[Illustration: See page 122"AS THOUGH SHE LISTENED STILL TO WORDS IN HER EARS"]

Lady Rose's Daughter

A Novel

BYMRS. HUMPHRY WARDAuthor of "Eleanor" "Robert Elsmere" etc. Etc. 

ILLUSTRATED BYHOWARD CHANDLER CHRISTY

1903

ILLUSTRATION"AS THOUGH SHE LISTENED STILL TO WORDS IN HER EARS" . . . . _Frontispiece_

"LADY HENRY LISTENED EAGERLY" . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . _Facing p_. 30

"'INDEED I WILL!' CRIED SIR WILFRID, AND THEY WALKED ON". . . . . . . 52

"LADY HENRY GASPED. SHE FELL BACK INTO HER CHAIR" . . . . . . . . . . 100

"HE ENTERED UPON A MERRY SCENE" . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 242

"'FOR MY ROSE'S CHILD, ' HE SAID, GENTLY". . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 254

"HER HANDS CLASPED IN FRONT OF HER" . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 356

"SHE FOUND HERSELF KNEELING BESIDE HIM" . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 480

LADY ROSE'S DAUGHTER

I

"Hullo! No!--Yes!--upon my soul, it _is_ Jacob! Why, Delafield, my dearfellow, how are you?"

So saying--on a February evening a good many years ago--an elderlygentleman in evening dress flung himself out of his cab, which had juststopped before a house in Bruton Street, and hastily went to meet ayoung man who was at the same moment stepping out of another hansom alittle farther down the pavement. 

The pleasure in the older man's voice rang clear, and the younger methim with an equal cordiality, expressed perhaps through a manner moreleisurely and restrained. 

"So you _are_ home, Sir Wilfrid? You were announced, I saw. But Ithought Paris would have detained you a bit. "

"Paris? Not I! Half the people I ever knew there are dead, and the restare uncivil. Well, and how are you getting on? Making your fortune, eh?"

And, slipping his arm inside the young man's, the speaker walked backwith him, along a line of carriages, towards a house which showed agroup of footmen at its open door. Jacob Delafield smiled. 

"The business of a land agent seems to be to spend some one else's--asfar as I've yet gone. "

"Land agent! I thought you were at the bar?"

"I was, but the briefs didn't come in. My cousin offered me the care ofhis Essex estates. I like the country--always have. So I thought I'dbetter accept. "

"What--the Duke? Lucky fellow! A regular income, and no anxieties. Iexpect you're pretty well paid?"

"Oh, I'm not badly paid, " replied the young man, tranquilly. "Of courseyou're going to Lady Henry's?"

"Of course. Here we are. "

The older man paused outside the line of servants waiting at the door, and spoke in a lower tone. "How is she? Failing at all?"

Jacob Delafield hesitated. "She's grown very blind--and perhaps rathermore infirm, generally. But she is at home, as usual--every evening fora few people, and for a good many on Wednesdays. "

"Is she still alone--or is there any relation who looks after her?"

"Relation? No. She detests them all. "

"Except you?"

Delafield raised his shoulders, without an answering smile. "Yes, she isgood enough to except me. You're one of her trustees, aren't you?"

"At present, the only one. But while I have been in Persia the lawyershave done all that was necessary. Lady Henry herself never writes aletter she can help. I really have heard next to nothing about her formore than a year. This morning I arrived from Paris--sent round to askif she would be at home--and here I am. "

"Ah!" said Delafield, looking down. "Well, there is a lady who has beenwith her, now, for more than two years--"

"Ah, yes, yes, I remember. Old Lady Seathwaite told me--last year. Mademoiselle Le Breton--isn't that her name? What--she reads to her, andwrites letters for her--that kind of thing?"

"Yes--that kind of thing, " said the other, after a moment's hesitation. "Wasn't that a spot of rain? Shall I charge these gentry?"

And he led the way through the line of footmen, which, however, was notof the usual Mayfair density. For the party within was not a "crush. "The hostess who had collected it was of opinion that the chief object ofyour house is not to entice the mob, but to keep it out. The two menmounted the stairs together. 

"What a charming house!" said the elder, looking round him. "I rememberwhen your uncle rebuilt it. And before that, I remember his mother, theold Duchess here, with her swarm of parsons. Upon my word, London tastesgood--after Teheran!"

And the speaker threw back his fair, grizzled head, regarding thelights, the house, the guests, with the air of a sensitive dog on afamiliar scent. 

"Ah, you're fresh home, " said Delafield, laughing. "But let's just tryto keep you here--"

"My dear fellow, who is that at the top of the stairs?"

The old diplomat paused. In front of the pair some half a dozen guestswere ascending, and as many coming down. At the top stood a tall lady inblack, receiving and dismissing. 

Delafield looked up. 

"That is Mademoiselle Le Breton, " he said, quietly. 

"She receives?"

"She distributes the guests. Lady Henry generally establishes herself inthe back drawing-room. It doesn't do for her to see too many people atonce. Mademoiselle arranges it. "

"Lady Henry must indeed be a good deal more helpless that I rememberher, " murmured Sir Wilfrid, in some astonishment. 

"She is, physically. Oh, no doubt of it! Otherwise you won't find muchchange. Shall I introduce you?"

They were approaching a woman whose tall slenderness, combined with aremarkable physiognomy, arrested the old man's attention. She was nothandsome--that, surely, was his first impression? The cheek-bones weretoo evident, the chin and mouth too strong. And yet the fine pallor ofthe skin, the subtle black-and-white, in which, so to speak, the headand face were drawn, the life, the animation of the whole--were thesenot beauty, or more than beauty? As for the eyes, the carriage of thehead, the rich magnificence of hair, arranged with an artfuleighteenth-century freedom, as Madame Vigée Le Brun might have wornit--with the second glance the effect of them was such that Sir Wilfridcould not cease from looking at the lady they adorned. It was an effectas of something over-living, over-brilliant--an animation, an intensity, so strong that, at first beholding, a by-stander could scarcely tellwhether it pleased him or no. 

"Mademoiselle Le Breton--Sir Wilfrid Bury, " said Jacob Delafield, introducing them. 

"_Is_ she French?" thought the old diplomat, puzzled. "And--have I everseen her before?"

"Lady Henry will be so glad!" said a low, agreeable voice. "You are oneof the old friends, aren't you? I have often heard her talk of you. "

"You are very good. Certainly, I am an old friend--a connection also. "There was the slightest touch of stiffness in Sir Wilfrid's tone, ofwhich the next moment he was ashamed. "I am very sorry to hear that LadyHenry has grown so much more helpless since I left England. "

"She has to be careful of fatigue. Two or three people go in to see herat a time. She enjoys them more so. "

"In my opinion, " said Delafield, "one more device of milady's forgetting precisely what she wants. "

The young man's gay undertone, together with the look which passedbetween him and Mademoiselle Le Breton, added to Sir Wilfrid's stifledfeeling of surprise. 

"You'll tell her, Jacob, that I'm here?" He turned abruptly to the youngman. 

"Certainly--when mademoiselle allows me. Ah, here comes the Duchess!"said Delafield, in another voice. 

Mademoiselle Le Breton, who had moved a few steps away from thestair-head with Sir Wilfrid Bury, turned hastily. A slight, small woman, delicately fair and sparkling with diamonds, was coming up thestairs alone. 

"My dear, " said the new-comer, holding out her hands eagerly toMademoiselle Le Breton, "I felt I must just run in and have a look atyou. But Freddie says that I've got to meet him at that tiresome ForeignOffice! So I can only stay ten minutes. How are you?"--then, in a lowervoice, almost a whisper, which, however, reached Sir Wilfrid Bury'sears--"worried to death?"

Mademoiselle Le Breton raised eyes and shoulders for a moment, then, smiling, put her finger to her lip. 

"You're coming to me to-morrow afternoon?" said the Duchess, in the samehalf-whisper. 

"I don't think I can get away. "

"Nonsense! My dear, you must have some air and exercise! Jacob, will yousee she comes?"

"Oh, I'm no good, " said that young man, turning away. "Duchess, youremember Sir Wilfrid Bury?"

"She would be an unnatural goddaughter if she didn't, " said thatgentleman, smiling. "She may be your cousin, but I knew her beforeyou did. "

The young Duchess turned with a start. 

"Sir Wilfrid! A sight for sair een. When did you get back?"

She put her slim hands into both of his, and showered upon him allproper surprise and the greetings due to her father's oldest friend. Voice, gesture, words--all were equally amiable, well trained, andperfunctory--Sir Wilfrid was well aware of it. He was possessed of afine, straw-colored mustache, and long eyelashes of the same color. Botheyelashes and mustache made a screen behind which, as was well known, their owner observed the world to remarkably good purpose. He perceivedthe difference at once when the Duchess, having done her social andfamily duty, left him to return to Mademoiselle Le Breton. 

"It _was_ such a bore you couldn't come this afternoon! I wanted you tosee the babe dance--she's _too_ great a duck! And that Canadian girlcame to sing. The voice is magnificent--but she has some tiresometricks!--and _I_ didn't know what to say to her. As to the other musicon the 16th--I say, can't we find a corner somewhere?" And the Duchesslooked round the beautiful drawing-room, which she and her companionshad just entered, with a dissatisfied air. 

"Lady Henry, you'll remember, doesn't like corners, " said MademoiselleLe Breton, smiling. Her tone, delicately free and allusive, once moredrew Sir Wilfrid's curious eyes to her, and he caught also the impatientgesture with which the Duchess received the remark. 

"Ah, that's all right!" said Mademoiselle Le Breton, suddenly, turninground to himself. "Here is Mr. Montresor--going on, too, I suppose, tothe Foreign Office. Now there'll be some chance of getting atLady Henry. "

Sir Wilfrid looked down the drawing-room, to see the famous War Ministercoming slowly through the well-filled but not crowded room, stopping nowand then to exchange a greeting or a farewell, and much hampered, as itseemed, in so doing, by a pronounced and disfiguring short-sight. He wasa strongly built man of more than middle height. His iron-gray hair, deeply carved features, and cavernous black eyes gave him the air ofpower that his reputation demanded. On the other hand, his difficulty ofeyesight, combined with the marked stoop of overwork, produced aqualifying impression--as of power teased and fettered, a Samson amongthe Philistines. 

"My dear lady, good-night. I must go and fight with wild beasts inWhitehall--worse luck! Ah, Duchess! All very well--but you can'tshirk either!"

So saying, Mr. Montresor shook hands with Mademoiselle Le Breton andsmiled upon the Duchess--both actions betraying precisely the samedegree of playful intimacy. 

"How did you find Lady Henry?" said Mademoiselle Le Breton, in a loweredvoice. 

"Very well, but very cross. She scolds me perpetually--I haven't got askin left. Ah, Sir Wilfrid!--_very_ glad to see you! When did youarrive? I thought I might perhaps find you at the Foreign Office. "

"I'm going on there presently, " said Sir Wilfrid. 

"Ah, but that's no good. Dine with me to-morrow night?--if you are free?Excellent!--that's arranged. Meanwhile--send him in, mademoiselle--sendhim in! He's fresh--let him take his turn. " And the Minister, grinning, pointed backward over his shoulder towards an inner drawing-room, wherethe form of an old lady, seated in a wheeled invalid-chair between twoother persons, could be just dimly seen. 

"When the Bishop goes, " said Mademoiselle Le Breton, with a laughingshake of the head. "But I told him not to stay long. "

"He won't want to. Lady Henry pays no more attention to his cloth thanto my gray hairs. The rating she has just given me for my speech of lastnight! Well, good-night, dear lady--good-night. You _are_ better, I think?"

Mr. Montresor threw a look of scrutiny no less friendly than earnest atthe lady to whom he was speaking; and immediately afterwards SirWilfrid, who was wedged in by an entering group of people, caught themurmured words:

"Consult me when you want me--at any time. "

Mademoiselle Le Breton raised her beautiful eyes to the speaker in amute gratitude. 

"And five minutes ago I thought her plain!" said Sir Wilfrid to himselfas he moved away. "Upon my word, for a _dame de compagnie_ that youngwoman is at her ease! But where the deuce have I seen her, or herdouble, before?"

He paused to look round the room a moment, before yielding himself toone of the many possible conversations which, as he saw, it containedfor him. It was a stately panelled room of the last century, furnishedwith that sure instinct both for comfort and beauty which a smallminority of English rich people have always possessed. Two gloriousGainsboroughs, clad in the subtlest brilliance of pearly white andshimmering blue, hung on either side of the square opening leading tothe inner room. The fair, clouded head of a girl, by Romney, looked downfrom the panelling above the hearth. A gowned abbé, by Vandyck, made thecentre of another wall, facing the Gainsboroughs. The pictures were allfamous, and had been associated for generations with the Delafield name. Beneath them the carpets were covered by fine eighteenth-centuryfurniture, much of it of a florid Italian type subdued to a delicate andfaded beauty by time and use. The room was cleverly broken into variouscircles and centres for conversation; the chairs were many andcomfortable; flowers sheltered tête-à-têtes or made a setting forbeautiful faces; the lamps were soft, the air warm and light. A cheerfulhum of voices rose, as of talk enjoyed for talking's sake; and a generaleffect of intimacy, or gayety, of an unfeigned social pleasure, seemedto issue from the charming scene and communicate itself to the onlooker. 

And for a few moments, before he was discovered and tumultuously annexedby a neighboring group, Sir Wilfrid watched the progress of MademoiselleLe Breton through the room, with the young Duchess in her wake. Wherevershe moved she was met with smiles, deference, and eager attention. Hereand there she made an introduction, she redistributed a group, she moveda chair. It was evident that her eye was everywhere, that she knew everyone; her rule appeared to be at once absolute and welcome. Presently, when she herself accepted a seat, she became, as Sir Wilfrid perceivedin the intervals of his own conversation, the leader of the mostanimated circle in the room. The Duchess, with one delicate armstretched along the back of Mademoiselle Le Breton's chair, laughed andchattered; two young girls in virginal white placed themselves on biggilt footstools at her feet; man after man joined the group that stoodor sat around her; and in the centre of it, the brilliance of her blackhead, sharply seen against a background of rose brocade, the grace ofher tall form, which was thin almost to emaciation, the expressivenessof her strange features, the animation of her gestures, the sweetness ofher voice, drew the eyes and ears of half the room to Lady Henry's"companion. "

Presently there was a movement in the distance. A man in knee-breechesand silver-buckled shoes emerged from the back drawing-room. Mademoiselle Le Breton rose at once and went to meet him. 

"The Bishop has had a long innings, " said an old general to Sir WilfridBury. "And here is Mademoiselle Julie coming for you. "

Sir Wilfrid rose, in obedience to a smiling sign from the lady thusdescribed, and followed her floating black draperies towards thefarther room. 

"Who are those two persons with Lady Henry?" he asked of his guide, asthey approached the _penetralia_ where reigned the mistress of thehouse. "Ah, I see!--one is Dr. Meredith--but the other?"

"The other is Captain Warkworth, " said Mademoiselle Le Breton. "Do youknow him?"

"Warkworth--Warkworth? Ah--of course--the man who distinguished himselfin the Mahsud expedition. But why is he home again so soon?"

Mademoiselle Le Breton smiled uncertainly. 

"I think he was invalided home, " she said, with that manner, at oncerestrained and gracious, that Sir Wilfrid had already observed in her. It was the manner of some one who _counted_; and--through all outwardmodesty--knew it. 

"He wants something out of the ministry. I remember the man, " was SirWilfrid's unspoken comment. 

But they had entered the inner room. Lady Henry looked round. Over herwrinkled face, now parchment-white, there shone a ray ofpleasure--sudden, vehement, and unfeigned. 

"Sir Wilfrid!"

She made a movement as though to rise from her chair, which was checkedby his gesture and her helplessness. 

"Well, this is good fortune, " she said, as she put both her hands intoboth of his. "This morning, as I was dressing, I had a feeling thatsomething agreeable was going to happen at last--and then your notecame. Sit down there. You know Dr. Meredith. He's as quarrelsome asever. Captain Warkworth--Sir Wilfrid Bury. "

The square-headed, spectacled journalist addressed as Dr. Meredithgreeted the new-comer with the quiet cordiality of one for whom the dayholds normally so many events that it is impossible to make much of anyone of them. And the man on the farther side of Lady Henry rose andbowed. He was handsome, and slenderly built. The touch of impetuosity inhis movement, and the careless ease with which he carried his curlyhead, somehow surprised Sir Wilfrid. He had expected another sortof person. 

"I will give you my chair, " said the Captain, pleasantly. "I have hadmore than my turn. "

"Shall I bring in the Duchess?" said Mademoiselle Le Breton, in a lowtone, as she stooped over the back of Lady Henry's chair. 

That lady turned abruptly to the speaker. 

"Let her do precisely as she pleases, " said a voice, sharp, loweredalso, but imperious, like the drawing of a sword. "If she wants me, sheknows where I am. "

"She would be so sorry--"

"Ne jouez pas la comédie, ma chère! Where is Jacob?"

"In the other room. Shall I tell him you want him?"

"I will send for him when it suits me. Meanwhile, as I particularlydesired you to let me know when he arrived--"

"He has only been here twenty minutes, " murmured Mademoiselle Le Breton. "I thought while the Bishop was here you would not like to bedisturbed--"

"You thought!" The speaker raised her shoulders fiercely. "Commetoujours, vous vous êtes trop bien amusée pour vous souvenir de mesinstructions--voilà la vérité! Dr. Meredith, " the whole imperious formswung round again towards the journalist, "unless you forbid me, I shalltell Sir Wilfrid who it was reviewed his book for you. "

"Oh, good Heavens! I forbid you with all the energy of which I amcapable, " said the startled journalist, raising appealing hands, whileLady Henry, delighted with the effect produced by her sudden shaft, sankback in her chair and grimly smiled. 

Meanwhile Sir Wilfrid Bury's attention was still held by Mademoiselle LeBreton. In the conversation between her and Lady Henry he had noticed anextraordinary change of manner on the part of the younger lady. Herease, her grace had disappeared. Her tone was humble, her mannerquivering with nervous anxiety. And now, as she stood a moment behindLady Henry's chair, one trembling hand steadying the other, Sir Wilfridwas suddenly aware of yet another impression. Lady Henry had treated hercompanion with a contemptuous and haughty ill-humor. Face to face withher mistress, Mademoiselle Le Breton had borne it with submission, almost with servility. But now, as she stood silent behind the blind oldlady who had flouted her, her wonderfully expressive face, her delicateframe, spoke for her with an energy not to be mistaken. Her dark eyesblazed. She stood for anger; she breathed humiliation. 

"A dangerous woman, and an extraordinary situation, " so ran his thought, while aloud he was talking Central Asian politics and the latest Simlagossip to his two companions. 

Meanwhile, Captain Warkworth and Mademoiselle Le Breton returnedtogether to the larger drawing-room, and before long Dr. Meredith tookhis leave. Lady Henry and her old friend were left alone. 

"I am sorry to hear that your sight troubles you more than of old, " saidSir Wilfrid, drawing his chair a little nearer to her. 

Lady Henry gave an impatient sigh. "Everything troubles me more than ofold. There is one disease from which no one recovers, my dear Wilfrid, and it has long since fastened upon me. "

"You mean old age? Oh, you are not so much to be pitied for that, " saidSir Wilfrid, smiling. "Many people would exchange their youth foryour old age. "

"Then the world contains more fools than even I give it credit for!"said Lady Henry, with energy. "Why should any one exchange with me--apoor, blind, gouty old creature, with no chick or child to care whethershe lives or dies?"

"Ah, well, that's a misfortune--I won't deny that, " said Sir Wilfrid, kindly. "But I come home after three years. I find your house asthronged as ever, in the old way. I see half the most distinguishedpeople in London in your drawing-room. It is sad that you can no longerreceive them as you used to do: but here you sit like a queen, andpeople fight for their turn with you. "

Lady Henry did not smile. She laid one of her wrinkled hands upon hisarm. 

"Is there any one else within hearing?" she said, in a quick undertone. Sir Wilfrid was touched by the vague helplessness of her gesture, as shelooked round her. 

"No one--we are quite alone. "

"They are not here for _me_--those people, " she said, quivering, with amotion of her hand towards the large drawing-room. 

"My dear friend, what do you mean?"

"They are here--come closer, I don't want to be overheard--for a_woman_--whom I took in, in a moment of lunacy--who is now robbing me ofmy best friends and supplanting me in my own house. "

The pallor of the old face had lost all its waxen dignity. The loweredvoice hissed in his ear. Sir Wilfrid, startled and repelled, hesitatedfor his reply. Meanwhile, Lady Henry, who could not see it, seemed atonce to divine the change in his expression. 

"Oh, I suppose you think I'm mad, " she said, impatiently, "orridiculous. Well, see for yourself, judge for yourself. In fact, I havebeen looking, hungering, for your return. You have helped me throughemergencies before now. And I am in that state at present that I trustno one, talk to no one, except of _banalités_. But I should be greatlyobliged if _you_ would come and listen to me, and, what is more, adviseme some day. "

"Most gladly, " said Sir Wilfrid, embarrassed; then, after a pause, "Whois this lady I find installed here?"

Lady Henry hesitated, then shut her strong mouth on the temptation tospeak. 

"It is not a story for to-night, " she said; "and it would upset me. But, when you first saw her, how did she strike you?"

"I saw at once, " said her companion after a pause, "that you had caughta personality. "

"A personality!" Lady Henry gave an angry laugh. "That's one way ofputting it. But physically--did she remind you of no one?"

Sir Wilfrid pondered a moment. 

"Yes. Her face haunted me, when I first saw it. But--no; no, I can't putany names. "

Lady Henry gave a little snort of disappointment. 

"Well, think. You knew her mother quite well. You have known hergrandfather all your life. If you're going on to the Foreign Office, asI suppose you are, you'll probably see him to-night. She is uncannilylike him. As to her father, I don't know--but he was a rolling-stone ofa creature; you very likely came across him. "

"I knew her mother and her father?" said Sir Wilfrid, astonished andpondering. 

"They had no right to be her mother and her father, " said Lady Henry, with grimness. 

"Ah! So if one does guess--"

"You'll please hold your tongue. "

"But at present I'm completely mystified, " said Sir Wilfrid. 

"Perhaps it'll come to you later. You've a good memory generally forsuch things. Anyway, I can't tell you anything now. But when'll you comeagain? To-morrow--luncheon? I really want you. "

"Would you be alone?"

"Certainly. _That_, at least, I can still do--lunch as I please, andwith whom I please. Who is this coming in? Ah, you needn't tell me. "

The old lady turned herself towards the entrance, with a stiffening ofthe whole frame, an instinctive and passionate dignity in her wholeaspect, which struck a thrill through her companion. 

The little Duchess approached, amid a flutter of satin and lace, heralded by the scent of the Parma violets she wore in profusion at herbreast and waist. Her eye glanced uncertainly, and she approached withdaintiness, like one stepping on mined ground. 

"Aunt Flora, I must have just a minute. "

"I know no reason against your having ten, if you want them, " said LadyHenry, as she held-out three fingers to the new-comer. "You promisedyesterday to come and give me a full account of the Devonshire Houseball. But it doesn't matter--and you have forgotten. "

"No, indeed, I haven't, " said the Duchess, embarrassed. "But you seemedso well employed to-night, with other people. And now--"

"Now you are going on, " said Lady Henry, with a most unfriendly suavity. 

"Freddie says I must, " said the other, in the attitude of a protestingchild. 

"_Alors_!" said Lady Henry, lifting her hand. "We all know how obedientyou are. Good-night!"

The Duchess flushed. She just touched her aunt's hand, and then, turningan indignant face on Sir Wilfrid, she bade him farewell with an airwhich seemed to him intended to avenge upon his neutral person thetreatment which, from Lady Henry, even so spoiled a child of fortune asherself could not resent. 

Twenty minutes later, Sir Wilfrid entered the first big room of theForeign Office party. He looked round him with a revival of theexhilaration he had felt on Lady Henry's staircase, enjoying, after hisfive years in Teheran, after his long homeward journey by desert andsea, even the common trivialities of the scene--the lights, the gilding, the sparkle of jewels, the scarlet of the uniforms, the noise andmovement of the well-dressed crowd. Then, after this first physicalthrill, began the second stage of pleasure--the recognitions and thegreetings, after long absence, which show a man where he stands in thegreat world, which sum up his past and forecast his future. Sir Wilfridhad no reason to complain. Cabinet ministers and great ladies, membersof Parliament and the permanent officials who govern but do not rule, soldiers, journalists, barristers--were all glad, it seemed, to grasphim by the hand. He had returned with a record of difficult servicebrilliantly done, and the English world rewarded him in itsaccustomed ways. 

It was towards one o'clock that he found himself in a crowd pressingtowards the staircase in the wake of some departing royalties. A tallman in front turned round to look for some ladies behind him from whomhe had been separated in the crush. Sir Wilfrid recognized old LordLackington, the veteran of marvellous youth, painter, poet, and sailor, who as a gay naval lieutenant had entertained Byron in the Ægean; whosefame as one of the raciest of naval reformers was in all the newspapers;whose personality was still, at seventy-five, charming to most women andchallenging to most men. 

As the old man turned, he was still smiling, as though in unison withsomething which had just been said to him; and his black eyes under hissingularly white hair searched the crowd with the animation of a lad oftwenty. Through the energy of his aspect the flame of life stillburned, as the evening sun through a fine sky. The face had a faulty yetmost arresting brilliance. The mouth was disagreeable, the chin common. But the general effect was still magnificent. 

Sir Wilfrid started. He recalled the drawing-room in Bruton Street; theform and face of Mademoiselle Le Breton; the sentences by which LadyHenry had tried to put him on the track. His mind ran over past years, and pieced together the recollections of a long-past scandal. "Ofcourse! _Of course!_" he said to himself, not without excitement. "Sheis not like her mother, but she has all the typical points of hermother's race. "

II

It was a cold, clear morning in February, with a little pale sunshineplaying on the bare trees of the Park. Sir Wilfrid, walking southwardfrom the Marble Arch to his luncheon with Lady Henry, was gladlyconscious of the warmth of his fur-collared coat, though none the lessready to envy careless youth as it crossed his path now and then, great-coatless and ruddy, courting the keen air. 

Just as he was about to make his exit towards Mount Street he becameaware of two persons walking southward like himself, but on the otherside of the roadway. He soon identified Captain Warkworth in the slim, soldierly figure of the man. And the lady? There also, with the help ofhis glasses, he was soon informed. Her trim, black hat and her blackcloth costume seemed to him to have a becoming and fashionablesimplicity; and she moved in morning dress, with the same ease andfreedom that had distinguished her in Lady Henry's drawing-room thenight before. 

He asked himself whether he should interrupt Mademoiselle Le Breton witha view to escorting her to Bruton Street. He understood, indeed, that heand Lady Henry were to be alone at luncheon; Mademoiselle Julie had, nodoubt, her own quarters and attendants. But she seemed to be on her wayhome. An opportunity for some perhaps exploratory conversation with herbefore he found himself face to face with Lady Henry seemed to him notundesirable. 

But he quickly decided to walk on. Mademoiselle Le Breton and CaptainWarkworth paused in their walk, about no doubt to say good-bye, but, very clearly, loath to say it. They were, indeed, in earnestconversation. The Captain spoke with eagerness; Mademoiselle Julie, withdowncast eyes, smiled and listened. 

"Is the fellow making love to her?" thought the old man, in someastonishment, as he turned away. "Hardly the place for it either, onewould suppose. "

He vaguely thought that he would both sound and warn Lady Henry. Warnher of what? He happened on the way home to have been thrown with acouple of Indian officers whose personal opinion of Harry Warkworth wasnot a very high one, in spite of the brilliant distinction which theyoung man had earned for himself in the Afridi campaign just closed. Buthow was he to hand that sort of thing on to Lady Henry?--and because hehappened to have seen her lady companion and Harry Warkworth together?No doubt Mademoiselle Julie was on her employer's business. 

Yet the little encounter added somehow to his already lively curiosityon the subject of Lady Henry's companion. Thanks to a remarkablephysical resemblance, he was practically certain that he had guessed thesecret of Mademoiselle Le Breton's parentage. At any rate, on thesupposition that he had, his thoughts began to occupy themselves withthe story to which his guess pointed. 

Some thirty years before, he had known, both in London and in Italy, acertain Colonel Delaney and his wife, once Lady Rose Chantrey, thefavorite daughter of Lord Lackington. They were not a happy couple. Shewas a woman of great intelligence, but endowed with one of thosenatures--sensitive, plastic, eager to search out and to challengelife--which bring their possessors some great joys, hardly to bebalanced against a final sum of pain. Her husband, absorbed in hismilitary life, silent, narrowly able, and governed by a strictAnglicanism that seemed to carry with it innumerable "shalts" and "shaltnots, " disagreeable to the natural man or woman, soon found her a tiringand trying companion. She asked him for what he could not give; shecoquetted with questions he thought it impious to raise; the persons shemade friends with were distasteful to him; and, without complaining, hesoon grew to think it intolerable that a woman married to a soldiershould care so little for his professional interests and ambitions. Though when she pretended to care for them she annoyed him, if possible, still more. 

As for Lady Rose, she went through all the familiar emotions of the_femme incomprise_. And with the familiar result. There presentlyappeared in the house a man of good family, thirty-five or so, traveller, painter, and dreamer, with fine, long-drawn features bronzedby the sun of the East, and bringing with him the reputation of havingplotted and fought for most of the "lost causes" of our generation, including several which had led him into conflict with Britishauthorities and British officials. To Colonel Delaney he was an"agitator, " if not a rebel; and the careless pungency of his talk soonclassed him as an atheist besides. In the case of Lady Rose, this man'sfree and generous nature, his independence of money and convention, hispassion for the things of the mind, his contempt for the mode, whetherin dress or politics, his light evasions of the red tape of life as ofsomething that no one could reasonably expect of a vagabond likehimself--these things presently transformed a woman in despair to awoman in revolt. She fell in love with an intensity befitting her truetemperament, and with a stubbornness that bore witness to the drearyfailure of her marriage. Marriott Dalrymple returned her love, andnothing in his view of life predisposed him to put what probablyappeared to him a mere legality before the happiness of two people meantfor each other. There were no children of the Delaney marriage; and inhis belief the husband had enjoyed too long a companionship he had nevertruly deserved. 

So Lady Rose faced her husband, told him the truth, and left him. Sheand Dalrymple went to live in Belgium, in a small country-house sometwenty or thirty miles from Brussels. They severed themselves fromEngland; they asked nothing more of English life. Lady Rose sufferedfrom the breach with her father, for Lord Lackington never saw heragain. And there was a young sister whom she had brought up, whose imagecould often rouse in her a sense of loss that showed itself inoccasional spells of silence and tears. But substantially she neverrepented what she had done, although Colonel Delaney made the penaltiesof it as heavy as he could. Like Karennine in Tolstoy's great novel, herefused to sue for a divorce, and for something of the same reasons. Divorce was in itself impious, and sin should not be made easy. He wasat any time ready to take back his wife, so far as the protection ofhis name and roof were concerned, should she penitently return to him. 

So the child that was presently born to Lady Rose could not belegitimized. 

Sir Wilfrid stopped short at the Park end of Bruton Street, with a startof memory. 

"I saw it once! I remember now--perfectly. "

And he went on to recall a bygone moment in the Brussels Gallery, when, as he was standing before the great Quintin Matsys, he was accosted withsudden careless familiarity by a thin, shabbily dressed man, in whosedark distinction, made still more fantastic and conspicuous by the feverand the emaciation of consumption, he recognized at once MarriottDalrymple. 

He remembered certain fragments of their talk about the pictures--theeasy mastery, now brusque, now poetic, with which Dalrymple had shownhim the treasures of the gallery, in the manner of one whose learningwas merely the food of fancy, the stuff on which imagination and reveriegrew rich. 

Then, suddenly, his own question--"And Lady Rose?"

And Dalrymple's quiet, "Very well. She'd see you, I think, if you wantto come. She has scarcely seen an English person in the lastthree years. "

And as when a gleam searches out some blurred corner of a landscape, there returned upon him his visit to the pair in their country home. Herecalled the small eighteenth-century house, the "château" of thevillage, built on the French model, with its high _mansarde_ roof; theshabby stateliness of its architecture matching plaintively with thefield of beet-root that grew up to its very walls; around it the flat, rich fields, with their thin lines of poplars; the slow, canalizedstreams; the unlovely farms and cottages; the mire of the lanes; and, shrouding all, a hot autumn mist sweeping slowly through the dampmeadows and blotting all cheerfulness from the sun. And in the midst ofthis pale landscape, so full of ragged edges to an English eye, theEnglish couple, with their books, their child, and a pair ofFlemish servants. 

It had been evident to him at once that their circumstances were thoseof poverty. Lady Rose's small fortune, indeed, had been already mostlyspent on "causes" of many kinds, in many countries. She and Dalrymplewere almost vegetarians, and wine never entered the house save for theservants, who seemed to regard their employers with a real buthalf-contemptuous affection. He remembered the scanty, ill-cookedluncheon; the difficulty in providing a few extra knives and forks; thewrangling with the old _bonne_-housekeeper, which was necessary before_serviettes_ could be produced. 

And afterwards the library, with its deal shelves from floor to ceilingput up by Dalrymple himself, its bare, polished floor, Dalrymple's tableand chair on one side of the open hearth, Lady Rose's on the other; onhis table the sheets of verse translation from Æschylus and Euripides, which represented his favorite hobby; on hers the socialist andeconomical books they both studied and the English or French poets theyboth loved. The walls, hung with the faded damask of a past generation, were decorated with a strange crop of pictures pinned carelessly intothe silk--photographs or newspaper portraits of modern men and womenrepresenting all possible revolt against authority, political, religious, even scientific, the Everlasting No of an untiring andubiquitous dissent. 

Finally, in the centre of the polished floor, the strange child, whomLady Rose had gone to fetch after lunch, with its high crest of blackhair, its large, jealous eyes, its elfin hands, and the sudden smilewith which, after half an hour of silence and apparent scorn, it hadrewarded Sir Wilfrid's advances. He saw himself sitting bewitchedbeside it. 

Poor Lady Rose! He remembered her as he and she parted at the gate ofthe neglected garden, the anguish in her eyes as they turned to lookafter the bent and shrunken figure of Dalrymple carrying the child backto the house. 

"If you meet any of his old friends, don't--don't say anything! We'vejust saved enough money to go to Sicily for the winter--that'll sethim right. "

And then, barely a year later, the line in a London newspaper which hadreached him at Madrid, chronicling the death of Marriott Dalrymple, asof a man once on the threshold of fame, but long since exiled from thethoughts of practical men. Lady Rose, too, was dead--many years since;so much he knew. But how, and where? And the child?

She was now "Mademoiselle Le Breton "?--the centre and apparently thechief attraction of Lady Henry's once famous salon?

"And, by Jove! several of her kinsfolk there, relations of the mother orthe father, if what I suppose is true!" thought Sir Wilfrid, rememberingone or two of the guests. "Were they--was she--aware of it?"

 * * * * *

The old man strode on, full of a growing eagerness, and was soon on LadyHenry's doorstep. 

"Her ladyship is in the dining-room, " said the butler, and Sir Wilfridwas ushered there straight. 

"Good-morning, Wilfrid, " said the old lady, raising herself on hersilver--headed sticks as he entered. "I prefer to come down-stairs bymyself. The more infirm I am, the less I like it--and to be helpedenrages me. Sit down. Lunch is ready, and I give you leave to eat some. "

"And you?" said Sir Wilfrid, as they seated themselves almost side byside at the large, round table in the large, dingy room. 

The old lady shook her head. 

"All the world eats too much. I was brought up with people who lunchedon a biscuit and a glass of sherry. "

"Lord Russell?--Lord Palmerston?" suggested Sir Wilfrid, attacking hisown lunch meanwhile with unabashed vigor. 

"That sort. I wish we had their like now. "

"Their successors don't please you?"

Lady Henry shook her head. 

"The Tories have gone to the deuce, and there are no longer enough Whigseven to do that. I wouldn't read the newspapers at all if I could helpit. But I do. "

"So I understand, " said Sir Wilfrid; "you let Montresor know it lastnight. "

"Montresor!" said Lady Henry, with a contemptuous movement. "What a_poseur_! He lets the army go to ruin, I understand, while he joinsDante societies. "

Sir Wilfrid raised his eyebrows. 

"I think, if I were you, I should have some lunch, " he said, gentlypushing the admirable _salmi_ which the butler had left in front of himtowards his old friend. 

Lady Henry laughed. 

"Oh, my temper will be better presently, when those men are gone"--shenodded towards the butler and footman in the distance--"and I canhave my say. "

Sir Wilfrid hurried his meal as much as Lady Henry--who, as it turnedout, was not at all minded to starve him--would allow. She meanwhiletalked politics and gossip to him, with her old, caustic force, nibblinga dry biscuit at intervals and sipping a cup of coffee. She was awilful, characteristic figure as she sat there, beneath her own portraitas a bride, which hung on the wall behind her. The portrait representeda very young woman, with plentiful brown hair gathered into a knot onthe top of her head, a high waist, a blue waist-ribbon, and inflatedsleeves. Handsome, imperious, the corners of the mouth well down, thelook straight and daring--the Lady Henry of the picture, a bride ofnineteen, was already formidable. And the old woman sitting beneath it, with the strong, white hair, which the ample cap found some difficultyeven now in taming and confining, the droop of the mouth accentuated, the nose more masterful, the double chin grown evident, the light of theeyes gone out, breathed pride and will from every feature of her stillhandsome face, pride of race and pride of intellect, combined with ahundred other subtler and smaller prides that only an intimate knowledgeof her could detect. The brow and eyes, so beautiful in the picture, were, however, still agreeable in the living woman; if generositylingered anywhere, it was in them. 

The door was hardly closed upon the servants when she bent forward. 

"Well, have you guessed?"

Sir Wilfrid looked at her thoughtfully as he stirred the sugar in hiscoffee. 

"I think so, " he said. "She is Lady Rose Delaney's daughter. "

Lady Henry gave a sudden laugh. 

"I hardly expected you to guess! What helped you?"

"First your own hints. Then the strange feeling I had that I had seenthe face, or some face just like it, before. And, lastly, at the ForeignOffice I caught sight, for a moment, of Lord Lackington. Thatfinished it. "

"Ah!" said Lady Henry, with a nod. "Yes, that likeness is extraordinary. Isn't it amazing that that foolish old man has never perceived it?"

"He knows nothing?"

"Oh, nothing! Nobody does. However, that'll do presently. But LordLackington comes here, mumbles about his music and his water-colors, andhis flirtations--seventy-four, if you please, last birthday!--talksabout himself endlessly to Julie or to me--whoever comes handy--andnever has an inkling, an idea. "

"And she?"

"Oh, _she_ knows. I should rather think she does. " And Lady Henry pushedaway her coffee-cup with the ill-suppressed vehemence which any mentionof her companion seemed to produce in her. "Well, now, I suppose you'dlike to hear the story. "

"Wait a minute. It'll surprise you to hear that I not only knew thislady's mother and father, but that I've seen her, herself, before. "

"You?" Lady Henry looked incredulous. 

"I never told you of my visit to that _ménage_, four-and-twenty yearsago?"

"Never, that I remember. But if you had I should have forgotten. Whatdid they matter to me then? I myself only saw Lady Rose once, so far asI remember, before she misconducted herself. And afterwards--well, onedoesn't trouble one's self about the women that have gone under. "

Something lightened behind Sir Wilfrid's straw-colored lashes. He bentover his coffee-cup and daintily knocked off the end of his cigarettewith a beringed little finger. 

"The women who have--not been able to pull up?"

Lady Henry paused. 

"If you like to put it so, " she said, at last. Sir Wilfrid did not raisehis eyes. Lady Henry took up her strongest glasses from the table andput them on. But it was pitifully evident that even so equipped she sawbut little, and that her strong nature fretted perpetually against thephysical infirmity that teased it. Nevertheless, some unspokencommunication passed between them, and Sir Wilfrid knew that he hadeffectually held up a protecting hand for Lady Rose. 

"Well, let me tell you my tale first, " he said; and gave the littlereminiscence in full. When he described the child, Lady Henrylistened eagerly. 

"Hm, " she said, when he came to an end; "she was jealous, you say, ofher mother's attentions to you? She watched you, and in the end she tookpossession of you? Much the same creature, apparently, then as now. "

"No moral, please, till the tale is done, " said Sir Wilfrid, smiling. "It's your turn. "

Lady Henry's face grew sombre. 

[Illustration: "LADY HENRY LISTENED EAGERLY"]

"All very well, " she said. "What did your tale matter to you? As formine--"

The substance of hers was as follows, put into chronological order:

Lady Rose had lived some ten years after Dalrymple's death. That timeshe passed in great poverty in some _chambres garnies_ at Bruges, withher little girl and an old Madame Le Breton, the maid, housekeeper, andgeneral factotum who had served them in the country. This woman, thoughof a peevish, grumbling temper, was faithful, affectionate, and notwithout education. She was certainly attached to little Julie, whosenurse she had been during a short period of her infancy. It was naturalthat Lady Rose should leave the child to her care. Indeed, she had nochoice. An old Ursuline nun, and a kind priest who at the nun'sinstigation occasionally came to see her, in the hopes of convertingher, were her only other friends in the world. She wrote, however, toher father, shortly before her death, bidding him good-bye, and askinghim to do something for the child. "She is wonderfully like you, " so ranpart of the letter. "You won't ever acknowledge her, I know. That isyour strange code. But at least give her what will keep her from want, till she can earn her living. Her old nurse will take care of her, Ihave taught her, so far. She is already very clever. When I am gone shewill attend one of the convent schools here. And I have found an honestlawyer who will receive and pay out money. "

To this letter Lord Lackington replied, promising to come over and seehis daughter. But an attack of gout delayed him, and, before he was outof his room, Lady Rose was dead. Then he no longer talked of comingover, and his solicitors arranged matters. An allowance of a hundredpounds a year was made to Madame Le Breton, through the "honest lawyer"whom Lady Rose had found, for the benefit of "Julie Dalrymple, " thecapital value to be handed over to that young lady herself on theattainment of her eighteenth birthday--always provided that neither shenor anybody on her behalf made any further claim on the Lackingtonfamily, that her relationship to them was dropped, and her mother'shistory buried in oblivion. 

Accordingly the girl grew to maturity in Bruges. By the lawyer's advice, after her mother's death, she took the name of her old _gouvernante_, and was known thenceforward as Julie Le Breton. The Ursuline nuns, towhose school she was sent, took the precaution, after her mother'sdeath, of having her baptized straightway into the Catholic faith, andshe made her _première communion_ in their church. In the course of afew years she became a remarkable girl, the source of many anxieties tothe nuns. For she was not only too clever for their teaching, and aninborn sceptic, but wherever she appeared she produced parties and thepassions of parties. And though, as she grew older, she showed muchadroitness in managing those who were hostile to her, she was neverwithout enemies, and intrigues followed her. 

"I might have been warned in time, " said Lady Henry, in whose wrinkledcheeks a sharp and feverish color had sprung up as her story approachedthe moment of her own personal acquaintance with Mademoiselle Le Breton. "For one or two of the nuns when I saw them in Bruges, before thebargain was finally struck, were candid enough. However, now I come tothe moment when I first set eyes on her. You know my little place inSurrey? About a mile from me is a manor-house belonging to an oldCatholic family, terribly devout and as poor as church-mice. They senttheir daughters to school in Bruges. One summer holiday these girlsbrought home with them Julie Dalrymple as their quasi-holiday governess. It was three years ago. I had just seen Liebreich. He told me that Ishould soon be blind, and, naturally, it was a blow to me. "

Sir Wilfrid made a murmur of sympathy. 

"Oh, don't pity me! I don't pity other people. This odious body of ourshas got to wear out sometime--it's in the bargain. Still, just then Iwas low. There are two things I care about--one is talk, with the peoplethat amuse me, and the other is the reading of French books. I didn'tsee how I was going to keep my circle here together, and my own mind indecent repair, unless I could find somebody to be eyes for me, and toread to me. And as I'm a bundle of nerves, and I never was agreeable toilliterate people, nor they to me, I was rather put to it. Well, one daythese girls and their mother came over to tea, and, as you guess, ofcourse, they brought Mademoiselle Le Breton with them. I had asked themto come, but when they arrived I was bored and cross, and like a sickdog in a hole. And then, as you have seen her, I suppose you can guesswhat happened. "

"You discovered an exceptional person?"

Lady Henry laughed. 

"I was limed, there and then, old bird as I am. I was first struck withthe girl's appearance--_une belle laide_--with every movement just as itought to be; infinitely more attractive to me than any pink-and-whitebeauty. It turned out that she had just been for a month in Pariswith another school-fellow. Something she said about a newplay--suddenly--made me look at her. 'Venez vous asseoir ici, mademoiselle, s'il vous plaît--près de moi, ' I said to her--I can hearmy own voice now, poor fool, and see her flush up. Ah!" Lady Henry'sinterjection dropped to a note of rage that almost upset Sir Wilfrid'sgravity; but he restrained himself, and she resumed: "We talked for twohours; it seemed to me ten minutes. I sent the others out to thegardens. She stayed with me. The new French books, the theatre, poems, plays, novels, memoirs, even politics, she could talk of them all; or, rather--for, mark you, that's her gift--she made _me_ talk. It seemed tome I had not been so brilliant for months. I was as good, in fact, as Ihad ever been. The difficulty in England is to find any one to keep upthe ball. She does it to perfection. She never throws towin--never!--but so as to leave you all the chances. You make abrilliant stroke; she applauds, and in a moment she has arranged youanother. Oh, it is the most extraordinary gift of conversation--and shenever says a thing that you want to remember. "

There was a silence. Lady Henry's old fingers drummed restlessly on thetable. Her memory seemed to be wandering angrily among her firstexperiences of the lady they were discussing. 

"Well, " said Sir Wilfrid, at last, "so you engaged her as _lectrice_, and thought yourself very lucky?"

