked of."
"They ought to be all shot, these correspondents," said Mr. Faulks, decisively. "They permit themselves to canvass the conduct and character of persons of our position with a freedom that is intolerable."
"Pardon me," said Mr. Hobson, "but as one of the British public, a taxpayer and bearer of the public burden, I feel grateful to these newspaper gentlemen for seeing that our money is properly spent."
"I am sorry to hear you commend them," said Mr. Faulks, in a way that implied much resentment.
"Well, but without them we should hear of nothing that is going on. This new expedition, for instance, which I have a shrewd suspicion covers some deep design."
"You think so, do you? On what ground, pray?" said Mr. Faulks, with the slight sneer of superior knowledge.
"The Times man hints as much. There has long been a rumour of some change in the plan of operations, and he seems to be right in his conjecture."
"He knows nothing at all about it—how can he?" said Mr. Faulks, contemptuously.
"You must forgive my differing with you. It is not my business to say how he obtains his information, but I have generally found that he is right. Now, this great expedition—"
"Is all moonshine!" cried Mr. Faulks, losing his temper, and thrown off his guard. "It's quite a small affair—a trip round the Sea of Azof, and the reduction of Kertch."
"The old affair revived, in fact."
"Neither more nor less. There is no intention at the present moment of drawing any large detachment from the siege. On the contrary, every effort is being strained to bring it to an end."
"Quite right too; it ought to be vigorously prosecuted—attack should follow attack."
"We shall hear of one or more before long," went on Mr. Faulks, growing more and more garrulous. "Our advanced trenches are creeping very near, and I expect any day to hear that the French have stormed the Mamelon, and our people the Quarries."
"Indeed? That is very interesting. And we shall take them—do you think?"
"We must. The attacking columns will be of great strength, and the attack will be preceded by a tremendous cannonade."
"So we may expect great news in the next few days?" said Mrs. Wilders, eagerly.
"More bloodshed!" added Mrs. Jones, with a deep sigh. "This terrible war!"
"You can't make omelettes without breaking eggs," said Mr. Hobson, sententiously. "The more terrible a war is, the sooner it is ended."
"We are getting very ghastly in our talk," said Mrs. Wilders. "Suppose we go into the drawing-room and have some tea."
As they passed out of the dining-room, Mr. Hobson managed to whisper a few words.
"I have squeezed him dry: that was all I wanted to know. I need not stay any longer, I think."
"Who knows? His special messenger may come down with the very latest. If so, you ought to be able to extract that from him too."
Mrs. Wilders spoke these words carelessly; but, as often happens, they correctly foretold what presently occurred.
When they were all seated cosily around the tea-table, Mrs. Wilders's man brought in a great dispatch upon a salver.
"For Mr. Faulks," he said, and with an air of the greatest importance the hard-worked, indispensable official tore open the cover.
It contained a few hurried lines from Sir Humphrey Fothergill to the following effect:—
"A telegram has just been received from Lord Raglan. It contains painful news for you; but I thought it best to let you have it at once."
He opened the telegram with trembling hands and read—
"Yesterday, Mr. McKay, of the quartermaster-general's staff, ventured through the enemy's lines in the direction of the Tchernaya to make a special reconnaissance. He unfortunately was captured. I sent a flag of truce into Sebastopol, asking that he might be exchanged, but have been peremptorily refused. Gortschakoff asserts that he is a Russian subject and was taken red-handed as a spy. He is to be executed immediately. Will renew request with strong protest, but fear there is no hope."
Mr. Faulks groaned heavily and let the telegram fall on the ground.
"What has happened?" asked Mrs. Wilders, eagerly.
"You were right—too right. That poor boy—"
"Stanislas?"
"Yes; my poor nephew has fallen into the hands of these bloodthirsty Russians, who are resolved to execute him as a traitor and a spy."