FullReads

“What are the terms?” Lady Betty asked. “Lord Pilgrimstone has not agreed to–“

“To permit me to communicate them?” he replied, with a grave smile. “No. So you must pardon me, my dear, I have passed my word for absolute secrecy. And, indeed, it is as important to me as to Pilgrimstone that they should not be divulged.”

“They are sure to leak out,” she retorted. “They always do.”

“Well, it will not be through me, I hope.”

She stamped her foot on the carpet. “I should like to get them, and send them to the Times!” she exclaimed, her eyes flashing–he was so provoking! “And let all the world know them! I should!”

He looked his astonishment, while the other two laughed softly, partly to avoid embarrassment, perhaps. My Lady often said these things, and no one took them seriously.

“You had better play the secretary for once, Lady Betty,” said Atley, who was related to his chief. “You will then be able to satisfy your curiosity. Shall I resign pro tem?”

She looked eagerly at her husband for the third part of a second– looked for assent, perhaps. But she read no playfulness in his face, and her own fell. He was thinking about other things. “No,” she said, almost sullenly, dropping her eyes to the carpet; “I should not spell well enough.”

Soon after that they dispersed, this being Wednesday, Mr. Stafford’s day for dining out. Everyone knows that Ministers dine only twice a week in session–on Wednesday and Sunday; and Sunday is often sacred to the children where there are any, lest they should grow up and not know their father by sight. Lady Betty came into the library at a quarter to eight, and found her husband still at his desk, a pile of papers before him waiting for his signature. As a fact, he had only just sat down, displacing his secretary, who had gone upstairs to dress.

“Stafford!” she said.

She did not seem quite at her ease, but his mind was troubled, and he failed to notice this. “Yes, my dear,” he answered politely, shuffling the papers before him into a heap. He knew he was late, and he could see that she was dressed. “Yes, I am going upstairs this minute. I have not forgotten.”

“It is not that,” she said, leaning with one hand on the table; “I only want to ask you–“

“My dear, you really must tell it to me in the carriage.” He was on his feet already, making some hasty preparations. “Where are we to dine? At the Duke’s? Then we shall have nearly a mile to drive. Will not that do for you?” He was working hard while he spoke. There was a great oak post-box within reach, and another box for letters which were to be delivered by hand, and he was thrusting a handful of notes into each of these. Other packets he swept into different drawers of the table. Still standing, he stooped and signed his name to half a dozen letters, which he left open on the blotting-pad. “Atley will see to these when he is dressed,” he murmured. “Would you oblige me by locking the drawers, my dear–it will save me a minute–and giving me the keys when I come down?”

He was off then, two or three papers in his hand, and almost ran upstairs. Lady Betty stood a moment on the spot on which he had left her, looking in an odd way, just as if it were new to her, round the grave, spacious room, with its somber Spanish-leather- covered furniture, its ponderous writing-tables and shelves of books, its three lofty curtained windows. When her eyes at last came back to the lamp, and dwelt on it, they were very bright, and her face was flushed. Her foot could be heard tapping on the carpet. Presently she remembered herself and fell to work, vehemently slamming such drawers as were open, and locking them.