"Oh, don't suppose that I was quite an idiot. I made some inquiries--Ibored myself to death with civilities to the stupid family she wasstaying with, and presently I made her stay with me. And of course Isoon saw there was a history. She possessed jewels, laces, littlepersonal belongings of various kinds, that wanted explaining. So I laidtraps for her; I let her also perceive whither my own plans weredrifting. She did not wait to let me force her hand. She made up hermind. One day I found, left carelessly on the drawing-room table, avolume of Saint-Simon, beautifully bound in old French morocco, withsomething thrust between the leaves. I opened it. On the fly-leaf waswritten the name Marriott Dalrymple, and the leaves opened, a littlefarther, on a miniature of Lady Rose Delaney. So--"

"Apparently it was _her_ traps that worked, " said Sir Wilfrid, smiling. Lady Henry returned the smile unwillingly, as one loath to acknowledgeher own folly. 

"I don't know that I was trapped. We both desired to come to closequarters. Anyway, she soon showed me books, letters--from Lady Rose, from Dalrymple, Lord Lackington--the evidence was complete.... 

"'Very well, ' I said; 'it isn't your fault. All the better if you arewell born--I am not a person of prejudices. But understand, if you cometo me, there must be no question of worrying your relations. There arescores of them in London. I know them all, or nearly all, and of courseyou'll come across them. But unless you can hold your tongue, don't cometo me. Julie Dalrymple has disappeared, and I'll be no party to herresurrection. If Julie Le Breton becomes an inmate of my house, thereshall be no raking up of scandals much better left in their graves. Ifyou haven't got a proper parentage, consistently thought out, we mustinvent one--'"

"I hope I may some day be favored with it, " said Sir Wilfrid. 

Lady Henry laughed uncomfortably. 

"Oh, I've had to tell lies, " she said, "plenty of them. "

"What! It was _you_ that told the lies?"

Lady Henry's look flashed. 

"The open and honest ones, " she said, defiantly. 

"Well, " said Sir Wilfrid, regretfully, "_some_ sort were indispensable. So she came. How long ago?"

"Three years. For the first half of that time I did nothing but plumemyself on my good fortune. I said to myself that if I had searchedEurope through I could not have fared better. My household, my friends, my daily ways, she fitted into them all to perfection. I told peoplethat I had discovered her through a Belgian acquaintance. Every one wasamazed at her manners, her intelligence. She was perfectly modest, perfectly well behaved. The old Duke--he died six months after she cameto me--was charmed with her. Montresor, Meredith, Lord Robert, all my_habitués_ congratulated me. 'Such cultivation, such charm, such_savoir-faire!_ Where on earth did you pick up such a treasure? What areher antecedents?' etc. , etc. So then, of course--"

"I hope no more than were absolutely necessary!" said Sir Wilfrid, hastily. 

"I had to do it well, " said Lady Henry, with decision; "I can't say Ididn't. That state of things lasted, more or less, about a year and ahalf. And by now, where do you think it has all worked out?"

"You gave me a few hints last night, " said Sir Wilfrid, hesitating. 

Lady Henry pushed her chair back from the table. Her hands trembled onher stick. 

"Hints!" she said, scornfully. "I'm long past hints. I told you lastnight--and I repeat--that woman has stripped me of all my friends! Shehas intrigued with them all in turn against me. She has done the sameeven with my servants. I can trust none of them where she is concerned. I am alone in my own house. My blindness makes me her tool, herplaything. As for my salon, as you call it, it has become hers. I am amere courtesy-figurehead--her chaperon, in fact. I provide the house, the footmen, the champagne; the guests are hers. And she has done thisby constant intrigue and deception--by flattery--by lying!"

The old face had become purple. Lady Henry breathed hard. 

"My dear friend, " said Sir Wilfrid, quickly, laying a calming hand onher arm, "don't let this trouble you so. Dismiss her. "

"And accept solitary confinement for the rest of my days? I haven't thecourage--yet, " said Lady Henry, bitterly. "You don't know how I havebeen isolated and betrayed! And I haven't told you the worst of all. Listen! Do you know whom she has got into her toils?"

She paused, drawing herself rigidly erect. Sir Wilfrid, looking upsharply, remembered the little scene in the Park, and waited. 

"Did you have any opportunity last night, " said Lady Henry, slowly, "ofobserving her and Jacob Delafield?"

She spoke with passionate intensity, her frowning brows meeting above apair of eyes that struggled to see and could not. But the effect shelistened for was not produced. Sir Wilfrid drew back uncertainly. 

"Jacob Delafield?" he said. "Jacob Delafield? Are you sure?"

"Sure?" cried Lady Henry, angrily. Then, disdaining to support herstatement, she went on: "He hesitates. But she'll soon make an end ofthat. And do you realize what that means--what Jacob's possibilitiesare? Kindly recollect that Chudleigh has one boy--one sickly, tuberculous boy--who might die any day. And Chudleigh himself is a poorlife. Jacob has more than a good chance--ninety chances out of ahundred"--she ground the words out with emphasis--"of inheritingthe dukedom. "

"Good gracious!" said Sir Wilfrid, throwing away his cigarette. 

"There!" said Lady Henry, in sombre triumph. "Now you can understandwhat I have brought on poor Henry's family. "

A low knock was heard at the door. 

"Come in, " said Lady Henry, impatiently. 

The door opened, and Mademoiselle Le Breton appeared on the threshold, carrying a small gray terrier under each arm. 

"I thought I had better tell you, " she said, humbly, "that I am takingthe dogs out. Shall I get some fresh wool for your knitting?"

III

It was nearly four o'clock. Sir Wilfrid had just closed Lady Henry'sdoor behind him, and was again walking along Bruton Street. 

He was thinking of the little scene of Mademoiselle Le Breton'sappearance on the threshold of Lady Henry's dining-room; of the insolentsharpness with which Lady Henry had given her order upon order--as tothe dogs, the books for the circulating library, a message for herdressmaker, certain directions for the tradesmen, etc. , etc. --as thoughfor the mere purpose of putting the woman who had dared to be her rivalin her right place before Sir Wilfrid Bury. And at the end, as she wasdeparting, Mademoiselle Le Breton, trusting no doubt to Lady Henry'sblindness, had turned towards himself, raising her downcast eyes uponhim suddenly, with a proud, passionate look. Her lips had moved; SirWilfrid had half risen from his chair. Then, quickly, the door hadclosed upon her. 

Sir Wilfrid could not think of it without a touch of excitement. 

"Was she reminding me of Gherardtsloo?" he said to himself. "Upon myword, I must find some means of conversation with her, in spite ofLady Henry. "

He walked towards Bond Street, pondering the situation of the twowomen--the impotent jealousy and rancor with which Lady Henry wasdevoured, the domestic slavery contrasted with the social power ofMademoiselle Le Breton. Through the obscurity and difficulty ofcircumstance, how marked was the conscience of race in her, and, as healso thought, of high intelligence! The old man was deeply interested. He felt a certain indulgent pity for his lifelong friend Lady Henry; buthe could not get Mademoiselle Julie out of his head. 

"Why on earth does she stay where she is?"

He had asked the same question of Lady Henry, who had contemptuouslyreplied:

"Because she likes the flesh-pots, and won't give them up. No doubt shedoesn't find my manners agreeable; but she knows very well that shewouldn't get the chances she gets in my house anywhere else. I give hera foothold. She'll not risk it for a few sour speeches on my part. I maysay what I like to her--and I intend to say what I like! Besides, youwatch her, and see whether she's made for poverty. She takes to luxuryas a fish to water. What would she be if she left me? A little visitingteacher, perhaps, in a Bloomsbury lodging. That's not her line at all. "

"But somebody else might employ her as you do?" Sir Wilfrid hadsuggested. 

"You forget I should be asked for a character, " said Lady Henry. "Oh, Iadmit there are possibilities--on her side. That silly goose, EvelynCrowborough, would have taken her in, but I had a few words withCrowborough, and he put his foot down. He told his wife he didn't wantan intriguing foreigner to live with them. No; for the present we arechained to each other. I can't get rid of her, and she doesn't want toget rid of me. Of course, things might become intolerable for either ofus. But at present self-interest on both sides keeps us going. Oh, don'ttell me the thing is odious! I know it. Every day she stays in the houseI become a more abominable old woman. "

A more exacting one, certainly. Sir Wilfrid thought with pity andamusement of the commissions with which Mademoiselle Julie had beenloaded. "She earns her money, any way, " he thought. "Those things willtake her a hard afternoon's work. But, bless my soul!"--he paused in hiswalk--"what about that engagement to Duchess Evelyn that I heard hermake? Not a word, by-the-way, to Lady Henry about it! Oh, thisis amusing!"

He went meditatively on his way, and presently turned into his club towrite some letters. But at five o'clock he emerged, and told a hansom todrive him to Grosvenor Square. He alighted at the great red-brickmansion of the Crowboroughs, and asked for the Duchess. The magnificentperson presiding over the hall, an old family retainer, remembered him, and made no difficulty about admitting him. 

"Anybody with her grace?" he inquired, as the man handed him over to thefootman who was to usher him up-stairs. 

"Only Miss Le Breton and Mr. Delafield, Sir Wilfrid. Her grace told meto say 'not at home' this afternoon, but I am sure, sir, she willsee you. "

Sir Wilfrid smiled. 

As he entered the outer drawing-room, the Duchess and the groupsurrounding her did not immediately perceive the footman nor himself, and he had a few moments in which to take in a charming scene. 

A baby girl in a white satin gown down to her heels, and a white satincap, lace-edged and tied under her chin, was holding out her tiny skirtwith one hand and dancing before the Duchess and Miss Le Breton, who wasat the piano. The child's other hand held up a morsel of biscuitwherewith she directed the movements of her partner, a small blackspitz, of a slim and silky elegance, who, straining on his hind legs, his eager attention fixed upon the biscuit, followed every movement ofhis small mistress; while she, her large blue eyes now solemn, nowtriumphant, her fair hair escaping from her cap in fluttering curls, herdainty feet pointed, her dimpled arm upraised, repeated in living gracethe picture of her great-great-grandmother which hung on the wall infront of her, a masterpiece from Reynolds's happiest hours. 

Behind Mademoiselle Le Breton stood Jacob Delafield; while the Duchess, in a low chair beside them, beat time gayly to the gavotte thatMademoiselle Julie was playing and laughed encouragement and applause tothe child in front of her. She herself, with her cloud of fair hair, thedelicate pink and white of her skin, the laughing lips and small whitehands that rose and fell with the baby steps, seemed little more than achild. Her pale blue dress, for which she had just exchanged her winterwalking-costume, fell round her in sweeping folds of lace and silk--aFrench fairy dressed by Wörth, she was possessed by a wild gayety, andher silvery laugh held the room. 

Beside her, Julie Le Breton, very thin, very tall, very dark, waslaughing too. The eyes which Sir Wilfrid had lately seen so full ofpride were now alive with pleasure. Jacob Delafield, also, from behind, grinned applause or shouted to the babe, "Brava, Tottie; well done!"Three people, a baby, and a dog more intimately pleased with oneanother's society it would have been difficult to discover. 

"Sir Wilfrid!"

The Duchess sprang up astonished, and in a moment, to Sir Wilfrid'schagrin, the little scene fell to pieces. The child dropped on thefloor, defending herself and the biscuit as best she could against thewild snatches of the dog. Delafield composed his face in a moment to itsusual taciturnity. Mademoiselle Le Breton rose from the piano. 

"No, no!" said Sir Wilfrid, stopping short and holding up a deprecatinghand. "Too bad! Go on. "

"Oh, we were only fooling with baby!" said the Duchess. "It is high timeshe went to her nurse. Sit here, Sir Wilfrid. Julie, will you take thebabe, or shall I ring for Mrs. Robson?"

"I'll take her, " said Mademoiselle Le Breton. 

She knelt down by the child, who rose with alacrity. Catching her skirtsround her, with one eye half laughing, half timorous, turned over hershoulder towards the dog, the baby made a wild spring into MademoiselleJulie's arms, tucking up her feet instantly, with a shriek of delight, out of the dog's way. Then she nestled her fair head down upon herbearer's shoulder, and, throbbing with joy and mischief, wascarried away. 

Sir Wilfrid, hat in hand, stood for a moment watching the pair. A bygonemarriage uniting the Lackington family with that of the Duchess had justoccurred to him in some bewilderment. He sat down beside his hostess, while she made him some tea. But no sooner had the door of the fartherdrawing-room closed behind Mademoiselle Le Breton, than with a dart ofall her lively person she pounced upon him. 

"Well, so Aunt Flora has been complaining to you?"

Sir Wilfrid's cup remained suspended in his hand. He glanced first atthe speaker and then at Jacob Delafield. 

"Oh, Jacob knows all about it!" said the Duchess, eagerly. "This isJulie's headquarters; _we_ are on her staff. _You_ come from the enemy!"

Sir Wilfrid took out his white silk handkerchief and waved it. 

"Here is my flag of truce, " he said. "Treat me well. "

"We are only too anxious to parley with you, " said the Duchess, laughing. "Aren't we, Jacob?"

Then she drew closer. 

"What has Aunt Flora been saying to you?"

Sir Wilfrid paused. As he sat there, apparently studying his boots, hisblond hair, now nearly gray, carefully parted in the middle above hisbenevolent brow, he might have been reckoned a tame and manageableperson. Jacob Delafield, however, knew him of old. 

"I don't think that's fair, " said Sir Wilfrid, at last, looking up. "I'mthe new-comer; I ought to be allowed the questions. "

"Go on, " said the Duchess, her chin on her hand. "Jacob and I willanswer all we know. "

Delafield nodded. Sir Wilfrid, looking from one to the other, quicklyreminded himself that they had been playmates from the cradle--or mighthave been. 

"Well, in the first place, " he said, slowly, "I am lost in admiration atthe rapidity with which Mademoiselle Le Breton does business. An hourand a half ago"--he looked at his watch--"I stood by while Lady Henryenumerated commissions it would have taken any ordinary man-mortal halfa day to execute. "

The Duchess clapped her hands. 

"My maid is now executing them, " she said, with glee. "In an hour shewill be back. Julie will go home with everything done, and I shall havehad nearly two hours of her delightful society. What harm is therein that?"

"Where are the dogs?" said Sir Wilfrid, looking round. 

"Aunt Flora's dogs? In the housekeeper's room, eating sweet biscuit. They adore the groom of the chambers. "

"Is Lady Henry aware of this--this division of labor?" said Sir Wilfrid, smiling. 

"Of course not, " said the Duchess, flushing. "She makes Julie's lifesuch a burden to her that something has to be done. Now what _has_ AuntFlora been telling you? We were certain she would take you intocouncil--she has dropped various hints of it. I suppose she has beentelling you that Julie has been intriguing against her--takingliberties, separating her from her friends, and so on?"

Sir Wilfrid smilingly presented his cup for some more tea. 

"I beg to point out, " he said, "that I have only been allowed _two_questions so far. But if things are to be at all fair and equal, I amowed at least six. "

The Duchess drew back, checked, and rather annoyed. Jacob Delafield, onthe other hand, bent forward. 

"We are _anxious_, Sir Wilfrid, to tell you all we know, " he replied, with quiet emphasis. 

Sir Wilfrid looked at him. The flame in the young man's eyes burnedclear and steady--but flame it was. Sir Wilfrid remembered him as alazy, rather somnolent youth; the man's advance in expression, insignificant power, of itself, told much. 

"In the first place, can you give me the history of this lady'santecedents?"

He glanced from one to the other. 

The Duchess and Jacob Delafield exchanged glances. Then the Duchessspoke--uncertainly. 

"Yes, we know. She has confided in us. There is nothing whatever to herdiscredit. "

Sir Wilfrid's expression changed. 

"Ah!" cried the Duchess, bending forward. "You know, too?"

"I knew her father and mother, " said Sir Wilfrid, simply. 

The Duchess gave a little cry of relief. Jacob Delafield rose, took aturn across the room, and came back to Sir Wilfrid. 

"Now we can really speak frankly, " he said. "The situation has grownvery difficult, and we did not know--Evelyn and I--whether we had aright to explain it. But now that Lady Henry--"

"Oh yes, " said Sir Wilfrid, "that's all right. The fact of MademoiselleLe Breton's parentage--"

"Is really what makes Lady Henry so jealous!" cried the Duchess, indignantly. "Oh, she's a tyrant, is Aunt Flora! It is because Julie isof her own world--of _our_ world, by blood, whatever the law maysay--that she can't help making a rival out of her, and tormenting hermorning, noon, and night. I tell you, Sir Wilfrid, what that poor girlhas gone through no one can imagine but we who have watched it. LadyHenry owes her _every_thing this last three years. Where would she havebeen without Julie? She talks of Julie's separating her from herfriends, cutting her out, imposing upon her, and nonsense of that kind!How would she have kept up that salon alone, I should like to know--ablind old woman who can't write a note for herself or recognize a face?First of all she throws everything upon Julie, is proud of hercleverness, puts her forward in every way, tells most unnecessaryfalsehoods about her--Julie has felt _that_ very much--and then whenJulie has a great success, when people begin to come to Bruton Street, for her sake as well as Lady Henry's, then Lady Henry turns against her, complains of her to everybody, talks about treachery and disloyalty andHeaven knows what, and begins to treat her like the dirt under her feet!How can Julie help being clever and agreeable--she _is_ clever andagreeable! As Mr. Montresor said to me yesterday, 'As soon as that womancomes into a room, my spirits go up!' And why? Because she never thinksof herself, she always makes other people show at their best. And thenLady Henry behaves like this!" The Duchess threw out her hands inscornful reprobation. "And the question is, of course, Can it go on?"

"I don't gather, " said Sir Wilfrid, hesitating, "that Lady Henry wantsimmediately to put an end to it. "

Delafield gave an angry laugh. 

"The point is whether Mademoiselle Julie and Mademoiselle Julie'sfriends can put up with it much longer. "

"You see, " said the Duchess, eagerly, "Julie is such a loyal, affectionate creature. She knows Lady Henry was kind to her, to beginwith, that she gave her great chances, and that she's getting old andinfirm. Julie's awfully sorry for her. She doesn't want to leave her allalone--to the mercy of her servants--"

"I understand the servants, too, are devoted to Mademoiselle Julie?"said Sir Wilfrid. 

"Yes, that's another grievance, " said Delafield, contemptuously. "Whyshouldn't they be? When the butler had a child very ill, it wasMademoiselle Julie who went to see it in the mews, who took it flowersand grapes--"

"Lady Henry's grapes?" threw in Sir Wilfrid. 

"What does it matter!" said Delafield, impatiently. "Lady Henry has moreof everything than she knows what to do with. But it wasn't grapes only!It was time and thought and consideration. Then when the younger footmanwanted to emigrate to the States, it was Mademoiselle Julie who found asituation for him, who got Mr. Montresor to write to some Americanfriends, and finally sent the lad off, devoted to her, of course, forlife. I should like to know when Lady Henry would have done that kind ofthing! Naturally the servants like her--she deserves it. "

"I see--I see, " said Sir Wilfrid, nodding gently, his eyes on thecarpet. "A very competent young lady. "

Delafield looked at the older man, half in annoyance, half inperplexity. 

"Is there anything to complain of in that?" he said, rather shortly. 

"Oh, nothing, nothing!" said Sir Wilfrid, hastily. "And this wordintrigue that Lady Henry uses? Has mademoiselle always steered astraightforward course with her employer?"

"Oh, well, " said the Duchess, shrugging her shoulders, "how can youalways be perfectly straightforward with such a tyrannical old person!She _has_ to be managed. Lately, in order to be sure of every minute ofJulie's time, she has taken to heaping work upon her to such aridiculous extent that unless I come to the rescue the poor thing getsno rest and no amusement. And last summer there was an explosion, because Julie, who was supposed to be in Paris for her holiday with aschool-friend, really spent a week of it with the Buncombes, LadyHenry's married niece, who has a place in Kent. The Buncombes knew herat Lady Henry's parties, of course. Then they met her in the Louvre, took her about a little, were delighted with her, and begged her to comeand stay with them--they have a place near Canterbury--on the way home. They and Julie agreed that it would be best to say nothing to Lady Henryabout it--she is too absurdly jealous--but then it leaked out, unluckily, and Lady Henry was furious. "

"I must say, " said Delafield, hurriedly, "I always thought franknesswould have been best there. "

"Well, perhaps, " said the Duchess, unwillingly, with another shrug. "Butnow what is to be done? Lady Henry really must behave better, or Juliecan't and sha'n't stay with her. Julie has a great following--hasn'tshe, Jacob? They won't see her harassed to death. "

"Certainly not, " said Delafield. "At the same time we all see"--heturned to Sir Wilfrid--"what the advantages of the present combinationare. Where would Lady Henry find another lady of Mademoiselle LeBreton's sort to help her with her house and her salon? For the last twoyears the Wednesday evenings have been the most brilliant and successfulthings of their kind in London. And, of course, for Mademoiselle LeBreton it is a great thing to have the protection of LadyHenry's name--"

"A great thing?" cried Sir Wilfrid. "Everything, my dear Jacob!"

"I don't know, " said Delafield, slowly. "It may be bought too dear. "

Sir Wilfrid looked at the speaker with curiosity. It had been at alltimes possible to rouse Jacob Delafield--as child, as school-boy, asundergraduate--from an habitual carelessness and idleness by an act or atale of injustice or oppression. Had the Duchess pressed him into herservice, and was he merely taking sides for the weaker out of a naturalbent towards that way of looking at things? Or--

"Well, certainly we must do our best to patch it up, " said Sir Wilfrid, after a pause. "Perhaps Mademoiselle Le Breton will allow me a word withher by-and-by. I think I have still some influence with Lady Henry. But, dear goddaughter"--he bent forward and laid his hand on that of theDuchess--"don't let the maid do the commissions. "

"But I must!" cried the Duchess. "Just think, there is my big bazaar onthe 16th. You don't know how clever Julie is at such things. I want tomake her recite--her French is too beautiful! And then she has suchinventiveness, such a head! Everything goes if she takes it in hand. Butif I say anything to Aunt Flora, she'll put a spoke in all our wheels. She'll hate the thought of anything in which Julie is successful andconspicuous. Of course she will!"

"All the same, Evelyn, " said Delafield, uncomfortable apparently for thesecond time, "I really think it would be best to let Lady Henry know. "

"Well, then, we may as well give it up, " said the Duchess, pettishly, turning aside. 

Delafield, who was still pacing the carpet, suddenly raised his hand ina gesture of warning. Mademoiselle Le Breton was crossing the outerdrawing-room. 

"Julie, come here!" cried the Duchess, springing up and running towardsher. "Jacob is making himself so disagreeable. He thinks we ought totell Lady Henry about the 16th. "

The speaker put her arm through Julie Le Breton's, looking up at herwith a frowning brow. The contrast between her restless prettiness, theprofusion of her dress and hair, and Julie's dark, lissome strength, gowned and gloved in neat, close black, was marked enough. 

As the Duchess spoke, Julie looked smiling at Jacob Delafield. 

"I am in your hands, " she said, gently. "Of course I don't want to keepanything from Lady Henry. Please decide for me. "

Sir Wilfrid's mouth showed a satirical line. He turned aside and beganto play with a copy of the _Spectator_. 

"Julie, " said the Duchess, hesitating, "I hope you won't mind, but wehave been discussing things a little with Sir Wilfrid. I felt sure AuntFlora had been talking to him. "

"Of course, " said Julie, "I knew she would. " She looked towards SirWilfrid, slightly drawing herself up. Her manner was quiet, but all hermovements were somehow charged with a peculiar and interestingsignificance. The force of the character made itself felt through alldisguises. 

In spite of himself, Sir Wilfrid began to murmur apologetic things. 

"It was natural, mademoiselle, that Lady Henry should confide in me. Shehas perhaps told you that for many years I have been one of the trusteesof her property. That has led to her consulting me on a good manymatters. And evidently, from what she says and what the Duchess says, nothing could be of more importance to her happiness, now, in herhelpless state, than her relations to you. "

He spoke with a serious kindness in which the tinge of mocking habitualto his sleek and well-groomed visage was wholly lost. Julie Le Bretonmet him with dignity. 

"Yes, they are important. But, I fear they cannot go on as they are. "

There was a pause. Then Sir Wilfrid approached her:

"I hear you are returning to Bruton Street immediately. Might I be yourescort?"

"Certainly. "

The Duchess, a little sobered by the turn events had taken and thedarkened prospects of her bazaar, protested in vain against this suddendeparture. Julie resumed her furs, which, as Sir Wilfrid, who wascurious in such things; happened to notice, were of great beauty, andmade her farewells. Did her hand linger in Jacob Delafield's? Did thelook with which that young man received it express more than thesteadfast support which justice offers to the oppressed? Sir Wilfridcould not be sure. 

[Illustration: "'INDEED I WILL!' CRIED SIR WILFRID, AND THEY WALKED ON"]

As they stepped out into the frosty, lamp-lit dark of Grosvenor Square, Julie Le Breton turned to her companion. 

"You knew my mother and father, " she said, abruptly. "I remember yourcoming, "

What was in her voice, her rich, beautiful voice? Sir Wilfrid only knewthat while perfectly steady, it seemed to bring emotion near, to makeall the aspects of things dramatic. 

"Yes, yes, " he replied, in some confusion. "I knew her well, from thetime when she was a girl in the school-room. Poor Lady Rose!"

The figure beside him stood still. 

"Then if you were my mother's friend, " she said, huskily, "you will hearpatiently what I have to say, even though you are Lady Henry's trustee. "

"Indeed I will!" cried Sir Wilfrid, and they walked on. 

IV

"But, first of all, " said Mademoiselle Le Breton, looking in someannoyance at the brace of terriers circling and barking round them, "wemust take the dogs home, otherwise no talk will be possible. "

"You have no more business to do?"

His companion smiled. 

"Everything Lady Henry wants is here, " she said, pointing to the bagupon her arm which had been handed to her, as Sir Wilfrid remembered, after some whispered conversation, in the hall of Crowborough House byan elegantly dressed woman, who was no doubt the Duchess's maid. 

"Allow me to carry it for you. "

"Many thanks, " said Mademoiselle Le Breton, firmly retaining it, "butthose are not the things I mind. "

They walked on quickly to Bruton Street. The dogs made conversationimpossible. If they were on the chain it was one long battle betweenthem and their leader. If they were let loose, it seemed to Sir Wilfridthat they ranged every area on the march, and attacked all elderlygentlemen and most errand-boys. 

"Do you always take them out?" he asked, when both he and his companionwere crimson and out of breath. 

"Always. "

"Do you like dogs?"

"I used to. Perhaps some day I shall again. "

"As for me, I wish they had but one neck!" said Sir Wilfrid, who had butjust succeeded in dragging Max, the bigger of the two, out of theinterior of a pastry-cook's hand-cart which had been rashly left withdoors open for a few minutes in the street, while its responsibleguardian was gossiping in an adjacent kitchen. Mademoiselle Juliemeanwhile was wrestling with Nero, the younger, who had dived to thevery heart of a peculiarly unsavory dust-box, standing near the entranceof a mews. 

"So you commonly go through the streets of London in this whirlwind?"asked Sir Wilfrid, again, incredulous, when at last they had landedtheir charges safe at the Bruton Street door. 

"Morning and evening, " said Mademoiselle Julie, smiling. Then sheaddressed the butler: "Tell Lady Henry, please, that I shall be at homein half an hour. "

As they turned westward, the winter streets were gay with lights andfull of people. Sir Wilfrid was presently conscious that among all thehandsome and well-dressed women who brushed past them, Mademoiselle LeBreton more than held her own. She reminded him now not so much of hermother as of Marriott Dalrymple. Sir Wilfrid had first seen this woman'sfather at Damascus, when Dalrymple, at twenty-six, was beginning theseries of Eastern journeys which had made him famous. He remembered thebrillance of the youth; the power, physical and mental, which radiatedfrom him, making all things easy; the scorn of mediocrity, theincapacity for subordination. 

"I should like you to understand, " said the lady beside him, "that Icame to Lady Henry prepared to do my very best. "

"I am sure of that, " said Sir Wilfrid, hastily recalling his thoughtsfrom Damascus. "And you must have had a very difficult task. "

Mademoiselle Le Breton shrugged her shoulders. 

"I knew, of course, it must be difficult. And as to the drudgery ofit--the dogs, and that kind of thing--nothing of that sort matters to mein the least. But I cannot be humiliated before those who have become myfriends, entirely because Lady Henry wished it to be so. "

"Lady Henry at first showed you every confidence?"

"After the first month or two she put everything into my hands--herhousehold, her receptions, her letters, you may almost say her wholesocial existence. She trusted me with all her secrets. " ("No, no, mydear lady, " thought Sir Wilfrid. ) "She let me help her with all heraffairs. And, honestly, I did all I could to make her life easy. "

"That I understand from herself. "

"Then why, " cried Mademoiselle Le Breton, turning round to him withsudden passion--"why couldn't Lady Henry leave things alone? Aredevotion, and--and the kind of qualities she wanted, so common? I saidto myself that, blind and helpless as she was, she should lose nothing. Not only should her household be well kept, her affairs well managed, but her salon should be as attractive, her Wednesday evenings asbrilliant, as ever. The world was deserting her; I helped her to bringit back. She cannot live without social success; yet now she hates mefor what I have done. Is it sane--is it reasonable?"

"She feels, I suppose, " said Sir Wilfrid, gravely, "that the success isno longer hers. "

"So she says. But will you please examine that remark? When her guestsassemble, can I go to bed and leave her to grapple with them? I haveproposed it often, but of course it is impossible. And if I am to bethere I must behave, I suppose, like a lady, not like the housemaid. Really, Lady Henry asks too much. In my mother's little flat in Bruges, with the two or three friends who frequented it, I was brought up in asgood society and as good talk as Lady Henry has ever known. "

They were passing an electric lamp, and Sir Wilfrid, looking up, washalf thrilled, half repelled by the flashing energy of the face besidehim. Was ever such language on the lips of a paid companion before? Hissympathy for Lady Henry revived. 

"Can you really give me no clew to the--to the sources of Lady Henry'sdissatisfaction?" he said, at last, rather coldly. 

Mademoiselle Le Breton hesitated. 

"I don't want to make myself out a saint, " she said, at last, in anothervoice and with a humility which was, in truth, hardly less proud thanher self-assertion. "I--I was brought up in poverty, and my mother diedwhen I was fifteen. I had to defend myself as the poor defendthemselves--by silence. I learned not to talk about my own affairs. Icouldn't afford to be frank, like a rich English girl. I dare say, sometimes I have concealed things which had been better made plain. Theywere never of any real importance, and if Lady Henry had shown anyconsideration--"

Her voice failed her a little, evidently to her annoyance. They walkedon without speaking for a few paces. "Never of any real importance?" SirWilfrid wondered. 

Their minds apparently continued the conversation though their lips weresilent, for presently Julie Le Breton said, abruptly:

"Of course I am speaking of matters where Lady Henry might have someclaim to information. With regard to many of my thoughts and feelings, Lady Henry has no right whatever to my confidence. "

"She gives us fair warning, " thought Sir Wilfrid. 

Aloud he said:

"It is not a question of thoughts and feelings, I understand, but ofactions. "

"Like the visit to the Duncombes'?" said Mademoiselle Le Breton, impatiently. "Oh, I quite admit it--that's only one of several instancesLady Henry might have brought forward. You see, she led me to make thesefriendships; and now, because they annoy her, I am to break them. Butshe forgets. Friends are too--too new in my life, too precious--"

Again the voice wavered. How it thrilled and penetrated! Sir Wilfridfound himself listening for every word. 

"No, " she resumed. "If it is a question of renouncing the friends I havemade in her house, or going--it will be going. That may as well bequite clear. "

Sir Wilfrid looked up. 

"Let me ask you one question, mademoiselle. "

"Certainly. Whatever you like. "

"Have you ever had, have you now, any affection for Lady Henry?"

"Affection? I could have had plenty. Lady Henry is most interesting towatch. It is magnificent, the struggles she makes with her infirmities. "

Nothing could have been more agreeable than the modulation of thesewords, the passage of the tone from a first note of surprise to itsgrave and womanly close. Again, the same suggestions of veiled andvibrating feeling. Sir Wilfrid's nascent dislike softened a little. 

"After all, " he said, with gentleness, "one must make allowance for oldage and weakness, mustn't one?"

"Oh, as to that, you can't say anything to me that I am not perpetuallysaying to myself, " was her somewhat impetuous reply. "Only there is apoint when ill-temper becomes not only tormenting to me but degrading toherself.... Oh, if you only knew!"--the speaker drew an indignantbreath. "I can hardly bring myself to speak of such _misères_. Buteverything excites her, everything makes her jealous. It is a grievancethat I should have a new dress, that Mr. Montresor should send me anorder for the House of Commons, that Evelyn Crowborough should give me aChristmas present. Last Christmas, Evelyn gave me these furs--she is theonly creature in London from whom I would accept a farthing or the valueof a farthing. "

She paused, then rapidly threw him a question:

"Why, do you suppose, did I take it from her?"

"She is your kinswoman, " said Wilfrid, quietly. 

"Ah, you knew that! Well, then, mayn't Evelyn be kind to me, though I amwhat I am? I reminded Lady Henry, but she only thought me a meanparasite, sponging on a duchess for presents above my station. She saidthings hardly to be forgiven. I was silent. But I have never ceased towear the furs. "

With what imperious will did the thin shoulders straighten themselvesunder the folds of chinchilla! The cloak became symbolic, a flag not tobe struck. 

"I never answer back, please understand--never, " she went on, hurriedly. "You saw to-day how Lady Henry gave me her orders. There is not aservant in the house with whom she would dare such a manner. Did Iresent it?"

"You behaved with great forbearance. I watched you with admiration. "

"Ah, _forbearance!_ I fear you don't understand one of the strangestelements in the whole case. I am _afraid_ of Lady Henry, mortallyafraid! When she speaks to me I feel like a child who puts up its handsto ward off a blow. My instinct is not merely to submit, but to grovel. When you have had the youth that I had, when you have existed, learned, amused yourself on sufferance, when you have had somehow to maintainyourself among girls who had family, friends, money, name, while you--"

Her voice stopped, resolutely silenced before it broke. Sir Wilfriduncomfortably felt that he had no sympathy to produce worthy of theclaim that her whole personality seemed to make upon it. But sherecovered herself immediately. 

"Now I think I had better give you an outline of the last six months, "she said, turning to him. "Of course it is my side of the matter. Butyou have heard Lady Henry's. "

And with great composure she laid before him an outline of the chiefquarrels and grievances which had embittered the life of the BrutonStreet house during the period she had named. It was a wretched story, and she clearly told it with repugnance and disgust. There was in hertone a note of offended personal delicacy, as of one bemired againsther will. 

Evidently, Lady Henry was hardly to be defended. The thing had been"odious, " indeed. Two women of great ability and different ages, shut uptogether and jarring at every point, the elder furiously jealous andexasperated by what seemed to her the affront offered to her high rankand her past ascendency by the social success of her dependant, theother defending herself, first by the arts of flattery and submission, and then, when these proved hopeless, by a social skill that at leastwore many of the aspects of intrigue--these were the essential elementsof the situation; and, as her narrative proceeded, Sir Wilfrid admittedto himself that it was hard to see any way out of it. As to his ownsympathies, he did not know what to make of them. 

"No. I have been only too yielding, " said Mademoiselle Le Breton, sorely, when her tale was done. "I am ashamed when I look back on what Ihave borne. But now it has gone too far, and something must be done. IfI go, frankly, Lady Henry will suffer. "

Sir Wilfrid looked at his companion. 

"Lady Henry is well aware of it. "

"Yes, " was the calm reply, "she knows it, but she does not realize it. You see, if it comes to a rupture she will allow no half-measures. Thosewho stick to me will have to quarrel with her. And there will be a greatmany who will stick to me. "

Sir Wilfrid's little smile was not friendly. 

"It is indeed evident, " he said, "that you have thought it all out. "

Mademoiselle Le Breton did not reply. They walked on a few minutes insilence, till she said, with a suddenness and in a low tone thatstartled her companion:

"If Lady Henry could ever have felt that she _humbled_ me, that Iacknowledged myself at her mercy! But she never could. She knows that Ifeel myself as well born as she, that I am _not_ ashamed of my parents, that my principles give me a free mind about such things. "

"Your principles?" murmured Sir Wilfrid. 

"You were right, " she turned upon him with a perfectly quiet but mostconcentrated passion. "I have _had_ to think things out. I know, ofcourse, that the world goes with Lady Henry. Therefore I must benameless and kinless and hold my tongue. If the world knew, it wouldexpect me to hang my head. I _don't!_ I am as proud of my mother as ofmy father. I adore both their memories. Conventionalities of that kindmean nothing to me. "

"My dear lady--"

"Oh, I don't expect you or any one else to feel with me, " said the voicewhich for all its low pitch was beginning to make him feel as though hewere in the centre of a hail-storm. "You are a man of the world, youknew my parents, and yet I understand perfectly that for you, too, I amdisgraced. So be it! So be it! I don't quarrel with what any one maychoose to think, but--"

She recaptured herself with difficulty, and there was silence. They werewalking through the purple February dusk towards the Marble Arch. It wastoo dark to see her face under its delicate veil, and Sir Wilfrid didnot wish to see it. But before he had collected his thoughtssufficiently his companion was speaking again, in a whollydifferent manner. 

"I don't know what made me talk in this way. It was the contact withsome one, I suppose, who had seen us at Gherardtsloo. " She raised herveil, and he thought that she dashed away some tears. "That neverhappened to me before in London. Well, now, to return. If there isa breach--"

"Why should there be a breach?" said Sir Wilfrid. "My dear Miss LeBreton, listen to me for a few minutes. I see perfectly that you have agreat deal to complain of, but I also see that Lady Henry has somethingof a case. "

And with a courteous authority and tact worthy of his trade, the olddiplomat began to discuss the situation. 

Presently he found himself talking with an animation, a friendliness, anintimacy that surprised himself. What was there in the personalitybeside him that seemed to win a way inside a man's defences in spite ofhim? Much of what she had said had seemed to him arrogant or morbid. Andyet as she listened to him, with an evident dying down of passion, anevident forlornness, he felt in her that woman's weakness and timidityof which she had accused herself in relation to Lady Henry, and wassomehow, manlike, softened and disarmed. She had been talking wildly, because no doubt she felt herself in great difficulties. But when it washis turn to talk she neither resented nor resisted what he had to say. The kinder he was, the more she yielded, almost eagerly at times, asthough the thorniness of her own speech had hurt herself most, and therewere behind it all a sad life, and a sad heart that only asked in truthfor a little sympathy and understanding. 

"I shall soon be calling her 'my dear' and patting her hand, " thoughtthe old man, at last, astonished at himself. For the dejection in herattitude and gait began to weigh upon him; he felt a warm desire tosustain and comfort her. More and more thought, more and morecontrivance did he throw into the straightening out of this tanglebetween two excitable women, not, it seemed, for Lady Henry's sake, not, surely, for Miss Le Breton's sake. But--ah! those two poor, dead folk, who had touched his heart long ago, did he feel the hovering of theirghosts beside him in the wintry wind?

At any rate, he abounded in shrewd and fatherly advice, and MademoiselleLe Breton listened with a most flattering meekness. 

"Well, now I think we have come to an understanding, " he urged, hopefully, as they turned down Bruton Street again. 

Mademoiselle Le Breton sighed. 

"It is very kind of you. Oh, I will do my best. But--"

She shook her head uncertainly. 

"No--no 'buts, '" cried Sir Wilfrid, cheerfully. "Suppose, as a firststep, " he smiled at his companion, "you tell Lady Henry aboutthe bazaar?"

"By all means. She won't let me go. But Evelyn will find some one else. "

"Oh, we'll see about that, " said the old man, almost crossly. "If you'llallow me I'll try my hand. "

Julie Le Breton did not reply, but her face glimmered upon him with awistful friendliness that did not escape him, even in the darkness. Inthis yielding mood her voice and movements had so much subduedsweetness, so much distinction, that he felt himself more than meltingtowards her. 

Then, of a sudden, a thought--a couple of thoughts--sped across him. Hedrew himself rather sharply together. 

"Mr. Delafield, I gather, has been a good deal concerned in the wholematter?"

Mademoiselle Le Breton laughed and hesitated. 

"He has been very kind. He heard Lady Henry's language once when she wasexcited. It seemed to shock him. He has tried once or twice to smoothher down. Oh, he has been most kind!"

"Has he any influence with her?"

"Not much. "

"Do you think well of him?"

He turned to her with a calculated abruptness. She showed a littlesurprise. 

"I? But everybody thinks well of him. They say the Duke trustseverything to him. "

"When I left England he was still a rather lazy and unsatisfactoryundergraduate. I was curious to know how he had developed. Do you knowwhat his chief interests are now?"

Mademoiselle Le Breton hesitated. 

"I'm really afraid I don't know, " she said, at last, smiling, and, as itwere, regretful. "But Evelyn Crowborough, of course, could tell you allabout him. She and he are very old friends. "

"No birds out of that cover, " was Sir Wilfrid's inward comment. 

The lamp over Lady Henry's door was already in sight when Sir Wilfrid, after some talk of the Montresors, with whom he was going to dine thatnight, carelessly said:

"That's a very good-looking fellow, that Captain Warkworth, whom I sawwith Lady Henry last night. "

"Ah, yes. Lady Henry has made great friends with him, " said MademoiselleJulie, readily. "She consults him about her memoir of her husband. "

"Memoir of her husband!" Sir Wilfrid stopped short. "Heavens above!Memoir of Lord Henry?"

"She is half-way through it. I thought you knew. "

"Well, upon my word! Whom shall we have a memoir of next? HenryDelafield! Henry Delafield! Good gracious!"

And Sir Wilfrid walked along, slashing at the railings with his stick, as though the action relieved him. Julie Le Breton quietly resumed:

"I understand that Lord Henry and Captain Warkworth's father wentthrough the Indian Mutiny together, and Captain Warkworth has someletters--"

"Oh, I dare say--I dare say, " muttered Sir Wilfrid. "What's this manhome for just now?"

"Well, I _think_ Lady Henry knows, " said Mademoiselle Julie, turning tohim an open look, like one who, once more, would gladly satisfy aquestioner if they could. "He talks to her a great deal. But whyshouldn't he come home?"

"Because he ought to be doing disagreeable duty with his regimentinstead of always racing about the world in search of something to gethis name up, " said Sir Wilfrid, rather sharply. "At least, that's theview his brother officers mostly take of him. "

"Oh, " said Mademoiselle Julie, with amiable vagueness, "is thereanything particular that you suppose he wants?"

"I am not at all in the secret of his ambitions, " said Sir Wilfrid, lifting his shoulders. "But you and Lady Henry seemed well acquaintedwith him. "

The straw-colored lashes veered her way. 

"I had some talk with him in the Park this morning, " said Julie LeBreton, reflectively. "He wants me to copy his father's letters for LadyHenry, and to get her to return the originals as soon as possible. Hefeels nervous when they are out of his hands. "

"Hm!" said Sir Wilfrid. 

At that moment Lady Henry's door-bell presented itself. The vigor withwhich Sir Wilfrid rang it may, perhaps, have expressed the liveliness ofhis unspoken scepticism. He did not for one moment believe that GeneralWarkworth's letters had been the subject of the conversation he hadwitnessed that morning in the Park, nor that filial veneration had hadanything whatever to say to it. 

Julie Le Breton gave him her hand. 

"Thank you very much, " she said, gravely and softly. 

Sir Wilfrid at the moment before had not meant to press it at all. Buthe did press it, aware the while of the most mingled feelings. 

"On the contrary, you were very good to allow me this conversation. Command me at any time if I can be useful to you and Lady Henry. "

Julie Le Breton smiled upon him and was gone. 

Sir Wilfrid ran down the steps, chafing at himself. 

"She somehow gets round one, " he thought, with a touch of annoyance. "Iwonder whether I made any real impression upon her. Hm! Let's seewhether Montresor can throw any more light upon her. He seemed to bepretty intimate. Her 'principles, ' eh? A dangerous view to take, for awoman of that _provenance. _"

 * * * * *

An hour or two later Sir Wilfrid Bury presented himself in theMontresors' drawing-room in Eaton Place. He had come home feeling itessential to impress upon the cabinet a certain line of action withregard to the policy of Russia on the Persian Gulf. But the first personhe perceived on the hearth-rug, basking before the Minister's amplefire, was Lord Lackington. The sight of that vivacious countenance, thatshock of white hair, that tall form still boasting the spareness andalmost the straightness of youth, that unsuspecting complacency, confused his ideas and made him somehow feel the whole world a littletopsy-turvy. 

Nevertheless, after dinner he got his fifteen minutes of private talkwith his host, and conscientiously made use of them. Then, after anappointment had been settled for a longer conversation on another day, both men felt that they had done their duty, and, as it appeared, thesame subject stirred in both their minds. 

"Well, and what did you think of Lady Henry?" said Montresor, with asmile, as he lighted another cigarette. 

"She's very blind, " said Sir Wilfrid, "and more rheumatic. But elsethere's not much change. On the whole she wears wonderfully well. "

"Except as to her temper, poor lady!" laughed the Minister. "She hasreally tried all our nerves of late. And the worst of it is that mostof it falls upon that poor woman who lives with her"--the Ministerlowered his voice--"one of the most interesting and agreeable creaturesin the world. "

Sir Wilfrid glanced across the table. Lord Lackington was tellingscandalous tales of his youth to a couple of Foreign Office clerks, whosat on either side of him, laughing and spurring him on. The old man'scareless fluency and fun were evidently contagious; animation reignedaround him; he was the spoiled child of the dinner, and knew it. 

"I gather that you have taken a friendly interest in Miss Le Breton, "said Bury, turning to his host. 

"Oh, the Duchess and Delafield and I have done our best to protect her, and to keep the peace. I am quite sure Lady Henry has poured out hergrievances to you, hasn't she?"

"Alack, she has!"

"I knew she couldn't hold her tongue to you, even for a day. She hasreally been losing her head over it. And it is a thousand pities. "

"So you think all the fault's on Lady Henry's side?"

The Minister gave a shrug. 

