Had Mrs. Roberts' interests not led her in another direction, she must have felt no small gratification at the effect which her speech produced. It was a great coup for any hostess, and of tremendous force, because absolutely unexpected.
A number of guests had been invited for this particular evening to swell the party, making a dinner of sixteen, and it was delightful to witness the manner in which they took the announcement. The men received it in silence, while the women broke instantly into a confused, joyous cackled exclamation, surprise and curiosity.
The Dowager was the person who probably derived the most satisfaction from the scene, for her work was over and she could survey it calmly; but Stanley, though the table and the guests whirled before his eyes, caught some lightning glimpses of various expressions, which he was destined never to forget.
He saw the Marchioness' satisfied smile, which said as plainly as words could: "There, what did I tell you? You see how successfully I have brought about this affair." He caught the glance of sympathy which his hostess shot at Miss Fitzgerald, and he caught the glance of vindictive rage which that young lady bestowed upon him, though he did not see the smile which followed it.
It needed no one to tell Miss Fitzgerald that she held the whip now, or to teach her how to use it. Her lover should smart for this.
One other glimpse the Secretary caught in that moment—a disgusted shrug of the shoulders from Kent-Lauriston, and this latter hurt him the most keenly of all. He wondered how all these people could be so stupid as not to see the ghastly mistake they were making, the awful position in which they were placing them both; and then he understood that Lady Isabelle's pallor and his own flushed face might as easily be traced to natural embarrassment as to utter confusion. What a shocking complication—but if it was so bad for him, what must it be for her? Thank Heavens, he was not to blame for it—he had only done what she had asked him. What would people say when they learned the truth? What would Inez think—what—Good Heavens! Why were all the men rising from their seats? He must rise too—to drink his health. He felt fairly dazed from agitation. They drained their glasses, he drank with them. The champagne served to steady him; he was himself once more, ready to do battle for his honour and hers. What was that they were saying—some idiot at the far end of the table was crying "Speech—Speech!" Stanley made a mental note that, despite laws against duelling, he'd run him through before breakfast to-morrow morning, or know the reason why. Now all the others were taking it up, every one was crying: "Speech! Speech! Speech!" Good Heavens, what could he say! Would it not be better to stand up and tell the truth of this miserable matter? One look at the bent head of Lady Isabelle, and her nervous fingers clutching the tablecloth, determined his course of action—he could not expose her to the criticism of this table of scandal-mongers. She sat there, almost fainting, hanging on his every word; chivalry, honour, manliness, left but one course open—he must sacrifice himself to save her. The future would decide itself—his duty lay clear before him. He saw that he must speak—and that he must by his words deceive the company, and yet not compromise either her or himself. He raised his hand to command attention; the rest sat down—it gave him thirty seconds for reflection, an infinitesimal amount of time in which to take action, but ample space in which to take thought: then he spoke:—
"My friends:—
"You have just done us the honour to drink a toast to our united happiness. I thank you for your kind intention. Those who are already married have, by drinking this toast, very gracefully assured me of my own future happiness, and those who are single have given me the opportunity to express a hearty wish that it may some day be my privilege to drink a similar toast to them."
Had Mr. Stanley never given other evidence of his fitness for a diplomatic career, this speech alone would have conclusively furnished it. He resumed his seat, and the look of gratitude which his companion gave him was sufficient reward.
How that dinner passed off the Secretary never knew. It was a horrible nightmare, and it seemed interminable; but it did come to an end at last, and he repaired to the smoking-room where even a worse purgatory awaited him. Kent-Lauriston distinctly avoided him, the rest evidently regarded him as their lawful prey. His over-taxed nerves were beginning to give way. He laughed hysterically, threw his cigar into the fireplace, and, begging to be excused, left the room. A burst of laughter followed him. He knew what it meant—every action of his must henceforth be misinterpreted.