The Shadow of Great Britain

Capítulo 1419: Chapter 214: Arthur Hastings, You’ve Gone Too Far!

Blackwell could only vaguely express: “Duty calls.”

His heart was filled with regret and resentment. Such an opportunity, how could it be so easily replicated?

Arthur Hastings, you ruin everything!

Your heart of stone is far more unforgiving than the bullets beneath the Tower of London!

Thinking of this, he let out a long sigh.

This sound clearly caught Arthur’s attention, who lifted his head and gave Blackwell a faint glance.

Blackwell hurriedly stifled his sigh, pretending to adjust his scarf, muttering to himself: “Such a cold-hearted superior, not even bothering to care about the emotions of his subordinates!”

The atmosphere in the carriage returned to silence once again, leaving only the sound of hoofbeats and wheels crunching through the snow.

Blackwell leaned back against the seat, trying to close his eyes for a short nap, but discovered his mind was filled with those unfinished scenes of a beautiful holiday.

His hand instinctively reached for the pocket watch at his chest, opened the cover, and saw the little note from Anastasia tucked inside, in her graceful handwriting: “I will wait for you at the Shrovetide ball.”

Blackwell’s heart shattered, like snow crushed under wheels.

“So absent-minded, is someone waiting for you for a rendezvous?” Arthur’s voice suddenly broke the silence, with a hint of teasing in his tone.

Blackwell’s body instantly tensed up, forcing a formulaic smile: “Nothing of the sort, Sir. Just that the journey is a bit dull.”

Arthur closed his notebook and slipped his pen back into his jacket pocket: “It’s Miss Anastasia, I suppose? She’s quite beautiful, white as a swan, well-read and courteous, gentle in temperament, a lady of the Golitsyn family.”

Hearing Arthur’s words, Blackwell’s eyes widened, brighter than the snowy scenery outside: “You’ve met Miss Anastasia?”

Arthur’s lips slightly curled, revealing a meaningful smile: “Of course, as a cultural attaché, it’s my duty to understand the social circles of the embassy.”

“I…” Blackwell stammered: “You must be mistaken, there’s nothing between her and me. Sir, you know, I’m an honest man, I…”

Arthur lit his pipe, raising a hand to interrupt him: “An honest man? I’ve seen the hearts of many so-called honest men, and they’re all quite ugly, so much so that I’ve once doubted whether, when issues involve interests and passions, there are truly honest people in this world.”

Blackwell stammered a reply: “I… Sir… you can’t…”

Arthur took a puff of his pipe: “Alright, Henry, I know you’re resentful, you blame me for ruining your perfect rendezvous, and thwarting your chance to become a son-in-law of the Golitsyn family.”

Blackwell’s face flushed crimson, half from anger, half from embarrassment.

He clenched his fists, his gaze flickering, but dared not meet Arthur’s eyes.

“Sir, I didn’t mean that.” Blackwell’s voice lowered, trying to restore his dignity: “It’s just… I only wish that occasional private time could be respected.”

Arthur tapped his pipe against the windowsill, gazing through the drifting smoke at the snowy landscape outside, speaking at an unhurried pace: “Henry, I understand what you’re thinking. You hope for an orderly life, a balance of work and pleasure, to find a lady of noble birth at social balls, and then to live out your life steadily, right?”

Blackwell was struck by this sudden bluntness, he glanced up at Arthur, then immediately lowered his head, mumbling softly: “Is there anything wrong with that?”

“I remember you liked reading Shakespeare?”

“Hmm…”

Arthur slowly exhaled a cloud of smoke: “If this letter reaches your hands, ponder it well. I am destined to be above you, but don’t fear nobility. Some are born noble, some achieve nobility through effort, and others become noble through circumstance.”

“”Twelfth Night,” Act 2, Scene 5.” Blackwell blurted out, but immediately he realized.

Because this passage is actually used to mock the butler Marflio’s vain ambition, satirizing his attempt to climb up to a noblewoman like Olivia, thereby elevating his own status.

Arthur looked at his flushed face, offering gentle advice: “Henry, I don’t mean to discourage you. But you must understand, people like us, no matter how splendid our clothes or fine our wine, our true colors are merely tools. A farmer remains a farmer without land, a worker can still work without a factory. But a diplomat without the job, is no longer a diplomat.”

Arthur deliberately tapped his pipe, shaking out the ash into a small portable box, then continued: “Henry, you’re aware of Sir David Eckett’s affairs. But have you ever considered, if we mishandle the relations with Russia, what kind of consequences it might lead to?”

Blackwell frowned: “We’re just implementing Foreign Office policies, besides, it’s Sir David who’s affecting diplomatic relations, the responsibility shouldn’t entirely fall on our Russian Embassy, right?”

Arthur chuckled, his gaze shifting to the vast snowy plain outside: “Who bears the responsibility is not up to us, so there’s no need to pass it on to others, since it’s futile anyway. The Tsar is never a tolerant person, if Britain’s actions displease him, he can order us to leave Russia at any time. And all of us, from me to you, from attaché to private secretary, will lose this identity. Without the Russian Embassy, who can you expect to pay your salary? Which noble lady would still be willing to dance with an unemployed secretary?”