"At any rate, I have never myself seen anything to justify Lady Henry'sstate of feeling. On the famous Wednesdays, Mademoiselle Julie alwaysappears to make Lady Henry her first thought. And in other ways she hasreally worn herself to death for the old lady. It makes one rathersavage sometimes to see it. "

"So in your eyes she is a perfect companion?"

Montresor laughed. 

"Oh, as to perfection--"

"Lady Henry accuses her of intrigue. You have seen no traces of it?"

The Minister smiled a little oddly. 

"Not as regards Lady Henry. Oh, Mademoiselle Julie is a very astutelady. "

A ripple from some source of secret amusement spread over the dark-linedface. 

"What do you mean by that?"

"She knows how to help her friends better than most people. I have knownthree men, at least, _made_ by Mademoiselle Le Breton within the lasttwo or three years. She has just got a fresh one in tow. "

Sir Wilfrid moved a little closer to his host. They turned slightly fromthe table and seemed to talk into their cigars. 

"Young Warkworth?" said Bury. 

The Minister smiled again and hesitated. 

"Oh, she doesn't bother me, she is much too clever. But she gets at mein the most amusing, indirect ways. I know perfectly well when she hasbeen at work. There are two or three men--high up, you understand--whofrequent Lady Henry's evenings, and who are her very good friends.... Oh, I dare say she'll get what she wants, " he added, with nonchalance. 

"Between you and me, do you suspect any direct interest in the youngman?"

Montresor shrugged his shoulders. 

"I don't know. Not necessarily. She loves to feel herself a power--allthe more, I think, because of her anomalous position. It is verycurious--at bottom very feminine and amusing--and quite harmless. "

"You and others don't resent it?"

"No, not from her, " said the Minister, after a pause. "But she is rathergoing it, just now. Three or four batteries have opened upon me at once. She must be thinking of little else. "

Sir Wilfrid grew a trifle red. He remembered the comedy of thedoor-step. "Is there anything that he particularly wants?" His toneassumed a certain asperity. 

"Well, as for me, I cannot help feeling that Lady Henry has something tosay for herself. It is very strange--mysterious even--the kind ofascendency this lady has obtained for herself in so short a time. "

"Oh, I dare say it's hard for Lady Henry to put up with, " musedMontresor. "Without family, without connections--"

He raised his head quietly and put on his eye-glasses. Then his lookswept the face of his companion. 

Sir Wilfrid, with a scarcely perceptible yet significant gesture, motioned towards Lord Lackington. Mr. Montresor started. The eyes ofboth men travelled across the table, then met again. 

"You know?" said Montresor, under his breath. 

Sir Wilfrid nodded. Then some instinct told him that he had nowexhausted the number of the initiated. 

 * * * * *

When the men reached the drawing-room, which was rather emptily waitingfor the "reception" Mrs. Montresor was about to hold in it, Sir Wilfridfell into conversation with Lord Lackington. The old man talked well, though flightily, with a constant reference of all topics to his ownstandards, recollections, and friendships, which was characteristic, butin him not unattractive. Sir Wilfrid noticed certain new and pitifulsigns of age. The old man was still a rattle. But every now and then therattle ceased abruptly and a breath of melancholy made itself felt--likea chill and sudden gust from some unknown sea. 

They were joined presently, as the room filled up, by a youngjournalist--an art critic, who seemed to know Lord Lackington and hisways. The two fell eagerly into talk about pictures, especially of anexhibition at Antwerp, from which the young man had just returned. 

"I looked in at Bruges on the way back for a few hours, " said thenew-comer, presently. "The pictures there are much better seen than theyused to be. When were you there last?" He turned to Lord Lackington. 

"Bruges?" said Lord Lackington, with a start. "Oh, I haven't been therefor twenty years. "

And he suddenly sat down, dangling a paper-knife between his hands, andstaring at the carpet. His jaw dropped a little. A cloud seemed tointerpose between him and his companions. 

Sir Wilfrid, with Lady Henry's story fresh in his memory, was somehowpoignantly conscious of the old man. Did their two minds hold the sameimage--of Lady Rose drawing her last breath in some dingy room besideone of the canals that wind through Bruges, laying down there the lastrelics of that life, beauty, and intelligence that had once made her thedarling of the father, who, for some reason still hard to understand, had let her suffer and die alone?

V

On leaving the Montresors, Sir Wilfrid, seeing that it was a fine nightwith mild breezes abroad, refused a hansom, and set out to walk home tohis rooms in Duke Street, St. James's. He was so much in love with themere streets, the mere clatter of the omnibuses and shimmer of thelamps, after his long absence, that every step was pleasure. At the topof Grosvenor Place he stood still awhile only to snuff up the soft, rainy air, or to delight his eye now with the shining pools which someshowers of the afternoon had left behind them on the pavement, and nowwith the light veil of fog which closed in the distance of Piccadilly. 

"And there are silly persons who grumble about the fogs!" he thought, contemptuously, while he was thus yielding himself heart and sense tohis beloved London. 

As for him, dried and wilted by long years of cloudless heat, he drankup the moisture and the mist with a kind of physical passion--the noisesand the lights no less. And when he had resumed his walk along thecrowded street, the question buzzed within him, whether he must indeedgo back to his exile, either at Teheran, or nearer home, in some moreexalted post? "I've got plenty of money; why the deuce don't I give itup, and come home and enjoy myself? Only a few more years, after all;why not spend them here, in one's own world, among one's own kind?"

It was the weariness of the governing Englishman, and it was answeredimmediately by that other instinct, partly physical, partly moral, whichkeeps the elderly man of affairs to his task. Idleness? No! That waylies the end. To slacken the rush of life, for men of his sort, is tocall on death--death, the secret pursuer, who is not far from each oneof us. No, no! Fight on! It was only the long drudgery behind, underalien suns, together with the iron certainty of fresh drudgery ahead, that gave value, after all, to this rainy, this enchantingPiccadilly--that kept the string of feeling taut and all itsnotes clear. 

"Going to bed, Sir Wilfrid?" said a voice behind him, as he turned downSt. James's Street. 

"Delafield!" The old man faced round with alacrity. "Where have yousprung from?"

Delafield explained that he had been dining with the Crowboroughs, andwas now going to his club to look for news of a friend's success orfailure in a north-country election. 

"Oh, that'll keep!" said Sir Wilfrid. "Turn in with me for half an hour. I'm at my old rooms, you know, in Duke Street. "

"All right, " said the young man, after what seemed to Sir Wilfrid amoment of hesitation. 

"Are you often up in town this way?" asked Bury, as they walked on. "Land agency seems to be a profession with mitigations. "

"There is some London business thrown in. We have some large milk depotsin town that I look after. "

There was just a trace of hurry in the young man's voice, and Burysurveyed him with a smile. 

"No other attractions, eh?"

"Not that I know of. By-the-way, Sir Wilfrid, I never asked you how DickMason was getting on?"

"Dick Mason? Is he a friend of yours?"

"Well, we were at Eton and Oxford together. "

"Were you? I never heard him mention your name. "

The young man laughed. 

"I don't mean to suggest he couldn't live without me. You've left him incharge, haven't you, at Teheran?"

"Yes, I have--worse luck. So you're deeply interested in Dick Mason?"

"Oh, come--I liked him pretty well. "

"Hm--I don't much care about him. And I don't somehow believe you do. "

And Bury, with a smile, slipped a friendly hand within the arm of hiscompanion. 

Delafield reddened. 

"It's decent, I suppose, to inquire after an old school-fellow?"

"Exemplary. But--there are things more amusing to talk about. "

Delafield was silent. Sir Wilfrid's fair mustaches approached his ear. 

"I had my interview with Mademoiselle Julie. "

"So I suppose. I hope you did some good. "

"I doubt it. Jacob, between ourselves, the little Duchess hasn't been amiracle of wisdom. "

"No--perhaps not, " said the other, unwillingly. 

"She realizes, I suppose, that they are connected?"

"Of course. It isn't very close. Lady Rose's brother married Evelyn'saunt, her mother's sister. "

"Yes, that's it. She and Mademoiselle Julie _ought_ to have called thesame person uncle; but, for lack of certain ceremonies, they don't. By-the-way, what became of Lady Rose's younger sister?"

"Lady Blanche? Oh, she married Sir John Moffatt, and has been a widowfor years. He left her a place in Westmoreland, and she lives theregenerally with her girl. "

"Has Mademoiselle Julie ever come across them?"

"No. "

"She speaks of them?"

"Yes. We can't tell her much about them, except that the girl waspresented last year, and went to a few balls in town. But neither shenor her mother cares for London. "

"Lady Blanche Moffatt--Lady Blanche Moffatt?" said Sir Wilfrid, pausing. "Wasn't she in India this winter?"

"Yes. I believe they went out in November and are to be home by April. "

"Somebody told me they had met her and the girl at Peshawar and then atSimla, " said Sir Wilfrid, ruminating. "Now I remember! She's a greatheiress, isn't she, and pretty to boot? I know! Somebody told me thatfellow Warkworth had been making up to her. "

"Warkworth?" Jacob Delafield stood still a moment, and Sir Wilfridcaught a sudden contraction of the brow. "That, of course, was just abit of Indian gossip. "

"I don't think so, " said Sir Wilfrid, dryly. "My informants were twofrontier officers--I came from Egypt with them--who had recently been atPeshawar; good fellows both of them, not at all given to take youngladies' names in vain. "

Jacob made no reply. They had let themselves into the Duke Street houseand were groping their way up the dim staircase to Sir Wilfrid's rooms. 

There all was light and comfort. Sir Wilfrid's valet, much the same ageas himself, hovered round his master, brought him his smoking-coat, offered Delafield cigars, and provided Sir Wilfrid, strange to say, witha large cup of tea. 

"I follow Mr. Gladstone, " said Sir Wilfrid, with a sigh of luxury, as hesank into an easy-chair and extended a very neatly made pair of legs andfeet to the blaze. "He seems to have slept the sleep of the just--on acup of tea at midnight--through the rise and fall of cabinets. So I'mtrying the receipt. "

"Does that mean that you are hankering after politics?"

"Heavens! When you come to doddering, Jacob, it's better to dodder inthe paths you know. I salute Mr. G. 's physique, that's all. Well, now, Jacob, do you know anything about this Warkworth?"

"Warkworth?" Delafield withdrew his cigar, and seemed to choose hiswords a little. "Well, I know what all the world knows. "

"Hm--you seemed very sure just now that he wasn't going to marry MissMoffatt. "

"Sure? I'm not sure of anything, " said the young man, slowly. 

"Well, what I should like to know, " said Sir Wilfrid, cradling histeacup in both hands, "is, what particular interest has MademoiselleJulie in that young soldier?"

Delafield looked into the fire. 

"Has she any?"

"She seems to be moving heaven and earth to get him what he wants. By-the-way, what does he want?"

"He wants the special mission to Mokembe, as I understand, " saidDelafield, after a moment. "But several other people want it too. "

"Indeed!" Sir Wilfrid nodded reflectively. "So there is to be one! Well, it's about time. The travellers of the other European firms have beengoing it lately in that quarter. Jacob, your mademoiselle also is a bitof an intriguer!"

Delafield made a restless movement. "Why do you say that?"

"Well, to say the least of it, frankness is not one of hercharacteristics. I tried to question her about this man. I had seen themtogether in the Park, talking as intimates. So, when our conversationhad reached a friendly stage, I threw out a feeler or two, just tosatisfy myself about her. But--"

He pulled his fair mustaches and smiled. 

"Well?" said the young man, with a kind of reluctant interrogation. 

"She played with me, Jacob. But really she overdid it. For such a cleverwoman, I assure you, she overdid it!"

"I don't see why she shouldn't keep her friendships to herself, " saidDelafield, with sudden heat. 

"Oh, so you admit it is a friendship?"

Delafield did not reply. He had laid down his cigar, and with his handson his knees was looking steadily into the fire. His attitude, however, was not one of reverie, but rather of a strained listening. 

"What is the meaning, Jacob, of a young woman taking so keen an interestin the fortunes of a dashing soldier--for, between you and me, I hearshe is moving heaven and earth to get him this post--and thenconcealing it?"

"Why should she want her kindnesses talked of?" said the young man, impetuously. "She was perfectly right, I think, to fence with yourquestions, Sir Wilfrid. It's one of the secrets of her influence thatshe can render a service--and keep it dark. "

Sir Wilfrid shook his head. 

"She overdid it, " he repeated. "However, what do you think of the manyourself, Jacob?"

"Well, I don't take to him, " said the other, unwillingly. "He isn't mysort of man. "

"And Mademoiselle Julie--you think nothing but well of her? I don't likediscussing a lady; but, you see, with Lady Henry to manage, one mustfeel the ground as one can. "

Sir Wilfrid looked at his companion, and then stretched his legs alittle farther towards the fire. The lamp-light shone full on his silkyeyelashes and beard, on his neatly parted hair, and the diamond on hisfine left hand. The young man beside him could not emulate his easycomposure. He fidgeted nervously as he replied, with warmth:

"I think she has had an uncommonly hard time, that she wants nothing butwhat is reasonable, and that if she threw you off the scent, SirWilfrid, with regard to Warkworth, she was quite within her rights. Youprobably deserved it. "

He threw up his head with a quick gesture of challenge. Sir Wilfridshrugged his shoulders. 

"I vow I didn't, " he murmured. "However, that's all right. What do youdo with yourself down in Essex, Jacob?"

The lines of the young man's attitude showed a sudden unconscious relieffrom tension. He threw himself back in his chair. 

"Well, it's a big estate. There's plenty to do. "

"You live by yourself?"

"Yes. There's an agent's house--a small one--in one of the villages. "

"How do you amuse yourself? Plenty of shooting, I suppose?"

"Too much. I can't do with more than a certain amount. "

"Golfing?"

"Oh yes, " said the young man, indifferently. "There's a fair links. "

"Do you do any philanthropy, Jacob?"

"I like 'bossing' the village, " said Delafield, with a laugh. "Itpleases one's vanity. That's about all there is to it. "

"What, clubs and temperance, that kind of thing? Can you take any realinterest in the people?"

Delafield hesitated. 

"Well, yes, " he said, at last, as though he grudged the admission. "There's nothing else to take an interest in, is there? By-the-way"--hejumped up--"I think I'll bid you good-night, for I've got to go downto-morrow in a hurry. I must be off by the first train in the morning. "

"What's the matter?"

"Oh, it's only a wretched old man--that two beasts of women have putinto the workhouse infirmary against his will. I only heard it to-night. I must go and get him out. "

He looked round for his gloves and stick. 

"Why shouldn't he be there?"

"Because it's an infernal shame!" said the other, shortly. "He's an oldlaborer who'd saved quite a lot of money. He kept it in his cottage, andthe other day it was all stolen by a tramp. He has lived with these twowomen--his sister-in-law and her daughter--for years and years. As longas he had money to leave, nothing was too good for him. The shock halfkilled him, and now that he's a pauper these two harpies will havenothing to say to nursing him and looking after him. He told me theother day he thought they'd force him into the infirmary. I didn'tbelieve it. But while I've been away they've gone and done it. "

"Well, what'll you do now?"

"Get him out. "

"And then?"

Delafield hesitated. "Well, then, I suppose, he can come to my placetill I can find some decent woman to put him with. "

Sir Wilfrid rose. 

"I think I'll run down and see you some day. Will there be paupers inall the bedrooms?"

Delafield grinned. 

"You'll find a rattling good cook and a jolly snug little place, I cantell you. Do come. But I shall see you again soon. I must be up nextweek, and very likely I shall be at Lady Henry's on Wednesday. "

"All right. I shall see her on Sunday, so I can report. "

"Not before Sunday?" Delafield paused. His clear blue eyes looked down, dissatisfied, upon Sir Wilfrid. 

"Impossible before. I have all sorts of official people to see to-morrowand Saturday. And, Jacob, keep the Duchess quiet. She may have to giveup Mademoiselle Julie for her bazaar. "

"I'll tell her. "

"By-the-way, is that little person happy?" said Sir Wilfrid, as heopened the door to his departing guest. "When I left England she wasonly just married. "

"Oh yes, she's happy enough, though Crowborough's rather an ass. "

"How--particularly?"

Delafield smiled. 

"Well, he's rather a sticky sort of person. He thinks there's somethingparticularly interesting in dukes, which makes him a bore. "

"Take care, Jacob! Who knows that you won't be a duke yourself someday?"

"What _do_ you mean?" The young man glowered almost fiercely upon hisold friend. 

"I hear Chudleigh's boy is but a poor creature, " said Sir Wilfrid, gravely. "Lady Henry doesn't expect him to live. "

"Why, that's the kind that always does live!" cried Delafield, withangry emphasis. "And as for Lady Henry, her imagination is a perfectcharnel-house. She likes to think that everybody's dead or dying butherself. The fact is that Mervyn is a good deal stronger this year thanhe was last. Really, Lady Henry--" The tone lost itself in a growlof wrath. 

"Well, well, " said Sir Wilfrid, smiling, "'A man beduked against hiswill, ' etcetera. Good-night, my dear Jacob, and good luck to yourold pauper. "

But Delafield turned back a moment on the stairs. 

"I say"--he hesitated--"you won't shirk talking to Lady Henry?"

"No, no. Sunday, certainly--honor bright. Oh, I think we shallstraighten it out. "

Delafield ran down the stairs, and Sir Wilfrid returned to his warm roomand the dregs of his tea. 

"Now--is he in love with her, and hesitating for social reasons? Or--ishe jealous of this fellow Warkworth? Or--has she snubbed him, and bothare keeping it dark? Not very likely, that, in view of his prospects. She must want to regularize her position. Or--is he not in love withher at all?"

On which cogitations there fell presently the strokes of many bellstolling midnight, and left them still unresolved. Only one positiveimpression remained--that Jacob Delafield had somehow grown, vaguely butenormously, in mental and moral bulk during the years since he had leftOxford--the years of Bury's Persian exile. Sir Wilfrid had been anintimate friend of his dead father, Lord Hubert, and on very friendlyterms with his lethargic, good-natured mother. She, by-the-way, wasstill alive, and living in London with a daughter. He must go andsee them. 

As for Jacob, Sir Wilfrid had cherished a particular weakness for himin the Eton-jacket stage, and later on, indeed, when the lad enjoyed abrief moment of glory in the Eton eleven. But at Oxford, to SirWilfrid's thinking, he had suffered eclipse--had become a somewhatheavy, apathetic, pseudo-cynical youth, displaying his mother's inertiawithout her good temper, too slack to keep up his cricket, too slack towork for the honor schools, at no time without friends, but an enigma tomost of them, and, apparently, something of a burden to himself. 

And now, out of that ugly slough, a man had somehow emerged, in whom SirWilfrid, who was well acquainted with the race, discerned the stirringof all sorts of strong inherited things, formless still, but strugglingto expression. 

"He looked at me just now, when I talked of his being duke, as hisfather would sometimes look. "

His father? Hubert Delafield had been an obstinate, dare-devil, heroicsort of fellow, who had lost his life in the Chudleigh salmon rivertrying to save a gillie who had missed his footing. A man muchhated--and much beloved; capable of the most contradictory actions. Hehad married his wife for money, would often boast of it, and would, nonethe less, give away his last farthing recklessly, passionately, if hewere asked for it, in some way that touched his feelings. Able, too;though not so able as the great Duke, his father. 

"Hubert Delafield was never _happy_, that I can remember, " thoughtWilfrid Bury, as he sat over his fire, "and this chap has the sameexpression. That woman in Bruton Street would never do for him--apartfrom all the other unsuitability. He ought to find something sweet andrestful. And yet I don't know. The Delafields are a discontented lot. Ifyou plague them, they are inclined to love you. They want something hardto get their teeth in. How the old Duke adored his termagant of a wife!"

 * * * * *

It was late on Sunday afternoon before Sir Wilfrid was able to presenthimself in Lady Henry's drawing-room; and when he arrived there, hefound plenty of other people in possession, and had to wait forhis chance. 

Lady Henry received him with a brusque "At last, " which, however, hetook with equanimity. He was in no sense behind his time. On Thursday, when parting with her, he had pleaded for deliberation. "Let me studythe situation a little; and don't, for Heaven's sake, let's be tootragic about the whole thing. "

Whether Lady Henry was now in the tragic mood or no, he could not atfirst determine. She was no longer confined to the inner shrine of theback drawing-room. Her chair was placed in the large room, and she wasthe centre of a lively group of callers who were discussing the eventsof the week in Parliament, with the light and mordant zest of peoplewell acquainted with the personalities they were talking of. She wasapparently better in health, he noticed; at any rate, she was more atease, and enjoying herself more than on the previous Wednesday. All hersocial characteristics were in full play; the blunt and careless freedomwhich made her the good comrade of the men she talked with--as good abrain and as hard a hitter as they--mingled with the occasional sally orcaprice which showed her very much a woman. 

Very few other women were there. Lady Henry did not want women onSundays, and was at no pains whatever to hide the fact. But MademoiselleJulie was at the tea-table, supported by an old white-haired general, inwhom Sir Wilfrid recognized a man recently promoted to one of the higherposts in the War Office. Tea, however, had been served, and MademoiselleLe Breton was now showing her companion a portfolio of photographs, onwhich the old man was holding forth. 

"Am I too late for a cup?" said Sir Wilfrid, after she had greeted himwith cordiality. "And what are those pictures?"

"They are some photos of the Khaibar and Tirah, " said Mademoiselle LeBreton. "Captain Warkworth brought them to show Lady Henry. "

"Ah, the scene of his exploits, " said Sir Wilfrid, after a glance atthem. "The young man distinguished himself, I understand?"

"Oh, very much so, " said General M'Gill, with emphasis. "He showedbrains, and he had luck. "

"A great deal of luck, I hear, " said Sir Wilfrid, accepting a piece ofcake. "He'll get his step up, I suppose. Anything else?"

"Difficult to say. But the good men are always in request, " said GeneralM'Gill, smiling. 

"By-the-way, I heard somebody mention his name last night for thisMokembe mission, " said Sir Wilfrid, helping himself to tea-cake. 

"Oh, that's quite undecided, " said the General, sharply. "There is noimmediate hurry for a week or two, and the government must send the bestman possible. "

"No doubt, " said Sir Wilfrid. 

It interested him to observe that Mademoiselle Le Breton was no longerpale. As the General spoke, a bright color had rushed into her cheeks. It seemed to Sir Wilfrid that she turned away and busied herself withthe photographs in order to hide it. 

The General rose, a thin, soldierly figure, with gray hair that droopedforward, and two bright spots of red on the cheek-bones. In contrastwith the expansiveness of his previous manner to Mademoiselle Le Breton, he was now a trifle frowning and stiff--the high official once more, andgreat man. 

"Good-night, Sir Wilfrid. I must be off. "

"How are your sons?" said Sir Wilfrid, as he rose. 

"The eldest is in Canada with his regiment. "

"And the second?"

"The second is in orders. "

"Overworking himself in the East End, as all the young parsons seem tobe doing?"

"That is precisely what he _has_ been doing. But now, I am thankful tosay, a country living has been offered him, and his mother and I havepersuaded him to take it. "

"A country living? Where?"

"One of the Duke of Crowborough's Shropshire livings, " said the General, after what seemed to be an instant's hesitation. Mademoiselle Le Bretonhad moved away, and was replacing the photographs in the drawer of adistant bureau. 

"Ah, one of Crowborough's? Well, I hope it is a living with something tolive on. "

"Not so bad, as times go, " said the General, smiling. "It has been agreat relief to our minds. There were some chest symptoms; his motherwas alarmed. The Duchess has been most kind; she took quite a fancy tothe lad, and--"

"What a woman wants she gets. Well, I hope he'll like it. Good-night, General. Shall I look you up at the War Office some morning?"

"By all means. "

The old soldier, whose tanned face had shown a singular softness whilehe was speaking of his son, took his leave. 

Sir Wilfrid was left meditating, his eyes absently fixed on the gracefulfigure of Mademoiselle Le Breton, who shut the drawer she had beenarranging and returned to him. 

"Do you know the General's sons?" he asked her, while she was preparinghim a second cup of tea. 

"I have seen the younger. "

She turned her beautiful eyes upon him. It seemed to Sir Wilfrid that heperceived in them a passing tremor of nervous defiance, as though shewere in some way bracing herself against him. But her self-possessionwas complete. 

"Lady Henry seems in better spirits, " he said, bending towards her. 

She did not reply for a moment. Her eyes dropped. Then she raised themagain, and gently shook her head without a word. The melancholy energyof her expression gave him a moment's thrill. 

"Is it as bad as ever?" he asked her, in a whisper. 

"It's pretty bad. I've tried to appease her. I told her about thebazaar. She said she couldn't spare me, and, of course, I acquiesced. Then, yesterday, the Duchess--hush!"

"Mademoiselle!"

Lady Henry's voice rang imperiously through the room. 

"Yes, Lady Henry. "

Mademoiselle Le Breton stood up expectant. 

"Find me, please, that number of the _Revue des Deux Mondes_ which camein yesterday. I can prove it to you in two minutes, " she said, turningtriumphantly to Montresor on her right. 

"What's the matter?" said Sir Wilfrid, joining Lady Henry's circle, while Mademoiselle Le Breton disappeared into the back drawing-room. 

"Oh, nothing, " said Montresor, tranquilly. "Lady Henry thinks she hascaught me out in a blunder--about Favre, and the negotiations atVersailles. I dare say she has. I am the most ignorant person alive. "

"Then are the rest of us spooks?" said Sir Wilfrid, smiling, as heseated himself beside his hostess. Montresor, whose information on mostsubjects was prodigious, laughed and adjusted his eye-glass. Thesebattles royal on a date or a point of fact between him and Lady Henrywere not uncommon. Lady Henry was rarely victorious. This time, however, she was confident, and she sat frowning and impatient for the book thatdidn't come. 

Mademoiselle Le Breton, indeed, returned from the back drawing-roomempty-handed; left the room apparently to look elsewhere, and came backstill without the book. 

"Everything in this house is always in confusion!" said Lady Henry, angrily. "No order, no method anywhere!"

Mademoiselle Julie said nothing. She retreated behind the circle thatsurrounded Lady Henry. But Montresor jumped up and offered herhis chair. 

"I wish I had you for a secretary, mademoiselle, " he said, gallantly. "Inever before heard Lady Henry ask you for anything you couldn't find. "

Lady Henry flushed, and, turning abruptly to Bury, began a new topic. Julie quietly refused the seat offered to her, and was retiring to anottoman in the background when the door was thrown open and the footmanannounced:

"Captain Warkworth. "

VI

The new-comer drew all eyes as he approached the group surrounding LadyHenry. Montresor put up his glasses and bestowed on him a few moments ofscrutiny, during which the Minister's heavily marked face took on thewary, fighting aspect which his department and the House of Commonsknew. The statesman slipped in for an instant between the trifler comingand the trifler gone. 

As for Wilfrid Bury, he was dazzled by the young man's good looks. "'Young Harry with his beaver up!'" he thought, admiring against hiswill, as the tall, slim soldier paid his respects to Lady Henry, and, with a smiling word or two to the rest of those present, took his placebeside her in the circle. 

"Well, have you come for your letters?" said Lady Henry, eying him witha grim favor. 

"I think I came--for conversation, " was Warkworth's laughing reply, ashe looked first at his hostess and then at the circle. 

"Then I fear you won't get it, " said Lady Henry, throwing herself backin her chair. "Mr. Montresor can do nothing but quarrel and contradict. "

Montresor lifted his hands in wonder. 

"Had I been Æsop, " he said, slyly, "I would have added another touch toa certain tale. Observe, please!--even after the Lamb has been devouredhe is still the object of calumny on the part of the Wolf! Well, well!Mademoiselle, come and console me. Tell me what new follies the Duchesshas on foot. "

And, pushing his chair back till he found himself on a level with JulieLe Breton, the great man plunged into a lively conversation with her. Sir Wilfrid, Warkworth, and a few other _habitués_ endeavored meanwhileto amuse Lady Henry. But it was not easy. Her brow was lowering, hertalk forced. Throughout, Sir Wilfrid perceived in her a strainedattention directed towards the conversation on the other side of theroom. She could neither see it nor hear it, but she was jealouslyconscious of it. As for Montresor, there was no doubt an element ofmalice in the court he was now paying to Mademoiselle Julie. Lady Henryhad been thorny over much during the afternoon; even for her oldestfriend she had passed bounds; he desired perhaps to bring it hometo her. 

Meanwhile, Julie Le Breton, after a first moment of reserve anddepression, had been beguiled, carried away. She yielded to her owninstincts, her own gifts, till Montresor, drawn on and drawn out, foundhimself floating on a stream of talk, which Julie led first into onechannel and then into another, as she pleased; and all to the flatteryand glorification of the talker. The famous Minister had come to visitLady Henry, as he had done for many Sundays in many years; but it wasnot Lady Henry, but her companion, to whom his homage of the afternoonwas paid, who gave him his moment of enjoyment--the moment that wouldbring him there again. Lady Henry's fault, no doubt; but Wilfrid Bury, uneasily aware every now and then of the dumb tumult that was raging inthe breast of the haughty being beside him, felt the pathos of this slowdiscrowning, and was inclined, once more, rather to be sorry for theolder woman than to admire the younger. 

At last Lady Henry could bear it no longer. 

"Mademoiselle, be so good as to return his father's letters to CaptainWarkworth, " she said, abruptly, in her coldest voice, just as Montresor, dropping his--head thrown back and knees crossed--was about to pour intothe ears of his companion the whole confidential history of hisappointment to office three years before. 

Julie Le Breton rose at once. She went towards a table at the fartherend of the large room, and Captain Warkworth followed her. Montresor, perhaps repenting himself a little, returned to Lady Henry; and thoughshe received him with great coolness, the circle round her, nowaugmented by Dr. Meredith, and another politician or two, wasreconstituted; and presently, with a conscious effort, visible at leastto Bury, she exerted herself to hold it, and succeeded. 

Suddenly--just as Bury had finished a very neat analysis of the Shah'spublic and private character, and while the applauding laughter of thegroup of intimates amid which he sat told him that his epigrams had beengood--he happened to raise his eyes towards the distant settee whereJulie Le Breton was sitting. 

His smile stiffened on his lips. Like an icy wave, a swift and tragicimpression swept through him. He turned away, ashamed of having seen, and hid himself, as it were, with relief, in the clamor of amusementawakened by his own remarks. 

What had he seen? Merely, or mainly, a woman's face. Young Warkworthstood beside the sofa, on which sat Lady Henry's companion, his hands inhis pockets, his handsome head bent towards her. They had been talkingearnestly, wholly forgetting and apparently forgotten by the rest of theroom. On his side there was an air of embarrassment. He seemed to bechoosing his words with difficulty, his eyes on the floor. Julie LeBreton, on the contrary, was looking at him--looking with all her soul, her ardent, unhappy soul--unconscious of aught else in the wide world. 

"Good God! she is in love with him!" was the thought that rushed throughSir Wilfrid's mind. "Poor thing! Poor thing!"

 * * * * *

Sir Wilfrid outstayed his fellow-guests. By seven o'clock all were gone. Mademoiselle Le Breton had retired. He and Lady Henry were left alone. 

"Shut the doors!" she said, peremptorily, looking round her as the lastguest disappeared. "I must have some private talk with you. Well, Iunderstand you walked home from the Crowboroughs' the other nightwith--that woman. "

She turned sharply upon him. The accent was indescribable. And with afierce hand she arranged the folds of her own thick silk dress, asthough, for some relief to the stormy feeling within, she would ratherhave torn than smoothed it. 

Sir Wilfrid seated himself beside her, knees crossed, finger-tipslightly touching, the fair eyelashes somewhat lowered--Calmbeside Tempest. 

"I am sorry to hear you speak so, " he said, gravely, after a pause. "Yes, I talked with her. She met me very fairly, on the whole. It seemedto me she was quite conscious that her behavior had not been always whatit should be, and that she was sincerely anxious to change it. I did mybest as a peacemaker. Has she made no signs since--no advances?"

Lady Henry threw out her hand in disdain. 

"She confessed to me that she had pledged a great deal of the time forwhich I pay her to Evelyn Crowborough's bazaar, and asked what she wasto do. I told her, of course, that I would put up with nothing ofthe kind. "

"And were more annoyed, alack! than propitiated by her confession?" saidSir Wilfrid, with a shrug. 

"I dare say, " said Lady Henry. "You see, I guessed that it was notspontaneous; that you had wrung it out of her. "

"What else did you expect me to do?" cried Sir Wilfrid. "I seem, indeed, to have jolly well wasted my time. "

"Oh no. You were very kind. And I dare say you might have done somegood. I was beginning to--to have some returns on myself, when theDuchess appeared on the scene. "

"Oh, the little fool!" ejaculated Sir Wilfrid, under his breath. 

"She came, of course, to beg and protest. She offered me her valuableservices for all sorts of superfluous things that I didn't want--if onlyI would spare her Julie for this ridiculous bazaar. So then my back wasput up again, and I told her a few home truths about the way in whichshe had made mischief and forced Julie into a totally false position. On which she flew into a passion, and said a lot of silly nonsense aboutJulie, that showed me, among other things, that Mademoiselle Le Bretonhad broken her solemn compact with me, and had told her family historyboth to Evelyn and to Jacob Delafield. That alone would be sufficient tojustify me in dismissing her. _N'est-ce pas?_"

"Oh yes, " murmured Sir Wilfrid, "if you want to dismiss her. "

"We shall come to that presently, " said Lady Henry, shortly. "Imagine, please, the kind of difficulties in which these confidences, if theyhave gone any further--and who knows?--may land me. I shall have oldLord Lackington--who behaved like a brute to his daughter while she wasalive, and is, all the same, a _poseur_ from top to toe--walking in hereone night and demanding his granddaughter--spreading lies, perhaps, thatI have been ill-treating her. Who can say what absurdities may happen ifit once gets out that she is Lady Rose's child? I could name half adozen people, who come here habitually, who would consider themselvesinsulted if they knew--what you and I know. "

"Insulted? Because her mother--"

"Because her mother broke the seventh commandment? Oh, dear, no! That, in my opinion, doesn't touch people much nowadays. Insulted because theyhad been kept in the dark--that's all. Vanity, not morals. "

"As far as I can ascertain, " said Sir Wilfrid, meditatively, "only theDuchess, Delafield, Montresor, and myself are in the secret. "

"Montresor!" cried Lady Henry, beside herself. "_Montresor!_ That's newto me. Oh, she shall go at once--at once!" She breathed hard. 

"Wait a little. Have you had any talk with Jacob?"

"I should think not! Evelyn, of course, brings him in perpetually--Jacobthis and Jacob that. He seems to have been living in her pocket, and thethree have been intriguing against me, morning, noon, and night. WhereJulie has found the time I can't imagine; I thought I had kept herpretty well occupied. "

Sir Wilfrid surveyed his angry companion and held his peace. 

"So you don't know what Jacob thinks?"

"Why should I want to know?" said Lady Henry, disdainfully. "A lad whomI sent to Eton and Oxford, when his father couldn't pay his bills--whatdoes it matter to me what he thinks?"

"Women are strange folk, " thought Sir Wilfrid. "A man wouldn't have saidthat. "

Then, aloud:

"I thought you were afraid lest he should want to marry her?"

"Oh, let him cut his throat if he likes!" said Lady Henry, with theinconsistency of fury. "What does it matter to me?"

"By-the-way, as to that"--he spoke as though feeling his way--"have younever had suspicions in quite another direction?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I hear a good deal in various quarters of the troubleMademoiselle Le Breton is taking--on behalf of that young soldier whowas here just now--Harry Warkworth. "

Lady Henry laughed impatiently. 

"I dare say. She is always wanting to patronize or influence somebody. It's in her nature. She's a born _intrigante_. If you knew her as wellas I do, you wouldn't think much of that. Oh no--make your mind easy. It's Jacob she wants--it's Jacob she'll get, very likely. What can anold, blind creature like me do to stop it?"

"And as Jacob's wife--the wife perhaps of the head of the family--youstill mean to quarrel with her?"

"Yes, I _do_ mean to quarrel with her!" and Lady Henry lifted herself inher chair, a pale and quivering image of war--"Duchess or no Duchess!Did you see the audacious way in which she behaved thisafternoon?--_how_ she absorbs my guests?--how she allows and encouragesa man like Montresor to forget himself?--eggs him on to put slights onme in my own drawing-room!"

"No, no! You are really unjust, " said Sir Wilfrid, laying a kind handupon her arm. "That was not her fault. "

"It _is_ her fault that she is what she is!--that her character is suchthat she _forces_ comparisons between us--between _her_ and _me!_--thatshe pushes herself into a prominence that is intolerable, consideringwho and what she is--that she makes me appear in an odious light to myold friends. No, no, Wilfrid, your first instinct was the true one. Ishall have to bring myself to it, whatever it costs. She must take herdeparture, or I shall go to pieces, morally and physically. To be in atemper like this, at my age, shortens one's life--you know that. "

"And you can't subdue the temper?" he asked, with a queer smile. 

"No, I can't! That's flat. She gets on my nerves, and I'm notresponsible. _C'est fini_. "

"Well, " he said, slowly, "I hope you understand what it means?"

"Oh, I know she has plenty of friends!" she said, defiantly. But her oldhands trembled on her knee. 

"Unfortunately they were and are yours. At least, " he entreated, "don'tquarrel with everybody who may sympathize with her. Let them take whatview they please. Ignore it--be as magnanimous as you can. "

"On the contrary!" She was now white to the lips. "Whoever goes with hergives me up. They must choose--once for all. "

"My dear friend, listen to reason. "

And, drawing his chair close to her, he argued with her for half anhour. At the end of that time her gust of passion had more or lesspassed away; she was, to some extent, ashamed of herself, and, as hebelieved, not far from tears. 

"When I am gone she will think of what I have been saying, " he assuredhimself, and he rose to take his leave. Her look of exhaustiondistressed him, and, for all her unreason, he felt himself astonishinglyin sympathy with her. The age in him held out secret hands to the age inher--as against encroaching and rebellious youth. 

Perhaps it was the consciousness of this mood in him which at lastpartly appeased her. 

"Well, I'll try again. I'll _try_ to hold my tongue, " she granted him, sullenly. "But, understand, she, sha'n't go to that bazaar!"

"That's a great pity, " was his naïve reply. "Nothing would put you in abetter position than to give her leave. "

"I shall do nothing of the kind, " she vowed. "And now good-night, Wilfrid--good-night. You're a very good fellow, and if I _can_ take youradvice, I will. "

 * * * * *

Lady Henry sat alone in her brightly lighted drawing-room for some time. She could neither read nor write nor sew, owing to her blindness, and inthe reaction from her passion of the afternoon she felt herself very oldand weary. 

But at last the door opened and Julie Le Breton's light step approached. 

"May I read to you?" she said, gently. 

Lady Henry coldly commanded the _Observer_ and her knitting. 

She had no sooner, however, begun to knit than her very acute sense oftouch noticed something wrong with the wool she was using. 

"This is not the wool I ordered, " she said, fingering it carefully. "Youremember, I gave you a message about it on Thursday? What did they sayabout it at Winton's?"

Julie laid down the newspaper and looked in perplexity at the ball ofwool. 

"I remember you gave me a message, " she faltered. 

"Well, what did they say?"

"I suppose that was all they had. "

Something in the tone struck Lady Henry's quick ears. She raised asuspicious face. 

"Did you ever go to Winton's at all?" she said, quickly. 

[Illustration: "LADY HENRY GASPED. SHE FELL BACK INTO HER CHAIR"]

"I am so sorry. The Duchess's maid was going there, " said Julie, hurriedly, "and she went for me. I thought I had given her your messagemost carefully. "

"Hm, " said Lady Henry, slowly. "So you didn't go to Winton's. May I askwhether you went to Shaw's, or to Beatson's, or the Stores, or any ofthe other places for which I gave you commissions?" Her voice cut likea knife. 

Julie hesitated. She had grown very white. Suddenly her face settled andsteadied. 

"No, " she said, calmly. "I meant to have done all your commissions. ButI was persuaded by Evelyn to spend a couple of hours with her, and hermaid undertook them. "

Lady Henry flushed deeply. 

"So, mademoiselle, unknown to me, you spent two hours of my time amusingyourself at Crowborough House. May I ask what you were doing there?"

"I was trying to help the Duchess in her plans for the bazaar. "

"Indeed? Was any one else there? Answer me, mademoiselle. "

Julie hesitated again, and again spoke with a kind of passionatecomposure. 

"Yes. Mr. Delafield was there. "

"So I supposed. Allow me to assure you, mademoiselle"--Lady Henry rosefrom her seat, leaning on her stick; surely no old face was ever moreformidable, more withering--"that whatever ambitions you may cherish, Jacob Delafield is not altogether the simpleton you imagine. I know himbetter than you. He will take some time before he really makes up hismind to marry a woman of your disposition--and your history. "

Julie Le Breton also rose. 

"I am afraid, Lady Henry, that here, too, you are in the dark, " shesaid, quietly, though her thin arm shook against her dress. "I shall notmarry Mr. Delafield. But it is because--I have refused him twice. "

Lady Henry gasped. She fell back into her chair, staring at hercompanion. 

"You have--refused him?"

"A month ago, and last year. It is horrid of me to say a word. But youforced me. "

Julie was now leaning, to support herself, on the back of an old Frenchchair. Feeling and excitement had blanched her no less than Lady Henry, but her fine head and delicate form breathed a will so proud, a dignityso passionate, that Lady Henry shrank before her. 

"Why did you refuse him?"

Julie shrugged her shoulders. 

"That, I think, is my affair. But if--I had loved him--I should not haveconsulted your scruples, Lady Henry. "

"That's frank, " said Lady Henry. "I like that better than anythingyou've said yet. You are aware that he _may_ inherit the dukedom ofChudleigh?"

"I have several times heard you say so, " said the other, coldly. 

Lady Henry looked at her long and keenly. Various things that WilfridBury had said recurred to her. She thought of Captain Warkworth. She wondered. 

Suddenly she held out her hand. 

"I dare say you won't take it, mademoiselle. I suppose I've beeninsulting you. But--you have been playing tricks with me. In a good manyways, we're quits. Still, I confess, I admire you a good deal. Anyway, Ioffer you my hand. I apologize for my recent remarks. Shall we bury thehatchet, and try and go on as before?"

Julie Le Breton turned slowly and took the hand--without unction. 

"I make you angry, " she said, and her voice trembled, "without knowinghow or why. "

Lady Henry gulped. 

"Oh, it mayn't answer, " she said, as their hands dropped. "But we may aswell have one more trial. And, mademoiselle, I shall be delighted thatyou should assist the Duchess with her _bazaar_. "

Julie shook her head. 

"I don't think I have any heart for it, " she said, sadly; and then, asLady Henry sat silent, she approached. 

"You look very tired. Shall I send your maid?"

That melancholy and beautiful voice laid a strange spell on Lady Henry. Her companion appeared to her, for a moment, in a new light--as apersonage of drama or romance. But she shook off the spell. 

"At once, please. Another day like this would put an end to me. "

VII

Julie le Breton was sitting alone in her own small sitting-room. It wasthe morning of the Tuesday following her Sunday scene with Lady Henry, and she was busy with various household affairs. A small hamper offlowers, newly arrived from Lady Henry's Surrey garden, and not yetunpacked, was standing open on the table, with various emptyflower-glasses beside it. Julie was, at the moment, occupied with the"Stores order" for the month, and Lady Henry's cook-housekeeper had butjust left the room after delivering an urgent statement on the need for"relining" a large number of Lady Henry's copper saucepans. 

The room was plain and threadbare. It had been the school-room ofvarious generations of Delafields in the past. But for an observant eyeit contained a good many objects which threw light upon its presentoccupant's character and history. In a small bookcase beside the firewere a number of volumes in French bindings. They represented either theFrench classics--Racine, Bossuet, Châteaubriand, Lamartine--which hadformed the study of Julie's convent days, or those other books--GeorgeSand, Victor Hugo, Alfred de Musset, Mazzini, Leopardi, together withthe poets and novelists of revolutionary Russia or Polish nationalism orIrish rebellion--which had been the favorite reading of both Lady Roseand her lover. They were but a hundred in all; but for Julie Le Bretonthey stood for the bridge by which, at will, memory and dreamful pitymight carry her back into that vanished life she had once shared withher parents--those strange beings, so calm and yet so passionate intheir beliefs, so wilful and yet so patient in their deeds, by whoseacts her own experience was still wholly conditioned. In her little roomthere were no portraits of them visible. But on a side-table stood asmall carved triptych. The oblong wings, which were open, containedphotographs of figures from one of the great Bruges Memlings. The centrewas covered by two wooden leaves delicately carved, and the leaves werelocked. The inquisitive housemaid who dusted the room had once tried toopen them. --in vain. 

On a stand near the fire lay two or three yellow volumes--some recentFrench essays, a volume of memoirs, a tale of Bourget's, and so forth. These were flanked by Sir Henry Maine's _Popular Government_, and arecent brilliant study of English policy in Egypt--both of them with thename "Richard J. Montresor" on the title-page. The last number of Dr. Meredith's paper, _The New Rambler_, was there also; and, with thepaper-knife still in its leaves, the journal of the latest Frenchtraveller in Mokembe, a small "H. W. " inscribed in the top right-handcorner of its gray cover. 

Julie finished her Stores order with a sigh of relief. Then she wrotehalf a dozen business notes, and prepared a few checks for Lady Henry'ssignature. When this was done the two dachshunds, who had been lying onthe rug spying out her every movement, began to jump upon her. 

