PLMNUDDM CASTLE, NORTH WALES
Among the articles of that wardrobe of Cecil Walpole’s of which Atlee had possessed himself so unceremoniously, there was a very gorgeous blue dress-coat, with the royal button and a lining of sky-blue silk, which formed the appropriate costume of the gentlemen of the viceregal household. This, with a waistcoat to match, Atlee had carried off with him in the indiscriminating haste of a last moment, and although thoroughly understanding that he could not avail himself of a costume so distinctively the mark of a condition, yet, by one of the contrarieties of his strange nature, in which the desire for an assumption of any kind was a passion, he had tried on that coat fully a dozen times, and while admiring how well it became him, and how perfectly it seemed to suit his face and figure, he had dramatised to himself the part of an aide-de-camp in waiting, rehearsing the little speeches in which he presented this or that imaginary person to his Excellency, and coining the small money of epigram in which he related the news of the day.
‘How I should cut out those dreary subalterns with their mess-room drolleries, how I should shame those tiresome cornets, whose only glitter is on their sabretaches!’ muttered he, as he surveyed himself in his courtly attire. ‘It is all nonsense to say that the dress a man wears can only impress the surrounders. It is on himself, on his own nature and temper, his mind, his faculties, his very ambition, there is a transformation effected; and I, Joe Atlee, feel myself, as I move about in this costume, a very different man from that humble creature in grey tweed, whose very coat reminds him he is a “cad,” and who has but to look in the glass to read his condition.’
On the morning he learned that Lady Maude would join him that day at dinner, Atlee conceived the idea of appearing in this costume. It was not only that she knew nothing of the Irish Court and its habits, but she made an almost ostentatious show of her indifference to all about it, and in the few questions she asked, the tone of interrogation might have suited Africa as much as Ireland. It was true, she was evidently puzzled to know what place or condition Atlee occupied; his name was not familiar to her, and yet he seemed to know everything and everybody, enjoyed a large share of his Excellency’s confidence, and appeared conversant with every detail placed before him.
That she would not directly ask him what place he occupied in the household he well knew, and he felt at the same time what a standing and position that costume would give him, what self-confidence and ease it would also confer, and how, for once in his life, free from the necessity of asserting a station, he could devote all his energies to the exercise of agreeability and those resources of small-talk in which he knew he was a master.
Besides all this, it was to be his last day at the castle—he was to start the next morning for Constantinople, with all instructions regarding the spy Speridionides, and he desired to make a favourable impression on Lady Maude before he left. Though intensely, even absurdly vain, Atlee was one of those men who are so eager for success in life that they are ever on the watch lest any weakness of disposition or temper should serve to compromise their chances, and in this way he was led to distrust what he would in his puppyism have liked to have thought a favourable effect produced by him on her ladyship. She was intensely cold in manner, and yet he had made her more than once listen to him with interest. She rarely smiled, and he had made her actually laugh. Her apathy appeared complete, and yet he had so piqued her curiosity that she could not forbear a question.
Acting as her uncle’s secretary, and in constant communication with him, it was her affectation to imagine herself a political character, and she did not scruple to avow the hearty contempt she felt for the usual occupation of women’s lives. Atlee’s knowledge, therefore, actually amazed her: his hardihood, which never forsook him, enabled him to give her the most positive assurances on anything he spoke; and as he had already fathomed the chief prejudices of his Excellency, and knew exactly where and to what his political wishes tended, she heard nothing from her uncle but expressions of admiration for the just views, the clear and definite ideas, and the consummate skill with which that ‘young fellow’ distinguished himself.
‘We shall have him in the House one of these days,’ he would say; ‘and I am much mistaken if he will not make a remarkable figure there.’
When Lady Maude sailed proudly into the library before dinner, Atlee was actually stunned by amazement at her beauty. Though not in actual evening-dress, her costume was that sort of demi-toilet compromise which occasionally is most becoming; and the tasteful lappet of Brussels lace, which, interwoven with her hair, fell down on either side so as to frame her face, softened its expression to a degree of loveliness he was not prepared for.
It was her pleasure—her caprice, perhaps—to be on this occasion unusually amiable and agreeable. Except by a sort of quiet dignity, there was no coldness, and she spoke of her uncle’s health and hopes just as she might have discussed them with an old friend of the house.
When the butler flung wide the folding-doors into the dining-room and announced dinner, she was about to move on, when she suddenly stopped, and said, with a faint smile, ‘Will you give me your arm?’ Very simple words, and commonplace too, but enough to throw Atlee’s whole nature into a convulsion of delight. And as he walked at her side it was in the very ecstasy of pride and exultation.
Dinner passed off with the decorous solemnity of that meal, at which the most emphatic utterances were the butler’s ‘Marcobrunner,’ or ‘Johannisberg.’ The guests, indeed, spoke little, and the strangeness of their situation rather disposed to thought than conversation.
