The Mischief Maker | Page 5

moved uneasily in his chair.
"That will all blow over directly," he declared. "Besides, if--if things go
our way, we shan't see much more of Portel. Give me the letter."
Still she hesitated. It was curious that throughout the slow evolution of
this scheme to break a man's life, for which she was mainly responsible,
she had never hesitated until this moment. Always it had been fixed in

her mind that Algernon was to be a Cabinet Minister; she was to be the
wife of a Cabinet Minister. That there were any other things greater in
life than the gratification of so reasonable an ambition had never
seemed possible. Now she hesitated. She looked at her husband and she
saw him with new eyes. He seemed suddenly a mean little person. She
thought of the other man and there was a strange quiver in her heart--a
very unexpected sensation indeed. There was a difference in the breed.
It came home to her at that moment. She found herself even wondering,
as she swung the letter idly between her thumb and fore-finger, whether
she would have been a different woman if she had had a different
manner of husband.
"The letter!" he repeated.
She laid it calmly on the desk before him.
"Of course," she said coldly, "if you find the contents affectionate you
must remember that I am in no way responsible. This was your scheme.
I have done my best."
The man's fingers trembled slightly as he broke the seal.
"Naturally," he agreed, pausing for an instant and looking up at her. "I
knew that I could trust you or I would never have put such an idea into
your head."
She laughed; a characteristic laugh it was, quite cold, quite mirthless,
apparently quite meaningless. Carraby turned back to the letter, tore
open the envelope and spread it out before them. He read it out aloud in
a sing-song voice.
_Downing Street. Tuesday_
MY DEAREST MABEL,
I had your sweet little note an hour ago. Of course I was disappointed
about luncheon, as I always am when I cannot see you. Your promise to
repay me, however, almost reconciles me.

The man looked up at his wife.
"Promise?" he repeated hoarsely. "What does he mean?"
"Go on," she said, with unchanged expression. "See if what you want is
there."
The man continued to read:
I am going to ask you a very great favor, Mabel. When we are alone
together, I talk to you with absolute freedom. To write you on matters
connected with my office is different. I know very well how deep and
sincere your interest in politics really is, and it has always been one of
my greatest pleasures, when with you, to talk things over and hear your
point of view. Without flattery, dear, I have really more than once
found your advice useful. It is your understanding which makes our
companionship always a pleasure to me, and I rely upon that when I
beg you not to ask me to write you again on matters to which I have
really no right to allude. You do not mind this, dear? And having read
you my little lecture, I will answer your question. Yes, the Cabinet
Council was held exactly as you surmise. With great difficulty I
persuaded B---- to adopt my view of the situation. They are all much
too terrified of this war bogey. For once I had my own way. Our
answer to this latest demand from Berlin was a prompt and decisive
negative. Nothing of this is to be known for at least a week.
I am sorry your husband is such a bear. Perhaps on Monday we may
meet at Cardington House?
Please destroy this letter at once.
Ever affectionately yours,
JULIEN.
The man's eyes, as he read, grew brighter.
"It is enough?" the woman asked.

"It is more than enough!"
Slowly he replaced it in its envelope and thrust it into the breast-pocket
of his coat.
"What are you going to do with it?" she inquired.
"I have made my plans," he answered. "I know exactly how to make
the best and most dignified use of it."
He rose to his feet. Something in his wife's expression seemed to
disturb him. He walked a few steps toward the door and came back
again.
"Mabel," he said, "are you glad?"
"Naturally I am glad," she replied.
"You have no regrets?"
Again she laughed.
"Regrets?" she echoed. "What are they? One doesn't think about such
things, nowadays."
They stood quite still in the centre of that very handsome apartment.
They were almost alien figures in the world in which they moved,
Carraby, the rankest of newcomers, carried into political life by his
wife's ambitions, his own self-amassed fortune, and a sort of subtle
cunning--a