But Julie laughed in their faces. "It's raining, " she said, pointing tothe window--"_raining!_ So there! Either you won't go out at all, oryou'll go with John. "

John was the second footman, whom the dogs hated. They returnedcrestfallen to the rug and to a hungry waiting on Providence. Julie tookup a letter on foreign paper which had reached her that morning, glancedat the door, and began to reread its closely written sheets. It was froman English diplomat on a visit to Egypt, a man on whom the eyes ofEurope were at that moment fixed. That he should write to a woman atall, on the subjects of the letter, involved a compliment _hors ligne_;that he should write with this ease, this abandonment, was indeedremarkable. Julie flushed a little as she read. But when she came to theend she put it aside with a look of worry. "I _wish_ he'd write to LadyHenry, " was her thought. "She hasn't had a line from him for weeks. Ishouldn't wonder if she suspects already. When any one talks of Egypt, Idaren't open my lips. "

For fear of betraying the very minute and first-hand information thatwas possessed by Lady Henry's companion? With a smile and a shrug shelocked the letter away in one of the drawers of her writing-table, andtook up an envelope which had lain beneath it. From this--again with alook round her--she half drew out a photograph. The grizzled head andspectacled eyes of Dr. Meredith emerged. Julie's expression softened;her eyebrows went up a little; then she slightly shook her head, likeone who protests that if something has gone wrong, itisn't--isn't--their fault. Unwillingly she looked at the last words ofthe letter:

 "So, remember, I can give you work if you want it, and paying work. I would rather give you my life and my all. But these, it seems, are commodities for which you have no use. So be it. But if you refuse to let me serve you, when the time comes, in such ways as I have suggested in this letter, then, indeed, you would be unkind--I would almost dare to say ungrateful! Yours always

 "F. M. "

This letter also she locked away. But her hand lingered on the last ofall. She had read it three times already, and knew it practically byheart. So she left the sheets undisturbed in their envelope. But sheraised the whole to her lips, and pressed it there, while her eyes, asthey slowly filled with tears, travelled--unseeing--to the wintry streetbeyond the window. Eyes and face wore the same expression as WilfridBury had surprised there--the dumb utterance of a woman hard pressed, not so much by the world without as by some wild force within. 

In that still moment the postman's knock was heard in the streetoutside. Julie Le Breton started, for no one whose life is dependent ona daily letter can hear that common sound without a thrill. Then shesmiled sadly at herself. "_My_ joy is over for to-day!" And she turnedaway with the letter in her hand. 

But she did not place it in the same drawer with the others. She movedacross to the little carved triptych, and, after listening a moment tothe sounds in the house, she opened its closed doors with a gold keythat hung on her watch-chain and had been hidden in the bosom ofher dress. 

The doors fell open. Inside, on a background of dark velvet, hung twominiatures, lightly framed in gold and linked together by a gracefulscroll-work in gold. They were of fine French work, and they representeda man and woman, both handsome, young, and of a remarkable distinctionof aspect. The faces, nevertheless, hardly gave pleasure. There was ineach of them a look at once absent and eager--the look of those who havecared much and ardently for "man, " and very little, comparatively, for men. 

The miniatures had not been meant for the triptych, nor the triptych forthem. It had been adapted to them by loving hands; but there was roomfor other things in the velvet-lined hollow, and a packet of letters wasalready reposing there. Julie slipped the letter of the morning insidethe elastic band which held the packet; then she closed and locked thedoors, returning the key to its place in her dress. Both the lock andhinges of this little hiding-place were well and strongly made, and whenthe wings also were shut and locked one saw nothing but a massivelyframed photograph of the Bruges belfry resting on a wooden support. 

She had hardly completed her little task when there was a sudden noiseof footsteps in the passage outside. 

"Julie!" said a light voice, subdued to a laughing whisper. "May I comein?"

The Duchess stood on the threshold, her small, shell-pink face emergingfrom a masterly study in gray, presented by a most engaging costume. 

Julie, in surprise, advanced to meet her visitor, and the old butler, who was Miss Le Breton's very good friend, quickly and discreetly shutthe door upon the two ladies. 

"Oh, my dear!" said the Duchess, throwing herself into Julie's arms. "Icame up so quietly! I told Hutton not to disturb Lady Henry, and I justcrept up-stairs, holding my skirts. Wasn't it heroic of me to put mypoor little head into the lion's den like this? But when I got yourletter this morning saying you couldn't come to me, I vowed I would justsee for myself how you were, and whether there was anything left of you. Oh, you poor, pale thing!"

And drawing Julie to a chair, the little Duchess sat down beside her, holding her friend's hands and studying her face. 

"Tell me what's been happening--I believe you've been crying! Oh, theold wretch!"

"You're quite mistaken, " said Julie, smiling. "Lady Henry says I mayhelp you with the bazaar. "

"No!" The Duchess threw up her hands in amazement. "How have you managedthat?"

"By giving in. But, Evelyn, I'm not coming. "

"Oh, Julie!" The Duchess threw herself back in her chair and fixed apair of very blue and very reproachful eyes on Miss Le Breton. 

"No, I'm not coming. If I'm to stay here, even for a time, I mustn'tprovoke her any more. She says I may come, but she doesn't mean it. "

"She couldn't mean anything civil or agreeable. How has she beenbehaving--since Sunday?"

Julie looked uncertain. 

"Oh, there is an armed truce. I was made to have a fire in my bedroomlast night. And Hutton took the dogs out yesterday. "

The Duchess laughed. 

"And there was quite a scene on Sunday? You don't tell me much about itin your letter. But, Julie"--her voice dropped to a whisper--"wasanything said about Jacob?"

Julie looked down. A bitterness crept into her face. 

"Yes. I can't forgive myself. I was provoked into telling the truth. "

"You did! Well? I suppose Aunt Flora thought it was all your fault thathe proposed, and an impertinence that you refused?"

"She was complimentary at the time, " said Julie, half smiling. "Butsince--No, I don't feel that she is appeased. "

"Of course not. Affronted, more likely. "

There was a silence. The Duchess was looking at Julie, but her thoughtswere far away. And presently she broke out, with the _étourderie_ thatbecame her:

"I wish I understood it myself, Julie. I know you like him. "

"Immensely. But--we should fight!"

Miss Le Breton looked up with animation. 

"Oh, that's not a reason, " said the Duchess, rather annoyed. 

"It's _the_ reason. I don't know--there is something of _iron_ in Mr. Delafield;" and Julie emphasized the words with a shrug which was almosta shiver. "And as I'm not in love with him, I'm afraid of him. "

"That's the best way of being in love, " cried the Duchess. "And then, Julie"--she paused, and at last added, naïvely, as she laid her littlehands on her friend's knee--"haven't you got _any_ ambitions?"

"Plenty. Oh, I should like very well to play the duchess, with you toinstruct me, " said Julie, caressing the hands. "But I must choose myduke. And till the right one appears, I prefer my own wild ways. "

"Afraid of Jacob Delafield? How odd!" said the Duchess, with her chin onher hands. 

"It may be odd to you, " said Julie, with vivacity. "In reality, it's notin the least odd. There's the same quality in him that there is in LadyHenry--something that beats you down, " she added, under her breath. "There, that's enough about Mr. Delafield--quite enough. "

And, rising, Julie threw up her arms and clasped her hands above herhead. The gesture was all strength and will, like the stretching of asea-bird's wings. 

The Duchess looked at her with eyes that had begun to waver. 

"Julie, I heard such an odd piece of news last night. "

Julie turned. 

"You remember the questions you asked me about Aileen Moffatt?"

"Perfectly. "

"Well, I saw a man last night who had just come home from Simla. He sawa great deal of her, and he says that she and her mother were adored inIndia. They were thought so quaint and sweet--unlike other people--andthe girl so lovely, in a sort of gossamer way. And who do you think wasalways about with them--at Peshawar first, and then at Simla--so thateverybody talked? Captain Warkworth! My man believed there was anunderstanding between them. "

Julie had begun to fill the flower-glasses with water and unpack theflower-basket. Her back was towards the Duchess. After a moment shereplied, her hands full of forced narcissuses:

"Well, that would be a _coup_ for him. "

"I should think so. She is supposed to have half a million in coal-minesalone, besides land. Has Captain Warkworth ever said anything to youabout them?"

"No. He has never mentioned them. "

The Duchess reflected, her eyes still on Julie's back. 

"Everybody wants money nowadays. And the soldiers are just as bad asanybody else. They don't _look_ money, as the City men do--that's why wewomen fall in love with them--but they _think_ it, all the same. "

Julie made no reply. The Duchess could see nothing of her. But thelittle lady's face showed the flutter of one determined to venture yet alittle farther on thin ice. 

"Julie, I've done everything you've asked me. I sent a card for the 20thto that _rather_ dreadful woman, Lady Froswick. I was very clever withFreddie about that living; and I've talked to Mr. Montresor. But, Julie, if you don't mind, I really should like to know why you're so keenabout it?"

The Duchess's cheeks were by now one flush. She had a romantic affectionfor Julie, and would not have offended her for the world. 

Julie turned round. She was always pale, and the Duchess saw nothingunusual. 

"Am I so keen?"

"Julie, you have done everything in the world for this man since he camehome. "

"Well, he interested me, " said Julie, stepping back to look at theeffect of one of the vases. "The first evening he was here, he saved mefrom Lady Henry--twice. He's alone in the world, too, which attractsme. You see, I happen to know what it's like. An only son, and anorphan, and no family interest to push him--"

"So you thought you'd push him? Oh, Julie, you're a darling--but you'rerather a wire-puller, aren't you?"

Julie smiled faintly. 

"Well, perhaps I like to feel, sometimes, that I have a little power. Ihaven't much else. "

The Duchess seized one of her hands and pressed it to her cheek. 

"You have power, because every one loves and admires you. As for me, Iwould cut myself in little bits to please you.... Well, I only hope, when he's married his heiress, if he does marry her, they'll rememberwhat they owe to you. "

Did she feel the hand lying in her own shake? At any rate, it wasbrusquely withdrawn, and Julie walked to the end of the table to fetchsome more flowers. 

"I don't want any gratitude, " she said, abruptly, "from any one. Well, now, Evelyn, you understand about the bazaar? I wish I could, butI can't. "

"Yes, I understand. Julie!" The Duchess rose impulsively, and threwherself into a chair beside the table where she could watch the face andmovements of Mademoiselle Le Breton. "Julie, I want so much to talk toyou--about _business_. You're not to be offended. Julie, _if_ you leaveLady Henry, how will you manage?"

"How shall I live, you mean?" said Julie, smiling at the euphemism inwhich this little person, for whom existence had rained goldand flowers since her cradle, had enwrapped the hard facts ofbread-and-butter--facts with which she was so little acquainted thatshe approached them with a certain delicate mystery. 

"You must have some money, you know, Julie, " said the Duchess, timidly, her upraised face and Paris hat well matched by the gay poinsettias, thedelicate eucharis and arums with which the table was now covered. 

"I shall earn some, " said Julie, quietly. 

"Oh, but, Julie, you can't be bothered with any other tiresome oldlady!"

"No. I should keep my freedom. But Dr. Meredith has offered me work, andgot me a promise of more. "

The Duchess opened her eyes. 

"Writing! Well, of course, we all know you can do anything you want todo. And you won't let anybody help you at all?"

"I won't let anybody give me money, if that's what you mean, " saidJulie, smiling. But it was a smile without accent, without gayety. 

The Duchess, watching her, said to herself, "Since I came in she ischanged--quite changed. "

"Julie, you're horribly proud!"

Julie's face contracted a little. 

"How much 'power' should I have left, do you think--how muchself-respect--if I took money from my friends?"

"Well, not money, perhaps. But, Julie, you know all about Freddie'sLondon property. It's abominable how much he has. There are always a fewhouses he keeps in his own hands. If Lady Henry _does_ quarrel with you, and we could lend you a little house--for a time--_wouldn't_ you takeit, Julie?"

Her voice had the coaxing inflections of a child. Julie hesitated. 

"Only if the Duke himself offered it, " she said, finally, with a brusquestiffening of her whole attitude. 

The Duchess flushed and stood up. 

"Oh, well, that's all right, " she said, but no longer in the same voice. "Remember, I have your promise. Good-bye, Julie, you darling!... Oh, by-the-way, what an idiot I am! Here am I forgetting the chief thing Icame about. Will you come with me to Lady Hubert to-night? Do! Freddie'saway, and I hate going by myself. "

"To Lady Hubert's?" said Julie, starting a little. "I wonder what LadyHenry would say?"

"Tell her Jacob won't be there, " said the Duchess, laughing. "Then shewon't make any difficulties. "

"Shall I go and ask her?"

"Gracious! let me get out of the house first. Give her a message from methat I will come and see her to-morrow morning. We've got to make it up, Freddie says; so the sooner it's over, the better. Say all the civilthings you can to her about to-night, and wire me this afternoon. Ifall's well, I come for you at eleven. "

The Duchess rustled away. Julie was left standing by the table, alone. Her face was very still, but her eyes shone, her teeth pressed her lip. Unconsciously her hand closed upon a delicate blossom of eucharis andcrushed it. 

"I'll go, " she said, to herself. "Yes, I'll go. "

Her letter of the morning, as it happened, had included the followingsentences:

"I think to-night I must put in an appearance at the Hubert Delafields', though I own that neither the house nor the son of the house is verymuch to my liking. But I hear that he has gone back to the country. Andthere are a few people who frequent Lady Hubert, who might just nowbe of use. "

Lady Henry gave her consent that Mademoiselle Le Breton should accompanythe Duchess to Lady Hubert's party almost with effusion. "It will bevery dull, " she said. "My sister-in-law makes a desert and calls itsociety. But if you want to go, go. As to Evelyn Crowborough, I amengaged to my dentist to-morrow morning. "

When at night this message was reported to the Duchess, as she and Juliewere on their way to Rutland Gate, she laughed. 

"How much leek shall I have to swallow? What's to-morrow? Wednesday. Hm--cards in the afternoon; in the evening I appear, sit on a stool atLady Henry's feet, and look at you through my glasses as though I hadnever seen you before. On Thursday I leave a French book; on Friday Isend the baby to see her. Goodness, what a time it takes!" said theDuchess, raising her very white and very small shoulders. "Well, for mylife, I mustn't fail to-morrow night. "

At Lady Hubert's they found a very tolerable, not to say lively, gathering, which quite belied Lady Henry's slanders. There was not thesame conscious brilliance, the same thrill in the air, as pertained tothe gatherings in Bruton Street. But there was a more solid socialcomfort, such as befits people untroubled by the certainty that theworld is looking on. The guests of Bruton Street laughed, as well-bredpeople should, at the estimation in which Lady Henry's salon was held, by those especially who did not belong to it. Still, the mere knowledgeof this outside estimate kept up a certain tension. At Lady Hubert'sthere was no tension, and the agreeable nobodies who found their way inwere not made to blush for the agreeable nothings of their conversation. 

Lady Hubert herself made for ease--partly, no doubt, for stupidity. Shewas fair, sleepy, and substantial. Her husband had spent her fortune, and ruffled all the temper she had. The Hubert Delafields were now, however, better off than they had been--investments had recovered--andLady Hubert's temper was once more placid, as Providence had meant it tobe. During the coming season it was her firm intention to marry herdaughter, who now stood beside her as she received her guests--a blonde, sweet-featured girl, given, however, so it was said, to good works, andnot at all inclined to trouble herself overmuch about a husband. 

The rooms were fairly full; and the entry of the Duchess andMademoiselle Le Breton was one of the incidents of the evening, andvisibly quickened the pulses of the assembly. The little Dresden-chinaDuchess, with her clothes, her jewels, and her smiles, had been, sinceher marriage, one of the chief favorites of fashion. She had beenbrought up in the depths of the country, and married at eighteen. Aftersix years she was not in the least tired of her popularity or itspenalties. All the life in her dainty person, her glancing eyes, andsmall, smiling lips rose, as it were, to meet the stir that she evoked. She vaguely saw herself as Titania, and played the part with childishglee. And like Titania, as she had more than once ruefully reflected, she was liable to be chidden by her lord. 

But the Duke was on this particular evening debating high subjects inthe House of Lords, and the Duchess was amusing herself. Sir WilfridBury, who arrived not long after his goddaughter, found her the centrefirst of a body-guard of cousins, including among them apparently agreat many handsome young men, and then of a small crowd, whose vaguelysmiling faces reflected the pleasure that was to be got, even at adistance, out of her young and merry beauty. 

Julie Le Breton was not with her. But in the next room Sir Wilfrid soonperceived the form and face which, in their own way, exacted quite asmuch attention from the world as those of the Duchess. She was talkingwith many people, and, as usual, he could not help watching her. Neveryet had he seen her wide, black eyes more vivid than they were to-night. Now, as on his first sight of her, he could not bring himself to callthem beautiful. Yet beautiful they were, by every canon of form andcolor. No doubt it was something in their expression that offended hisown well-drilled instincts. 

He found himself thinking suspicious thoughts about most of theconversations in which he saw her engaged. Why was she bestowing thosecareful smiles on that intolerable woman, Lady Froswick? And what anacquaintance she seemed to have among these elderly soldiers, who mightat all times be reckoned on at Lady Hubert's parties! One gray-hairedveteran after another recalled himself to her attention, got his fewminutes with her, and passed on smiling. Certain high officials, too, were no less friendly. Her court, it seemed to him, was mainly composedof the middle-aged; to-night, at any rate, she left the young to theDuchess. And it was on the whole a court of men. The women, as he nowperceived, were a trifle more reserved. There was not, indeed, a traceof exclusion. They were glad to see her; glad, he thought, to be noticedby her. But they did not yield themselves--or so he fancied--with thesame wholeness as their husbands. 

"How old is she?" he asked himself. "About nine-and-twenty?... Jacob'sage--or a trifle older. "

After a time he lost sight of her, and in the amusement of his ownevening forgot her. But as the rooms were beginning to thin he walkedthrough them, looking for a famous collection of miniatures thatbelonged to Lady Hubert. English family history was one of his hobbies, and he was far better acquainted with the Delafield statesmen, and theDelafield beauties of the past, than were any of their moderndescendants. Lady Hubert's Cosways and Plimers had made a livelyimpression upon him in days gone by, and he meant to renew acquaintancewith them. 

But they had been moved from the room in which he remembered them, andhe was led on through a series of drawing-rooms, now nearly empty, tillon the threshold of the last he paused suddenly. 

A lady and gentleman rose from a sofa on which they had been sitting. Captain Warkworth stood still. Mademoiselle Le Breton advanced to thenew-comer. 

"Is it very late?" she said, gathering up her fan and gloves. "We havebeen looking at Lady Hubert's miniatures. That lady with the muff"--shepointed to the case which occupied a conspicuous position in theroom--"is really wonderful. Can you tell me, Sir Wilfrid, where theDuchess is?"

"No, but I can help you find her, " said that gentleman, forgetting theminiatures and endeavoring to look at neither of his companions. 

"And I must rush, " said Captain Warkworth, looking at his watch. "I tolda man to come to my rooms at twelve. Heavens!"

He shook hands with Miss Le Breton and hurried away. 

Sir Wilfrid and Julie moved on together. That he had disturbed a mostintimate and critical conversation was somehow borne in upon SirWilfrid. But kind and even romantic as was the old man's inmost nature, his feelings were not friendly. 

"How does the biography get on?" he asked his companion, with a smile. 

A bright flush appeared in Mademoiselle Le Breton's cheek. 

"I think Lady Henry has dropped it. "

"Ah, well, I don't imagine she will regret it;" he said, dryly. 

She made no reply. He mentally accused himself for a brute, and thenshook off the charge. Surely a few pin-pricks were her desert! That sheshould defend her own secrets was, as Delafield had said, legitimateenough. But when a man offers you his services, you should not befoolhim beyond a certain point. 

She must be aware of what he was thinking. He glanced at her curiously;at the stately dress gleaming with jet, which no longer affectedanything of the girl; at the fine but old-fashioned necklace of pearlsand diamonds--no doubt her mother's--which clasped her singularlyslender throat. At any rate, she showed nothing. She began to talk againof the Delafield miniatures, using her fan the while with gracefuldeliberation; and presently they found the Duchess. 

"Is she an adventuress, or is she not?" thought Bury, as his hansomcarried him away from Rutland Gate. "If she marries Jacob, it will be aqueer business. "

VIII

Meanwhile the Duchess had dropped Julie Le Breton at Lady Henry's door. Julie groped her way up-stairs through the sleeping house. She found herroom in darkness, and she turned on no light. There was still a lastglimmer of fire, and she sank down by it, her long arms clasped roundher knees, her head thrown back as though she listened still to wordsin her ears. 

"Oh, such a child! Such a dear, simple-minded child! Report engaged herto at least ten different people at Simla. She had a crowd of cavaliersthere--I was one of them. The whole place adored her. She is a very rarelittle creature, but well looked after, I can tell you--a long array ofguardians in the background. "

How was it possible not to trust that aspect and that smile? Her mindtravelled back to the autumn days when she had seen them first; reviewedthe steps, so little noticed at first, so rapid lately and full of fate, by which she had come into this bondage wherein she stood. She saw thefirst appearance of the young soldier in Lady Henry's drawing-room; herfirst conversation with him; and all the subtle development of thatsingular relation between them, into which so many elements had entered. The flattering sense of social power implied both in the homage of thisyoung and successful man, and in the very services that she, on herside, was able to render him; impulsive gratitude for that homage, at atime when her very soul was smarting under Lady Henry's contemptuoushostility; and then the sweet advances of a "friendship" that was tounite them in a bond, secret and unique, a bond that took no account ofthe commonplaces of love and marriage, the link of equal and kindredsouls in a common struggle with hard and sordid circumstance. 

"I have neither family nor powerful friends, " he had written to her afew weeks after their first meeting; "all that I have won, I have wonfor myself. Nobody ever made 'interest' for me but you. You, too, arealone in the world. You, too, have to struggle for yourself. Let usunite our forces--cheer each other, care for each other--and keep ourfriendship a sacred secret from the world that would misunderstand it. Iwill not fail you, I will give you all my confidence; and I will try andunderstand that noble, wounded heart of yours, with its memories, andall those singular prides and isolations that have been imposed on it bycircumstance. I will not say, let me be your brother; there is something_banal_ in that; 'friend' is good enough for us both; and there isbetween us a community of intellectual and spiritual interest which willenable us to add new meaning even to that sacred word. I will write toyou every day; you shall know all that happens to me; and whatevergrateful devotion can do to make your life smoother shall be done. "

Five months ago was it, that that letter was written?

Its remembered phrases already rang bitterly in an aching heart. Sinceit reached her, she had put out all her powers as a woman, all herinfluence as an intelligence, in the service of the writer. 

And now, here she sat in the dark, tortured by a passion of which shewas ashamed, before which she was beginning to stand helpless in a kindof terror. The situation was developing, and she found herself wonderinghow much longer she would be able to control herself or it. Verymiserably conscious, too, was she all the time that she was now playingfor a reward that was secretly, tacitly, humiliatingly denied her. Howcould a poor man, with Harry Warkworth's ambitions, think for a momentof marriage with a woman in her ambiguous and dependent position? Hercommon-sense told her that the very notion was absurd. And yet, sincethe Duchess's gossip had given point and body to a hundred vaguesuspicions, she was no longer able to calm, to master herself. 

Suddenly a thought of another kind occurred to her. It added to hersmart that Sir Wilfrid, in their meeting at Lady Hubert's, had spoken toher and looked at her with that slight touch of laughing contempt. Therehad been no insincerity in that emotion with which she had firstappealed to him as her mother's friend; she did truly value the oldman's good opinion. And yet she had told him lies. 

"I can't help it, " she said to herself, with a little shiver. The storyabout the biography had been the invention of a moment. It had madethings easy, and it had a small foundation in the fact that Lady Henryhad talked vaguely of using the letters lent her by Captain Warkworthfor the elucidation--perhaps in a _Nineteenth Century_ article--ofcertain passages in her husband's Indian career. 

Jacob Delafield, too. There also it was no less clear to her than to SirWilfrid that she had "overdone it. " It was true, then, what Lady Henrysaid of her--that she had an overmastering tendency to intrigue--to aperpetual tampering with the plain fact?

"Well, it is the way in which such people as I defend themselves, " shesaid, obstinately, repeating to herself what she had said to SirWilfrid Bury. 

And then she set against it, proudly, that disinterestedness of which, as she vowed to herself, no one but she knew the facts. It was true, what she had said to the Duchess and to Sir Wilfrid. Plenty of peoplewould give her money, would make her life comfortable, without the needfor any daily slavery. She would not take it. Jacob Delafield wouldmarry her, if she lifted her finger; and she would not lift it. Dr. Meredith would marry her, and she had said him nay. She hugged thethought of her own unknown and unapplauded integrity. It comforted herpride. It drew a veil over that wounding laughter which had gleamed fora moment through those long lashes of Sir Wilfrid Bury. 

Last of all, as she sank into her restless sleep, came the remembrancethat she was still under Lady Henry's roof. In the silence of the nightthe difficulties of her situation pressed upon and tormented her. Whatwas she to do? Whom was she to trust?

 * * * * *

"Dixon, how is Lady Henry?"

"Much too ill to come down-stairs, miss. She's very much put out; infact, miss (the maid lowered her voice), you hardly dare go near her. But she says herself it would be absurd to attempt it. "

"Has Hatton had any orders?"

"Yes, miss. I've just told him what her ladyship wishes. He's to telleverybody that Lady Henry's very sorry, and hoped up to the last momentto be able to come down as usual. "

"Has Lady Henry all she wants, Dixon? Have you taken her the eveningpapers?"

"Oh yes, miss. But if you go in to her much her ladyship says you'redisturbing her; and if you don't go, why, of course, everybody'sneglecting her. "

"Do you think I may go and say good-night to her, Dixon?"

The maid hesitated. 

"I'll ask her, miss--I'll certainly ask her. "

The door closed, and Julie was left alone in the great drawing-room ofthe Bruton Street house. It had been prepared as usual for theWednesday--evening party. The flowers were fresh; the chairs had beenarranged as Lady Henry liked to have them; the parquet floors shoneunder the electric light; the Gainsboroughs seemed to look down from thewalls with a gay and friendly expectancy. 

For herself, Julie had just finished her solitary dinner, still buoyedup while she was eating it by the hope that Lady Henry would be able tocome down. The bitter winds of the two previous days, however, had muchaggravated her chronic rheumatism. She was certainly ill and suffering;but Julie had known her make such heroic efforts before this to keep herWednesdays going that not till Dixon appeared with her verdict did shegive up hope. 

So everybody would be turned away. Julie paced the drawing-room asolitary figure amid its lights and flowers--solitary and dejected. In acouple of hours' time all her particular friends would come to the door, and it would be shut against them. "Of course, expect me to-night, " hadbeen the concluding words of her letter of the morning. Several peoplealso had announced themselves for this evening whom it was extremelydesirable she should see. A certain eminent colonel, professor at theStaff College, was being freely named in the papers for the Mokembemission. Never was it more necessary for her to keep all the threads ofher influence in good working order. And these Wednesday eveningsoffered her the occasions when she was most successful, most at herease--especially whenever Lady Henry was not well enough to leave thecomparatively limited sphere of the back drawing-room. 

Moreover, the gatherings themselves ministered to a veritable craving inJulie Le Breton--the craving for society and conversation. She shared itwith Lady Henry, but in her it was even more deeply rooted. Lady Henryhad ten talents in the Scriptural sense--money, rank, all sorts ofinherited bonds and associations. Julie Le Breton had but this one. Society was with her both an instinct and an art. With the subtlest andmost intelligent ambition she had trained and improved her natural giftfor it during the last few years. And now, to the excitement of societywas added the excitement of a new and tyrannous feeling, for whichsociety was henceforth a mere weapon to be used. 

She fumed and fretted for a while in silence. Every now and then shewould pause in front of one of the great mirrors of the room, and lookat the reflection of her tall thinness and the trailing satin ofher gown. 

"The girl--so pretty, in a gossamer sort of way, " The words echoed inher mind, and vaguely, beside her own image in the glass, there rose avision of girlhood--pale, gold hair, pink cheeks, white frock--and sheturned away, miserable, from that conscious, that intellectualdistinction with which, in general, she could persuade herself to bevery fairly satisfied. 

Hutton, the butler, came in to look at the fire. 

"Will you be sitting here to-night, miss?"

"Oh no, Hutton. I shall go back to the library. I think the fire in myown room is out. "

"I had better put out these lights, anyway, " said the man, looking roundthe brilliant room. 

"Oh, certainly, " said Julie, and she began to assist him to do so. 

Suddenly a thought occurred to her. 

"Hutton!" She went up to him and spoke in a lower tone. "If the Duchessof Crowborough comes to-night, I should very much like to see her, and Iknow she wants to see me. Do you think it could possibly disturb LadyHenry if you were to show her into the library for twenty minutes?"

The man considered. 

"I don't think there could be anything heard up-stairs, miss. I should, of course, warn her grace that her ladyship was ill. "

"Well, then, Hutton, please ask her to come in, " said Miss Le Breton, hurriedly. "And, Hutton, Dr. Meredith and Mr. Montresor, you know howdisappointed they'll be not to find Lady Henry at home?"

"Yes, miss. They'll want to know how her ladyship is, no doubt. I'lltell them you're in the library. And Captain Warkworth, miss?--he'snever missed a Wednesday evening for weeks. "

"Oh, well, if he comes--you must judge for yourself, Hutton, " said MissLe Breton, occupying herself with the electric switches. "I should liketo tell them all--the old friends--how Lady Henry is. "

The butler's face was respectful discretion itself. 

"Of course, miss. And shall I bring tea and coffee?"

"Oh no, " said Miss Le Breton, hastily; and then, after reflection, "Well, have it ready; but I don't suppose anybody will ask for it. Isthere a good fire in the library?"

"Oh yes, miss. I thought you would be coming down there again. Shall Itake some of these flowers down? The room looks rather bare, ifanybody's coming in. "

Julie colored a little. 

"Well, you might--not many. And, Hutton, you're sure we can't disturbLady Henry?"

Hutton's expression was not wholly confident. 

"Her ladyship's very quick of hearing, miss. But I'll shut those doorsat the foot of the back stairs, and I'll ask every one to comein quietly. "

"Thank you, Hutton--thank you. That'll be very good of you. And, Hutton--"

"Yes, miss. " The man paused with a large vase of white arums in hishand. 

"You'll say a word to Dixon, won't you? If anybody comes in, there'll beno need to trouble Lady Henry about it. I can tell her to-morrow. "

"Very good, miss. Dixon will be down to her supper presently. "

The butler departed. Julie was left alone in the now darkened room, lighted only by one lamp and the bright glow of the fire. She caught herbreath--suddenly struck with the audacity of what she had been doing. Eight or ten of these people certainly would come in--eight or ten ofLady Henry's "intimates. " If Lady Henry discovered it--after thisprecarious truce between them had just been patched up!

Julie made a step towards the door as though to recall the butler, thenstopped herself. The thought that in an hour's time Harry Warkworthmight be within a few yards of her, and she not permitted to see him, worked intolerably in heart and brain, dulling the shrewd intelligenceby which she was ordinarily governed. She was conscious, indeed, of someprofound inner change. Life had been difficult enough before the Duchesshad said those few words to her. But since!

Suppose he had deceived her at Lady Hubert's party! Through all hermounting passion her acute sense of character did not fail her. Shesecretly knew that it was quite possible he had deceived her. But theknowledge merely added to the sense of danger which, in this case, wasone of the elements of passion itself. 

"He must have money--of course he must have money, " she was saying, feverishly, to herself. "But I'll find ways. Why should he marryyet--for years? It would be only hampering him. "

Again she paused before the mirrored wall; and again imagination evokedupon the glass the same white and threatening image--her own nearkinswoman--the child of her mother's sister! How strange! Where was thelittle gossamer creature now--in what safe haven of money and familyaffection, and all the spoiling that money brings? From the climbingpaths of her own difficult and personal struggle Julie Le Breton lookeddown with sore contempt on such a degenerate ease of circumstance. Shehad heard it said that the mother and daughter were lingering abroad fora time on their way home from India. Yet was the girl all the whilepining for England, thinking not of her garden, her horse, her pets, butonly of this slim young soldier who in a few minutes, perhaps, wouldknock at Lady Henry's door, in quest of Aileen Moffatt's unknown, unguessed-of cousin? These thoughts sent wild combative thrills throughJulie's pulses. She turned to one of the old French clocks. How muchlonger now--till he came?

"Her ladyship would like to see you, miss. "

The voice was Dixon's, and Julie turned hurriedly, recalling all herself-possession. She climbed some steep stairs, still unmodernized, toLady Henry's floor. That lady slept at the back of the house, so as tobe out of noise. Her room was an old-fashioned apartment, furnishedabout the year Queen Victoria came to the throne, with furniture, chintzes, and carpet of the most approved early Victorian pattern. Whathad been ugly then was dingy now; and its strong mistress, who had knownso well how to assimilate and guard the fine decorations and noblepictures of the drawing-rooms, would not have a thing in it touched. "Itsuits me, " she would say, impatiently, when her stout sister-in-lawpleaded placidly for white paint and bright colors. "If it's ugly, soam I. "

Fierce, certainly, and forbidding she was on this February evening. Shelay high on her pillow, tormented by her chronic bronchitis and byrheumatic pain, her brows drawn together, her vigorous hands claspedbefore her in an evident tension, as though she only restrained herselfwith difficulty from defying maid, doctor, and her own senseof prudence. 

"Well, you have dressed?" she said, sharply, as Julie Le Breton enteredher room. 

"I did not get your message till I had finished dinner. And I dressedbefore dinner. "

Lady Henry looked her up and down, like a cat ready to pounce. 

"You didn't bring me those letters to sign?"

"No, I thought you were not fit for it. "

"I said they were to go to-night. Kindly bring them at once. "

Julie brought them. With groans and flinchings that she could notrepress, Lady Henry read and signed them. Then she demanded to be readto. Julie sat down, trembling. How fast the hands of Lady Henry's clockwere moving on!

Mercifully, Lady Henry was already somewhat sleepy, partly fromweakness, partly from a dose of bromide. 

"I hear nothing, " she said, putting out an impatient hand. "You shouldraise your voice. I didn't mean you to shout, of course. Thankyou--that'll do. Good-night. Tell Hutton to keep the house as quiet ashe can. People must knock and ring, I suppose; but if all the doors areproperly shut it oughtn't to bother me. Are you going to bed?"

"I shall sit up a little to write some letters. But--I sha'n't belate. "

"Why should you be late?" said Lady Henry, tartly, as she turned away. 

 * * * * *

Julie made her way down-stairs with a beating heart. All the doors werecarefully shut behind her. When she reached the hall it was alreadyhalf-past ten o'clock. She hurried to the library, the large panelledroom behind the dining-room. How bright Hutton had made it look! Up shother spirits. With a gay and dancing step she went from chair to chair, arranging everything instinctively as she was accustomed to do in thedrawing-room. She made the flowers less stiff; she put on another light;she drew one table forward and pushed its fellow back against the wall. What a charming old room, after all! What a pity Lady Henry so seldomused it! It was panelled in dark oak, while the drawing-room was white. But the pictures, of which there were two or three, looked even betterhere than up-stairs. That beautiful Lawrence--a "red boy" in gleamingsatin--that pair of Hoppners, fine studies in blue, why, who had everseen them before? And another light or two would show them still better. 

A loud knock and ring. Julie held her breath. Ah! A distant voice in thehall. She moved to the fire, and stood quietly reading an evening paper. 

"Captain Warkworth would be glad if you would see him for a few minutes, miss. He would like to ask you himself about her ladyship. "

"Please ask him to come in, Hutton. "

Hutton effaced himself, and the young man entered, Then Julie raised hervoice. 

"Remember, please, Hutton, that I _particularly_ want to see theDuchess. "

Hutton bowed and retired. Warkworth came forward. 

"What luck to find you like this!"

He threw her one look--Julie knew it to be a look of scrutiny--and then, as she held out her hand, he stooped and kissed it. 

"He wants to know that my suspicions are gone, " she thought. "At anyrate, he should believe it. "

"The great thing, " she said, with her finger to her lip, "is that LadyHenry should hear nothing. "

She motioned her somewhat puzzled guest to a seat on one side of thefire, and, herself, fell into another opposite. A wild vivacity was inher face and manner. 

"Isn't this amusing? Isn't the room charming? I think I should receivevery well"--she looked round her--"in my own house. "

"You would receive well in a garret--a stable, " he said. "But what isthe meaning of this? Explain. "

"Lady Henry is ill and is gone to bed. That made her very cross--poorLady Henry! She thinks I, too, am in bed. But you see--you forced yourway in--didn't you?--to inquire with greater minuteness after LadyHenry's health. "

She bent towards him, her eyes dancing. 

"Of course I did. Will there presently be a swarm on my heels, allpossessed with a similar eagerness, or--?"

He drew his chair, smiling, a little closer to her. She, on thecontrary, withdrew hers. 

"There will, no doubt, be six or seven, " she said, demurely, "who willwant personal news. But now, before they come"--her tone changed--"isthere anything to tell me?"

"Plenty, " he said, drawing a letter out of his pocket. "Your writ, mydear lady, runs as easily in the City as elsewhere. " And he held upan envelope. 

She flushed. 

"You have got your allotment? But I knew you would. Lady Froswickpromised. "

"And a large allotment, too, " he said, joyously. "I am the envy of allmy friends. Some of them have got a few shares, and have already soldthem--grumbling. I keep mine three days more on the best advice--theprice may go higher yet. But, anyway, there"--he shook theenvelope--"there it is--deliverance from debt--peace of mind for thefirst time since I was a lad at school--the power of going, properlyfitted out and equipped, to Africa--_if_ I go--and not like abeggar--all in that bit of paper, and all the work of--some one you andI know. Fairy godmother! tell me, please, how to say a properthank you. "

The young soldier dropped his voice. Those blue eyes which had done himexcellent service in many different parts of the globe were fixed withbrilliance on his companion; the lines of a full-lipped mouth quiveredwith what seemed a boyish pleasure. The comfort of money relief wasnever acknowledged more frankly or more handsomely. 

Julie hurriedly repressed him. Did she feel instinctively that there arethanks which it sometimes humiliates a man to remember, lavishly as hemay have poured them out at the moment--thanks which may easily count inthe long run, not for, but against, the donor? She rather haughtilyasked what she had done but say a chance word to Lady Froswick? Theshares had to be allotted to somebody. She was glad, of course, veryglad, if he were relieved from anxiety.... 

So did she free herself and him from a burdensome gratitude; and theypassed to discussing the latest chances of the Mokembe appointment. TheStaff-College Colonel was no doubt formidable; the Commander-in-Chief, who had hitherto allowed himself to be much talked to on the subject ofyoung Warkworth's claims by several men in high place--General M'Gillamong them--well known in Lady Henry's drawing-room, was perhapsinclining to the new suggestion, which was strongly supported byimportant people in Egypt; he had one or two recent appointments on hisconscience not quite of the highest order, and the Staff-College man, inaddition to a fine military record, was virtue, poverty, and industryembodied; was nobody's cousin, and would, altogether, produce agood effect. 

Could anything more be done, and fresh threads set in motion?

They bandied names a little, Julie quite as subtly and minutely informedas the man with regard to all the sources of patronage. New devices, fresh modes of approach revealed themselves to the woman's quick brain. Yet she did not chatter about them; still less parade her own resources. Only, in talking with her, dead walls seemed to give way; vistas of hopeand possibility opened in the very heart of discouragement. She foundthe right word, the right jest, the right spur to invention or effort;while all the time she was caressing and appeasing her companion'sself-love--placing it like a hot-house plant in an atmosphere ofexpansion and content--with that art of hers, which, for the ambitiousand irritable man, more conscious of the kicks than of the kisses offortune, made conversation with her an active and delightful pleasure. 

"I don't know how it is, " Warkworth presently declared; "but after Ihave been talking to you for ten minutes the whole world seems changed. The sky was ink, and you have turned it rosy. But suppose it is allmirage, and you the enchanter?"

He smiled at her--consciously, superabundantly. It was not easy to keepquite cool with Julie Le Breton; the self-satisfaction she could excitein the man she wished to please recoiled upon the woman offering theincense. The flattered one was apt to be foolishly responsive. 

"That is my risk, " she said, with a little shrug. "If I make youconfident, and nothing comes of it--"

"I hope I shall know how to behave myself, " cried Warkworth. "You see, you hardly understand--forgive me!--your own personal effect. Whenpeople are face to face with you, they want to please you, to say whatwill please you, and then they go away, and--"

"Resolve not to be made fools of?" she said, smiling. "But isn't thatthe whole art--when you're guessing what will happen--to be able tostrike the balance of half a dozen different attractions?"

"Montresor as the ocean, " said Warkworth, musing, "with half a dozendifferent forces tugging at him? Well, dear lady, be the moon to thesetides, while this humble mortal looks on--and hopes. "

He bent forward, and across the glowing fire their eyes met. She lookedso cool, so handsome, so little yielding at that moment, that, inaddition to gratitude and nattered vanity, Warkworth was suddenlyconscious of a new stir in the blood. It begat, however, instant recoil. Wariness!--let that be the word, both for her sake and his own. What hadhe to reproach himself with so far? Nothing. He had never offeredhimself as the lover, as the possible husband. They were both _espritsfaits_--they understood each other. As for little Aileen, well, whateverhad happened, or might happen, that was not his secret to give away. Anda woman in Julie Le Breton's position, and with her intelligence, knowsvery well what the difficulties of her case are. Poor Julie! If she hadbeen Lady Henry, what a career she would have made for herself! He wasvery curious as to her birth and antecedents, of which he knew little ornothing; with him she had always avoided the subject. She was the child, he understood, of English parents who had lived abroad; Lady Henry hadcome across her by chance. But there must be something in her past toaccount for this distinction, this ease with which she held her own inwhat passes as the best of English society. 

Julie soon found herself unwilling to meet the gaze fixed upon her. Sheflushed a little and began to talk of other things. 

"Everybody, surely, is unusually late. It will be annoying, indeed, ifthe Duchess doesn't come. "

"The Duchess is a delicious creature, but not for me, " said Warkworth, with a laugh. "She dislikes me. Ah, now then for the fray!"

For the outer bell rang loudly, and there were steps in the hall. 

"Oh, Julie"--in swept a white whirlwind with the smallest white satinshoes twinkling in front of it--"how clever of you--you naughty angel!Aunt Flora in bed--and you down here! And I who came prepared for such adose of humble-pie! What a relief! Oh, how do you do?"

The last words were spoken in quite another tone, as the Duchess, forthe first time perceiving the young officer on the more shaded side ofthe fireplace, extended to him a very high wrist and a very stiff hand. Then she turned again to Julie. 

"My dear, there's a small mob in the hall. Mr. Montresor--and GeneralSomebody--and Jacob--and Dr. Meredith with a Frenchman. Oh, and old LordLackington, and Heaven knows who! Hutton told me I might come in, so Ipromised to come first and reconnoitre. But what's Hutton to do? Youreally must take a line. The carriages are driving up at a fine rate. "

"I'll go and speak to Hutton, " said Julie. 

And she hurried into the hall. 

IX

When Miss Le Breton reached the hall, a footman was at the outer doorreciting Lady Henry's excuses as each fresh carriage drove up; while inthe inner vestibule, which was well screened from the view of thestreet, was a group of men, still in their hats and over-coats, talkingand laughing in subdued voices. 

Julie Le Breton came forward. The hats were removed, and the tall, stooping form of Montresor advanced. 

"Lady Henry is _so_ sorry, " said Julie, in a soft, lowered voice. "But Iam sure she would like me to give you her message and to tell you howshe is. She would not like her old friends to be alarmed. Would you comein for a moment? There is a fire in the library. Mr. Delafield, don'tyou think that would be best?... Will you tell Hutton not to let in_anybody_ else?"

She looked at him uncertainly, as though appealing to him, as a relationof Lady Henry's, to take the lead. 

"By all means, " said that young man, after perhaps a moment'shesitation, and throwing off his coat. 

"Only _please_ make no noise!" said Miss Le Breton, turning to thegroup. "Lady Henry might be disturbed. "

Every one came in, as it were, on tiptoe. In each face a sense of thehumor of the situation fought with the consciousness of its dangers. Assoon as Montresor saw the little Duchess by the fire, he threw up hishands in relief. 

"I breathe again, " he said, greeting her with effusion. "Duchess, wherethou goest, I may go. But I feel like a boy robbing a hen-roost. Let meintroduce my friend, General Fergus. Take us both, pray, under yourprotection!"

"On the contrary, " said the Duchess, as she returned General Fergus'sbow, "you are both so magnificent that no one would dare toprotect you. "

For they were both in uniform, and the General was resplendent withstars and medals. 

"We have been dining with royalty. " said Montresor. "We want somerelaxation. "

He put on his eye-glasses, looked round the room, and gently rubbed hishands. 

"How very agreeable this is! What a charming room! I never saw itbefore. What are we doing here? Is it a party? Why shouldn't it be?Meredith, have you introduced M. Du Bartas to the Duchess? Ah, I see--"

For Julie Le Breton was already conversing with the distinguishedFrenchman wearing the rosette of the Legion of Honor in his button-hole, who had followed Dr. Meredith into the room. As Montresor spoke, however, she came forward, and in a French which was a joy to the ear, she presented M. Du Bartas, a tall, well-built Norman with a fairmustache, first to the Duchess and then to Lord Lackington and Jacob. 

"The director of the French Foreign Office, " said Montresor, in an asideto the Duchess. "He hates us like poison. But if you haven't alreadyasked him to dinner--I warned you last week he was coming--pray doit at once!"

Meanwhile the Frenchman, his introductions over, looked curiously roundthe room, studied its stately emptiness, the books on the walls under atrellis-work, faintly gilt, the three fine pictures; then his eyespassed to the tall and slender lady who had addressed him in suchperfect French, and to the little Duchess in her flutter of lace andsatin, the turn of her small neck, and the blaze of her jewels. "TheseEnglishwomen overdo their jewels, " he thought, with distaste. "But theyoverdo everything. That is a handsome fellow, by-the-way, who was with_la petite fée_ when we arrived. "

And his shrewd, small eyes travelled from Warkworth to the Duchess, hismind the while instinctively assuming some hidden relation between them. 

Meanwhile, Montresor was elaborately informing himself as to Lady Henry. 

"This is the first time for twenty years that I have not found her on aWednesday evening, " he said, with a sudden touch of feeling which becamehim. "At our age, the smallest break in the old habit--"

He sighed, and then quickly threw off his depression. 

"Nonsense! Next week she will be scolding us all with double energy. Meanwhile, may we sit down, mademoiselle? Ten minutes? And, upon myword, the very thing my soul was longing for--a cup of coffee!"