‘You are going to Constantinople to-morrow, Mr. Atlee, my uncle tells me,’ said she, after a longer silence than usual.
‘Yes; his Excellency has charged me with a message, of which I hope to acquit myself well, though I own to my misgivings about it now.’
‘You are too diffident, perhaps, of your powers,’ said she; and there was a faint curl of the lip that made the words sound equivocally.
‘I do not know if great modesty be amongst my failings,’ said he laughingly. ‘My friends would say not.’
‘You mean, perhaps, that you are not without ambitions?’
‘That is true. I confess to very bold ones.’ And as he spoke he stole a glance towards her; but her pale face never changed.
‘I wish, before you had gone, that you had settled that stupid muddle about the attack on—I forget the place.’
‘Kilgobbin?’
‘Yes, Kil-gobbin—horrid name!—for the Premier still persists in thinking there was something in it, and worrying my uncle for explanations; and as somebody is to ask something when Parliament meets, it would be as well to have a letter to read to the House.’
‘In what sense, pray?’ asked Atlee mildly.
‘Disavowing all: stating the story had no foundation: that there was no attack—no resistance—no member of the viceregal household present at any time.’
‘That would be going too far; for then we should next have to deny Walpole’s broken arm and his long confinement to house.’
‘You may serve coffee in a quarter of an hour, Marcom,’ said she, dismissing the butler; and then, as he left the room—‘And you tell me seriously there was a broken arm in this case?’
‘I can hide nothing from you, though I have taken an oath to silence,’ said he, with an energy that seemed to defy repression. ‘I will tell you everything, though it’s little short of a perjury, only premising this much, that I know nothing from Walpole himself.’
With this much of preface, he went on to describe Walpole’s visit to Kilgobbin as one of those adventurous exploits which young Englishmen fancy they have a sort of right to perform in the less civilised country. ‘He imagined, I have no doubt,’ said he, ‘that he was studying the condition of Ireland, and investigating the land question, when he carried on a fierce flirtation with a pretty Irish girl.’
‘And there was a flirtation?’
‘Yes, but nothing more. Nothing really serious at any time. So far he behaved frankly and well, for even at the outset of the affair he owned to—a what shall I call it?—an entanglement was, I believe, his own word—an entanglement in England—’
‘Did he not state more of this entanglement, with whom it was, or how, or where?’
‘I should think not. At all events, they who told me knew nothing of these details. They only knew, as he said, that he was in a certain sense tied up, and that till Fate unbound him he was a prisoner.’
‘Poor fellow, it was hard.’
‘So he said, and so they believed him. Not that I myself believe he was ever seriously in love with the Irish girl.’
‘And why not?’
‘I may be wrong in my reading of him; but my impression is that he regards marriage as one of those solemn events which should contribute to a man’s worldly fortune. Now an Irish connection could scarcely be the road to this.’
‘What an ungallant admission,’ said she, with a smile. ‘I hope Mr. Walpole is not of your mind.’ After a pause she said, ‘And how was it that in your intimacy he told you nothing of this?’
He shook his head in dissent.
‘Not even of the “entanglement”?’
‘Not even of that. He would speak freely enough of his “egregious blunder,” as he called it, in quitting his career and coming to Ireland; that it was a gross mistake for any man to take up Irish politics as a line in life; that they were puzzles in the present and lead to nothing in the future, and, in fact, that he wished himself back again in Italy every day he lived.’
‘Was there any “entanglement” there also?’
‘I cannot say. On these he made me no confidences.’
‘Coffee, my lady!’ said the butler, entering at this moment. Nor was Atlee grieved at the interruption.
‘I am enough of a Turk,’ said she laughingly, ‘to like that muddy, strong coffee they give you in the East, and where the very smallness of the cups suggests its strength. You, I know, are impatient for your cigarette, Mr. Atlee, and I am about to liberate you.’ While Atlee was muttering his assurances of how much he prized her presence, she broke in, ‘Besides, I promised my uncle a visit before tea-time, and as I shall not see you again, I will wish you now a pleasant journey and a safe return.’
‘Wish me success in my expedition,’ said he eagerly.
‘Yes, I will wish that also. One word more. I am very short-sighted, as you may see, but you wear a ring of great beauty. May I look at it?’
‘It is pretty, certainly. It was a present Walpole made me. I am not sure that there is not a story attached to it, though I don’t know it.’
‘Perhaps it may be linked with the “entanglement,’” said she, laughing softly.
‘For aught I know, so it may. Do you admire it?’
‘Immensely,’ said she, as she held it to the light.
‘You can add immensely to its value if you will,’ said he diffidently.
‘In what way?’
‘By keeping it, Lady Maude,’ said he; and for once his cheek coloured with the shame of his own boldness.
‘May I purchase it with one of my own? Will you have this, or this?’ said she hurriedly.
‘Anything that once was yours,’ said he, in a mere whisper.
‘Good-bye, Mr. Atlee.’
And he was alone!