FullReads

Atley went away marveling at his coolness, trying to retrace the short steps of their conversation, and so to discern how far the Minister had gone with him, and where he had turned off upon a resolution of his own. He failed to see the clue, however, and marveled still more as the day went on and others succeeded it, days of political crisis. Out of doors the world, or that little jot of it which has its center at Westminster, was in confusion. The newspapers, morning or evening, found ready sale, and had no need of recourse to murder-panics, or prurient discussions. The Coalition scandal, the resignation of Ministers, the sending for Lord This and Mr. That, the certainty of a dissolution, provided matter enough. In all this Atley found nothing to wonder at. He had seen it all before. That which did cause him surprise was the calm–the unnatural calm as it seemed to him–which prevailed in the house in Carlton Terrace. For a day or two, indeed, there was much going to and fro, much closeting and button-holing; for rather longer the secretary read anxiety and apprehension in one countenance–Lady Betty’s. But things settled down. The knocker presently found peace, such comparative peace as falls to knockers in Carlton Terrace. Lady Betty’s brow grew clear as her eye found no reflection of its anxiety in Mr. Stafford’s face. In a word the secretary failed to discern the faintest sign of domestic trouble.

The late Minister, indeed, was taking things with wonderful coolness. Lord Pilgrimstone had failed to taunt him, and the triumph of old foes had failed to goad him into a last effort. Apparently it had occurred to him that the country might for a time exist without him. He was standing aside with a shade on his face, and there were rumors that he would take a long holiday.

A week saw all these things happen. And then, one day as Atley sat writing in the library–Mr. Stafford being out–Lady Betty came into the room for something. Rising to find her what she wanted, he was holding the door open for her to pass out, when she paused.

“Shut the door, Mr. Atley,” she said, pointing to it. “I want to ask you a question.”

“Pray do, Lady Betty,” he answered.

“It is this,” she said, meeting his eyes boldly–and a brighter, a more dainty little creature than she looked then had seldom tempted man. “Mr. Stafford’s resignation–had it anything, Mr. Atley, to do with–” her face colored a very little–“something that was in the Times this day week?”

His own cheek colored violently enough. “If ever,” he was saying to himself, “I meddle or mar between husband and wife again, may I–” But aloud he answered quietly, “Something perhaps.” The question was sudden. Her eyes were on his face. He found it impossible to prevaricate.

“My husband has never spoken to me about it,” she replied, breathing quickly.

He bowed, having no words adapted to the situation. But he repeated his resolution (as above) more furiously.

“He has never appeared even aware of it,” she persisted. “Are you sure that he saw it?”

He wondered at her innocence or her audacity. That such a baby should do so much mischief. The thought irritated him. “It was impossible that he should not see it, Lady Betty,” he said, with a touch of asperity. “Quite impossible!”

“Ah,” she replied with a faint sigh. “Well, he has never spoken to me about it. And you think it had really something to do with his resignation, Mr. Atley?”

“Most certainly,” he said. He was not inclined to spare her this time.

She nodded thoughtfully, and then with a quiet “Thank you,” went out.

“Well,” muttered the secretary to himself when the door was fairly shut behind her, “she is–upon my word she is a fool! And he”– appealing to the inkstand–“he has never said a word to her about it. He is a new Don Quixote! a second Job, new Sir Isaac Newton! I do not know what to call him.”

It was Sir Horace, however, who precipitated the catastrophe. He happened to come in about tea-time that afternoon, before, in fact, my lady had had an opportunity of seeing her husband. He found her alone and in a brown study, a thing most unusual with her and portending something. He watched her for a time in silence, seemed to draw courage from a still longer inspection of his boots, and then said, “So the cart is clean over, Betty?”

She nodded.

“Driver much hurt?”

“Do you mean, does Stafford mind it?” she replied impatiently.

He nodded.

“Well, I do not know. It is hard to say.”

“Think so?” he persisted.

“Good gracious, Horry!” my lady retorted, losing patience. “I say I do not know, and you say ‘Think so!’ If you want to learn so particularly, ask him yourself. Here he is!”

Mr. Stafford had just entered the room. Perhaps she really wished to satisfy herself as to the state of his feelings. Perhaps she only desired in her irritation to put her cousin in a corner. At any rate she coolly turned to her husband and said, “Here is Horace wishing to know if you mind being turned out much?”

Mr. Stafford’s face flushed a little at the home-thrust which no one else would have dared to deal him. But he showed no displeasure. “Well, not so much as I should have thought,” he answered frankly, pausing to weigh a lump of sugar, and, as it seemed, his feelings. “There are compensations, you know.”

“Pity all the same those terms came out,” grunted Sir Horace.

“It was.”

“Stafford!” Lady Betty struck in on a sudden, speaking fast and eagerly, “is it true, I want to ask you, it is true that that led you to resign?”