For at the moment Hutton and two footmen entered with trays containingtea and coffee, lemonade and cakes. 

"Shut the door, Hutton, _please_, " Mademoiselle Le Breton implored, andthe door was shut at once. 

"We mustn't, _mustn't_ make any noise!" she said, her finger on herlip, looking first at Montresor and then at Delafield. The grouplaughed, moved their spoons softly, and once more lowered their voices. 

But the coffee brought a spirit of festivity. Chairs were drawn up. Theblazing fire shone out upon a semicircle of people representing justthose elements of mingled intimacy and novelty which go to makeconversation. And in five minutes Mademoiselle Le Breton was leading itas usual. A brilliant French book had recently appeared dealing withcertain points of the Egyptian question in a manner so interesting, supple, and apparently impartial that the attention of Europe had beenwon. Its author had been formerly a prominent official of the FrenchForeign Office, and was now somewhat out of favor with his countrymen. Julie put some questions about him to M. Du Bartas. 

The Frenchman feeling himself among comrades worthy of his steel, andsecretly pricked by the presence of an English cabinet minister, relinquished the half-disdainful reserve with which he had entered, andtook pains. He drew the man in question, _en silhouette_, with a hostiletouch so sure, an irony so light, that his success was instantand great. 

Lord Lackington woke up. Handsome, white-haired dreamer that he was, hehad been looking into the fire, half--smiling, more occupied, in truth, with his own thoughts than with his companions. Delafield had broughthim in; he did not exactly know why he was there, except that he likedMademoiselle Le Breton, and often wondered how the deuce Lady Henry hadever discovered such an interesting and delightful person to fill suchan uncomfortable position. But this Frenchman challenged and excitedhim. He, too, began to talk French, and soon the whole room was talkingit, with an advantage to Julie Le Breton which quickly made itselfapparent. In English she was a link, a social conjunction; she eased alldifficulties, she pieced all threads. But in French her tongue wasloosened, though never beyond the point of grace, the point of delicateadjustment to the talkers round her. 

So that presently, and by insensible gradations, she was the queen ofthe room. The Duchess in ecstasy pinched Jacob Delafield's wrist, andforgetting all that she ought to have remembered, whispered, rapturously, in his ear, "Isn't she enchanting--Julie--to-night?" Thatgentleman made no answer. The Duchess, remembering, shrank back, andspoke no more, till Jacob looked round upon her with a friendly smilewhich set her tongue free again. 

M. Du Bartas, meanwhile, began to consider this lady in black with moreand more attention. The talk glided into a general discussion of theEgyptian position. Those were the days before Arabi, when elements ofdanger and of doubt abounded, and none knew what a month might bringforth. With perfect tact Julie guided the conversation, so that alldifficulties, whether for the French official or the English statesman, were avoided with a skill that no one realized till each separate rockwas safely passed. Presently Montresor looked from her to Du Bartas witha grin. The Frenchman's eyes were round with astonishment. Julie hadbeen saying the lightest but the wisest things; she had been touchingincidents and personalities known only to the initiated with arestrained gayety which often broke down into a charming shyness, whichwas ready to be scared away in a moment by a tone--too serious or toopolemical--which jarred with the general key of the conversation, whichnever imposed itself, and was like the ripple on a summer sea. But thesummer sea has its depths, and this modest gayety was the mark of anintimate and first-hand knowledge. 

"Ah, I see, " thought Montresor, amused. "P---- has been writing to her, the little minx. He seems to have been telling her all the secrets. Ithink I'll stop it. Even she mayn't quite understand what should andshouldn't be said before this gentleman. "

So he gave the conversation a turn, and Mademoiselle Le Breton took thehint at once. She called others to the front--it was like a change ofdancers in the ballet--while she rested, no less charming as a listenerthan as a talker, her black eyes turning from one to another and radiantwith the animation of success. 

But one thing--at last--she had forgotten. She had forgotten to imposeany curb upon the voices round her. The Duchess and Lord Lackington weresparring like a couple of children, and Montresor broke in from time totime with his loud laugh and gruff throat voice. Meredith, theFrenchman, Warkworth, and General Fergus were discussing a grand reviewwhich had been held the day before. Delafield had moved round to theback of Julie's chair, and she was talking to him, while all the timeher eyes were on General Fergus and her brain was puzzling as to how shewas to secure the five minutes' talk with him she wanted. He was one ofthe intimates of the Commander-in-Chief. She herself had suggested toMontresor, of course in Lady Henry's name, that he should be brought toBruton Street some Wednesday evening. 

Presently there was a little shifting of groups. Julie saw thatMontresor and Captain Warkworth were together by the fireplace, that theyoung man with his hands held out to the blaze and his back to her wastalking eagerly, while Montresor, looking outward into the room, hisgreat black head bent a little towards his companion, was putting sharplittle questions from time to time, with as few words as might be. Julieunderstood that an important conversation was going on--that Montresor, whose mind various friends of hers had been endeavoring to make up forhim, was now perhaps engaged in making it up for himself. 

With a quickened pulse she turned to find General Fergus beside her. What a frank and soldierly countenance!--a little roughly cut, with astrong mouth slightly underhung, and a dogged chin, the whole lit byeyes that were the chosen homes of truth, humanity, and will. Presentlyshe discovered, as they drew their chairs a little back from the circle, that she, too, was to be encouraged to talk about Warkworth. The Generalwas, of course, intimately 'acquainted with his professional record; butthere were certain additional Indian opinions--a few incidents in theyoung man's earlier career, including, especially, a shooting expeditionof much daring in the very district to which the important Mokembemission was now to be addressed, together with some quotations fromprivate letters of her own, or Lady Henry's, which Julie, with her usualskill, was able to slip into his ear, all on the assumption, delicatelymaintained, that she was merely talking of a friend of Lady Henry's, asLady Henry herself would have talked, to much better effect, had shebeen present. 

The General gave her a grave and friendly attention. Few men had donesterner or more daring feats in the field. Yet here he sat, relaxed, courteous, kind, trusting his companions simply, as it was his instinctto trust all women. Julie's heart beat fast. What an exciting, what animportant evening!... 

Suddenly there was a voice in her ear. 

"Do you know, I think we ought to clear out. It must be close onmidnight. "

She looked up, startled, to see Jacob Delafield. His expression--ofdoubt or discomfort--recalled her at once to the realities of her ownsituation. 

But before she could reply, a sound struck on her ear. She sprang to herfeet. 

"What was that?" she said. 

A voice was heard in the hall. 

Julie Le Breton caught the chair behind her, and Delafield saw her turnpale. But before she or he could speak again, the door of the librarywas thrown open. 

"Good Heavens!" said Montresor, springing to his feet. "Lady Henry!"

 * * * * *

M. Du Bartas lifted astonished eyes. On the threshold of the room stoodan old lady, leaning heavily on two sticks. She was deathly pale, andher fierce eyes blazed upon the scene before her. Within the bright, fire-lit room the social comedy was being played at its best; but heresurely was Tragedy--or Fate. Who was she? What did it mean?

The Duchess rushed to her, and fell, of course, upon the one thing sheshould not have said. 

"Oh, Aunt Flora, dear Aunt Flora! But we thought you were too ill tocome down!"

"So I perceive, " said Lady Henry, putting her aside. "So you, and thislady"--she pointed a shaking finger at Julie--"have held my receptionfor me. I am enormously obliged. You have also"--she looked at thecoffee-cups--"provided my guests with refreshment. I thank you. I trustmy servants have given you satisfaction. 

"Gentlemen"--she turned to the rest of the company, who stoodstupefied--"I fear I cannot ask you to remain with me longer. The houris late, and I am--as you see--indisposed. But I trust, on some futureoccasion, I may have the honor--"

She looked round upon them, challenging and defying them all. 

Montresor went up to her. 

"My dear old friend, let me introduce to you M. Du Bartas, of the FrenchForeign Office. "

At this appeal to her English hospitality and her social chivalry, LadyHenry looked grimly at the Frenchman. 

"M. Du Bartas, I am charmed to make your acquaintance. With your leave, I will pursue it when I am better able to profit by it. To-morrow I willwrite to you to propose another meeting--should my health allow. "

"Enchanté, madame, " murmured the Frenchman, more embarrassed than he hadever been in his life. "Permettez--moi de vous faire mes plus sincèresexcuses. "

"Not at all, monsieur, you owe me none. "

Montresor again approached her. 

"Let me tell you, " he said, imploringly, "how this has happened--howinnocent we all are--"

"Another time, if you please, " she said, with a most cutting calm. "As Isaid before, it is late. If I had been equal to entertaining you"--shelooked round upon them all--"I should not have told my butler to make myexcuses. As it is, I must beg you to allow me to bid you good-night. Jacob, will you kindly get the Duchess her cloak? Good-night. Good-night. As you see"--she pointed to the sticks which supportedher--"I have no hands to-night. My infirmities have need of them. "

Montresor approached her again, in real and deep distress. 

"Dear Lady Henry--"

"Go!" she said, under her breath, looking him in the eyes, and he turnedand went without a word. So did the Duchess, whimpering, her hand inDelafield's arm. As she passed Julie, who stood as though turned tostone, she made a little swaying movement towards her. 

"Dear Julie!" she cried, imploringly. 

But Lady Henry turned. 

"You will have every opportunity to-morrow, " she said. "As far as I amconcerned, Miss Le Breton will have no engagements. "

Lord Lackington quietly said, "Good-night, Lady Henry, " and, withoutoffering to shake hands, walked past her. As he came to the spot whereJulie Le Breton stood, that lady made a sudden, impetuous movementtowards him. Strange words were on her lips, a strange expressionin her eyes. 

"_You_ must help me, " she said, brokenly. "It is my right!"

Was that what she said? Lord Lackington looked at her in astonishment. He did not see that Lady Henry was watching them with eagerness, leaningheavily on her sticks, her lips parted in a keen expectancy. 

Then Julie withdrew. 

"I beg your pardon, " she said, hurriedly. "I beg your pardon. Good-night. "

Lord Lackington hesitated. His face took a puzzled expression. Then heheld out his hand, and she placed hers in it mechanically. 

"It will be all right, " he whispered, kindly. "Lady Henry will soon beherself again. Shall I tell the butler to call for some one--her maid?"

Julie shook her head, and in another moment he, too, was gone. Dr. Meredith and General Fergus stood beside her. The General had a keensense of humor, and as he said good-night to this unlawful hostess, whose plight he understood no more than his own, his mouth twitched withrepressed laughter. But Dr. Meredith did not laugh. He pressed Julie'shand in both of his. Looking behind him, he saw that Jacob Delafield, who had just returned from the hall, was endeavoring to appease LadyHenry. He bent towards Julie. 

"Don't deceive yourself, " he said, quickly, in a low voice; "this is theend. Remember my letter. Let me hear to-morrow. "

As Dr. Meredith left the room, Julie lifted her eyes. Only JacobDelafield and Lady Henry were left. 

Harry Warkworth, too, was gone--without a word? She looked round herpiteously. She could not remember that he had spoken--that he had badeher farewell. A strange pang convulsed her. She scarcely heard what LadyHenry was saying to Jacob Delafield. Yet the words were emphatic enough. 

"Much obliged to you, Jacob. But when I want your advice in my householdaffairs, I will ask it. You and Evelyn Crowborough have meddled a gooddeal too much in them already. Good-night. Hutton will get you a cab. "

And with a slight but imperious gesture, Lady Henry motioned towards thedoor. Jacob hesitated, then quietly took his departure. He threw Julie alook of anxious appeal as he went out. But she did not see it; hertroubled gaze was fixed on Lady Henry. 

 * * * * *

That lady eyed her companion with composure, though by now even the oldlips were wholly blanched. 

"There is really no need for any conversation between us, Miss LeBreton, " said the familiar voice. "But if there were, I am not to-night, as you see, in a condition to say it. So--when you came up to saygood-night to me--you had determined on this adventure? You had beengood enough, I see, to rearrange my room--to give my servantsyour orders. "

Julie stood stonily erect. She made her dry lips answer as best theycould. 

"We meant no harm, " she said, coldly. "It all came about very simply. Afew people came in to inquire after you. I regret they should havestayed talking so long. "

Lady Henry smiled in contempt. 

"You hardly show your usual ability by these remarks. The room you standin"--she glanced significantly at the lights and the chairs--"gives youthe lie. You had planned it all with Hutton, who has become your tool, before you came to me. Don't contradict. It distresses me to hear you. Well, now we part. "

"Of course. Perhaps to-morrow you will allow me a few last words?"

"I think not. This will cost me dear, " said Lady Henry, her white lipstwitching. "Say them now, mademoiselle. "

"You are suffering. " Julie made an uncertain step forward. "You ought tobe in bed. "

"That has nothing to do with it. What was your object to-night?"

"I wished to see the Duchess--"

"It is not worth while to prevaricate. The Duchess was not your firstvisitor. "

Julie flushed. 

"Captain Warkworth arrived first; that was a mere chance. "

"It was to see him that you risked the whole affair. You have used myhouse for your own intrigues. "

Julie felt herself physically wavering under the lash of thesesentences. But with a great effort she walked towards the fireplace, recovered her gloves and handkerchief, which were on the mantel-piece, and then turned slowly to Lady Henry. 

"I have done nothing in your service that I am ashamed of. On thecontrary, I have borne what no one else would have borne. I have devotedmyself to you and your interests, and you have trampled upon andtortured me. For you I have been merely a servant, and an inferior--"

Lady Henry nodded grimly. 

"It is true, " she said, interrupting, "I was not able to take yourromantic view of the office of companion. "

"You need only have taken a human view, " said Julie, in a voice thatpierced; "I was alone, poor--worse than motherless. You might have donewhat you would with me. A little indulgence, and I should have been yourdevoted slave. But you chose to humiliate and crush me; and in return, to protect myself, I, in defending myself, have been led, I admit it, into taking liberties. There is no way out of it. I shall, of course, leave you to-morrow morning. "

"Then at last we understand each other, " said Lady Henry, with a laugh. "Good-night, Miss Le Breton. "

She moved heavily on her sticks. Julie stood aside to let her pass. Oneof the sticks slipped a little on the polished floor. Julie, with a cry, ran forward, but Lady Henry fiercely motioned her aside. 

"Don't touch me! Don't come near me!"

She paused a moment to recover breath and balance. Then she resumed herdifficult walk. Julie followed her. 

"Kindly put out the electric lights, " said Lady Henry, and Julie obeyed. 

They entered the hall in which one little light was burning. Lady Henry, with great difficulty, and panting, began to pull herself up the stairs. 

"Oh, _do_ let me help you!" said Julie, in an agony. "You will killyourself. Let me at least call Dixon. "

"You will do nothing of the kind, " said Lady Henry, indomitable, thoughtortured by weakness and rheumatism. "Dixon is in my room, where I badeher remain. You should have thought of the consequences of this beforeyou embarked upon it. If I were to die in mounting these stairs, I wouldnot let you help me. "

"Oh!" cried Julie, as though she had been struck, and hid her eyes withher hand. 

Slowly, laboriously, Lady Henry dragged herself from step to step. Asshe turned the corner of the staircase, and could therefore be no longerseen from below, some one softly opened the door of the dining-room andentered the hall. 

Julie looked round her, startled. She saw Jacob Delafield, who put hisfinger to his lip. 

Moved by a sudden impulse, she bowed her head on the banister of thestairs against which she was leaning and broke into stifled sobs. 

Jacob Delafield came up to her and took her hand. She felt his owntremble, and yet its grasp was firm and supporting. 

"Courage!" he said, bending over her. "Try not to give way. You willwant all your fortitude. "

"Listen!" She gasped, trying vainly to control herself, and they bothlistened to the sounds above them in the dark house--the labored breath, the slow, painful step. 

"Oh, she wouldn't let me help her. She said she would rather die. Perhaps I have killed her. And I could--I could--yes, I _could_ haveloved her. "

She was in an anguish of feeling--of sharp and penetrating remorse. 

Jacob Delafield held her hand close in his, and when at last the soundshad died in the distance he lifted it to his lips. 

"You know that I am your friend and servant, " he said, in a queer, muffled voice. "You promised I should be. "

She tried to withdraw her hand, but only feebly. Neither physically normentally had she the strength to repulse him. If he had taken her in hisarms, she could hardly have resisted. But he did not attempt to conquermore than her hand. He stood beside her, letting her feel the wholemute, impetuous offer of his manhood--thrown at her feet to do what shewould with. 

Presently, when once more she moved away, he said to her, in a whisper:

"Go to the Duchess to-morrow morning, as soon as you can get away. Shetold me to say that--Hutton gave me a little note from her. Your homemust be with her till we can all settle what is best. You know very wellyou have devoted friends. But now good-night. Try to sleep. Evelyn and Iwill do all we can with Lady Henry. "

Julie drew herself out of his hold. "Tell Evelyn I will come to see her, at any rate, as soon as I can put my things together. Good-night. "

And she, too, dragged herself up-stairs sobbing, starting at everyshadow. All her nerve and daring were gone. The thought that she mustspend yet another night under the roof of this old woman who hated herfilled her with terror. When she reached her room she locked her doorand wept for hours in a forlorn and aching misery. 

X

The Duchess was in her morning-room. On the rug, in marked and, as itseemed to her plaintive eyes, brutal contrast with the endlessphotographs of her babies and women friends which crowded hermantel-piece, stood the Duke, much out of temper. He was a powerfullybuilt man, some twenty years older than his wife, with a darkcomplexion, enlivened by ruddy cheeks and prominent, red lips. His eyeswere of a cold, clear gray; his hair very black, thick, and wiry. Anextremely vigorous person, more than adequately aware of his ownimportance, tanned and seasoned by the life of his class, by theyachting, hunting, and shooting in which his own existence was largelyspent, slow in perception, and of a sulky temper--so one might have readhim at first sight. But these impressions only took you a certain way injudging the character of the Duchess's husband. 

As to the sulkiness, there could be no question on this particularmorning--though, indeed, his ill-humor deserved a more positive andenergetic name. 

"You have got yourself and me, " he was declaring, "into a mostdisagreeable and unnecessary scrape. This letter of Lady Henry's"--heheld it up--"is one of the most annoying that I have received for many aday. Lady Henry seems to me perfectly justified. You _have_ beenbehaving in a quite unwarrantable way. And now you tell me that thiswoman, who is the cause of it all, of whose conduct I thoroughly andentirely disapprove, is coming to stay here, in my house, whether I likeit or not, and you expect me to be civil to her. If you persist, I shallgo down to Brackmoor till she is pleased to depart. I won't countenancethe thing at all, and, whatever you may do, _I_ shall apologize toLady Henry. "

"There's nothing to apologize for, " cried the drooping Duchess, pluckingup a little spirit. "Nobody meant any harm. Why shouldn't the oldfriends go in to ask after her? Hutton--that old butler that has beenwith Aunt Flora for twenty years--_asked_ us to come in. "

"Then he did what he had no business to do, and he deserves to bedismissed at a day's notice. Why, Lady Henry tells me that it was aregular party--that the room was all arranged for it by that mostaudacious young woman--that the servants were ordered about--that itlasted till nearly midnight, and that the noise you all made positivelywoke Lady Henry out of her sleep. Really, Evelyn, that you should havebeen mixed up in such an affair is more unpalatable to me than I canfind words to describe. " And he paced, fuming, up and down before her. 

"Anybody else than Aunt Flora would have laughed, " said the Duchess, defiantly. "And I declare, Freddie, I won't be scolded in such a tone. Besides, if you only knew--"

She threw back her head and looked at him, her cheeks flushed, her lipsquivering with a secret that, once out, would perhaps silence him atonce--would, at any rate, as children do when they give a shake to theirspillikins, open up a number of new chances in the game. 

"If I only knew what?"

The Duchess pulled at the hair of the little spitz on her lap withoutreplying. 

"What is there to know that I don't know?" insisted the Duke. "Somethingthat makes the matter still worse, I suppose?"

"Well, that depends, " said the Duchess, reflectively. A gleam ofmischief had slipped into her face, though for a moment the tears hadnot been far off. 

The Duke looked at his watch. 

"Don't keep me here guessing riddles longer than you can help, " he said, impatiently. "I have an appointment in the City at twelve, and I want todiscuss with you the letter that must be written to Lady Henry. "

"That's your affair, " said the Duchess. "I haven't made up my mind yetwhether I mean to write at all. And as for the riddle, Freddie, you'veseen Miss Le Breton?"

"Once. I thought her a very pretentious person, " said the Duke, stiffly. 

"I know--you didn't get on. But, Freddie, didn't she remind you ofsomebody?"

The Duchess was growing excited. Suddenly she jumped up; the littlespitz rolled off her lap; she ran to her husband and took him by thefronts of his coat. 

"Freddie, you'll be very much astonished. " And suddenly releasing him, she began to search among the photographs on the mantel-piece. "Freddie, you know who that is?" She held up a picture. 

"Of course I know. What on earth has that got to do with the subject wehave been discussing?"

"Well, it has a good deal to do with it, " said the Duchess, slowly. "That's my uncle, George Chantrey, isn't it, Lord Lackington's secondson, who married mamma's sister? Well--oh, you won't like it, Freddie, but you've got to know--that's--Julie's uncle, too!"

"What in the name of fortune do you mean?" said the Duke, staring ather. 

His wife again caught him by the coat, and, so imprisoning him, shepoured out her story very fast, very incoherently, and with a veryevident uncertainty as to what its effect might be. 

And indeed the effect was by no means easy to determine. The Duke wasfirst incredulous, then bewildered by the very mixed facts which shepoured out upon him. He tried to cross-examine her _en route_, but hegained little by that; she only shook him a little, insisting the morevehemently on telling the story her own way. At last their twoimpatiences had nearly come to a dead-lock. But the Duke managed to freehimself physically, and so regained a little freedom of mind. 

"Well, upon my word, " he said, as he resumed his march up anddown--"upon my word!" Then, as he stood still before her, "You say sheis Marriott Dalrymple's daughter?"

"And Lord Lackington's granddaughter. " said the Duchess, panting alittle from her exertions. "And, oh, what a blind bat you were not tosee it at once--from the likeness!"

"As if one had any right to infer such a thing from a likeness!" saidthe Duke, angrily. "Really, Evelyn, your talk is most--most unbecoming. It seems to me that Mademoiselle Le Breton has already done you harm. All that you have told me, supposing it to be true--oh, of course, Iknow you believe it to be true--only makes me"--he stiffened hisback--"the more determined to break off the connection between her andyou. A woman of such antecedents is not a fit companion for my wife, independently of the fact that she seems to be, in herself, anintriguing and dangerous character. "

"How could she help her antecedents?" cried the Duchess. 

"I didn't say she could help them. But if they are what you say, sheought--well, she ought to be all the more careful to live in a modestand retired way, instead of, as I understand, making herself the rivalof Lady Henry. I never heard anything so preposterous--so--so indecent!She shows no proper sense, and, as for you, I deeply regret you shouldhave been brought into any contact with such a disgraceful story. "

"Freddie!" The Duchess went into a helpless, half-hysterical fit oflaughter. 

But the Duke merely expanded, as it seemed, still further--to his utmostheight and bulk. "Oh, dear, " thought the Duchess, in despair, "now he isgoing to be like his mother!" Her strictly Evangelical mother-in-law, with whom the Duke had made his bachelor home for many years, had beenthe scourge of her early married life; and though for Freddie's sake shehad shed a few tears over her death, eighteen months before this date, the tears--as indeed the Duke had thought at the time--had been only tooquickly dried. 

There could be no question about it, the Duke was painfully like hismother as he replied:

"I fear that your education, Evelyn, has led you to take such things farmore lightly than you ought. I am old-fashioned. Illegitimacy with me_does_ carry a stigma, and the sins of the fathers _are_ visited uponthe children. At any rate, we who occupy a prominent social place haveno right to do anything which may lead others to think lightly of God'slaw. I am sorry to speak plainly, Evelyn. I dare say you don't likethese sentiments, but you know, at least, that I am quite honest inexpressing them. "

The Duke turned to her, not without dignity. He was and had been fromhis boyhood a person of irreproachable morals--earnest and religiousaccording to his lights, a good son, husband, and father. His wifelooked at him with mingled feelings. 

"Well, all I know is, " she said, passionately beating her little foot onthe carpet before her, "that, by all accounts, the only thing to do withColonel Delaney was to run away from him. "

The Duke shrugged his shoulders. 

"You don't expect me to be much moved by a remark of that kind? As tothis lady, your story does not affect me in her favor in the smallestdegree. She has had her education; Lord Lackington gives her one hundredpounds a year; if she is a self-respecting woman she will look afterherself. I _don't_ want to have her here, and I beg you won't inviteher. A couple of nights, perhaps--I don't mind that--but notfor longer. "

"Oh, as to that, you may be very sure she won't stay here unless you'revery particularly nice to her. There'll be plenty of peopleglad--enchanted--to have her! I don't care about that, but what I _do_want is"--the Duchess looked up with calm audacity--"that you shouldfind her a house. "

The Duke paused in his walk and surveyed his wife with amazement. 

"Evelyn, are you _quite_ mad?"

"Not in the least. You have more houses than you know what to do with, and a _great_ deal more money than anybody in the world ought to have. If they ever do set up the guillotine at Hyde Park Corner, we shall beamong the first--we ought to be!"

"What is the good of talking nonsense like this, Evelyn?" said the Duke, once more consulting his watch. "Let's go back to the subject of myletter to Lady Henry. "

"It's most excellent sense!" cried the Duchess, springing up. "You_have_ more houses than you know what to do with; and you have one housein particular--that little place at the back of Cureton Street whereCousin Mary Leicester lived so long--which is in your hands still, Iknow, for you told me so last week--which is vacant andfurnished--Cousin Mary left you the furniture, as if we hadn't gotenough!--and it would be the _very_ thing for Julie, if only you'd lendit to her till she can turn round. "

The Duchess was now standing up, confronting her lord, her handsgrasping the chair behind her, her small form alive with eagerness andthe feminine determination to get her own way, by fair means or foul. 

"Cureton Street!" said the Duke, almost at the end of his tether. "Andhow do you propose that this young woman is to live--in Cureton Street, or anywhere else?"

"She means to write, " said the Duchess, shortly. "Dr. Meredith haspromised her work. "

"Sheer lunacy! In six months time you'd have to step in and pay all herbills. "

"I should like to see anybody dare to propose to Julie to pay herbills!" cried the Duchess, with scorn. "You see, the great pity is, Freddie, that you don't know anything at all about her. But thathouse--wasn't it made out of a stable? It has got six rooms, Iknow--three bedrooms up-stairs, and two sitting-rooms and a kitchenbelow. With one good maid and a boy Julie could be perfectlycomfortable. She would earn four hundred pounds--Dr. Meredith haspromised her--she has one hundred pounds a year of her own. She wouldpay no rent, of course. She would have just enough to live on, poor, dear thing! And she would be able to gather her old friendsround her when she wanted them. A cup of tea and her delightfulconversation--that's all they'd ever want. "

"Oh, go on--go on!" said the Duke, throwing himself exasperated into anarm-chair; "the ease with which you dispose of my property on behalf ofa young woman who has caused me most acute annoyance, who has embroiledus with a near relation for whom I have a very particular respect! _Herfriends_, indeed! Lady Henry's friends, you mean. Poor Lady Henry tellsme in this letter that her circle will be completely scattered. Thismischievous woman in three years has destroyed what it has taken LadyHenry nearly thirty to build up. Now look here, Evelyn"--the Duke sat upand slapped his knee--"as to this Cureton Street plan, I will do nothingof the kind. You may have Miss Le Breton here for two or three nights ifyou like--I shall probably go down to the country--and, of course, Ihave no objection to make if you wish to help her find anothersituation--"

"Another situation!" cried the Duchess, beside herself. "Freddie, youreally are impossible! Do you understand that I regard Julie Le Bretonas _my relation_, whatever you may say--that I love her dearly--thatthere are fifty people with money and influence ready to help her if youwon't, because she is one of the most charming and distinguished womenin London--that you ought to be _proud_ to do her a service--that I wantyou to have the _honor_ of it--there! And if you won't do this littlefavor for me--when I ask and beg it of you--I'll make you remember itfor a very long time to come--you may be sure of that!"

And his wife turned upon him as an image of war, her fair hair rufflingabout her ears, her cheeks and eyes brilliant with anger--andsomething more. 

The Duke rose in silent ferocity and sought for some letters which hehad left on the mantel-piece. 

"I had better leave you to come to your senses by yourself, and asquickly as possible, " he said, as he put them into his pockets. "No goodcan come of any more discussion of this sort. "

The Duchess said nothing. She looked out of the window busily, and bither lip. Her silence served her better than her speech, for suddenly theDuke looked round, hesitated, threw down a book he carried, walked up toher, and took her in his arms. 

"You are a very foolish child, " he declared, as he held her by mainforce and kissed away her tears. "You make me lose my temper--and wastemy time--for nothing. "

"Not at all, " said the sobbing Duchess, trying to push herself away, anddenying him, as best she could, her soft, flushed face. "You don't, oryou won't, understand! I was--I was very fond of Uncle George Chantrey. _He_ would have helped Julie if he were alive. And as for you, you'reLord Lackington's godson, and you're always preaching what he's done forthe army, and what the nation owes him--and--and--"

"Does he know?" said the Duke, abruptly, marvelling at the irrelevanceof these remarks. 

"No, not a word. Only six people in London know--Aunt Flora, Sir WilfridBury"--the Duke made an exclamation--"Mr. Montresor, Jacob, you, and I. "

"Jacob!" said the Duke. "What's he got to do with it?"

The Duchess suddenly saw her opportunity, and rushed upon it. 

"Only that he's madly in love with her, that's all. And, to myknowledge, she has refused him both last year and this. Of course, naturally, if you won't do anything to help her, she'll probably marryhim--simply as a way out. "

"Well, of all the extraordinary affairs!"

The Duke released her, and stood bewildered. The Duchess watched him insome excitement. He was about to speak, when there was a sound in theanteroom. They moved hastily apart. The door was thrown open, and thefootman announced, "Miss Le Breton. "

 * * * * *

Julie Le Breton entered, and stood a moment on the threshold, looking, not in embarrassment, but with a certain hesitation, at the two personswhose conversation she had disturbed. She was pale with sleeplessness;her look was sad and weary. But never had she been more composed, moreelegant. Her closely fitting black cloth dress; her strangely expressiveface, framed by a large hat, very simple, but worn as only the woman offashion knows how; her miraculous yet most graceful slenderness; thedelicacy of her hands; the natural dignity of her movements--thesethings produced an immediate, though, no doubt, conflicting impressionupon the gentleman who had just been denouncing her. He bowed, with aninvoluntary deference which he had not at all meant to show to LadyHenry's insubordinate companion, and then stood frowning. 

But the Duchess ran forward, and, quite heedless of her husband, threwherself into her friend's arms. 

"Oh, Julie, is there anything left of you? I hardly slept a wink forthinking of you. What did that old--oh, I forgot--do you know myhusband? Freddie, this is my _great_ friend, Miss Le Breton. "

The Duke bowed again, silently. Julie looked at him, and then, stillholding the Duchess by the hand, she approached him, a pair of very fineand pleading eyes fixed upon his face. 

"You have probably heard from Lady Henry, have you not?" she said, addressing him. "In a note I had from her this morning she told me shehad written to you. I could not help coming to-day, because Evelyn hasbeen so kind. But--is it your wish that I should come here?"

The Christian name slipped out unawares, and the Duke winced at it. Thelikeness to Lord Lackington--it was certainly astonishing. There ranthrough his mind the memory of a visit paid long ago to his early homeby Lord Lackington and two daughters, Rose and Blanche. He, the Duke, had then been a boy home from school. The two girls, one five or sixyears older than the other, had been the life and charm of the party. Heremembered hunting with Lady Rose. 

But the confusion in his mind had somehow to be mastered, and he made aneffort. 

"I shall be glad if my wife is able to be of any assistance to you, MissLe Breton, " he said, coldly; "but it would not be honest if I were toconceal my opinion--so far as I have been able to form it--that LadyHenry has great and just cause of complaint. "

"You are quite right--quite right, " said Julie, almost with eagerness. "She has, indeed. "

The Duke was taken by surprise. Imperious as he was, and stiffened by agood many of those petty prides which the spoiled children of the worldescape so hardly, he found himself hesitating--groping for his words. 

The Duchess meanwhile drew Julie impulsively towards a chair. 

"Do sit down. You look so tired. "

But Julie's gaze was still bent upon the Duke. She restrained herfriend's eager hand, and the Duke collected himself. _He_ brought achair, and Julie seated herself. 

"I am deeply, deeply distressed about Lady Henry, " she said, in a lowvoice, by which the Duke felt himself most unwillingly penetrated. "Idon't--oh no, indeed, I don't defend last night. Only--my position hasbeen very difficult lately. I wanted very much to see theDuchess--and--it was natural--wasn't it?--that the old friends shouldlike to be personally informed about Lady Henry's illness? But, ofcourse, they stayed too long; it was my fault--I ought to haveprevented it. "

She paused. This stern-looking man, who stood with his back to themantel-piece regarding her, Philistine though he was, had yet astraight, disinterested air, from which she shrank a little. Honestly, she would have liked to tell him the truth. But how could she? She didher best, and her account certainly was no more untrue than scores ofnarratives of social incident which issue every day from lips the mostrespected and the most veracious. As for the Duchess, she thought it theheight of candor and generosity. The only thing she could have wished, perhaps, in her inmost heart, was that she had _not_ found Julie alonewith Harry Warkworth. But her loyal lips would have suffered tormentsrather than accuse or betray her friend. 

The Duke meanwhile went through various phases of opinion as Julie laidher story before him. Perhaps he was chiefly affected by the tone ofquiet independence--as from equal to equal--in which she addressed him. His wife's cousin by marriage; the granddaughter of an old and intimatefriend of his own family; the daughter of a man known at one timethroughout Europe, and himself amply well born--all these facts, warm, living, and still efficacious, stood, as it were, behind this manner ofhers, prompting and endorsing it. But, good Heavens! was illegitimacy tobe as legitimacy?--to carry with it no stains and penalties? Was vice tobe virtue, or as good? The Duke rebelled. 

"It is a most unfortunate affair, of that there can be no doubt, " hesaid, after a moment's silence, when Julie had brought her story to anend; and then, more sternly, "I shall certainly apologize for my wife'sshare in it. "

"Lady Henry won't be angry with the Duchess long, " said Julie Le Breton. "As for me"--her voice sank--"my letter this morning was returned to meunopened. "

There was an uncomfortable pause; then Julie resumed, in another tone:

"But what I am now chiefly anxious to discuss is, how can we save LadyHenry from any further pain or annoyance? She once said to me in a fitof anger that if I left her in consequence of a quarrel, and any of herold friends sided with me, she would never see them again. "

"I know, " said the Duke, sharply. "Her salon will break up. She alreadyforesees it. "

"But why?--why?" cried Julie, in a most becoming distress. "Somehow, wemust prevent it. Unfortunately I must live in London. I have the offerof work here--journalist's work which cannot be done in the country orabroad. But I would do all I could to shield Lady Henry. "

"What about Mr. Montresor?" said the Duke, abruptly. Montresor had beenthe well-known Châteaubriand to Lady Henry's Madame Récamier for morethan a generation. 

Julie turned to him with eagerness. 

"Mr. Montresor wrote to me early this morning. The letter reached me atbreakfast. In Mrs. Montresor's name and his own, he asked me to staywith them till my plans developed. He--he was kind enough to say he felthimself partly responsible for last night. "

"And you replied?" The Duke eyed her keenly. 

Julie sighed and looked down. 

"I begged him not to think any more of me in the matter, but to write atonce to Lady Henry. I hope he has done so. "

"And so you refused--excuse these questions--Mrs. Montresor'sinvitation?"

The working of the Duke's mind was revealed in his drawn and puzzledbrows. 

"Certainly. " The speaker looked at him with surprise. "Lady Henry wouldnever have forgiven that. It could not be thought of. Lord Lackingtonalso"--but her voice wavered. 

"Yes?" said the Duchess, eagerly, throwing herself on a stool at Julie'sfeet and looking up into her face. 

"He, too, has written to me. He wants to help me. But--I can't let him. "

The words ended in a whisper. She leaned back in her chair, and put herhandkerchief to her eyes. It was very quietly done, and very touching. The Duchess threw a lightning glance at her husband; and then, possessing herself of one of Julie's hands, she kissed it andmurmured over it. 

"Was there ever such a situation?" thought the Duke, much shaken. "Andshe has already, if Evelyn is to be believed, refused the chance--thepractical certainty--of being Duchess of Chudleigh!"

He was a man with whom a _gran rifiuto_ of this kind weighed heavily. His moral sense exacted such things rather of other people than himself. But, when made, he could appreciate them. 

After a few turns up and down the room, he walked up to the two women. 

"Miss Le Breton, " he said, in a far more hurried tone than was usual tohim, "I cannot approve--and Evelyn ought not to approve--of much thathas taken place during your residence with Lady Henry. But I understandthat your post was not an easy one, and I recognize the forbearance ofyour present attitude. Evelyn is much distressed about it all. On theunderstanding that you will do what you can to soften this breach forLady Henry, I shall be, glad if you will allow me to come partially toyour assistance. "

Julie looked up gravely, her eyebrows lifting. The Duke found himselfreddening as he went on. 

"I have a little house near here--a little furnished house--Evelyn willexplain to you. It happens to be vacant. If you will accept a loan ofit, say for six months"--the Duchess frowned--"you will give mepleasure. I will explain my action to Lady Henry, and endeavor to softenher feelings. "

He paused. Miss Le Breton's face was grateful, touched with emotion, butmore than hesitating. 

"You are very good. But I have no claim upon you at all. And I cansupport myself. "

A touch of haughtiness slipped into her manner as she gently rose to herfeet. "Thank God, I did not offer her money!" thought the Duke, strangely perturbed. 

"Julie, dear Julie, " implored the Duchess. "It's such a tiny littleplace, and it is quite musty for want of living in. Nobody has set footin it but the caretaker for two years, and it would be really a kindnessto us to go and live there--wouldn't it, Freddie? And there's all thefurniture just as it was, down to the bellows and the snuffers. If you'donly use it and take care of it; Freddie hasn't liked to sell it, because it's all old family stuff, and he was very fond of Cousin MaryLeicester. Oh, do say yes, Julie! They shall light the fires, and I'llsend in a few sheets and things, and you'll feel as though you'd beenthere for years. Do, Julie!"

Julie shook her head. 

"I came here, " she said, in a voice that was still unsteady, "to ask foradvice, not favors. But it's very good of you. "

And with trembling fingers she began to refasten her veil. 

"Julie!--where are you going?" cried the Duchess "You're staying here. "

"Staying here?" said Julie, turning round upon her. "Do you think Ishould be a burden upon you, or any one?"

"But, Julie, you told Jacob you would come. "

"I have come. I wanted your sympathy, and your counsel. I wished also toconfess myself to the Duke, and to point out to him how matters could bemade easier for Lady Henry. "

The penitent, yet dignified, sadness of her manner and voice completedthe discomfiture--the temporary discomfiture--of the Duke. 

"Miss Le Breton, " he said, abruptly, coming to stand beside her, "Iremember your mother. "

Julie's eyes filled. Her hand still held her veil, but it paused in itstask. 

"I was a small school-boy when she stayed with us, " resumed the Duke. "She was a beautiful girl. She let me go out hunting with her. She wasvery kind to me, and I thought her a kind of goddess. When I first heardher story, years afterwards, it shocked me awfully. For her sake, accept my offer. I don't think lightly of such actions as yourmother's--not at all. But I can't bear to think of her daughter aloneand friendless in London. "

Yet even as he spoke he seemed to be listening to another person. He didnot himself understand the feelings which animated him, nor the strengthwith which his recollections of Lady Rose had suddenly invaded him. 

Julie leaned her arms on the mantel-piece, and hid her face. She hadturned her back to them, and they saw that she was crying softly. 

The Duchess crept up to her and wound her arms round her. 

"You will, Julie!--you will! Lady Henry has turned you out-of-doors at amoment's notice. And it was a great deal my fault. You _must_ let ushelp you!"

Julie did not answer, but, partially disengaging herself, and withoutlooking at him, she held out her hand to the Duke. 

He pressed it with a cordiality that amazed him. 

"That's right--that's right. Now, Evelyn, I leave you to make thearrangements. The keys shall be here this afternoon. Miss Le Breton, ofcourse, stays here till things are settled. As for me, I must really beoff to my meeting. One thing, Miss Le Breton--"

"Yes. "

"I think, " he said, gravely, "you ought to reveal yourself to LordLackington. "

She shrank. 

"You'll let me take my own time for that?" was her appealing reply. 

"Very well--very well. We'll speak of it again. "

And he hurried away. As he descended his own stairs astonishment at whathe had done rushed upon him and overwhelmed him. 

"How on earth am I ever to explain the thing to Lady Henry?"

And as he went citywards in his cab, he felt much more guilty than hiswife had ever done. What _could_ have made him behave in thisextraordinary, this preposterous way? A touch of foolishromance--immoral romance--of which he was already ashamed? Or the onebare fact that this woman had refused Jacob Delafield?

XI

"Here it is, " said the Duchess, as the carriage stopped. "Isn't it anodd little place?"

And as she and Julie paused on the pavement, Julie looked listlessly ather new home. It was a two-storied brick house, built about 1780. Thefront door boasted a pair of Ionian columns and a classical canopy orpediment. The windows had still the original small panes; the _mansarde_roof, with its one dormer, was untouched. The little house had ratherdeep eaves; three windows above; two, and the front door, below. It worea prim, old-fashioned air, a good deal softened and battered, however, by age, and it stood at the corner of two streets, both dingily quiet, and destined, no doubt, to be rebuilt before long in the generalrejuvenation of Mayfair. 

As the Duchess had said, it occupied the site of what had once--about1740--been the westerly end of a mews belonging to houses in CuretonStreet, long since pulled down. The space filled by these houses was nowoccupied by one great mansion and its gardens. The rest of the mews hadbeen converted into three-story houses of a fair size, looking south, with a back road between them and the gardens of Cureton House. But atthe southwesterly corner of what was now Heribert Street, fronting westand quite out of line and keeping with the rest, was this curious littleplace, built probably at a different date and for some special familyreason. The big planes in the Cureton House gardens came close to it andovershadowed it; one side wall of the house, in fact, formed part of thewall of the garden. 

The Duchess, full of nervousness, ran up the steps, put in the keyherself, and threw open the door. An elderly Scotchwoman, the caretaker, appeared from the back and stood waiting to show them over. 

"Oh, Julie, perhaps it's _too_ queer and musty!" cried the Duchess, looking round her in some dismay. "I thought, you know, it would be alittle out-of-the-way and quaint--unlike other people--just what youought to have. But--"

"I think it's delightful, " said Julie, standing absently before a caseof stuffed birds, somewhat moth-eaten, which took up a good deal ofspace in the little hall. "I love stuffed birds. "

The Duchess glanced at her uneasily. "What is she thinking about?" shewondered. But Julie roused herself. 

"Why, it looks as though everything here had gone to sleep for a hundredyears, " she said, gazing in astonishment at the little hall, with itsold clock, its two or three stiff hunting-pictures, its drab-paintedwalls, its poker-work chest. 

And the drawing-room! The caretaker had opened the windows. It was amild March day, and there were misty sun-gleams stealing along the lawnsof Cureton House. None entered the room itself, for its twosemi-circular windows looked north over the gardens. Yet it was notuncheerful. Its faded curtains of blue rep, its buff walls, on which thepictures and miniatures in their tarnished gilt frames were arranged atintervals in stiff patterns and groups; the Italian glass, painted withdilapidated Cupids, over the mantel-piece; the two or three Sheratonarm-chairs and settees, covered with threadbare needle-work from thedays of "Evelina"; a carpet of old and well-preserved Brussels--bluearabesques on a white ground; one or two pieces of old satin-woodfurniture, very fine and perfect; a heavy centre-table, its clothgarnished with some early Victorian wool-work, and a pair of pink glassvases; on another small table close by, of a most dainty andspindle-legged correctness, a set of Indian chessmen under a glassshade; and on another a collection of tiny animals, stags and dogs forthe most part, deftly "pinched" out of soft paper, also under glass, andas perfect as when their slender limbs were first fashioned by CousinMary Leicester's mother, somewhere about the year that Marie Antoinettemounted the scaffold. These various elements, ugly and beautiful, combined to make a general effect--clean, fastidious, frugal, andrefined--that was, in truth, full of a sort of acid charm. 

"Oh, I like it! I like it so much!" cried Julie, throwing herself downinto one of the straight-backed arm-chairs and looking first round thewalls and then through the windows to the gardens outside. 

