Then Christopher’s head went down on the hard sill, despairingly. …
Roxhythe had a card-party that night. Christopher should have dined with him, and seen that all was in order. He could not face the inane gaiety, the senseless laughter, the foolish witticisms. He rose jerkily and took up his hat and cloak. In a little while the visitors would arrive; he would hear their voices floating up to his room; tonight he could not bear it. He went quickly out of the room and down the stairs. An amazed footman opened the door for him and watched him descend the steps. Christopher did not care what he thought; only one thing mattered, and that was that he should be out of the house before dinner.
He did not return until after eleven. The same footman admitted him and afterwards remarked to his brethren that Mr. Dart looked for all the world as though he had seen a ghost.
Christopher went slowly upstairs. A burst of laughter from the library made him wince. He was very tired. …
My Lord Roxhythe did not appear next morning until twelve o’clock. He came downstairs then, hat in hand, and his gloves already on.
Christopher met him at the foot of the stairs, barring his passage.
“My lord, may I speak to you—privately?”
Roxhythe paused, his hand on the baluster. He stood just above his secretary, looking down into the pale face with eyes that were quite expressionless.
“My dear Chris, I am pressed for time. His Majesty expects me.”
“I can wait no longer, sir. His Majesty would not grudge me ten minutes.”
The straight brows rose perceptibly.
“My lord,” said Christopher earnestly. “I think you owe me this.”
Roxhythe resumed his passage downstairs.
“It is never wise to take that tone with me,” he remarked.
Christopher laid a hand on his arm.
“Sir, I do beg you will speak to me now! I—I cannot wait!”
The hand was removed.
“Neither can I,” said his lordship. He went on calmly across the hall.
“You will not?” cried Christopher. His eyes flashed.
“I shall be in at three,” replied Roxhythe. The next moment he was gone.
It was the one thing needed to clinch the matter forever. If Roxhythe had acted differently, if he had exerted himself never so slightly to placate Christopher, love for man might had triumphed. But that was not Roxhythe’s way.
Christopher fretted and chafed under the added wrong. By three o’clock there was no doubt left in his mind which way he should decide.
He went to the library to wait for my lord.
Punctual to the minute came Roxhythe. He surveyed his secretary coolly and laid his hat on the table.
Christopher came forward. He was holding fast to his decision. At the sight of Roxhythe it threatened to slip away. No slight that my lord could inflict would ever destroy the magic of his presence.
“I—suppose you—you have guessed why I want to speak to you, sir,” said Christopher unsteadily.
Roxhythe drew off his gloves.
“No. May I ask why you were not present last night?”
The old flush rose to Christopher’s cheeks.
“I—could not. I was in no mood for it.”
“I am sorry,” said Roxhythe. “Perhaps you will inform me next time you feel like that.”
“There will be no next time,” answered Christopher very quietly.
“I am relieved to hear you say so.”
“You do not take my meaning, sir. I desire to—to offer you my resignation.” His voice trembled in spite of all his efforts to control it.
There was a long silence.
“Oh!” said Roxhythe. “Very well.”
So this was the end. Christopher walked slowly to the door. There was a buzzing in his ears, his feet were like lead. He put out his hand to draw back the curtain. He must hold his head high; he must not let Roxhythe see his misery.
“Chris?”
The drawling voice reached him, full of caress. He wheeled about, saw my lord’s outstretched hand, and stumbled back to where he stood, falling on his knees beside him, the hand pressed to his lips. There was a choking lump in his throat; desperately he clung to that strong, white hand. The fingers closed on his.
“So you’ll leave me, Chris?”
“I must, I must! My lord, how can I stay after—after—” he broke off hopelessly.
“I see no reason why you should not.”
“It—is impossible. I could—never—trust you again. If you went on King Charles his business—I should know, and—feel that I was helping to plot against my country.”
“You rate yourself high,” said that even voice. “And I thought I told you that it is France, not England that we trick?”
“It is almost as bad. Oh, my lord, I have been taught to act honestly always—heaven knows I am wavering—but it is no honourable thing to trick any man by fair words! I cannot, cannot remain with you! There would always be suspicion; I should be of no further use to you, and—I should be wretched!”
“Where is your vaunted love for me?” asked my lord sadly.
Christopher kissed his hand.
“It will always be there sir! Nothing could kill it—I—I would give my life for you.”
“Yet when I ask you to stay with me you refuse.”
“Do not—oh, do not! It means—sacrificing my honour—my pride—I—oh, cannot you see that it is impossible?”
“Honour and pride count for more than Roxhythe?”
“Sir, it is right against wrong! You might persuade me to remain with you, but always I should know that I was doing wrong. I—it is—oh, do you think it is not breaking my heart to leave you?”
“Chris, try to look at the matter in a more sensible light. You assume that I am the greatest villain unhanged. In fact, you are melodramatic.”
“I cannot look at it in what you call a sensible light. I can only see that you intrigue for His Majesty’s private ends, breaking treaties, selling England—and—I—I cannot be privy to it!”
“Have I asked you to