"My dear, " said the Duchess, flitting from one thing to another, frowning and a little fussed, "those curtains won't do at all. I mustsend some from home. "

"No, no, Evelyn. Not a thing shall be changed. You shall lend it me justas it is or not at all. What a character it has! I _taste_ the personwho lived here. "

"Cousin Mary Leicester?" said the Duchess. "Well, she was rather anoddity. She was Low Church, like my mother-in-law; but, oh, so muchnicer! Once I let her come to Grosvenor Square and speak to the servantsabout going to church. The groom of the chambers said she was 'a dearold lady, and if she were _his_ cousin he wouldn't mind her being a bittouched, ' My maid said she had no idea poke-bonnets could be so _sweet_. It made her understand what the Queen looked like when she was young. And none of them have ever been to church since that I can make out. There was one very curious thing about Cousin Mary Leicester, " added theDuchess, slowly--"she had second sight. She _saw_ her old mother, inthis room, once or twice, after she had been dead for years. And she sawFreddie once, when he was away on a long voyage--"

"Ghosts, too!" said Julie, crossing her hands before her with a littleshiver--"that completes it. "

"Sixty years, " said the Duchess, musing. "It was a long time--wasn'tit?--to live in this little house, and scarcely ever leave it. Oh, shehad quite a circle of her own. For many years her funny little sisterlived here, too. And there was a time, Freddie says, when there wasalmost a rivalry between them and two other famous old ladies who livedin Bruton Street--what _was_ their name? Oh, the Miss Berrys! HoraceWalpole's Miss Berrys. All sorts of famous people, I believe, have satin these chairs. But the Miss Berrys won. "

"Not in years? Cousin Mary outlived them. "

"Ah, but she was dead long before she died, " said the Duchess as shecame to perch on the arm of Julie's chair, and threw her arm round herfriend's neck. "After her little sister departed this life she became avery silent, shrivelled thing--except for her religion--and very fewpeople saw her. She took a fancy to me--which was odd, wasn't it, whenI'm such a worldling?--and she let me come in and out. Every morning sheread the Psalms and Lessons, with her old maid, who was just her ownage--in this very chair. And two or three times a month Freddie wouldslip round and read them with her--you know Freddie's very religious. And then she'd work at flannel petticoats for the poor, or something ofthat kind, till lunch. Afterwards she'd go and read the Bible to peoplein the workhouse or in hospital. When she came home, the butler broughther the _Times_; and sometimes you'd find her by the fire, straining herold eyes over 'a little Dante. ' And she always dressed fordinner--everything was quite smart--and her old butler served her. Afterwards her maid played dominoes or spillikins with her--all her lifeshe never touched a card--and they read a chapter, and Cousin Maryplayed a hymn on that funny little old piano there in the corner, and atten they all went to bed. Then, one morning, the maid went in to wakeher, and she saw her dear sharp nose and chin against the light, and herhands like that, in front of her--and--well, I suppose, she'd gone toplay hymns in heaven--dear Cousin Mary! Julie, isn't it strange the kindof lives so many of us have to lead? Julie"--the little Duchess laid hercheek against her friend's--"do you believe in another life?"

"You forget I'm a Catholic, " said Julie, smiling rather doubtfully. 

"_Are_ you, Julie? I'd forgotten. "

"The good nuns at Bruges took care of that. "

"Do you ever go to mass?"

"Sometimes. "

"Then you're not a good Catholic, Julie?"

"No, " said Julie, after a pause, "not at all. But it sometimes catcheshold of me. "

The old clock in the hall struck. The Duchess sprang up. 

"Oh, Julie, I have got to be at Clarisse's by four. I _promised_ her I'dgo and settle about my Drawing-room dress to-day. Let's see the rest ofthe house. "

And they went rapidly through it. All of it was stamped with the samecharacter, representing, as it were, the meeting-point between aninherited luxury and a personal asceticism. Beautiful chairs, orcabinets transported sixty years before from one of the old Crowboroughhouses in the country to this little abode, side by side with things thecheapest and the commonest--all that Cousin Mary Leicester could everpersuade herself to buy with her own money. For all the latter part ofher life she had been half a mystic and half a great lady, secretlyhating the luxury from which she had not the strength to free herself, dressing ceremoniously, as the Duchess had said, for a solitary dinner, and all the while going in sore remembrance of a Master who "had notwhere to lay his head. "

At any rate, there was an ample supply of household stuff for a singlewoman and her maids. In the china cupboard there were still theold-fashioned Crown Derby services, the costly cut glass, the Leeds andWedgewood dessert dishes that Cousin Mary Leicester had used for half acentury. The caretaker produced the keys of the iron-lined platecupboard, and showed its old-world contents, clean and in order. 

"Why, Julie! If we'd only ordered the dinner I might have come to dinewith you to-night!" cried the Duchess, enjoying and peering intoeverything like a child with its doll's house. "And thelinen--gracious!" as the doors of another cupboard were opened to her. "But now I remember, Freddie said nothing was to be touched till he madeup his mind what to do with the little place. Why, there's everything!"

And they both looked in astonishment at the white, fragrant rows, at theworn monogram in the corners of the sheets, at the little bags oflavender and pot-pourri ranged along the shelves. 

Suddenly Julie turned away and sat down by an open window, carrying hereyes far from the house and its stores. 

"It is too much, Evelyn, " she said, sombrely. "It oppresses me. I don'tthink I can live up to it. "

"Julie!" and again the little Duchess came to stand caressingly besideher. "Why, you must have sheets--and knives and forks! Why should youget ugly new ones, when you can use Cousin Mary's? She would have lovedyou to have them. "

"She would have hated me with all her strength, " said Miss Le Breton, probably with much truth. 

The two were silent a little. Through Julie's stormy heart there sweptlongings and bitternesses inexpressible. What did she care for thelittle house and all its luxuries! She was sorry that she had fetteredherself with it.... Nearly four o'clock in the afternoon, and noletter--not a word!

"Julie, " said the Duchess, softly, in her ear, "you know you can't livehere alone. I'm afraid Freddie would make a fuss. "

"I've thought of that, " said Julie, wearily. "But, shall we really go onwith it, Evelyn?"

The Duchess looked entreaty. Julie repented, and, drawing her friendtowards her, rested her head against the chinchilla cloak. 

"I'm tired, I suppose, " she said, in a low voice. "Don't think me anungrateful wretch. Well, there's my foster-sister and her child. "

"Madame Bornier and the little cripple girl?" cried the Duchess. "Excellent! Where are they?"

"Léonie is in the French Governesses' Home, as it happens, looking outfor a situation, and the child is in the Orthopædic Hospital. They'vebeen straightening her foot. It's wonderfully better, and she's nearlyready to come out. "

"Are they nice, Julie?"

"Thérèse is an angel--you must be the one thing or the other, apparently, if you're a cripple. And as for Léonie--well, if she comeshere, nobody need be anxious about my finances. She'd count every crustand cinder. We couldn't keep any English servant; but we could get aBelgian one. "

"But is she nice?" repeated the Duchess. 

"I'm used to her, " said Julie, in the same inanimate voice. 

Suddenly the clock in the hall below struck four. 

"Heavens!" cried the Duchess. "You don't know how Clarisse keeps you toyour time. Shall I go on, and send the carriage back for you?"

"Don't trouble about me. I should like to look round me here a littlelonger. "

"You'll remember that some of our fellow-criminals may look in afterfive? Dr. Meredith and Lord Lackington said, as we were getting awaylast night--oh, how that doorstep of Aunt Flora's burned my shoes!--thatthey should come round. And Jacob is coming; he'll stay and dine. And, Julie, I've asked Captain Warkworth to dine to-morrow night. "

"Have you? That's noble of you--for you don't like him. "

"I don't know him!" cried the Duchess, protesting. "If you like him--ofcourse it's all right. Was he--was he very agreeable last night?" sheadded, slyly. 

"What a word to apply to anybody or anything connected with last night!"

"Are you very sore, Julie?"

"Well, on this very day of being turned out it hurts. I wonder who iswriting Lady Henry's letters for her this afternoon?"

"I hope they are not getting written, " said the Duchess, savagely; "andthat she's missing you abominably. Good-bye--_au revoir!_ If I am twentyminutes late with Clarisse, I sha'n't get any fitting, duchess orno duchess. "

And the little creature hurried off; not so fast, however, but that shefound time to leave a number of parting instructions as to the housewith the Scotch caretaker, on her way to her carriage. 

Julie rose and made her way down to the drawing-room again. TheScotchwoman saw that she wanted to be alone and left her. 

The windows were still open to the garden outside. Julie examined thepaths, the shrubberies, the great plane-trees; she strained her eyestowards the mansion itself. But not much of it could be seen. The littlehouse at the corner had been carefully planted out. 

What wealth it implied--that space and size, in London! Evidently thehouse was still shut up. The people who owned it were now living thesame cumbrous, magnificent life in the country which they would sooncome up to live in the capital. Honors, parks, money, birth--all weretheirs, as naturally as the sun rose. Julie envied and hated the bighouse and all it stood for; she flung a secret defiance at this covetedand elegant Mayfair that lay around her, this heart of all that isrecognized, accepted, carelessly sovereign in our "materialized"upper class. 

And yet all the while she knew that it was an unreal and passingdefiance. She would not be able in truth to free herself from theambition to live and shine in this world of the English rich and wellborn. For, after all, as she told herself with rebellious passion, itwas or ought to be her world. And yet her whole being was sore from theexperiences of these three years with Lady Henry--from those, above all, of the preceding twenty-four hours. She wove no romance about herself. "I should have dismissed myself long ago, " she would have said, contemptuously, to any one who could have compelled the disclosure ofher thoughts. But the long and miserable struggle of her self-love withLady Henry's arrogance, of her gifts with her circumstances; thepresence in this very world, where she had gained so marked a personalsuccess, of two clashing estimates of herself, both of which sheperfectly understood--the one exalting her, the other merely implyingthe cool and secret judgment of persons who see the world as itis--these things made a heat and poison in her blood. 

She was not good enough, not desirable enough, to be the wife of the manshe loved. Here was the plain fact that stung and stung. 

Jacob Delafield had thought her good enough! She still felt the pressureof his warm, strong fingers, the touch of his kiss upon her hand. What aparadox was she living in! The Duchess might well ask: why, indeed, hadshe refused Jacob Delafield--that first time? As to the second refusal, that needed no explanation, at least for herself. When, upon that winterday, now some six weeks past, which had beheld Lady Henry more thancommonly tyrannical, and her companion more than commonly weary andrebellious, Delafield's stammered words--as he and she were crossingGrosvenor Square in the January dusk--had struck for the second timeupon her ear, she was already under Warkworth's charm. But before--thefirst time? She had come to Lady Henry firmly determined to marry assoon and as well as she could--to throw off the slur on her life--toregularize her name and place in the world. And then the possible heirof the Chudleighs proposes to her--and she rejects him!

It was sometimes difficult for her now to remember all the whys andwherefores of this strange action of which she was secretly so proud. But the explanation was in truth not far from that she had given to theDuchess. The wild strength in her own nature had divined and shrunk froma similar strength in Delafield's. Here, indeed, one came upon the factwhich forever differentiated her from the adventuress, had Sir Wilfridknown. She wanted money and name; there were days when she hungered forthem. But she would not give too reckless a price for them. She was apersonality, a soul--not a vulgar woman--not merely callous or greedy. She dreaded to be miserable; she had a thirst for happiness, and theheart was, after all, stronger than the head. 

Jacob Delafield? No! Her being contracted and shivered at the thought ofhim. A will tardily developed, if all accounts of his school and collegedays were true, but now, as she believed, invincible; a mystic; anascetic; a man under whose modest or careless or self-mocking ways she, with her eye for character, divined the most critical instincts, and averacity, iron, scarcely human--a man before whom one must be alwaysposing at one's best--that was a personal risk too great to take for aJulie Le Breton. 

Unless, indeed, if it came to this--that one must think no more oflove--but only of power--why, then--

A ring at the door, resounding through the quiet side street. After aminute the Scotchwoman opened the drawing-room door. 

"Please, miss, is this meant for you?"

Julie took the letter in astonishment. Then through the door she saw aman standing in the hall and recognized Captain Warkworth'sIndian servant. 

"I don't understand him, " said the Scotchwoman, shaking her head. 

Julie went out to speak with him. The man had been sent to CrowboroughHouse with instructions to inquire for Miss Le Breton and deliver hisnote. The groom of the chambers, misinterpreting the man's queerEnglish, and thinking the matter urgent--the note was marked"immediate"--had sent him after the ladies to Heribert Street. 

The man was soon feed and dismissed, and Miss Le Breton took the letterback to the drawing-room. 

So, after all, he had not failed; there on her lap was her daily letter. Outside the scanty March sun, now just setting, was touching the gardenwith gold. Had it also found its way into Julie's eyes?

Now for his explanation:

 "First, how and where are you? I called in Bruton Street at noon. Hutton told me you had just gone to Crowborough House. Kind--no, wise little Duchess! She honors herself in sheltering you. 

 "I could not write last night--I was too uncertain, too anxious. All I said might have jarred. This morning came your note, about eleven. It was angelic to think so kindly and thoughtfully of a friend--angelic to write such a letter at such a time. You announced your flight to Crowborough House, but did not say when, so I crept to Bruton Street, seeing Lady Henry in every lamp-post, got a few clandestine words with Hutton, and knew, at least, what had happened to you--outwardly and visibly. 

 "Last night did you think me a poltroon to vanish as I did? It was the impulse of a moment. Mr. Montresor had pulled me into a corner of the room, away from the rest of the party, nominally to look at a picture, really that I might answer a confidential question he had just put to me with regard to a disputed incident in the Afridi campaign. We were in the dark and partly behind a screen. Then the door opened. I confess the sight of Lady Henry paralyzed me. A great, murderous, six-foot Afridi--that would have been simple enough. But a woman--old and ill and furious--with that Medusa's face--no! My nerves suddenly failed me. What right had I in her house, after all? As she advanced into the room, I slipped out behind her. General Fergus and M. Du Bartas joined me in the hall. We walked to Bond Street together. They were divided between laughter and vexation. I should have laughed--if I could have forgotten you. 

 "But what could I have done for you, dear lady, if I had stayed out the storm? I left you with three or four devoted adherents, who had, moreover, the advantage over me of either relationship or old acquaintance with Lady Henry. Compared to them, I could have done nothing to shield you. Was it not best to withdraw? Yet all the way home I accused myself bitterly. Nor did I feel, when I reached home, that one who had not grasped your hand under fire had any right to rest or sleep. But anxiety for you, regrets for myself, took care of that; I got my deserts. 

 "After all, when the pricks and pains of this great wrench are over, shall we not all acknowledge that it is best the crash should have come? You have suffered and borne too much. Now we shall see you expand in a freer and happier life. The Duchess has asked me to dinner to-morrow--the note has just arrived--so that I shall soon have the chance of hearing from you some of those details I so much want to know. But before then you will write?

 "As for me, I am full of alternate hopes and fears. General Fergus, as we walked home, was rather silent and bearish--I could not flatter myself that he had any friendly intentions towards me in his mind. But Montresor was more than kind, and gave me some fresh opportunities of which I was very glad to avail myself. Well, we shall know soon. 

 "You told me once that if, or when, this happened, you would turn to your pen, and that Dr. Meredith would find you openings. That is not to be regretted, I think. You have great gifts, which will bring you pleasure in the using. I have got a good deal of pleasure out of my small ones. Did you know that once, long ago, when I was stationed at Gibraltar, I wrote a military novel?

 "No, I don't pity you because you will need to turn your intellect to account. You will be free, and mistress of your fate. That, for those who, like you and me, are the 'children of their works, ' as the Spaniards say, is much. 

 "Dear friend--kind, persecuted friend!--I thought of you in the watches of the night--I think of you this morning. Let me soon have news of you. "

Julie put the letter down upon her knee. Her face stiffened. Nothingthat she had ever received from him yet had rung so false. 

Grief? Complaint? No! Just a calm grasp of the game--a quick playing ofthe pieces--so long as the game was there to play. If he was appointedto this mission, in two or three weeks he would be gone--to the heart ofAfrica. If not--

Anyway, two or three weeks were hers. Her mind seemed to settle andsteady itself. 

She got up and went once more carefully through the house, giving herattention to it. Yes, the whole had character and a kind of charm. Thelittle place would make, no doubt, an interesting and distinguishedbackground for the life she meant to put into it. She would move in atonce--in three days at most. Ways and means were for the moment notdifficult. During her life with Lady Henry she had saved the whole ofher own small _rentes_. Three hundred pounds lay ready to her hand inan investment easily realized. And she would begin to earn at once. 

Thérèse--that should be her room--the cheerful, blue-papered room withthe south window. Julie felt a strange rush of feeling as she thought ofit. How curious that these two--Léonie and little Thérèse--should bethus brought back into her life! For she had no doubt whatever that theywould accept with eagerness what she had to offer. Her foster-sister hadmarried a school-master in one of the Communal schools of Bruges whileJulie was still a girl at the convent. Léonie's lame child had been muchwith her grandmother, old Madame Le Breton. To Julie she had been atfirst unwelcome and repugnant. Then some quality in the frail creaturehad unlocked the girl's sealed and often sullen heart. 

While she had been living with Lady Henry, these two, the mother andchild, had been also in London; the mother, now a widow, earning herbread as an inferior kind of French governess, the child boarded outwith various persons, and generally for long periods of the year inhospital or convalescent home. To visit her in her white hospitalbed--to bring her toys and flowers, or merely kisses and chat--had been, during these years, the only work of charity on Julie's part which hadbeen wholly secret, disinterested, and constant. 

XII

It was a somewhat depressed company that found its straggling way intothe Duchess's drawing-room that evening between tea and dinner. 

Miss Le Breton did not appear at tea. The Duchess believed that, afterher inspection of the house in Heribert Street, Julie had gone on toBloomsbury to find Madame Bornier. Jacob Delafield was there, not muchinclined to talk, even as Julie's champion. And, one by one, LadyHenry's oldest _habitués_, the "criminals" of the night before, dropped in. 

Dr. Meredith arrived with a portfolio containing what seemed to beproof-sheets. 

"Miss Le Breton not here?" he said, as he looked round him. 

The Duchess explained that she might be in presently. The great man satdown, his portfolio carefully placed beside him, and drank his tea underwhat seemed a cloud of preoccupation. 

Then appeared Lord Lackington and Sir Wilfrid Bury. Montresor had sent anote from the House to say that if the debate would let him he woulddash up to Grosvenor Square for some dinner, but could only stayan hour. 

"Well, here we are again--the worst of us!" said the Duchess, presently, with a sigh of bravado, as she handed Lord Lackington his cup of teaand sank back in her chair to enjoy her own. 

"Speak for yourselves, please, " said Sir Wilfrid's soft, smiling voice, as he daintily relieved his mustache of some of the Duchess's cream. 

"Oh, that's all very well, " said the Duchess, throwing up a hand in mockannoyance; "but why weren't you there?"

"I knew better. "

"The people who keep out of scrapes are not the people one loves, " wasthe Duchess's peevish reply. 

"Let him alone, " said Lord Lackington, coming for some more tea-cake. "He will get his deserts. Next Wednesday he will be _tête-à-tête_ withLady Henry. "

"Lady Henry is going to Torquay to-morrow, " said Sir Wilfrid, quietly. 

"Ah!"

There was a general chorus of interrogation, amid which the Duchess madeherself heard. 

"Then you've seen her?"

"To-day, for twenty minutes--all she was able to bear. She was illyesterday. She is naturally worse to-day. As to her state of mind--"

The circle of faces drew eagerly nearer. 

"Oh, it's war, " said Sir Wilfrid, nodding--"undoubtedly war--upon theCave--if there is a Cave. "

"Well, poor things, we must have something to shelter us!" cried theDuchess. "The Cave is being aired to-day. "

The interrogating faces turned her way. The Duchess explained thesituation, and drew the house in Heribert Street--with its Cyclops-eyeof a dormer window, and its Ionian columns--on the tea-cloth withher nail. 

"Ah, " said Sir Wilfrid, crossing his knees reflectively. "Ah, that makesit serious. "

"Julie must have a place to live in, " said the Duchess, stiffly. 

"I suppose Lady Henry would reply that there are still a few houses inLondon which do not belong to her kinsman, the Duke of Crowborough. "

"Not perhaps to be had for the lending, and ready to step into at aday's notice, " said Lord Lackington, with his queer smile, like the playof sharp sunbeams through a mist. "That's the worst of our class. Themargin between us and calamity is too wide. We risk too little. Nobodygoes to the workhouse. "

Sir Wilfrid looked at him curiously. "Do I catch your meaning?" he said, dropping his voice; "is it that if there had been no Duchess, and noHeribert Street, Miss Le Breton would have managed to put up withLady Henry?"

Lord Lackington smiled again. "I think it probable.... As it is, however, we are all the gainers. We shall now see Miss Julie at her easeand ours. "

"You have been for some time acquainted with Miss Le Breton?"

"Oh, some time. I don't exactly remember. Lady Henry, of course, is anold friend of mine, as she is of yours. Sometimes she is rude to me. Then I stay away. But I always go back. She and I can discuss things andpeople that nobody else recollects--no, as far as that's concerned, you're not in it, Bury. Only this winter, somehow, I have often goneround to see Lady Henry, and have found Miss Le Breton instead soattractive--"

"Precisely, " said Sir Wilfrid, laughing; "the whole case in a nutshell. "

"What puzzles me, " continued his companion, in a musing voice, "is howshe can be so English as she is--with her foreign bringing up. She has amost extraordinary instinct for people--people in London--and theirrelations. I have never known her make a mistake. Yet it is only fiveyears since she began to come to England at all; and she has lived butthree with Lady Henry. It was clear, I thought, that neither she norLady Henry wished to be questioned. But, do you, for instance--I have nodoubt Lady Henry tells you more than she tells me--do you know anythingof Mademoiselle Julie's antecedents?"

Sir Wilfrid started. Through his mind ran the same reflection as that towhich the Duke had given expression in the morning--"_she ought toreveal herself!_" Julie Le Breton had no right to leave this old man inhis ignorance, while those surrounding him were in the secret. Therebyshe made a spectacle of her mother's father--made herself and him thesport of curious eyes. For who could help watching them--every movement, every word? There was a kind of indelicacy in it. 

His reply was rather hesitating. "Yes, I happen to know something. But Ifeel sure Miss Le Breton would prefer to tell you herself. Ask her. While she was with Lady Henry there were reasons for silence--"

"But, of course, I'll ask her, " said his companion, eagerly, "if yousuppose that I may. A more hungry curiosity was never raised in a humanbreast than in mine with regard to this dear lady. So charming, handsome, and well bred--and so forlorn! That's the paradox of it. Thepersonality presupposes a _milieu_--else how produce it? And there is no_milieu_, save this little circle she has made for herself through LadyHenry.... Ah, and you think I may ask her? I will--that's flat--I will!"

And the old man gleefully rubbed his hands, face and form full of thevivacity of his imperishable youth. 

"Choose your time and place, " said Sir Wilfrid, hastily. "There are verysad and tragic circumstances--"

Lord Lackington looked at him and nodded gayly, as much as to say, "Youdistrust me with the sex? Me, who have had the whip-hand of them sincemy cradle!"

Suddenly the Duchess interrupted. "Sir Wilfrid, you have seen LadyHenry; which did she mind most--the coming-in or the coffee?"

Bury returned, smiling, to the tea-table. 

"The coming-in would have been nothing if it had led quickly to thegoing-out. It was the coffee that ruined you. "

"I see, " said the Duchess, pouting--"it meant that it was possible forus to enjoy ourselves without Lady Henry. That was the offence. "

"Precisely. It showed that you _were_ enjoying yourselves. Otherwisethere would have been no lingering, and no coffee. "

"I never knew coffee so fatal before, " sighed the Duchess. "And now"--itwas evident that she shrank from the answer to her own question--"she isreally irreconcilable?"

"Absolutely. Let me beg you to take it for granted. "

"She won't see any of us--not me?"

Sir Wilfrid hesitated. 

"Make the Duke your ambassador. "

The Duchess laughed, and flushed a little. 

"And Mr. Montresor?"

"Ah, " said Sir Wilfrid in another tone, "that's not to be lightly spokenof. "

"You don't mean--"

"How many years has that lasted?" said Sir Wilfrid, meditatively. 

"Thirty, I think--if not more. It was Lady Henry who told him of hisson's death, when his wife daren't do it. "

There was a silence. Montresor had lost his only son, a subaltern in theLancers, in the action of Alumbagh, on the way to the relief of Lucknow. 

Then the Duchess broke out:

"I know that you think in your heart of hearts that Julie has been infault, and that we have all behaved abominably!"

"My dear lady, " said Sir Wilfrid, after a moment, "in Persia we believein fate; I have brought the trick home. "

"Yes, yes, that's it!" exclaimed Lord Lackington--it! When Lady Henrywanted a companion--and fate brought her Miss Le Breton--"

"Last night's coffee was already drunk, " put in Sir Wilfrid. 

Meredith's voice, raised and a trifle harsh, made itself heard. 

"Why you should dignify an ugly jealousy by fine words I don't know. Forsome women--women like our old friend--gratitude is hard. That is themoral of this tale. "

"The only one?" said Sir Wilfrid, not without a mocking twist of thelip. 

"The only one that matters. Lady Henry had found, or might have found, adaughter--"

"I understand she bargained for a companion. "

"Very well. Then she stands upon her foolish rights, and loses bothdaughter and companion. At seventy, life doesn't forgive you a blunderof that kind. "

Sir Wilfrid silently shook his head. Meredith threw back his blanchedmane of hair, his deep eyes kindling under the implied contradiction. 

"I am an old comrade of Lady Henry's, " he said, quickly. "My record, you'll find, comes next to yours, Bury. But if Lady Henry is determinedto make a quarrel of this, she must make it. I regret nothing. "

"What madness has seized upon all these people?" thought Bury, as hewithdrew from the discussion. The fire, the unwonted fire, in Meredith'sspeech and aspect, amazed him. From the corner to which he had retreatedhe studied the face of the journalist. It was a face subtly and stronglylined by much living--of the intellectual, however, rather than thephysical sort; breathing now a studious dignity, the effect of the broadsweep of brow under the high-peaked lines of grizzled hair, and nowbroken, tempestuous, scornful, changing with the pliancy of an actor. The head was sunk a little in the shoulders, as though dragged back byits own weight. The form which it commanded had the movements of a manno less accustomed to rule in his own sphere than Montresor himself. 

To Sir Wilfrid the famous editor was still personally mysterious, aftermany years of intermittent acquaintance. He was apparently unmarried; orwas there perhaps a wife, picked up in a previous state of existence, and hidden away with her offspring at Clapham or Hornsey or Peckham?Bury could remember, years before, a dowdy old sister, to whom LadyHenry had been on occasion formally polite. Otherwise, nothing. Whatwere the great man's origins and antecedents--his family, school, university? Sir Wilfrid did not know; he did not believe that any oneknew. An amazing mastery of the German, and, it was said, the Russiantongues, suggested a foreign education; but neither on this ground norany other connected with his personal history did Meredith encourage theinquirer. It was often reported that he was of Jewish descent, and therewere certain traits, both of feature and character, that lent support tothe notion. If so, the strain was that of Heine or Disraeli, not thestrain of Commerce. 

At any rate, he was one of the most powerful men of his day--the owner, through _The New Rambler_, of an influence which now for some fifteenyears had ranked among the forces to be reckoned with. A man in whompolitics assumed a tinge of sombre poetry; a man of hatreds, ideals, indignations, yet of habitually sober speech. As to passions, SirWilfrid could have sworn that, wife or no wife, the man who could showthat significance of mouth and eye had not gone through life withoutknowing the stress and shock of them. 

Was he, too, beguiled by this woman?--_he, too?_ For a little behindhim, beside the Duchess, sat Jacob Delafield; and, during his painfulinterview that day with Lady Henry, Sir Wilfrid had been informed ofseveral things with regard to Jacob Delafield he had not known before. So she had refused him--this lady who was now the heart of thiswhirlwind? Permanently? Lady Henry had poured scorn on the notion. Shewas merely sure of him; could keep him in a string to play with as shechose. Meanwhile the handsome soldier was metal more attractive. SirWilfrid reflected, with an inward shrug, that, once let a woman giveherself to such a fury as possessed Lady Henry, and there did not seemto be much to choose between her imaginings and those of the most vulgarof her sex. 

So Jacob could be played with--whistled on and whistled off as Miss LeBreton chose? Yet his was not a face that suggested it, any more thanthe face of Dr. Meredith. The young man's countenance was graduallychanging its aspect for Sir Wilfrid, in a somewhat singular way, as oldimpressions of his character died away and new ones emerged. The face, now, often recalled to Bury a portrait by some Holbeinesque master, which he had seen once in the Basle Museum and never forgotten. A large, thin-lipped mouth that, without weakness, suggested patience; the longchin of a man of will; nose, bluntly cut at the tip, yet in the nostriland bridge most delicate; grayish eyes, with a veil of reverie drawn, asit were, momentarily across them, and showing behind the veil a kind ofstern sweetness; fair hair low on the brow, which was heavy, and made amassive shelter for the eyes. So looked the young German who had perhapsheard Melanchthon; so, in this middle nineteenth century, looked JacobDelafield. No, anger makes obtuse; that, no doubt, was Lady Henry'scase. At any rate, in Delafield's presence her theory did notcommend itself. 

But if Delafield had not echoed them, the little Duchess had receivedMeredith's remarks with enthusiasm. 

"Regret! No, indeed! Why should we regret anything, except that Juliehas been miserable so long? She _has_ had a bad time. Every day and allday. Ah, you don't know--none of you. You haven't seen all the littlethings as I have. "

"The errands, and the dogs, " said Sir William, slyly. 

The Duchess threw him a glance half conscious, half resentful, and wenton:

"It has been one small torture after another. Even when a person's oldyou can't bear more than a certain amount, can you? You oughtn't to. No, let's be thankful it's all over, and Julie--our dear, delightfulJulie--who has done everybody in this room all sorts of kindnesses, hasn't she?"

An assenting murmur ran round the circle. 

"Julie's _free_! Only she's _very_ lonely. We must see to that, mustn'twe? Lady Henry can buy another companion to-morrow--she will. She hasheaps of money and heaps of friends, and she'll tell her own story tothem all. But Julie has only us. If we desert her--"

"Desert her!" said a voice in the distance, half amused, halfelectrical. Bury thought it was Jacob's. 

"Of course we sha'n't desert her!" cried the Duchess. "We shall rallyround her and carry her through. If Lady Henry makes herselfdisagreeable, then we'll fight. If not, we'll let her cool down. Oh, Julie, darling--here you are!"

The Duchess sprang up and caught her entering friend by the hand. 

"And here are we, " with a wave round the circle. "This is yourcourt--your St. Germain. "

"So you mean me to die in exile, " said Julie, with a quavering smile, asshe drew off her gloves. Then she looked at her friends. "Oh, how goodof you all to come! Lord Lackington!" She went up to him impetuously, and he, taken by surprise, yielded his hands, which she took in bothhers. "It was foolish, I know, but you don't think it was so _bad_, do you?"

She gazed up at him wistfully. Her lithe form seemed almost to cling tothe old man. Instinctively, Jacob, Meredith, Sir Wilfrid Bury withdrewtheir eyes. The room held its breath. As for Lord Lackington, he coloredlike a girl. 

"No, no; a mistake, perhaps, for all of us; but more ours than yours, mademoiselle--much more! Don't fret. Indeed, you look as if you hadn'tslept, and that mustn't be. You must think that, sooner or later, it wasbound to come. Lady Henry will soften in time, and you will know so wellhow to meet her. But now we have your future to think of. Only sit down. You mustn't look so tired. Where have you been wandering?"

And with a stately courtesy, her hand still in his, he took her to achair and helped her to remove her heavy cloak. 

"My future!" She shivered as she dropped into her seat. 

How weary and beaten-down she looked--the heroine of such a turmoil! Hereyes travelled from face to face, shrinking--unconsciously appealing. Inthe dim, soft color of the room, her white face and hands, strikingagainst her black dress, were strangely living and significant. Theyspoke command--through weakness, through sex. For that, in spite ofintellectual distinction, was, after all, her secret. She breathedfemininity--the old common spell upon the blood. 

"I don't know why you're all so kind to me, " she murmured. "Let medisappear. I can go into the country and earn my living there. Then Ishall be no more trouble. "

Unseen himself, Sir Wilfrid surveyed her. He thought her a consummateactress, and revelled in each new phase. 

The Duchess, half laughing, half crying, began to scold her friend. Delafield bent over Julie Le Breton's chair. 

"Have you had some tea?"

The smile in his eyes provoked a faint answer in hers. While she wasdeclaring that she was in no need whatever of physical sustenance, Meredith advanced with his portfolio. He looked the editor merely, andspoke with a business-like brevity. 

"I have brought the sheets of the new Shelley book, Miss Le Breton. Itis due for publication on the 22d. Kindly let me have your review withina week. It may run to two columns--possibly even two and a half. Youwill find here also the particulars of one or two other things--let meknow, please, what you will undertake. "

Julie put out a languid hand for the portfolio. 

"I don't think you ought to trust me. "

"What do you want of her?" said Lord Lackington, briskly. "'Chatterabout Harriet?' I could write you reams of that myself. I once sawHarriet. "

"Ah!"

Meredith, with whom the Shelley cult was a deep-rooted passion, startedand looked round; then sharply repressed the eagerness on his tongue andsat down by Miss Le Breton, with whom, in a lowered voice, he began todiscuss the points to be noticed in the sheets handed over to her. Nostronger proof could he have given of his devotion to her. Julie knewit, and, rousing herself, she met him with a soft attention anddocility; thus tacitly relinquishing, as Bury noticed with amusement, all talk of "disappearance. "

Only with himself, he suspected, was the fair lady ill at ease. And, indeed, it was so. Julie, by her pallor, her humility, had thrownherself, as it were, into the arms of her friends, and each was nowvying with the other as to how best to cheer and console her. Meanwhileher attention was really bent upon her critic--her only critic in thisassembly; and he discovered various attempts to draw him intoconversation. And when Lord Lackington, discomfited by Meredith, hadfinished discharging his literary recollections upon him, Sir Wilfridbecame complaisant; Julie slipped in and held him. 

Leaning her chin on both hands, she bent towards him, fixing him withher eyes. And in spite of his antagonism he no longer felt himselfstrong enough to deny that the eyes were beautiful, especially with thistragic note in them of fatigue and pain. 

"Sir Wilfrid"--she spoke in low entreaty--"you _must_ help me to preventany breach between Lady Henry and Mr. Montresor. "

He looked at her gayly. 

"I fear, " he said, "you are too late. That point is settled, as Iunderstand from herself. "

"Surely not--so soon!"

"There was an exchange of letters this morning. "

"Oh, but you can prevent it--you must!" She clasped her hands. 

"No, " he said, slowly, "I fear you must accept it. Their relation was amatter of old habit. Like other things old and frail, it bears shock anddisturbance badly. "

She sank back in her chair, raising her hands and letting them fall witha gesture of despair. 

One little stroke of punishment--just one! Surely there was no crueltyin that. Sir Wilfrid caught the Horatian lines dancing through his head:

 "Just oblige me and touch With your wand that minx Chloe-- But don't hurt her much!"

Yet here was Jacob interposing!--Jacob, who had evidently been watchinghis mild attempt at castigation, no doubt with disapproval. Lover or nolover--what did the man expect? Under his placid exterior, Sir Wilfrid'smind was, in truth, hot with sympathy for the old and helpless. 

Delafield bent over Miss Le Breton. 

"You will go and rest? Evelyn advises it. "

She rose to her feet, and most of the party rose, too. 

"Good-bye--good-bye, " said Lord Lackington, offering her a cordial hand. "Rest and forget. Everything blows over. And at Easter you must come tome in the country. Blanche will be with me, and my granddaughterAileen, if I can tempt them away from Italy. Aileen's a little fairy;you'd be charmed with her. Now mind, that's a promise. You mustcertainly come. "

The Duchess had paused in her farewell nothings with Sir Wilfrid toobserve her friend. Julie, with her eyes on the ground, murmured thanks;and Lord Lackington, straight as a dart to-night, carrying hisseventy-five years as though they were the merest trifle, made a statelyand smiling exit. Julie looked round upon the faces left. In her ownheart she read the same judgment as in their eyes: "_The old manmust know!_"

The Duke came into the drawing-room half an hour later in quest of hiswife. He was about to leave town by a night train for the north, and histemper was, apparently, far from good. 

The Duchess was stretched on the sofa in the firelight, her hands behindher head, dreaming. Whether it was the sight of so much ease that jarredon the Duke's ruffled nerves or no, certain it is that he inflicted athorny good-bye. He had seen Lady Henry, he said, and the reality waseven worse than he had supposed. There was absolutely nothing to be saidfor Miss Le Breton, and he was ashamed of himself to have been so weaklytalked over in the matter of the house. His word once given, of course, there was an end of it--for six months. After that, Miss Le Breton mustprovide for herself. Meanwhile, Lady Henry refused to receive theDuchess, and would be some time before she forgave himself. It was allmost annoying, and he was thankful to be going away, for, Lady Rose orno Lady Rose, he really could not have entertained the lady withcivility. 

"Oh, well, never mind, Freddie, " said the Duchess, springing up. "She'llbe gone before you come back, and I'll look after her. "

The Duke offered a rather sulky embrace, walked to the door, and cameback. 

"I really very much dislike this kind of gossip, " he said, stiffly, "butperhaps I had better say that Lady Henry believes that the affair withDelafield was only one of several. She talks of a certain CaptainWarkworth--"

"Yes, " said the Duchess, nodding. "I know; but he sha'n't have Julie. "

Her smile completed the Duke's annoyance. 

"What have you to do with it? I beg, Evelyn--I insist--that you leaveMiss Le Breton's love affairs alone. "

"You forget, Freddie, that she is my _friend_. "

The little creature fronted him, all wilfulness and breathing hard, hersmall hands clasped on her breast. 

With an angry exclamation the Duke departed. 

 * * * * *

At half-past eight a hansom dashed up to Crowborough House. Montresoremerged. 

He found the two ladies and Jacob Delafield just beginning dinner, andstayed with them an hour; but it was not an hour of pleasure. The greatman was tired with work and debate, depressed also by the quarrel withhis old friend. Julie did not dare to put questions, and guiltily shrankinto herself. She divined that a great price was being paid on herbehalf, and must needs bitterly ask whether anything that she couldoffer or plead was worth it--bitterly suspect, also, that the query hadpassed through other minds than her own. 

After dinner, as Montresor rose with the Duchess to take his leave, Julie got a word with him in the corridor. 

"You will give me ten minutes' talk?" she said, lifting her pale face tohim. "You mustn't, mustn't quarrel with Lady Henry because of me. "

He drew himself up, perhaps with a touch of haughtiness. 

"Lady Henry could end it in a moment. Don't, I beg of you, trouble yourhead about the matter. Even as an old friend, one must be allowed one'sself-respect. "

"But mayn't I--"

"Nearly ten o'clock!" he cried, looking at his watch. "I must be offthis moment. So you are going to the house in Heribert Street? Iremember Lady Mary Leicester perfectly. As soon as you are settled, tellme, and I will present myself. Meanwhile "--he smiled and bent his blackhead towards her--"look in to-morrow's papers for some interestingnews. "

He sprang into his hansom and was gone. 

Julie went slowly up-stairs. Of course she understood. The long intriguehad reached its goal, and within twelve hours the _Times_ would announcethe appointment of Captain Warkworth, D. S. O. , to the command of theMokembe military mission. He would have obtained his heart'sdesire--through her. 

How true were those last words, perhaps only Julie knew. She looked backupon all the manoeuvres and influences she had brought to bear--flatteryhere, interest or reciprocity there, the lures of Crowborough House, theprestige of Lady Henry's drawing-room. Wheel by wheel she had built upher cunning machine, and the machine had worked. No doubt the lastcompleting touch had been given the night before. Her culminatingoffence against Lady Henry--the occasion of her disgrace andbanishment--had been to Warkworth the stepping-stone of fortune. 

What "gossamer girl" could have done so much? She threw back her headproudly and heard the beating of her heart. 

Lady Henry was fiercely forgotten. She opened the drawing-room door, absorbed in a counting of the hours till she and Warkworth should meet. 

Then, amid the lights and shadows of the Duchess's drawing-room, JacobDelafield rose and came towards her. Her exaltation dropped in a moment. Some testing, penetrating influence seemed to breathe from this man, which filled her with a moral discomfort, a curious restlessness. Did heguess the nature of her feeling for Warkworth? Was he acquainted withthe efforts she had been making for the young soldier? She could not besure; he had never given her the smallest sign. Yet she divined that fewthings escaped him where the persons who touched his feelings wereconcerned. And Evelyn--the dear chatterbox--certainly suspected. 

"How tired you are!" he said to her, gently. "What a day it has been foryou! Evelyn is writing letters. Let me bring you the papers--and pleasedon't talk. "

She submitted to a sofa, to an adjusted light, to the papers on herknee. Then Delafield withdrew and took up a book. 

She could not rest, however; visions of the morrow and of Warkworth'striumphant looks kept flashing through her. Yet all the whileDelafield's presence haunted her--she could not forget him, andpresently she addressed him. 

"Mr. Delafield!"

He heard the low voice and came. 

"I have never thanked you for your goodness last night. I do thank younow--most earnestly. "

"You needn't. You know very well what I would do to serve you if Icould. "

"Even when you think me in the wrong?" said Julie, with a little, hysterical laugh. 

Her conscience smote her. Why provoke this intimate talk--wantonly--withthe man she had made suffer? Yet her restlessness, which was partlynervous fatigue, drove her on. 

Delafield flushed at her words. 

"How have I given you cause to say that?"

"Oh, you are very transparent. One sees that you are always troublingyourself about the right and wrong of things. "

"All very well for one's self, " said Delafield, trying to laugh. "I hopeI don't seem to you to be setting up as a judge of other people's rightand wrong?"

"Yes, yes, you do!" she said, passionately. Then, as he winced, "No, Idon't mean that. But you do judge--it is in your nature--and otherpeople feel it. "

"I didn't know I was such a prig, " said Delafield, humbly. "It is true Iam always puzzling over things. "

Julie was silent. She was indeed secretly convinced that he no moreapproved the escapade of the night before than did Sir Wilfrid Bury. Through the whole evening she had been conscious of a watchful anxietyand resistance on his part. Yet he had stood by her to the end--sowarmly, so faithfully. 

He sat down beside her, and Julie felt a fresh pang of remorse, perhapsof alarm. Why had she called him to her? What had they to do with eachother? But he soon reassured her. He began to talk of Meredith, and thework before her--the important and glorious work, as he naïvely termedit, of the writer. 

And presently he turned upon her with sudden feeling. 

"You accused me, just now, of judging what I have no business to judge. If you think that I regret the severance of your relation with LadyHenry, you are quite, quite mistaken. It has been the dream of my lifethis last year to see you free--mistress of your own life. It--it mademe mad that you should be ordered about like a child--dependent uponanother person's will. "

She looked at him curiously. 

"I know. That revolts you always--any form of command? Evelyn tells methat you carry it to curious lengths with your servants and laborers. "

He drew back, evidently disconcerted. 

"Oh, I try some experiments. They generally break down. "

"You try to do without servants, Evelyn says, as much as possible. "

"Well, if I do try, I don't succeed, " he said, laughing. "But"--his eyeskindled--"isn't it worth while, during a bit of one's life, to escape, if one can, from some of the paraphernalia in which we are allsmothered? Look there! What right have I to turn my fellow-creaturesinto bedizened automata like that?"

And he threw out an accusing hand towards the two powdered footmen, whowere removing the coffee-cups and making up the fire in the next room, while the magnificent groom of the chambers stood like a statue, receiving some orders from the Duchess. 

Julie, however, showed no sympathy. 

"They are only automata in the drawing-room. Down-stairs they are asmuch alive as you or I. "

"Well, let us put it that I prefer other kinds of luxury, " saidDelafield. "However, as I appear to have none of the qualities necessaryto carry out my notions, they don't get very far. "

"You would like to shake hands with the butler?" said Julie, musing. "Iknew a case of that kind. But the butler gave warning. "

Delafield laughed. 

"Perhaps the simpler thing would be to do without the butler. "

"I am curious, " she said, smiling--"very curious. Sir Wilfrid, forinstance, talks of going down to stay with you?"

"Why not? He'd come off extremely well. There's an ex-butler, and anex-cook of Chudleigh's settled in the village. When I have a visitor, they come in and take possession. We live like fighting-cocks. "

"So nobody knows that, in general, you live like a workman?"

Delafield looked impatient. 

"Somebody seems to have been cramming Evelyn with ridiculous tales, andshe's been spreading them. I must have it out with her. "

"I expect there is a good deal in them, " said Julie. Then, unexpectedly, she raised her eyes and gave him a long and rather strange look. "Whydo you dislike having servants and being waited upon so much, I wonder?Is it--you won't be angry?--that you have such a strong will, and you dothese things to tame it?"

Delafield made a sudden movement, and Julie had no sooner spoken thewords than she regretted them. 

"So you think I should have made a jolly tyrannical slave-owner?" saidDelafield, after a moment's pause. 

Julie bent towards him with a charming look of appeal--almost ofpenitence. "On the contrary, I think you would have been as good to yourslaves as you are to your friends. "

His eyes met hers quietly. 

"Thank you. That was kind of you. And as to giving orders, and gettingone's way, don't suppose I let Chudleigh's estate go to ruin! It'sonly"--he hesitated--"the small personal tyrannies of every day that I'dlike to minimize. They brutalize half the fellows I know. "

"You'll come to them, " said Julie, absently. Then she colored, suddenlyremembering the possible dukedom that awaited him. 

His brow contracted a little, as though he understood. He made no reply. Julie, with her craving to be approved--to say what pleased--could notleave it there. 

"I wish I understood, " she said, softly, after a moment, "what, or whoit was that gave you these opinions. "

Getting still no answer, she must perforce meet the gray eyes bent uponher, more expressively, perhaps, than their owner knew. "That you shallunderstand, " he said, after a minute, in a voice which was singularlydeep and full, "whenever you choose to ask. "

Julie shrank and drew back. 

"Very well, " she said, trying to speak lightly. "I'll hold you to that. Alack! I had forgotten a letter I must write. "

And she pretended to write it, while Delafield buried himself in thenewspapers. 

XIII

Julie's curiosity--passing and perfunctory as it was--concerning thepersons and influences that had worked upon Jacob Delafield since hiscollege days, was felt in good earnest by not a few of Delafield'sfriends. For he was a person rich in friends, reserved as he generallywas, and crotchety as most of them thought him. The mixture ofself-evident strength and manliness in his physiognomy with somethingdelicate and evasive, some hindering element of reflection or doubt, wasrepeated in his character. On the one side he was a robust, healthyEtonian, who could ride, shoot, and golf like the rest of his kind, whoused the terse, slangy ways of speech of the ordinary Englishman, wholoved the land and its creatures, and had a natural hatred for apoacher; and on another he was a man haunted by dreams and spiritualvoices, a man for whom, as he paced his tired horse homeward after aday's run, there would rise on the grays and purples of the winter duskfar-shining "cities of God" and visions of a better life for man. Heread much poetry, and the New Testament spoke to him imperatively, though in no orthodox or accustomed way. Ruskin, and the earlier work ofTolstoy, then just beginning to take hold of the English mind, hadaffected his thought and imagination, as the generation before him hadbeen affected by Carlyle, Emerson, and George Sand. 

This present phase of his life, however, was the outcome of much thatwas turbulent and shapeless in his first youth. He seemed to himself tohave passed through Oxford under a kind of eclipse. All that he couldremember of two-thirds of his time there was an immoderate amount ofeating, drinking, and sleeping. A heavy animal existence, disturbed bymoments of unhappiness and remorse, or, at best, lightened by intervalsand gleams of friendship with two or three men who tried to prod him outof his lethargy, and cherished what appeared, to himself in particular, a strange and unreasonable liking for him. Such, to his own thinking, had been his Oxford life, up to the last year of his residence there. 

Then, when he was just making certain of an ignominious failure in thefinal schools, he became more closely acquainted with one of the collegetutors, whose influence was to be the spark which should at last firethe clay. This modest, heroic, and learned man was a paralyzed invalid, owing to an accident in the prime of life. He had lost the use of hislower limbs--"dead from the waist down. " Yet such was the strength ofhis moral and intellectual life that he had become, since thecatastrophe, one of the chief forces of his college. The invalid-chairon which he wheeled himself, recumbent, from room to room, and fromwhich he gave his lectures, was, in the eyes of Oxford, a symbol not ofweakness, but of touching and triumphant victory. He gave himself noairs of resignation or of martyrdom. He simply lived his life--exceptduring those crises of weakness or pain when his friends were shutout--as though it were like any other life, save only for what he madeappear an insignificant physical limitation. Scholarship, collegebusiness or college sports, politics and literature--his mind, atleast, was happy, strenuous, and at home in them all. To have pitied himwould have been a mere impertinence. While in his own heart, which nevergrieved over himself, there were treasures of compassion for the weak, the tempted, and the unsuccessful, which spent themselves in secret, simple ways, unknown to his most intimate friends. 

This man's personality it was which, like the branch of healing onbitter waters, presently started in Jacob Delafield's nature obscureprocesses of growth and regeneration. The originator of them knew littleof what was going on. He was Delafield's tutor for Greats, in theordinary college routine; Delafield took essays to him, and occasionallylingered to talk. But they never became exactly intimate. A fewconversations of "pith and moment"; a warm shake of the hand and a keenlook of pleasure in the blue eyes of the recumbent giant when, after oneyear of superhuman but belated effort, Delafield succeeded in obtaininga second class; a little note of farewell, affectionate and regretful, when Delafield left the university; an occasional message through acommon friend--Delafield had little more than these to look back upon, outside the discussions of historical or philosophical subjects whichhad entered into their relation as pupil and teacher. 

And now the paralyzed tutor was dead, leaving behind him a volume ofpapers on classical subjects, the reputation of an admirable scholar, and the fragrance of a dear and honored name. His pupils had been many;they counted among the most distinguished of England's youth; and all ofthem owed him much. Few people thought of Delafield when the list ofthem was recited; and yet, in truth, Jacob's debt was greater than any;for he owed this man nothing less than his soul. 

No doubt the period at Oxford had been rather a period of obscureconflict than of mere idleness and degeneracy, as it had seemed to be. But it might easily have ended in physical and moral ruin, and, as itwas--thanks to Courtenay--Delafield went out to the business of life, aman singularly master of himself, determined to live his own life forhis own ends. 

In the first place, he was conscious, like many other young men of histime, of a strong repulsion towards the complexities and artificialitiesof modern society. As in the forties, a time of social stir was risingout of a time of stagnation. Social settlements were not yet founded, but the experiments which led to them were beginning. Jacob looked atthe life of London, the clubs and the country-houses, the normal life ofhis class, and turned from it in aversion. He thought, sometimes, ofemigrating, in search of a new heaven and a new earth, as men emigratedin the forties. 

But his mother and sister were alone in the world--his mother a somewhathelpless being, his sister still very young and unmarried. He could notreconcile it to his conscience to go very far from them. 

He tried the bar, amid an inner revolt that only increased with time. And the bar implied London, and the dinners and dances of London, which, for a man of his family, the probable heir to the lands and moneys ofthe Chudleighs, were naturally innumerable. He was much courted, inspite, perhaps because, of his oddities; and it was plain to him thatwith only a small exercise of those will-forces he felt accumulatingwithin him, most of the normal objects of ambition were within hisgrasp. The English aristocratic class, as we all know, is no longerexclusive. It mingles freely with the commoner world on apparently equalterms. But all the while its personal and family cohesion is perhapsgreater than ever. The power of mere birth, it seemed to Jacob, washardly less in the England newly possessed of household suffrage than inthe England of Charles James Fox's youth, though it worked through otherchannels. And for the persons in command of this power, a certain_appareil de vie_ was necessary, taken for granted. So much income, somany servants, such and such habits--these things imposed themselves. Life became a soft and cushioned business, with an infinity of layersbetween it and any hard reality--a round pea in a silky pod. 

And he meanwhile found himself hungry to throw aside these tamed andtrite forms of existence, and to penetrate to the harsh, true, simplethings behind. His imagination and his heart turned towards theprimitive, indispensable labors on which society rests--the life of thehusbandman, the laborer, the smith, the woodman, the builder; he dreamedthe old, enchanted dream of living with nature; of becoming the brothernot of the few, but of the many. He was still reading in chambers, however, when his first cousin, the Duke, a melancholy semi-invalid, awidower, with an only son tuberculous almost from his birth, arrivedfrom abroad. Jacob was brought into new contact with him. The Duke likedhim, and offered him the agency of his Essex property. Jacob accepted, partly that he might be quit of the law, partly that he might be in thecountry and among the poor, partly for reasons, or ghosts of reasons, unavowed even to himself. The one terror that haunted his life was theterror of the dukedom. This poor, sickly lad, the heir, with whom hesoon made warm friends, and the silent, morbid Duke, with the face ofCharles V. At St. Just--he became, in a short time, profoundly andpitifully attached to them. It pleased him to serve them; above all didit please him to do all he could, and to incite others to do all theycould, to keep these two frail persons cheered and alive. His ownpassionate dread lest he should suddenly find himself in their place, gave a particular poignancy to the service he was always ready to renderthem of his best. 

The Duke's confidence in him had increased rapidly. Delafield was nowabout to take over the charge of another of the Duke's estates, in theMidlands, and much of the business connected with some important Londonproperty was also coming into his hands. He had made himself a good manof business where another's interests were concerned, and his dreams didno harm to the Duke's revenues. He gave, indeed, a liberal direction tothe whole policy of the estate, and, as he had said to Julie, the Dukedid not forbid experiments. 

As to his own money, he gave it away as wisely as he could, which is, perhaps, not saying very much for the schemes and Quixotisms of a youngman of eight-and-twenty. At any rate, he gave it away--to his mother andsister first, then to a variety of persons and causes. Why should hesave a penny of it? He had some money of his own, besides his incomefrom the Duke. It was disgusting that he should have so much, and thatit should be, apparently, so very easy for him to have indefinitelymore if he wanted it. 

He lived in a small cottage, in the simplest, plainest way compatiblewith his work and with the maintenance of two decently furnished roomsfor any friend who might chance to visit him. He read much and thoughtmuch. But he was not a man of any commanding speculative or analyticability. It would have been hard for him to give any very clear orlogical account of himself and his deepest beliefs. Nevertheless, withevery year that passed he became a more remarkable _character_--his willstronger, his heart gentler. In the village where he lived they wonderedat him a good deal, and often laughed at him. But if he had left them, certainly the children and the old people would have felt as though thesun had gone out. 

In London he showed little or nothing of his peculiar ways and pursuits;was, in fact, as far as anybody knew--outside half a dozen friends--justthe ordinary, well-disposed young man, engaged in a business that everyone understood. With Lady Henry, his relations, apart from his sympathywith Julie Le Breton, had been for some time rather difficult. She madegratitude hard for one of the most grateful of men. When thecircumstances of the Hubert Delafields had been much straitened, afterLord Hubert's death, Lady Henry had come to their aid, and had, inparticular, spent fifteen hundred pounds on Jacob's school and collegeeducation. But there are those who can make a gift burn into the bonesof those who receive it. Jacob had now saved nearly the whole sum, andwas about to repay her. Meanwhile his obligation, his relationship, andher age made it natural, or rather imperative, that he should be oftenin her house; but when he was with her the touch of arrogant brutalityin her nature, especially towards servants and dependants, roused himalmost to fury. She knew it, and would often exercise her rough tonguemerely for the pleasure of tormenting him. 

No sooner, therefore, had he come to know the fragile, distinguishedcreature whom Lady Henry had brought back with her one autumn as hercompanion than his sympathies were instantly excited, first by the merefact that she was Lady Henry's dependant, and then by the confidence, asto her sad story and strange position, which she presently reposed inhim and his cousin Evelyn. On one or two occasions, very early in hisacquaintance with her, he was a witness of some small tyranny of LadyHenry's towards her. He saw the shrinking of the proud nature, and thepain thrilled through his own nerves as though the lash had touchedhimself. Presently it became a joy to him whenever he was in town toconspire with Evelyn Crowborough for her pleasure and relief. It was thefirst time he had ever conspired, and it gave him sometimes a slightshock to see how readily these two charming women lent themselves, onoccasion, to devices that had the aspect of intrigue, and involved agood deal of what, in his own case, he would have roundly dubbed lying. And, in truth, if he had known, they did not find him a convenient ally, and he was by no means always in their confidence. 

Once, about six months after Julie's arrival in Bruton Street, he mether on a spring morning crossing Kensington Gardens with the dogs. Shelooked startlingly white and ill, and when he spoke to her with eagersympathy her mouth quivered and her dark eyes clouded with tears. Thesight produced an extraordinary effect on a man large-hearted andsimple, for whom women still moved in an atmosphere of romance. Hisheart leaped within him as she let herself be talked with and comforted. And when her delicate hand rested in his as they said good-bye, he wasconscious of feelings--wild, tumultuous feelings--to which, in his walkhomeward through the spring glades of the park, he gaveimpetuous course. 

Romantic, indeed, the position was, for romance rests on contrast. Jacob, who knew Julie Le Breton's secret, was thrilled or moved by thecontrasts of her existence at every turn. Her success and hersubjection; the place in Lady Henry's circle which Lady Henry had, inthe first instance, herself forced her to take, contrasted with theshifts and evasions, the poor, tortuous ways by which, alas! she mustoften escape Lady Henry's later jealousy; her intellectual strength andher most feminine weaknesses; these things stirred and kept up in Jacoba warm and passionate pity. The more clearly he saw the specks in herglory, the more vividly did she appear to him a princess in distress, bound by physical or moral fetters not of her own making. None of thewell-born, well-trained damsels who had been freely thrown across hispath had so far beguiled him in the least. Only this woman of doubtfulbirth and antecedents, lonely, sad, and enslaved amid what people calledher social triumphs, stole into his heart--beautified by what he choseto consider her misfortunes, and made none the less attractive by thefact that as he pursued, she retreated; as he pressed, she grew cold. 

When, indeed, after their friendship had lasted about a year, heproposed to her and she refused him, his passion, instead of cooling, redoubled. It never occurred to him to think that she had done a strangething from the worldly point of view--that would have involved anappreciation of himself, as a prize in the marriage market, he wouldhave loathed to make. But he was one of the men for whom resistanceenhances the value of what they desire, and secretly he said to himself, "Persevere!" When he was repelled or puzzled by certain aspects of hercharacter, he would say to himself:

"It is because she is alone and miserable. Women are not meant to bealone. What soft, helpless creatures they are!--even when intellectuallythey fly far ahead of us. If she would but put her hand in mine I wouldso serve and worship her, she would have no need for these strangethings she does--the doublings and ruses of the persecuted. " Thus thetouches of falsity that repelled Wilfrid Bury were to Delafield'spassion merely the stains of rough travel on a fair garment. 

But she refused him, and for another year he said no more. Then, asthings got worse and worse for her, he spoke again--ambiguously--a wordor two, thrown out to sound the waters. Her manner of silencing him onthis second occasion was not what it had been before. His suspicionswere aroused, and a few days later he divined the Warkworth affair. 

When Sir Wilfrid Bury spoke to him of the young officer's relations toMademoiselle Le Breton, Delafield's stiff defence of Julie'sprerogatives in the matter masked the fact that he had just gone througha week of suffering, wrestling his heart down in country lanes; a weekwhich had brought him to somewhat curious results. 

In the first place, as with Sir Wilfrid, he stood up stoutly for herrights. If she chose to attach herself to this man, whose business wasit to interfere? If he was worthy and loved her, Jacob himself would seefair play, would be her friend and supporter. 

But the scraps of gossip about Captain Warkworth which the Duchess--whohad disliked the man at first sight--gathered from different quartersand confided to Jacob were often disquieting. It was said that at Simlahe had entrapped this little heiress, and her obviously foolish andincapable mother, by devices generally held to be discreditable; and ithad taken two angry guardians to warn him off. What was the state of thecase now no one exactly knew; though it was shrewdly suspected that theengagement was only dormant. The child was known to have been in lovewith him; in two years more she would be of age; her fortune wasenormous, and Warkworth was a poor and ambitious man. 

There was also an ugly tale of a civilian's wife in a hill station, referring to a date some years back; but Delafield did not think itnecessary to believe it. 

As to his origins--there again, Delafield, making cautious inquiries, came across some unfavorable details, confided to him by a man ofWarkworth's own regiment. His father had retired from the armyimmediately after the Mutiny, broken in health, and much straitened inmeans. Himself belonging to a family of the poorer middle class, he hadmarried late, a good woman not socially his equal, and without fortune. They settled in the Isle of Wight, on his half-pay, and harassed by agood many debts. Their two children, Henry and Isabella, were thengrowing up, and the parents' hopes were fixed upon their promising andgood-looking son. With difficulty they sent him to Charterhouse and a"crammer. " The boy coveted a "crack" regiment; by dint of mustering allthe money and all the interest they could, they procured him his heart'sdesire. He got unpardonably into debt; the old people's resources werelessening, not expanding; and ultimately the poor father died brokendown by the terror of bankruptcy for himself and disgrace for Henry. Themother still survived, in very straitened circumstances. 

"His sister, " said Delafield's informant, "married one of the big Londontailors, whom she met first on the Ryde pier. I happen to know thefacts, for my father and I have been customers of his for years, and oneday, hearing that I was in Warkworth's regiment, he told me some storiesof his brother-in-law in a pretty hostile tone. His sister, it appears, has often financed him of late. She must have done. How else could hehave got through? Warkworth may be a fine, showy fellow when there'sfighting about. In private life he's one of the most self-indulgent dogsalive. And yet he's ashamed of the sister and her husband, and turns hisback on them whenever he can. Oh, he's not a person of nice feeling, isWarkworth--but, mark my words, he'll be one of the most successful menin the army. "

There was one side. On the other was to be set the man's brilliantprofessional record; his fine service in this recent campaign; thebull-dog defence of an isolated fort, which insured the safety of mostimportant communications; contempt of danger, thirst, exposure; therescue of a wounded comrade from the glacis of the fort, under amurderous fire; facts, all of them, which had fired the publicimagination and brought his name to the front. No such acts as thesecould have been done by any mere self-indulgent pretender. 

Delafield reserved his judgment. He set himself to watch. In his inmostheart there was a strange assumption of the right to watch, and, if needbe, to act. Julie's instinct had told her truly. Delafield, theindividualist, the fanatic for freedom--he, also, had his instinct oftyranny. She should not destroy herself, the dear, weak, beloved woman!He would prevent it. 

 * * * * *

Thus, during these hours of transition, Delafield thought much of Julie. Julie, on the other hand, had no sooner said good-night to him after theconversation described in the last chapter than she drove him from herthoughts--one might have said, with vehemence. 

 * * * * *

The _Times_ of the following morning duly contained the announcement ofthe appointment of Captain Warkworth, D. S. O. , of the Queen's Grays, tothe command of the military mission to Mokembe recently determined on byher Majesty's government. The mission would proceed to Mokembe as soonas possible, but of two officers who on the ground of especial knowledgewould form part of it, under Captain Warkworth's command, one was atpresent in Canada and the other at the Cape. It would, therefore, hardlybe possible for the mission to start from the coast for the interiorbefore the beginning of May. In the same paper certain promotions anddistinctions on account of the recent Mahsud campaign were reprintedfrom the _Gazette_. Captain Henry Warkworth's brevet majority wasamong them. 

The _Times_ leader on the announcement pointed out that the missionwould be concerned with important frontier questions, still more withthe revival of the prestige of England in regions where a supinegovernment had allowed it to wither unaccountably. Other powers had beenplaying a filching and encroaching game at the expense of the Britishlion in these parts, and it was more than time that he should open hissleepy eyes upon what was going on. As to the young officer who was tocommand the mission, the great journal made a few civil though guardedremarks. His record in the recent campaign was indeed highlydistinguished; still it could hardly be said that, take it as a whole, his history so far gave him a claim to promotion so important as thatwhich he had now obtained. 

Well, now he had his chance. English soldiers had a way of profiting bysuch chances. The _Times_ courteously gave him the benefit of the doubt, prophesying that he would rise to the occasion and justify the choice ofhis superiors. 

The Duchess looked over Julie's shoulder as she read. 

"Schemer, " she said, as she dropped a kiss on the back of Julie's neck, "I hope you're satisfied. The _Times_ doesn't know what to make of it. "

Julie put down the paper with a glowing cheek. 

"They'll soon know, " she said, quietly. 

"Julie, do you believe in him so much?"

"What does it matter what I think? It is not I who have appointed him. "

"Not so sure, " laughed the Duchess. "As if he would have had a chancewithout you. Whom did he know last November when you took him up?"

Julie moved to and fro, her hands behind her. The tremor on her lip, thelight in her eye showed her sense of triumph. 

"What have I done, " she said, laughing, "but push a few stones out ofthe way of merit?"

"Some of them were heavy, " said the Duchess, making a little face. "NeedI invite Lady Froswick any more?"

Julie threw her arms about her. 

"Evelyn, what a darling you've been! Now I'll never worry you again. "

"Oh, for some people I would do ten times as much!" cried the Duchess. "But, Julie, I wish I knew why you think so well of this man. I--I don'talways hear very nice things about him. "

"I dare say not, " said Julie, flushing. "It is easy to hate success. "

"No, come, we're not as mean as that!" cried the Duchess. "I vow thatall the heroes I've ever known had a ripping time. Julie"--she kissedher friend impulsively--"Julie, don't like him too much. I don't thinkhe's good enough. "

"Good enough for what?" said Julie's bitter voice. "Make yourself easyabout Captain Warkworth, Evelyn; but please understand--_anything_ isgood enough for me. Don't let your dear head be troubled about myaffairs. They are never serious, and nothing counts--except, " she added, recklessly, "that I get a little amusement by the way. "

"Julie, " cried the Duchess, "as if Jacob--"

Julie frowned and released herself; then she laughed. 

"Nothing that one ever says about ordinary mortals applies to Mr. Delafield. He is, of course, _hors concours_. "

"Julie!"

"It is you, Evelyn, who make me _méchante_. I could be grateful--andexcellent friends with that young man--in my own way. "

The Duchess sighed, and held her tongue with difficulty. 

 * * * * *

When the successful hero arrived that night for dinner he found asolitary lady in the drawing-room. 

Was this, indeed, Julie Le Breton--this soft, smiling vision in white?

He expected to have found a martyr, pale and wan from the shock of thecatastrophe which had befallen her, and, even amid the intoxication ofhis own great day, he was not easy as to how she might have taken hisbehavior on the fatal night. But here was some one, all joy, animation, and indulgence--a glorified Julie who trod on air. Why? Becausegood-fortune had befallen her friend? His heart smote him. He had neverseen her so touching, so charming. Since the incubus of Lady Henry'shouse and presence had been removed she seemed to have grown yearsyounger. A white muslin dress of her youth, touched here and there bythe Duchess's maid, replaced the familiar black satin. When Warkworthfirst saw her he paused unconsciously in surprise. 

Then he advanced to meet her, broadly smiling, his blue eyes dancing. 

"You got my note this morning?"

"Yes, " she said, demurely. "You were much too kind, and much--much tooabsurd. I have done nothing. "

"Oh, nothing, of course. " Then, after a moment: "Are you going to tie meto that fiction, or am I to be allowed a little decent sincerity? Youknow perfectly well that you have done it all. There, there; give meyour hand. "

She gave it, shrinking, and he kissed it joyously. 

"Isn't it jolly!" he said, with a school-boy's delight as he releasedher hand. "I saw Lord M---- this morning. " He named the Prime Minister. "Very civil, indeed. Then the Commander-in-Chief--and Montresor gave mehalf an hour. It is all right. They are giving me a capital staff. Excellent fellows, all of them. Oh, you'll see, I shall pull itthrough--I shall pull it through. By George! it is a chance!"

And he stood radiant, rubbing his hands over the blaze. 

The Duchess came in accompanied by an elderly cousin of the Duke's, awhite-haired, black-gowned spinster, Miss Emily Lawrence--one of thosesingle women, travelled, cultivated, and good, that England produces insuch abundance. 

"Well, so you're going, " said the Duchess, to Warkworth. "And I hearthat we ought to think you a lucky man. "

"Indeed you ought, and you must, " he said, gayly. "If only the climatewill behave itself. The blackwater fever has a way of killing you intwenty-four hours if it gets hold of you; but short of that--"

"Oh, you will be quite safe, " said the Duchess. "Let me introduce you toMiss Lawrence. Emily, this is Captain Warkworth. "

The elderly lady gave a sudden start. Then she quietly put on herspectacles and studied the young soldier with a pair of intelligentgray eyes. 

 * * * * *

Nothing could have been more agreeable than Warkworth at dinner. Eventhe Duchess admitted as much. He talked easily, but not too much, of thetask before him; told amusing tales of his sporting experience of yearsback in the same regions which were now to be the scene of his mission;discussed the preparations he would have to make at Denga, the coasttown, before starting on his five weeks' journey to the interior; drewthe native porter and the native soldier, not to their advantage, andlet fall, by the way, not a few wise or vivacious remarks as to theraces, resources, and future of this illimitable and mysteriousAfrica--this cavern of the unknown, into which the waves of whiteinvasion, one upon another, were now pressing fast and ceaselessly, towards what goal, only the gods knew. 

A few other men were dining; among them two officers from the staff ofthe Commander-in-Chief. Warkworth, much their junior, treated them witha skilful deference; but through the talk that prevailed his militarycompetence and prestige appeared plainly enough, even to the women. Hisgood opinion of himself was indeed sufficiently evident; but there wasno crude vainglory. At any rate, it was a vainglory of youth, ability, and good looks, ratified by these budding honors thus fresh upon him, and no one took it amiss. 

When the gentlemen returned to the drawing-room, Warkworth and Julieonce more found themselves together, this time in the Duchess's littlesitting-room at the end of the long suite of rooms. 

"When do you go?" she asked him, abruptly. 

"Not for about a month. " He mentioned the causes of delay. 

"That will bring you very late--into the worst of the heat?" Her voicehad a note of anxiety. 

"Oh, we shall all be seasoned men. And after the first few days we shallget into the uplands. "

"What do your home people say?" she asked him, rather shyly. She knew, in truth, little about them. 

"My mother? Oh, she will be greatly pleased. I go down to the Isle ofWight for a day or two to see her to-morrow. But now, dear lady, that isenough of my wretched self. You--do you stay on here with the Duchess?"

She told him of the house in Heribert Street. He listened withattention. 

"Nothing could be better. You will have a most distinguished littlesetting of your own, and Lady Henry will repent at leisure. You won'tbe lonely?"

"Oh no!" But her smile was linked with a sigh. 

He came nearer to her. 

"You should never be lonely if I could help it, " he said, in a lowvoice. 

"When people are nameless and kinless, " was her passionate reply, in thesame undertone as his, "they must be lonely. "

He looked at her with eagerness. She lay back in the firelight, herbeautiful brow and eyes softly illuminated. He felt within him a suddensnapping of restraints. Why--why refuse what was so clearly within hisgrasp? Love has many manners--many entrances--and many exits. 

"When will you tell me all that I want to know about you?" he said, bending towards her with tender insistence. "There is so much I haveto ask. "

"Oh, some time, " she said, hurriedly, her pulses quickening. "Mine isnot a story to be told on a great day like this. "

He was silent a moment, but his face spoke for him. 

"Our friendship has been a beautiful thing, hasn't it?" he said, atlast, in a voice of emotion. "Look here!" He thrust his hand into hisbreast-pocket and half withdrew it. "Do you see where I carryyour letters?"

"You shouldn't--they are not worthy. "

"How charming you are in that dress--in that light! I shall always seeyou as you are to-night. "

A silence. Excitement mounted in their veins. Suddenly he stooped andkissed her hands. They looked into each other's eyes, and the secondspassed like hours. 

Presently, in the nearer drawing-room, there was a sound of approachingvoices and they moved apart. 

"Julie, Emily Lawrence is going, " said the Duchess's voice, pitched inwhat seemed to Julie a strange and haughty note. "Captain Warkworth, Miss Lawrence thinks that you and she have common friends--Lady BlancheMoffatt and her daughter. "

Captain Warkworth murmured some conventionality, and passed into thenext drawing-room with Miss Lawrence. 

Julie rose to her feet, the color dying out of her face, her passionateeyes on the Duchess, who stood facing her friend, guiltily pale, andready to cry. 

XIV

On the morning following these events, Warkworth went down to the Isleof Wight to see his mother. On the journey he thought much of Julie. They had parted awkwardly the night before. The evening, which hadpromised so well, had, after all, lacked finish and point. What on earthhad that tiresome Miss Lawrence wanted with him? They had talked ofSimla and the Moffatts. The conversation had gone in spurts, she lookingat him every now and then with eyes that seemed to say more than herwords. All that she had actually said was perfectly insignificant andtrivial. Yet there was something curious in her manner, and when thetime came for him to take his departure she had bade him a frostylittle farewell. 

She had described herself once or twice as a _great_ friend of LadyBlanche Moffatt. Was it possible?

But if Lady Blanche, whose habits of sentimental indiscretion wereingrained, _had_ gossiped to this lady, what then? Why should he befrowned on by Miss Lawrence, or anybody else? That malicious talk atSimla had soon exhausted itself. His present appointment was atriumphant answer to it all. His slanderers--including Aileen'sridiculous guardians--could only look foolish if they pursued the matterany further. What "trap" was there--what _mésalliance_? A successfulsoldier was good enough for anybody. Look at the first Lord Clyde, andscores besides. 

The Duchess, too. Why had she treated him so well at first, and socavalierly after dinner? Her manners were really too uncertain. 

What was the matter, and why did she dislike him? He pondered over it agood deal, and with much soreness of spirit. Like many men capable ofvery selfish or very cruel conduct, he was extremely sensitive, and tookkeen notice of the fact that a person liked or disliked him. 

If the Duchess disliked him it could not be merely on account of theSimla story, even though the old maid might conceivably have given her ajaundiced account. The Duchess knew nothing of Aileen, and was littleinfluenced, so far as he had observed her, by considerations of abstractjustice or propriety, affecting persons whom she had never seen. 

No, she was Julie's friend, the little wilful lady, and it was for Julieshe ruffled her feathers, like an angry dove. 

So his thoughts had come back to Julie, though, indeed, it seemed to himthat they were never far from her. As he looked absently from the trainwindows on the flying landscape, Julie's image hovered between him andit--a magic sun, flooding soul and senses with warmth. Howunconsciously, how strangely his feelings had changed towards her! Thatcoolness of temper and nerve he had been able to preserve towards herfor so long was, indeed, breaking down. He recognized the danger, andwondered where it would lead him. What a fascinating, sympatheticcreature!--and, by George! what she had done for him!

Aileen! Aileen was a little sylph, a pretty child-angel, white-wingedand innocent, who lived in a circle of convent thoughts, knowing nothingof the world, and had fallen in love with him as the first man who hadever made love to her. But this intelligent, full-blooded woman, whocould understand at a word, or a half word, who had a knowledge ofaffairs which many a high-placed man might envy, with whom one never hada dull moment--this courted, distinguished Julie Le Breton--his mindswelled with half-guilty pride at the thought that for six months he hadabsorbed all her energies, that a word from him could make her smile orsigh, that he could force her to look at him with eyes so melting and sotroubled as those with which she had given him her hands--her slim, beautiful hands--that night in Grosvenor Square. 

How freedom became her! Dependency had dropped from her, like a cast-offcloak, and beside her fresh, melancholy charm, the airs and graces of achild of fashion and privilege like the little Duchess appeared almostcheap and trivial. Poor Julie! No doubt some social struggle was beforeher. Lady Henry was strong, after all, in this London world, and thesolider and stupider people who get their way in the end were not, shethought, likely to side with Lady Henry's companion in a quarrel wherethe facts of the story were unquestionably, at first sight, damaging toMiss Le Breton. Julie would have her hours of bitterness andhumiliation; and she would conquer by boldness, if she conquered atall--by originality, by determining to live her own life. That wouldpreserve for her the small circle, if it lost her the large world. Andthe small circle was what she lived for, what she ought, at any rate, to live for. 

It was not likely she would marry. Why should she desire it? From anyblundering tragedy a woman of so acute a brain would, of course, knowhow to protect herself. But within the limits of her life, why shouldshe refuse herself happiness, intimacy, love?

His heart beat fast; his thoughts were in a whirl. But the train wasnearing Portsmouth, and with an effort he recalled his mind to themeeting with his mother, which was then close upon him. 

He spent nearly a week in the little cottage at Sea View, and Mrs. Warkworth got far more pleasure than usual, poor lady, out of his visit. She was a thin, plain woman, not devoid of either ability or character. But life had gone hardly with her, and since her husband's death whathad been reserve had become melancholy. She had always been afraid ofher only son since they had sent him to Charterhouse, and he had becomeso much "finer" than his parents. She knew that he must consider her avery ignorant and narrow-minded person; when he was with her she washumiliated in her own eyes, though as soon as he was gone she resumedwhat was in truth a leading place among her own small circle. 

She loved him, and was proud of him; yet at the bottom of her heart shehad never absolved him from his father's death. But for hisextravagance, and the misfortunes he had brought upon them, her oldgeneral would be alive still--pottering about in the spring sunshine, spudding the daisies from the turf, or smoking his pipe beneath thethickening trees. Silently her heart still yearned and hungered for thehusband of her youth; his son did not replace him. 

Nevertheless, when he came down to her with this halo of glory upon him, and smoked up and down her small garden through the mild spring days, gossiping to her of all the great things that had befallen him, repeating to her, word for word, his conversation with the PrimeMinister, and his interview with the Commander-in-Chief, or making herread all the letters of congratulation he had received, her mother'sheart thawed within her as it had not done for long. Her ears told herthat he was still vain and a boaster; her memory held the indeliblerecords of his past selfishness; but as he walked beside her, his fairhair blown back from his handsome brow, and eyes that were so muchyounger than the rest of the face, his figure as spare and boyish now aswhen he had worn the colors of the Charterhouse eleven, she said toherself, in that inward and unsuspected colloquy she was always holdingwith her own heart about him, that if his father could have seen him nowhe would have forgiven him everything. According to her secretEvangelical faith, God "deals" with every soul he has created--throughjoy or sorrow, through good or evil fortune. He had dealt with herselfthrough anguish and loss. Henry, it seemed, was to be moulded throughprosperity. His good fortune was already making a better man of him. 

Certainly he was more affectionate and thoughtful than before. He wouldhave liked to give her money, of which he seemed to have an unusualstore; but she bade him keep what he had for his own needs. Her ownlittle bit of money, saved from the wreck of their fortunes, was enoughfor her. Then he went into Ryde and brought her back a Shetland shawland a new table-cloth for her little sitting-room, which she acceptedwith a warmer kiss than she had given him for years. 

He left her on a bright, windy morning which flecked the blue Solentwith foam and sent the clouds racing to westward. She walked back alongthe sands, thinking anxiously of the African climate and the deserthard-ships he was going to face. And she wondered what significancethere might be in the fact that he had written twice during his staywith her to a Miss Le Breton, whose name, nevertheless, he had notmentioned in their conversations. Well, he would marry soon, shesupposed, and marry well, in circles out of her ken. With the commonprejudice of the English middle class, she hoped that if this Miss LeBreton were his choice, she might be only French in name and notin blood. 

Meanwhile, Warkworth sped up to London in high spirits, enjoying thecomforts of a good conscience. 

He drove first to his club, where a pile of letters awaited him--someletters of congratulation, others concerned with the business of hismission. He enjoyed the first, noticing jealously who had and who hadnot written to him; then he applied himself to the second. His mindworked vigorously and well; he wrote his replies in a manner thatsatisfied him. Then throwing himself into a chair, with a cigar, he gavehimself up to the close and shrewd planning of the preparationsnecessary for his five weeks' march, or to the consideration of two orthree alternative lines of action which would open before him as soon ashe should find himself within the boundaries of Mokembe. Some five yearsbefore, the government of the day had sent a small expedition to thisDebatable Land, which had failed disastrously, both from the diplomaticand the military points of view. He went backward and forward to theshelves of the fine "Service" library which surrounded him, taking downthe books and reports which concerned this expedition. He buried himselfin them for an hour, then threw them aside with contempt. What blundersand short-sight everywhere! The general public might well talk of thestupidity of English officers. And blunders so easily avoided, too! Itwas sickening. He felt within himself a fulness of energy andintelligence, a perspicacity of brain which judged mistakes of this kindunpardonable. 

As he was replacing some of the books he had been using in the shelves, the club began to fill up with men coming in to lunch. A great manycongratulated him; and a certain number who of old had hardly professedto know him greeted him with cordiality. He found himself caught in aseries of short but flattering conversations, in which he bore himselfwell--neither over-discreet nor too elate. "I declare that fellow'simproved, " said one man, who might certainly have counted as Warkworth'senemy the week before, to his companion at table. "The government's beenbeastly remiss so far. Hope he'll pull it off. Ripping chance, anyway. Though what they gave it to him for, goodness knows! There were a dozenfellows, at least, did as well as he in the Mahsud business. And theStaff-College man had a thousand times more claim. "

Nevertheless, Warkworth felt the general opinion friendly, a littlesurprised, no doubt, but showing that readiness to believe in the mancoming to the front, which belongs much more to the generous than to thecalculating side of the English character. Insensibly his mental andmoral stature rose. He exchanged a few words on his way out with one ofthe most distinguished members of the club, a man of Europeanreputation, whom he had seen the week before in the Commander-in-Chief'sroom at the War Office. The great man spoke to him with markedfriendliness, and Warkworth walked on air as he went his way. Potentially he felt himself the great man's equal; the gates of lifeseemed to be opening before him. 

And with the rise of fortune came a rush of magnanimous resolution. Nomore shady episodes; no more mean devices; no more gambling, and no moredebt. _Major_ Warkworth's sheet was clean, and it should remain so. Aman of his prospects must run straight. 

He felt himself at peace with all the world. By-the-way, just time tojump into a cab and get to Park Crescent in time for his sister'sluncheon. His last interview with his brother-in-law had not beenagreeable. But now--he felt for the check-book in his pocket--he was ina position to repay at least half the last sum of money which Bella hadlent him. He would go and give it her now, and report news of themother. And if the two chicks were there--why, he had a free hour and hewould take them to the Zoo--he vowed he would!--give them somethingpleasant to remember their uncle by. 

And a couple of hours later a handsome, soldierly man might have beenseen in the lion-house at the Zoo, leading a plump little girl by eitherhand. Rose and Katie Mullins enjoyed a golden time, and started awholly new adoration for the uncle who had so far taken small notice ofthem, and was associated in their shrewd, childish minds rather withtempests at home than buns abroad. But this time buns, biscuits, hansom-drives and elephant-rides were showered upon them by an uncle whoseemed to make no account of money, while his gracious and captivatingairs set their little hearts beating in a common devotion. 

"Now go home--go home, little beggars!" said that golden gentleman, ashe packed them into a hansom and stood on the step to accept a wet kisson his mustache from each pink mouth. "Tell your mother all about it, and don't forget your uncle Harry. There's a shilling for each of you. Don't you spend it on sweets. You're quite fat enough already. Good-bye!"

"That's the hardest work I've done for many a long day, " he said tohimself, with a sigh of relief, as the hansom drove away. "I sha'n'tturn nurse-maid when other trades fail. But they're nice little kidsall the same. 

"Now, then, Cox's--and the City"--he ran over the list of hisengagements for the afternoon--"and by five o'clock shall I find my fairlady--at home--and established? Where on earth is Heribert Street?"

 * * * * *

He solved the question, for a few minutes after five he was on Miss LeBreton's doorstep. A quaint little house--and a strange parlor-maid! Forthe door was opened to him by a large-eyed, sickly child, who looked athim with the bewilderment of one trying to follow out instructions stillstrange to her. 

[Illustration: "HE ENTERED UPON A MERRY SCENE"]

"Yes, sir, Miss Le Breton is in the drawing-room, " she said, in asweet, deliberate voice with a foreign accent, and she led the waythrough the hall. 

Poor little soul--what a twisted back, and what a limp! She looked aboutfourteen, but was probably older. Where had Julie discovered her?

Warkworth looked round him at the little hall with its relics ofcountry-house sports and amusements; his eye travelled through an opendoor to the little dining-room and the Russell pastels of Lady Mary'sparents, as children, hanging on the wall. The _character_ of the littledwelling impressed itself at once. Smiling; he acknowledged itscongruity with Julie. Here was a lady who fell on her feet!

The child, leading him, opened the door to the left. 

"Please walk in, sir, " she said, shyly, and stood aside. 

As the door opened, Warkworth was conscious of a noise of tongues. 

So Julie was not alone? He prepared his manner accordingly. 

He entered upon a merry scene. Jacob Delafield was standing on a chair, hanging a picture, while Dr. Meredith and Julie, on either side, directed or criticised the operation. Meredith carried picture-cord andscissors; Julie the hammer and nails. Meredith was expressing theprofoundest disbelief in Jacob's practical capacities; Jacob wasdefending himself hotly; and Julie laughed at both. 

Towards the other end of the room stood the tea-table, between the fireand an open window. Lord Lackington sat beside it, smiling to himself, and stroking a Persian kitten. Through the open window the twinklingbuds on the lilacs in the Cureton House garden shone in the stilllingering sun. A recent shower had left behind it odors of earth andgrass. Even in this London air they spoke of the spring--the springwhich already in happier lands was drawing veils of peach and cherryblossom, over the red Sienese earth or the green terraces of Como. Thefire crackled in the grate. The pretty, old-fashioned room was fragrantwith hyacinth and narcissus; Julie's books lay on the tables; Julie'shand and taste were already to be felt everywhere. And Lord Lackingtonwith the kitten, beside the fire, gave the last touch of home anddomesticity. 

"So I find you established?" said Warkworth, smiling, to the lady withthe nails, while Delafield nodded to him from the top of the steps andMeredith ceased to chatter. 

"I haven't a hand, I fear, " said Julie. "Will you have some tea? Ah, Léonie, tu vas en faire de nouveau, n'est-ce pas, pour ce monsieur?"

A little woman in black, with a shawl over her shoulders, had justglided into the room. She had a small, wrinkled face, bright eyes, and amuch-flattened nose. 

"Tout de suite, monsieur, " she said, quickly, and disappeared with theteapot. Warkworth guessed, of course, that she was Madame Bornier, thefoster-sister--the "Propriety" of this _ménage_. 

"Can't I help?" he said to Julie, with a look at Delafield. 

"It's just done, " she said, coldly, handing a nail to Delafield. "_Just_a trifle more to the right. Ecco! Perfection!"

"Oh, you spoil him, " said Meredith, "And not one word of praise forme!"

"What have you done?" she said, laughing. "Tangled the cord--that'sall!"

Warkworth turned away. His face, so radiant as he entered, had settledinto sharp, sudden lines. What was the meaning of this voice, thismanner? He remembered that to his three letters he had received no wordof reply. But he had interpreted that to mean that she was in the throesof moving and could find no time to write. 

As he neared the tea-table, Lord Lackington looked up. He greeted thenew-comer with the absent stateliness he generally put on when his mindwas in a state of confusion as to a person's identity. 

"Well, so they're sending you to D----? There'll be a row there beforelong. Wish you joy of the missionaries!"

"No, not D----, " said Warkworth, smiling. "Nothing so amusing. Mokembe'smy destination. "

"Oh, Mokembe!" said Lord Lackington, a little abashed. "That's whereCecil Ray, Lord R's second son, was killed last year--lion-hunting? No, it was of fever that he died. By-the-way, a vile climate!"

"In the plains, yes, " said Warkworth, seating himself. "As to theuplands, I understand they are to be the Switzerland of Africa. "

Lord Lackington did not appear to listen. 

"Are you a homoeopath?" he said, suddenly, rising to his full andimmense stature and looking down with eagerness on Warkworth. 

"No. Why?"

"Because it's your only chance, for those parts. If Cecil Ray had hadtheir medicines with him he'd be alive now. Look here; when do youstart?" The speaker took out his note-book. 

"In rather less than a month I start for Denga. "

"All right. I'll send you a medicine-case--from Epps. If you're ill, take 'em. "

"You're very good. "

"Not at all. It's my hobby--one of the last. " A broad, boyish smileflashed over the handsome old face. "Look at me; I'm seventy-five, and Ican tire out my own grandsons at riding and shooting. That comes ofavoiding all allopathic messes like the devil. But the allopaths aresuch mean fellows they filch all our ideas. "

The old man was off. Warkworth submitted to five minutes' tirade, stealing a glance sometimes at the group of Julie, Meredith, andDelafield in the farther window--at the happy ease and fun that seemedto prevail in it. He fiercely felt himself shut out and trampled on. 

Suddenly, Lord Lackington pulled up, his instinct for declamationqualified by an equally instinctive dread of boring or being bored. "What did you think of Montresor's statement?" he said, abruptly, referring to a batch of army reforms that Montresor the week before hadendeavored to recommend to a sceptical House of Commons. 

"All very well, as far as it goes, " said Warkworth, with a shrug. 

"Precisely! We English want an army and a navy; we don't like it whenthose fellows on the Continent swagger in our faces, and yet we won'tpay either for the ships or the men. However, now that they've done awaywith purchase--Gad! I could fight them in the streets for the way inwhich they've done it!--now that they've turned the army into anexamination-shop, tempered with jobbery, whatever we do, we shall go tothe deuce. So it don't matter. "

"You were against the abolition?"

"I was, sir--with Wellington and Raglan and everybody else of anyaccount. And as for the violence, the disgraceful violence with which itwas carried--"

"Oh no, no, " said Warkworth, laughing. "It was the Lords who behavedabominably, and it'll do a deal of good. "

Lord Lackington's eyes flashed. 

"I've had a long life, " he said, pugnaciously. "I began as a middy inthe American war of 1812, that nobody remembers now. Then I left the seafor the army. I knocked about the world. I commanded a brigade inthe Crimea--"

"Who doesn't remember that?" said Warkworth, smiling. 

The old man acknowledged the homage by a slight inclination of hishandsome head. 

"And you may take my word for it that this new system will not give youmen worth _a tenth part_ of those fellows who bought and bribed theirway in under the old. The philosophers may like it, or lump it, butso it is. "

Warkworth dissented strongly. He was a good deal of a politician, himself a "new man, " and on the side of "new men. " Lord Lackingtonwarmed to the fight, and Warkworth, with bitterness in hisheart--because of that group opposite--was nothing loath to meet him. But presently he found the talk taking a turn that astonished him. Hehad entered upon a drawing-room discussion of a subject which had, afterall, been settled, if only by what the Tories were pleased to call the_coup d'état_ of the Royal Warrant, and no longer excited the passionsof a few years back. What he had really drawn upon himself was ahand-to-hand wrestle with a man who had no sooner provoked contradictionthan he resented it with all his force, and with a determination tocrush the contradictor. 

Warkworth fought well, but with a growing amazement at the tone andmanner of his opponent. The old man's eyes darted war-flames under hisfinely arched brows. He regarded the younger with a more and morehostile, even malicious air; his arguments grew personal, offensive; hisshafts were many and barbed, till at last Warkworth felt his faceburning and his temper giving way. 

"What _are_ you talking about?" said Julie Le Breton, at last, risingand coming towards them. 

Lord Lackington broke off suddenly and threw himself into his chair. 

Warkworth rose from his. 

"We had better have been handing nails, " he said, "but you wouldn't giveus any work. " Then, as Meredith and Delafield approached, he seized theopportunity of saying, in a low voice:

"Am I not to have a word?"

She turned with composure, though it seemed to him she was very pale. 

"Have you just come back from the Isle of Wight?"

"This morning. " He looked her in the eyes. "You got my letters?"

"Yes, but I have had no time for writing. I hope you found your motherwell. "

"Very well, thank you. You have been hard at work?"

"Yes, but the Duchess and Mr. Delafield have made it all easy. "

And so on, a few more insignificant questions and answers. 

"I must go, " said Delafield, coming up to them, "unless there is anymore work for me to do. Good-bye, Major, I congratulate you. They havegiven you a fine piece of work. "

Warkworth made a little bow, half ironical. Confound the fellow's graveand lordly ways! He did not want his congratulations. 

He lingered a little, sorely, full of rage, yet not knowing how to go. 

Lord Lackington's eyes ceased to blaze, and the kitten ventured oncemore to climb upon his knee. Meredith, too, found a comfortablearm-chair, and presently tried to beguile the kitten from his neighbor. Julie sat erect between them, very silent, her thin, white hands on herlap, her head drooped a little, her eyes carefully restrained frommeeting Warkworth's. He meanwhile leaned against the mantel-piece, irresolute. 

Meredith, it was clear, made himself quite happy and at home in thelittle drawing-room. The lame child came in and took a stool beside him. He stroked her head and talked nonsense to her in the intervals ofholding forth to Julie on the changes necessary in some proofs of hiswhich he had brought back. Lord Lackington, now quite himself again, went back to dreams, smiling over them, and quite unaware that thekitten had been slyly ravished from him. The little woman in black satknitting in the background. It was all curiously intimate and domestic, only Warkworth had no part in it. 

"Good-bye, Miss Le Breton, " he said, at last, hardly knowing his ownvoice. "I am dining out. "

She rose and gave him her hand. But it dropped from his like a thingdead and cold. He went out in a sudden suffocation of rage and pain; andas he walked in a blind haste to Cureton Street, he still saw herstanding in the old-fashioned, scented room, so coldly graceful, withthose proud, deep eyes. 

 * * * * *

When he had gone, Julie moved to the window and looked out into thegathering dusk. It seemed to her as if those in the room must hear thebeating of her miserable heart. 

When she rejoined her companions, Dr. Meredith had already risen and wasstuffing various letters and papers into his pockets with a view todeparture. 

"Going?" said Lord Lackington. "You shall see the last of me, too, Mademoiselle Julie. "

And he stood up. But she, flushing, looked at him with a wistful smile. 

"Won't you stay a few minutes? You promised to advise me about Thérèse'sdrawings. "

"By all means. "

Lord Lackington sat down again. The lame child, it appeared, had someartistic talent, which Miss Le Breton wished to cultivate. Meredithsuddenly found his coat and hat, and, with a queer look at Julie, departed in a hurry. 

"Thérèse, darling, " said Julie, "will you go up-stairs, please, andfetch me that book from my room that has your little drawingsinside it?"

The child limped away on her errand. In spite of her lameness she movedwith wonderful lightness and swiftness, and she was back again quicklywith a calf-bound book in her hand. 

"Léonie!" said Julie, in a low voice, to Madame Bornier. 

The little woman looked up startled, nodded, rolled up her knitting in amoment, and was gone. 

"Take the book to his lordship, Thérèse, " she said, and then, instead ofmoving with the child, she again walked to the window, and, leaning herhead against it, looked out. The hand hanging against her dress trembledviolently. 

"What did you want me to look at, my dear?" said Lord Lackington, takingthe book in his hand and putting on his glasses. 

But the child was puzzled and did not know. She gazed at him silentlywith her sweet, docile look. 

"Run away, Thérèse, and find mother, " said Julie, from the window. 

The child sped away and closed the door behind her. 

Lord Lackington adjusted his glasses and opened the book. Two or threeslips of paper with drawings upon them fluttered out and fell on thetable beneath. Suddenly there was a cry. Julie turned round, herlips parted. 

Lord Lackington walked up to her. 

"Tell me what this means, " he said, peremptorily. "How did you come byit?"

It was a volume of George Sand. He pointed, trembling, to the name anddate on the fly-leaf--"Rose Delaney, 1842. "

"It is mine, " she said, softly, dropping her eyes. 

"But how--how, in God's name, did you come by it?"

"My mother left it to me, with all her other few books and possessions. "

There was a pause. Lord Lackington came closer. 

"Who was your mother?" he said, huskily. 

The words in answer were hardly audible. Julie stood before him like aculprit, her beautiful head humbly bowed. 

Lord Lackington dropped the book and stood bewildered. 

"Rose's child?" he said--"Rose's child?"

Then, approaching her, he placed his hand on her arm. 

"Let me look at you, " he commanded. 

Julie raised her eyes to him, and at the same time dumbly held out tohim a miniature she had been keeping hidden in her hand. It was one ofthe miniatures from the locked triptych. 

He took it, looked from the pictured to the living face, then, turningaway with a groan, he covered his face with his hands and fell againinto the chair from which he had risen. 

Julie hurried to him. Her own eyes were wet with tears. After a moment'shesitation she knelt down beside him. 

"I ought to ask your pardon for not having told you before, " shemurmured. 

It was some time before Lord Lackington looked up. When at last hishands dropped, the face they uncovered was very white and old. 

"So you, " he said, almost in a whisper, "are the child she wrote to meabout before she died?"

Julie made a sign of assent. 

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-nine. "

"_She_ was thirty-two when I saw her last. "

There was a silence. Julie lifted one of his hands and kissed it. But hetook no notice. 

"You know that I was going to her, that I should have reached her intime"--the words seemed wrung from him--"but that I was myselfdangerously ill?"

"I know. I remember it all. "

"Did she speak of me?"

"Not often. She was very reserved, you remember. But not long before shedied--she seemed half asleep--I heard her say, 'Papa!--Blanche!' andshe smiled. "

Lord Lackington's face contracted, and the slow tears of old age stoodin his eyes. 

"You are like her in some ways, " he said, brusquely, as though to coverhis emotion; "but not very like her. "

"She always thought I was like you. "

A cloud came over Lord Lackington's face. Julie rose from her knees andsat beside him. He lost himself a few moments amid the painful ghosts ofmemory. Then, turning to her abruptly, he said:

"You have wondered, I dare say, why I was so hard--why, for seventeenyears, I cast her off?"

"Yes, often. You could have come to see us without anybody knowing. Mother loved you very much. "

Her voice was low and sad. Lord Lackington rose, fidgeted restlesslywith some of the small ornaments on the mantel-piece, and at lastturned to her. 

"She brought dishonor, " he said, in the same stifled voice, "and thewomen of our family have always been stainless. But that I could haveforgiven. After a time I should have resumed relations--privaterelations--with her. But it was your father who stood in the way. I wasthen--I am now--you saw me with that young fellow just now--quarrelsomeand hot-tempered. It is my nature. " He drew himself up obstinately. "Ican't help it. I take great pains to inform myself, then I cling to myopinions tenaciously, and in argument my temper gets the better of me. Your father, too, was hot-tempered. He came, with my consent, once tosee me--after your mother had left her husband--to try and bring aboutsome arrangement between us. It was the Chartist time. He was a Radical, a Socialist of the most extreme views. In the course of our conversationsomething was said that excited him. He went off at score. I becameenraged, and met him with equal violence. We had a furious argument, which ended in each insulting the other past forgiveness. We partedenemies for life. I never could bring myself to see him afterwards, norto run the risk of seeing him. Your mother took his side and espousedhis opinions while he lived. After his death, I suppose, she was tooproud and sore to write to me. I wrote to her once--it was not theletter it might have been. She did not reply till she felt herselfdying. That is the explanation of what, no doubt, must seem strangeto you. "

[Illustration: "'FOR MY ROSE'S CHILD, ' HE SAID, GENTLY"]

He turned to her almost pleadingly. A deep flush had replaced the pallorof his first emotion, as though in the presence of these primalrealities of love, death, and sorrow which she had recalled to him, hisold quarrel, on a political difference, cut but a miserable figure. 

"No, " she said, sadly, "not very strange. I understood my father--mydear father, " she added, with soft, deliberate tenderness. 

Lord Lackington was silent a little, then he threw her a sudden, penetrating look. 

"You have been in London three years. You ought to have told me before. "

It was Julie's turn to color. 

"Lady Henry bound me to secrecy. "

"Lady Henry did wrong, " he said, with emphasis. Then he asked, jealously, with a touch of his natural irascibility, "Who else has beenin the secret?"

"Four people, at most--the Duchess, first of all. I couldn't help it, "she pleaded. "I was so unhappy with Lady Henry. "

"You should have come to me. It was my right. "

"But"--she dropped her head--"you had made it a condition that I shouldnot trouble you. "

He was silenced; and once more he leaned against the mantel-piece andhid his face from her, till, by a secret impulse, both moved. She roseand approached him; he laid his hands on her arms. With his persistentinstinct for the lovely or romantic he perceived, with sudden pleasure, the grave, poetic beauty of her face and delicate form. Emotion hadsoftened away all that was harsh; a quivering charm hovered over thefeatures. With a strange pride, and a sense of mystery, he recognizedhis daughter and his race. 

"For my Rose's child, " he said, gently, and, stooping, he kissed her onthe brow. She broke out into weeping, leaning against his shoulder, while the old man comforted and soothed her. 

XV

After the long conversation between herself and Lord Lackington whichfollowed on the momentous confession of her identity, Julie spent arestless and weary evening, which passed into a restless and wearynight. Was she oppressed by this stirring of old sorrows?--hauntedafresh by her parents' fate?

Ah! Lord Lackington had no sooner left her than she sank motionless intoher chair, and, with the tears excited by the memories of her motherstill in her eyes, she gave herself up to a desperate and sombrebrooding, of which Warkworth's visit of the afternoon was, in truth, thesole cause, the sole subject. 

Why had she received him so? She had gone too far--much too far. But, somehow, she had not been able to bear it--that buoyant, confident air, that certainty of his welcome. No! She would show him that she was _not_his chattel, to be taken or left on his own terms. The, carelessgood-humor of his blue eyes was too much, after those days she hadpassed through. 

He, apparently, to judge from his letters to her from the Isle of Wight, had been conscious of no crisis whatever. Yet he must have seen from thelittle Duchess's manner, as she bade farewell to him that night atCrowborough House, that something was wrong. He must have realized thatMiss Lawrence was an intimate friend of the Moffatts, and that--Or washe really so foolish as to suppose that his quasi-engagement to thislittle heiress, and the encouragement given him, in defiance of thegirl's guardians, by her silly and indiscreet mother, were still hiddenand secret matters?--that he could still conceal them from the world, and deny them to Julie?

Her whole nature was sore yet from her wrestle with the Duchess on thatmiserable evening. 

"Julie, I can't help it! I know it's impertinent--but--Julie, darling!--do listen! What business has that man to make love to you ashe does, when all the time--Yes, he does make love to you--he does!Freddie had a most ill-natured letter from Lady Henry this morning. Ofcourse he had--and of course she'll write that kind of letter to as manypeople as she can. And it wouldn't matter a bit, if--But, you see, you_have_ been moving heaven and earth for him! And now his manner to you"(while the sudden flush burned her cheek, Julie wondered whether bychance the Duchess had seen anything of the yielded hands and the kiss)"and that ill-luck of his being the first to arrive, last night, at LadyHenry's! Oh, Julie, he's a wretch--_he is!_ Of course he is in love withyou. That's natural enough. But all the time--listen, that nice womantold me the whole story--he's writing regularly to that little girl. Sheand her mother, in spite of the guardians, regard it as an engagementsigned and sealed, and all his friends believe he's _quite_ determinedto marry her because of the money. You may think me an odious littlemeddler, Julie, if you like, but I vow I could stab him to the heart, with all the pleasure in life!"

And neither the annoyance, nor the dignity, nor the ridicule of thesupposed victim--not Julie's angry eyes, nor all her mocking words fromtremulous lips--had availed in the least to silence the tumult ofalarmed affection in the Duchess's breast. Her Julie had been floutedand trifled with; and if she was so blind, so infatuated, as not to seeit, she should at least be driven to realize what other peoplefelt about it. 

So she had her say, and Julie had been forced, willy-nilly, upondiscussion and self-defence--nay, upon a promise also. Pale, and stifflyerect, yet determined all the same to treat it as a laughing matter, shehad vouchsafed the Duchess some kind of assurance that she would for thefuture observe a more cautious behavior towards Warkworth. "He is my_friend_, and whatever any one may say, he shall remain so, " she hadsaid, with a smiling stubbornness which hid something before which thelittle Duchess shrank. "But, of course, if I can do anything to pleaseyou, Evelyn--you know I like to please you. "

But she had never meant, she had never promised to forswear his society, to ban him from the new house. In truth she would rather have left homeand friends and prospects, at one stroke, rather than have pledgedherself to anything of the sort. Evelyn should never bind her to that. 

Then, during his days of absence, she had passed through wave after waveof feeling, while all the time to the outer eye she was occupied withnothing but the settlement into Lady Mary's strange little house. Shewashed, dusted, placed chairs and tables. And meanwhile a wildexpectancy of his first letter possessed her. Surely there would be someanxiety in it, some fear, some disclosure of himself, and of thestruggle in his mind between interest and love?

Nothing of the kind. His first letter was the letter of one sure of hiscorrespondent, sure of his reception and of his ground; a happy andintimate certainty shone through its phrases; it was the letter, almost, of a lover whose doubts are over. 

The effect of it was to raise a tempest, sharp and obscure, in Julie'smind. The contrast between the _pose_ of the letter and the sly realitybehind bred a sudden anguish of jealousy, concerned not so much withWarkworth as with this little, unknown creature, who, without anyeffort, any desert--by the mere virtue of money and blood--sat waitingin arrogant expectancy till what she desired should come to her. How wasit possible to feel any compunction towards her? Julie felt none. 

As to the rest of Miss Lawrence's gossip--that Warkworth was supposed tohave "behaved badly, " to have led the pretty child to compromise herselfwith him at Simla in ways which Simla society regarded as inadmissibleand "bad form"; that the guardians had angrily intervened, and that hewas under a promise, habitually broken by the connivance of the girl'smother, not to see or correspond with the heiress till she wastwenty-one, in other words, for the next two years--what did thesethings matter to her? Had she ever supposed that Warkworth, in regard tomoney or his career, was influenced by any other than the ordinaryworldly motives? She knew very well that he was neither saint norascetic. These details--or accusations--did not, properly speaking, concern her at all. She had divined and accepted his character, in allits average human selfishness and faultiness, long ago. She loved himpassionately in spite of it--perhaps, if the truth were known, because of it. 

As for the marrying, or rather the courting, for money, that excited inher no repulsion whatever. Julie, in her own way, was a great romantic;but owing to the economic notions of marriage, especially the wholeconception of the _dot_, prevailing in the French or Belgian minds amidwhom she had passed her later girlhood, she never dreamed for a momentof blaming Warkworth for placing money foremost in his plans ofmatrimony. She resembled one of the famous _amoureuses_ of theeighteenth century, who in writing to the man she loved but could notmarry, advises him to take a wife to mend his fortunes, and proposes tohim various tempting morsels--_une jeune personne_, sixteen, withneither father nor mother, only a brother. "They will give her on hermarriage thirteen thousand francs a year, and the aunt will be quitecontent to keep her and look after her for some time. " And if that won'tdo--"I know a man who would be only too happy to have you for ason-in-law; but his daughter is only eleven; she is an only child, however, and she will be _very_ rich. You know, _mon ami_, I desire yourhappiness above all things; how to procure it--there lies the chiefinterest of my life. "

This notion of things, more or less disguised, was to Julie customaryand familiar; and it was no more incompatible in her with the notionsand standards of high sentiment, such as she might be supposed to havederived from her parents, than it is in the Latin races generally. 

No doubt it had been mingled in her, especially since her settlement inLady Henry's house, with the more English idea of "falling in love"--theidea which puts personal choice first in marriage, and makes the matterof dowry subordinate to that mysterious election and affinity which theEnglishman calls "love. " Certainly, during the winter, Julie had hopedto lead Warkworth to marry her. As a poor man, of course, he must havemoney. But her secret feeling had been that her place in society, herinfluence with important people, had a money value, and that he wouldperceive this. 

Well, she had been a mere trusting fool, and he had deceived her. Therewas his crime--not in seeking money and trusting to money. He had toldher falsehoods and misled her. He was doing it still. His letter impliedthat he loved her? Possibly. It implied to Julie's ear still moreplainly that he stood tacitly and resolutely by Aileen Moffatt and hermoney, and that all he was prepared to offer to the dear friend of hisheart was a more or less ambiguous relation, lasting over two yearsperhaps--till his engagement might be announced. 

A dumb and bitter anger mounted within her. She recalled the manner inwhich he had evaded her first questions, and her opinion became verymuch that of the Duchess. She had, indeed, been mocked, and treated likea child. So she sent no answer to his first letter, and when his secondcame she forbade herself to open it. It lay there on her writing-table. At night she transferred it to the table beside her bed, and early inthe spring dawn her groping fingers drew it trembling towards her andslipped it under her pillow. By the time the full morning had come shehad opened it, read and reread it--had bathed it, indeed, withher tears. 

But her anger persisted, and when Warkworth appeared on her threshold itflamed into sudden expression. She would make him realize her friends, her powerful friends--above all, she would make him realize Delafield. 

Well, now it was done. She had repelled her lover. She had shown herselfparticularly soft and gracious to Delafield. Warkworth now would breakwith her--might, perhaps, be glad of the chance to return safely andwithout further risks to his heiress. 

She sat on in the dark, thinking over every word, every look. PresentlyThérèse stole in. 

"Mademoiselle, le souper sera bientôt prêt. "

Julie rose wearily, and the child slipped a thin hand into hers. 

"J'aime tant ce vieux monsieur, " she said, softly. "Je l'aime tant!"

Julie started. Her thoughts had wandered far, indeed, from LordLackington. 

As she went up-stairs to her little room her heart reproached her. Intheir interview the old man had shown great sweetness of feeling, adelicate and remorseful tenderness, hardly to have been looked for in abeing so fantastic and self-willed. The shock of their conversation haddeepened the lines in a face upon which age had at last begun to makethose marks which are not another beauty, but the end of beauty. Whenshe had opened the door for him in the dusk, Julie had longed, indeed, to go with him and soothe his solitary evening. His unmarried son, William, lived with him intermittently; but his wife was dead. LadyBlanche seldom came to town, and, for the most part, he lived alone inthe fine house in St. James's Square, of which she had heard hermother talk. 

He liked her--had liked her from the first. How natural that she shouldtend and brighten his old age--how natural, and how impossible! He wasnot the man to brave the difficulties and discomforts inseparable fromthe sudden appearance of an illegitimate granddaughter in his household, and if he had been, Julie, in her fierce, new-born independence, wouldhave shrunk from such a step. But she had been drawn to him; her hearthad yearned to her kindred. 

No; neither love nor kindred were for her. As she entered the little, bare room over the doorway, which she had begun to fill with books andpapers, and all the signs of the literary trade, she miserably bidherself be content with what was easily and certainly within her grasp. The world was pleased to say that she had a remarkable social talent. Let her give her mind to the fight with Lady Henry, and prove whether, after all, the salon could not be acclimatized on English soil. She hadthe literary instinct and aptitude, and she must earn money. She lookedat her half-written article, and sighed to her books to save her. 

That evening Thérèse, who adored her, watched her with a wistful andstealthy affection. Her idol was strangely sad and pale. But she askedno questions. All she could do was to hover about "mademoiselle" withsoft, flattering services, till mademoiselle went to bed, and then tolie awake herself, quietly waiting till all sounds in the room oppositehad died away, and she might comfort her dumb and timid devotion withthe hope that Julie slept. 

Sleep, however, or no sleep, Julie was up early next day. Before thepost arrived she was already dressed, and on the point of descending tothe morning coffee, which, in the old, frugal, Bruges fashion, she andLéonie and the child took in the kitchen together. Lady Henry's opinionof her as a soft and luxurious person dependent on dainty living was, intruth, absurdly far from the mark. After those years of rich food andmany servants in Lady Henry's household, she had resumed the penuriousBelgian ways at once, without effort--indeed, with alacrity. In themorning she helped Léonie and Thérèse with the housework. Her quickfingers washed and rubbed and dusted. In less than a week she knew everyglass and cup in Cousin Mary Leicester's well-filled china cupboard, andshe and Thérèse between them kept the two sitting-rooms spotless. Shewho had at once made friends and tools of Lady Henry's servants, disdained, so it appeared, to be served beyond what was absolutelynecessary in her own house. A charwoman, indeed, came in the morning forthe roughest work, but by ten o'clock she was gone, and Julie, MadameBornier, and the child remained in undisputed possession. Little, flat-nosed, silent Madame Bornier bought and brought in all they ate. She denounced the ways, the viands, the brigand's prices of English_fournisseurs_, but it seemed to Julie, all the same, that she handledthem with a Napoleonic success. She bought as the French poor buy, sofar as the West End would let her, and Julie had soon perceived thattheir expenditure, even in this heart of Mayfair, would be incrediblysmall. Whereby she felt herself more and more mistress of her fate. Byher own unaided hands would she provide for herself and her household. Each year there should be a little margin, and she would owe no mananything. After six months, if she could not afford to pay the Duke afair rent for his house--always supposing he allowed her to remain init--she would go elsewhere. 

As she reached the hall, clad in an old serge dress, which was asurvival from Bruges days, Thérèse ran up to her with the letters. 

Julie looked through them, turned and went back to her room. She hadexpected the letter which lay on the top, and she must brace herselfto read it. 

It began abruptly:

 "You will hardly wonder that I should write at once to ask if you have no explanation to give me of your manner of this afternoon. Again and again I go over what happened, but no light comes. It was as though you had wiped out all the six months of our friendship; as though I had become for you once more the merest acquaintance. It is impossible that I can have been mistaken. You meant to make me--and others?--clearly understand--what? That I no longer deserved your kindness--that you had broken altogether with the man on whom you had so foolishly bestowed it?

 "My friend, what have I done? How have I sinned? Did that sour lady, who asked me questions she had small business to ask, tell you tales that have set your heart against me? But what have incidents and events that happened, or may have happened, in India, got to do with our friendship, which grew up for definite reasons and has come to mean so much--has it not?--to both of us? I am not a model person, Heaven knows!--very far from it. There are scores of things in my life to be ashamed of. And please remember that last year I had never seen you; if I had, much might have gone differently. 

 "But how can I defend myself? I owe you so much. Ought not that, of itself, to make you realize how great is your power to hurt me, and how small are my powers of resistance? The humiliations you can inflict upon me are infinite, and I have no rights, no weapons, against you. 

 "I hardly know what I am saying. It is very late, and I am writing this after a dinner at the club given me by two or three of my brother officers. It was a dinner in my honor, to congratulate me on my good fortune. They are good fellows, and it should have been a merry time. But my half hour in your room had killed all power of enjoyment for me. They found me a wretched companion, and we broke up early. I came home through the empty streets, wishing myself, with all my heart, away from England--facing the desert. Let me just say this. It is not of good omen that now, when I want all my faculties at their best, I should suddenly find myself invaded by this distress and despondency. You have some responsibility now in my life and career; if you would, you cannot get rid of it. You have not increased the chances of your friend's success in his great task. 

 "You see how I restrain myself. I could write as madly as I feel--violently and madly. But of set purpose we pitched our relation in a certain key and measure; and I try, at least, to keep the measure, if the music and the charm must go. But why, in God's name, should they go? Why have you turned against me? You have listened to slanderers; you have secretly tried me by tests that are not in the bargain, and you have judged and condemned me without a hearing, without a word. I can tell you I am pretty sore. 

 "I will come and see you no more in company for the present. You gave me a footing with you, which has its own dignity. I'll guard it; not even from you will I accept anything else. But--unless, indeed, the grove is cut down and the bird flown forever--let me come when you are alone. Then charge me with what you will. I am an earthy creature, struggling through life as I best can, and, till I saw you, struggling often, no doubt, in very earthy ways. I am not a philosopher, nor an idealist, with expectations, like Delafield. This rough-and-tumble world is all I know. It's good enough for me--good enough to love a friend in, as--I vow to God, Julie!--I have loved you. 

 "There, it's out, and you must put up with it. I couldn't help it. I am too miserable. 

 "But--

 "But I won't write any more. I shall stay in my rooms till twelve o'clock. You owe me promptness. "

 * * * * *

Julie put down the letter. 

She looked round her little study with a kind of despair--the despairperhaps of the prisoner who had thought himself delivered, only to findhimself caught in fresh and stronger bonds. As for ambition, as forliterature--here, across their voices, broke this voice of the senses, this desire of "the moth for the star. " And she was powerless to resistit. Ah, why had he not accepted his dismissal--quarrelled with her atonce and forever?

She understood the letter perfectly--what it offered, and what ittacitly refused. An intimate and exciting friendship--for two years. Fortwo years he was ready to fill up such time as he could spare from hisclandestine correspondence with her cousin, with this romantic, interesting, but unprofitable affection. And then?

She fell again upon his letter. Ah, but there was a new note in it--ahard, strained note, which gave her a kind of desperate joy. It seemedto her that for months she had been covetously listening for it in vain. 

She was beginning to be necessary to him; he had _suffered_--throughher. Never before could she say that to herself. Pleasure she had givenhim, but not pain; and it is pain that is the test and consecration of--

Of what?... Well, now for her answer. It was short. 

 "I am very sorry you thought me rude. I was tired with talking and unpacking, and with literary work--housework, too, if the truth were known. I am no longer a fine lady, and must slave for myself. The thought, also, of an interview with Lord Lackington which faced me, which I went through as soon as you, Dr. Meredith, and Mr. Delafield had gone, unnerved me. You were good to write to me, and I am grateful indeed. As to your appointment, and your career, you owe no one anything. Everything is in your own hands. I rejoice in your good fortune, and I beg that you will let no false ideas with regard to me trouble your mind. 

 "This afternoon at five, if you can forgive me, you will find me. In the early afternoon I shall be in the British Museum, for my work's sake. "

She posted her letter, and went about her daily housework, oppressed thewhile by a mental and moral nausea. As she washed and tidied and dusted, a true housewife's love growing up in her for the little house and itscharming, old-world appointments--a sort of mute relation between herand it, as though it accepted her for mistress, and she on her sidevowed it a delicate and prudent care--she thought how she could havedelighted in this life which had opened upon her had it come to her ayear ago. The tasks set her by Meredith were congenial and within herpower. Her independence gave her the keenest pleasure. The effort andconquests of the intellect--she had the mind to love them, to desirethem; and the way to them was unbarred. 

What plucked her back?

A tear fell upon the old china cup that she was dusting. A sort ofmaternal element had entered into her affection for Warkworth during thewinter. She had upheld him and fought for him. And now, like a mother, she could not tear the unworthy object from her heart, though all thefolly of their pseudo-friendship and her secret hopes lay barebefore her. 

 * * * * *

Warkworth came at five. 

He entered in the dusk; a little pale, with his graceful head thrownback, and that half-startled, timid look in his wide, blue eyes--thatmisleading look--which made him the boy still, when he chose. 

Julie was standing near the window as he came in. As she turned and sawhim there, a flood of tenderness and compunction swept over her. He wasgoing away. What if she never saw him again?

She shuddered and came forward rapidly, eagerly. He read the meaning ofher movement, her face; and, wringing her hands with a violence thathurt her, he drew a long breath of relief. 

"Why--why"--he said, under his breath--"have you made me so unhappy?"

The blood leaped in her veins. These, indeed, were new words in a newtone. 

"Don't let us reproach each other, " she said. "There is so much to say. Sit down. "

To-day there were no beguiling spring airs. The fire burned merrily inthe grate; the windows were closed. 

A scent of narcissus--the Duchess had filled the tables withflowers--floated in the room. Amid its old-fashioned and distinguishedbareness--tempered by flowers, and a litter of foreign books--Julieseemed at last to have found her proper frame. In her severe blackdress, opening on a delicate vest of white, she had a muselike grace;and the wreath made by her superb black hair round the fine intelligenceof her brow had never been more striking. Her slender hands busiedthemselves with Cousin Mary Leicester's tea-things; and every movementhad in Warkworth's eyes a charm to which he had never yet been sensible, in this manner, to this degree. 

"Am I really to say no more of yesterday?" he said, looking at hernervously. 

Her flush, her gesture, appealed to him. 

"Do you know what I had before me--that day--when you came in?" shesaid, softly. 

"No. I cannot guess. Ah, you said something about Lord Lackington?"

She hesitated. Then her color deepened. 

"You don't know my story. You suppose, don't you, that I am a Belgianwith English connections, whom Lady Henry met by chance? Isn't that howyou explain me?"

Warkworth had pushed aside his cup. 

"I thought--"

He paused in embarrassment, but there was a sparkle of astonishedexpectancy in his eyes. 

"My mother"--she looked away into the blaze of the fire, and her voicechoked a little--"my mother was Lord Lackington's daughter. "

"Lord Lackington's daughter?" echoed Warkworth, in stupefaction. A rushof ideas and inferences sped through his mind. He thought of LadyBlanche--things heard in India--and while he stared at her in anagitated silence the truth leaped to light. 

"Not--not Lady Rose Delaney?" he said, bending forward to her. 

She nodded. 

"My father was Marriott Dalrymple. You will have heard of him. I shouldbe Julie Dalrymple, but--they could never marry--because ofColonel Delaney. "

Her face was still turned away. 

All the details of that famous scandal began to come back to him. Hiscompanion, her history, her relations to others, to himself, began toappear to him in the most astonishing new lights. So, instead of themere humble outsider, she belonged all the time to the best Englishblood? The society in which he had met her was full of her kindred. Nodoubt the Duchess knew--and Montresor.... He was meshed in a net ofthoughts perplexing and confounding, of which the total result wasperhaps that she appeared to him as she sat there, the slender outlineso quiet and still, more attractive and more desirable than ever. Themystery surrounding her in some way glorified her, and he dimlyperceived that so it must have been for others. 

"How did you ever bear the Bruton Street life?" he said, presently, ina low voice of wonder. "Lady Henry knew?"

"Oh yes!"

"And the Duchess?"

"Yes. She is a connection of my mother's. "

Warkworth's mind went back to the Moffatts. A flush spread slowly overthe face of the young officer. It was indeed an extraordinary imbroglioin which he found himself. 

"How did Lord Lackington take it?" he asked, after a pause. 

"He was, of course, much startled, much moved. We had a long talk. Everything is to remain just the same. He wishes to make me anallowance, and, if he persists, I suppose I can't hurt him by refusing. But for the present I have refused. It is more amusing to earn one's ownliving. " She turned to him with a sharp brightness in her black eyes. "Besides, if Lord Lackington gives me money, he will want to give meadvice. And I would rather advise myself. "

Warkworth sat silent a moment. Then he took a great resolve. 

"I want to speak to you, " he said, suddenly, putting out his hand tohers, which lay on her knee. 

She turned to him, startled. 

"I want to have no secrets from you, " he said, drawing his breathquickly. "I told you lies one day, because I thought it was my duty totell lies. Another person was concerned. But now I can't. Julie!--you'lllet me call you so, won't you? The name is already"--he hesitated; thenthe words rushed out--"part of my life! Julie, it's quite true, there isa kind of understanding between your little cousin Aileen and me. AtSimla she attracted me enormously. I lost my head one day in the woods, when she--whom we were all courting--distinguished me above two or threeother men who were there. I proposed to her upon a sudden impulse, andshe accepted me. She is a charming, soft creature. Perhaps I wasn'tjustified. Perhaps she ought to have had more chance of seeing theworld. Anyway, there was a great row. Her guardians insisted that I hadbehaved badly. They could not know all the details of the matter, and Iwas not going to tell them. Finally I promised to withdraw fortwo years. "

He paused, anxiously studying her face. It had grown very white, and, hethought, very cold. But she quickly rose, and, looking down uponhim, said:

"Nothing of that is news to me. Did you think it was?"

And moving to the tea-table, she began to make provision for a freshsupply of tea. 

Both words and manner astounded him. He, too, rose and followed her. 

"How did you first guess?" he said, abruptly. 

"Some gossip reached me. " She looked up with a smile. "That's whatgenerally happens, isn't it?"

"There are no secrets nowadays, " he said, sorely. "And then, there wasMiss Lawrence?"

"Yes, there was Miss Lawrence. "

"Did you think badly of me?"

"Why should I? I understand Aileen is very pretty, and--"

"And will have a large fortune. You understand that?" he said, trying tocarry it off lightly. 

"The fact is well known, isn't it?"

He sat down, twisting his hat between his hands. Then with anexclamation he dashed it on the floor, and, rising, he bent over Julie, his hands in his pockets. 

"Julie, " he said, in a voice that shook her, "don't, for God's sake, give me up! I have behaved abominably, but don't take your friendshipfrom me. I shall soon be gone. Our lives will go different ways. Thatwas settled--alack!--before we met. I am honorably bound to that poorchild. She cares for me, and I can't get loose. But these last monthshave been happy, haven't they? There are just three weeks left. Atpresent the strongest feeling in my heart is--" He paused for his word, and he saw that she was looking through the window to the trees of thegarden, and that, still as she was, her lip quivered. 

"What shall I say?" he resumed, with emotion. "It seems to me our casestands all by itself, alone in the world. We have three weeks--give themto me. Don't let's play at cross purposes any more. I want to besincere--I want to hide nothing from you in these days. Let us throwaside convention and trust each other, as friends may, so that when I gowe may say to each other, 'Well, it was worth the pain. These have beendays of gold--we shall get no better if we live to be a hundred. '"

She turned her face to him in a tremulous amazement and there were tearson her cheek. Never had his aspect been so winning. What he proposedwas, in truth, a mean thing; all the same, he proposed it nobly. 

It was in vain that something whispered in her ear: "This girl to whomhe describes himself as 'honorably bound' has a fortune of half amillion. He is determined to have both her money and my heart. " Anotherinward voice, tragically generous, dashed down the thought, and, at themoment, rightly; for as he stood over her, breathless and imperious, tohis own joy, to his own exaltation, Warkworth was conscious of a newsincerity flowing in a tempestuous and stormy current through all theveins of being. 

With a sombre passion which already marked an epoch in their relation, and contained within itself the elements of new and unforeseendevelopments, she gazed silently into his face. Then, leaning back inher chair, she once more held out to him both her hands. 

He gave an exclamation of joy, kissed the hands tenderly, and sat downbeside her. 

"Now, then, all your cares, all your thoughts, all your griefs are to bemine--till fate call us. And I have a thousand things to tell you, tobless you for, to consult you about. There is not a thought in my mindthat you shall not know--bad, good, and indifferent--if you care to turnout the rag-bag. Shall I begin with the morning--my experiences at theclub, my little nieces at the Zoo?" He laughed, but suddenly grewserious again. "No, your story first; you owe it me. Let me know allthat concerns you. Your past, your sorrows, ambitions--everything. "

He bent to her imperiously. With a faint, broken smile, her hands stillin his, she assented. It was difficult to begin, then difficult tocontrol the flood of memory; and it had long been dark when MadameBornier, coming in to light the lamp and make up the fire, disturbed anintimate and searching conversation, which had revealed the two naturesto each other with an agitating fulness. 

 * * * * *

Yet the results of this memorable evening upon Julie Le Breton wereultimately such as few could have foreseen. 

When Warkworth had left her, she went to her own room and sat for a longwhile beside the window, gazing at the dark shrubberies of the CuretonHouse garden, at the few twinkling, distant lights. 

The vague, golden hopes she had cherished through these past months ofeffort and scheming were gone forever. Warkworth would marry AileenMoffatt, and use her money for an ambitious career. After these weeksnow lying before them--weeks of dangerous intimacy, dangerousemotion--she and he would become as strangers to each other. He would beabsorbed by his profession and his rich marriage. She would be leftalone to live her life. 

A sudden terror of her own weakness overcame her. No, she could not bealone. She must place a barrier between herself and this--this strangethreatening of illimitable ruin that sometimes rose upon her from thedark. "I have no prejudices, " she had said to Sir Wilfrid. There weremany moments when she felt a fierce pride in the element of lawlessness, of defiance, that seemed to be her inheritance from her parents. Butto-night she was afraid of it. 

Again, if love was to go, _power_, the satisfaction of ambition, remained. She threw a quick glance into the future--the future beyondthese three weeks. What could she make of it? She knew well that she wasnot the woman to resign herself to a mere pining obscurity. 

Jacob Delafield? Was it, after all, so impossible?

For a few minutes she set herself deliberately to think out what itwould mean to marry him; then suddenly broke down and wept, withinarticulate cries and sobs, with occasional reminiscences of her oldconvent's prayers, appeals half conscious, instinctive, to a God onlyhalf believed. 

XVI

Delafield was walking through the Park towards Victoria Gate. A pair ofbeautiful roans pulled up suddenly beside him, and a little figure witha waving hand bent to him from a carriage. 

"Jacob, where are you off to? Let me give you a lift?"

The gentleman addressed took off his hat. 

"Much obliged to you, but I want some exercise. I say, where did Freddieget that pair?"

"I don't know, he doesn't tell me. Jacob, you must get in. I want tospeak to you. "

Rather unwillingly, Delafield obeyed, and away they sped. 

"J'ai un tas de choses à vous dire, " she said, speaking low, and inFrench, so as to protect herself from the servants in front. "Jacob, I'm_very_ unhappy about Julie. "

Delafield frowned uncomfortably. 

"Why? Hadn't you better leave her alone?"

"Oh, of course, I know you think me a chatterbox. I don't care. You_must_ let me tell you some fresh news about her. It _isn't_ gossip, andyou and I are her best friends. Oh, Freddie's so disagreeable about her. Jacob, you've got to help and advise a little. Now, do listen. It's yourduty--your downright catechism duty. "

And she poured into his reluctant ear the tale which Miss EmilyLawrence nearly a fortnight before had confided to her. 

"Of course, " she wound up, "you'll say it's only what we knew or guessedlong ago. But you see, Jacob, we didn't _know_. It might have been justgossip. And then, besides"--she frowned and dropped her voice till itwas only just audible--"this horrid man hadn't made our Julie so--soconspicuous, and Lady Henry hadn't turned out such a toad--and, altogether, Jacob, I'm dreadfully worried. "

"Don't be, " said Jacob, dryly. 

"And what a creature!" cried the Duchess, unheeding. "They say that poorMoffatt child will soon have fretted herself ill, if the guardians don'tgive way about the two years. "

"What two years?"

"The two years that she must wait--till she is twenty-one. Oh, Jacob, you know that!" exclaimed the Duchess, impatient with him. "I've toldyou scores of times. "

"I'm not in the least interested in Miss Moffatt's affairs. "

"But you ought to be, for they concern Julie, " cried the Duchess. "Can'tyou imagine what kind of things people are saying? Lady Henry has spreadit about that it was all to see him she bribed the Bruton Streetservants to let her give the Wednesday party as usual--that she had beenflirting with him abominably for months, and using Lady Henry's name inthe most impertinent ways. And now, suddenly, everybody seems to know_something_ about this Indian engagement. You may imagine it doesn'tlook very well for our poor Julie. The other night at Chatton House Iwas furious. I made Julie go. I wanted her to show herself, and keep upher friends. Well, it was _horrid_! One or two old frights, who used tobe only too thankful to Julie for reminding Lady Henry to invite them, put their noses in the air and behaved odiously. And even some of thenicer ones seemed changed--I could see Julie felt it. "

"Nothing of all that will do her any real harm, " said Jacob, rathercontemptuously. 

"Well, no. I know, of course, that her real friends will never forsakeher--never, never! But, Jacob"--the Duchess hesitated, her charminglittle face furrowed with thought--"if only so much of it weren't true. She herself--"

"Please, Evelyn, " said Delafield, with decision, "don't tell me anythingshe may have said to you. "

The Duchess flushed. 

"I shouldn't have betrayed any confidence, " she said, proudly. "And Imust consult with some one who cares about her. Dr. Meredith lunchedwith me to-day, and he said a few words to me afterwards. He's quiteanxious, too--and unhappy. Captain Warkworth's always there--always!Even I have been hardly able to see her the last few days. Last Sundaythey took the little lame child and went into the country for thewhole day--"

"Well, what is there to object to in that?" cried Jacob. 

"I didn't say there was anything to object to, " said the Duchess, looking at him with eyes half angry, half perplexed. "Only it's sounlike her. She had promised to be at home that afternoon for severalold friends, and they found her flown, without a word. And think howsweet Julie is always about such things--what delicious notes shewrites, how she hates to put anybody out or disappoint them! And now, not a word of excuse to anybody. And she looks so _ill_--so white, sofixed--like a person in a dream which she can't shake off. I'm justmiserable about her. And I hate, _hate_ that man--engaged to her owncousin all the time!" cried the little Duchess, under her breath, as shepassionately tore some violets at her waist to pieces and flung them outof the carriage. Then she turned to Jacob. 

"But, of course, if you don't care twopence about all this, Jacob, it'sno good talking to you!"

Her taunt fell quite unnoticed. Jacob turned to her with smilingcomposure. 

"You have forgotten, my dear Evelyn, all this time, that Warkworth goesaway--to mid-Africa--in little more than two weeks. "

"I wish it was two minutes, " said the Duchess, fuming. 

Delafield made no reply for a while. He seemed to be studying the effectof a pale shaft of sunlight which had just come stealing down throughlayers of thin gray cloud to dance upon the Serpentine. Presently, asthey left the Serpentine behind them, he turned to his companion withmore apparent sympathy. 

"We can't do anything, Evelyn, and we've no right whatever to talk ofalarm, or anxiety--to _talk_ of it, mind! It's--it's disloyal. Forgiveme, " he added, hastily, "I know you don't gossip. But it fills me withrage that other people should be doing it. "

The brusquerie of his manner disconcerted the little lady beside him. She recovered herself, however, and said, with a touch of sarcasm, tempered by a rather trembling lip:

"Your rage won't prevent their gossiping, Mr. Jacob, I thought, perhaps, your _friendship_ might have done something to stop it--to--to influenceJulie, " she added, uncertainly. 

"My friendship, as you call it, is of no use whatever, " he said, obstinately. "Warkworth will go away, and if you and others do theirbest to protect Miss Le Breton, talk will soon die out. Behave as if youhad never heard the man's name before--stare the people down. Why, goodHeavens! you have a thousand arts! But, of course, if the little flameis to be blown into a blaze by a score of so-called friends--"

He shrugged his shoulders. 

The Duchess did not take his rebukes kindly, not having, in truth, deserved them. 

"You are rude and unkind, Jacob, " she said, almost with the tears in hereyes. "And you don't understand--it is because I myself am so anxious--"

"For that reason, play the part with all your might, " he said, unyieldingly. "Really, even you and I oughtn't to talk of it any more. But there _is_ one thing I want very much to know about Miss Le Breton. "

He bent towards her, smiling, though in truth he was disgusted withhimself, vexed with her, and out of tune with all the world. 

The Duchess made a little face. 

"All very well, but after such a lecture as you have indulged in, Ithink I prefer not to say any more about Julie. "

"Do. I'm ashamed of myself--except that I don't retract one word, notone. Be kind, all the same, and tell me--if you know--has she spoken toLord Lackington?"

The Duchess still frowned, but a few more apologetic expressions on hispart restored a temper that had always a natural tendency to peace. Indeed, Jacob's _boutades_ never went long unpardoned. An only childherself, he, her first cousin, had played the part of brother in herlife, since the days when she first tottered in long frocks, and he hadnever played it in any mincing fashion. His words were often blunt. Shesmarted and forgave--much more quickly than she forgave her husband. Butthen, with him, she was in love. 

So she presently vouchsafed to give Jacob the news that Lord Lackingtonat last knew the secret--that he had behaved well--had shown muchfeeling, in fact--so that poor Julie--

But Jacob again cut short the sentimentalisms, the little touchingphrases in which the woman delighted. 

"What is he going to do for her?" he said, impatiently. "Will he makeany provision for her? Is there any way by which she can live in hishouse--take care of him?"

The Duchess shook her head. 

"At seventy-five one can't begin to explain a thing as big as that. Julie perfectly understands, and doesn't wish it. "

"But as to money?" persisted Jacob. 

"Julie says nothing about money. How odd you are, Jacob! I thought thatwas the last thing needful in your eyes. "

Jacob did not reply. If he had, he would probably have said that whatwas harmful or useless for men might be needful for women--for theweakness of women. But he kept silence, while the vague intensity of theeyes, the pursed and twisted mouth, showed that his mind was fullof thoughts. 

Suddenly he perceived that the carriage was nearing Victoria Gate. Hecalled to the coachman to stop, and jumped out. 

"Good-bye, Evelyn. Don't bear me malice. You're a good friend, " he saidin her ear--"a real good friend. But don't let people talk to you--noteven elderly ladies with the best intentions. I tell you it will be afight, and one of the best weapons is"--he touched his lipssignificantly, smiled at her, and was gone. 

The Duchess passed out of the Park. Delafield turned as though in thedirection of the Marble Arch, but as soon as the carriage was out ofsight he paused and quickly retraced his steps towards KensingtonGardens. Here, in this third week of March, some of the thorns andlilacs were already in leaf. The grass was springing, and the chatter ofmany sparrows filled the air. Faint patches of sun flecked the groundbetween the trees, and blue hazes, already redeemed from the drearinessof winter, filled the dim planes of distance and mingled with the low, silvery clouds. He found a quiet spot, remote from nursery-maids andchildren, and there he wandered to and fro, indefinitely, his handsbehind his back. All the anxieties for which he had scolded his cousinpossessed him, only sharpened tenfold; he was in torture, and hewas helpless. 

However, when at last he emerged from his solitude, and took a hansom tothe Chudleigh estate office in Spring Gardens, he resolutely shook offthe thoughts which had been weighing upon him. He took his usualinterest in his work, and did it with his usual capacity. 

 * * * * *

Towards five o'clock in the afternoon, Delafield found himself inCureton Street. As he turned down Heribert Street he saw a cab in frontof him. It stopped at Miss Le Breton's door, and Warkworth jumped out. The door was quickly opened to him, and he went in without having turnedhis eyes towards the man at the far corner of the street. 

Delafield paused irresolute. Finally he walked back to his club inPiccadilly, where he dawdled over the newspapers till nearly seven. 

Then he once more betook himself to Heribert Street. 

"Is Miss Le Breton at home?"

Thérèse looked at him with a sudden flickering of her clear eyes. 

"I think so, sir, " she said, with soft hesitation, and she slowly ledhim across the hall. 

The drawing-room door opened. Major Warkworth emerged. 

"Ah, how do you do?" he said, shortly, staring in a kind of bewildermentas he saw Delafield. Then he hurriedly looked for his hat, ran down thestairs, and was gone. 

"Announce me, please, " said Delafield, peremptorily, to the little girl. "Tell Miss Le Breton that I am here. " And he drew back from the opendoor of the drawing-room. Thérèse slipped in, and reappeared. 

"Please to walk in, sir, " she said, in her shy, low voice, and Delafieldentered. From the hall he had caught one involuntary glimpse of Julie, standing stiff and straight in the middle of the room, her hands claspedto her breast--a figure in pain. When he went in, she was in her usualseat by the fire, with her embroidery frame in front of her. 

"May I come in? It is rather late. "

"Oh, by all means! Do you bring me any news of Evelyn? I haven't seenher for three days. "

He seated himself beside her. It was hard, indeed, for him to hide allsigns of the tumult within. But he held a firm grip upon himself. 

"I saw Evelyn this afternoon. She complained that you had had no timefor her lately. "

Julie bent over her work. He saw that her fingers were so unsteady thatshe could hardly make them obey her. 

"There has been a great deal to do, even in this little house. Evelynforgets; she has an army of servants; we have only our hands andour time. "

She looked up, smiling. He made no reply, and the smile died from herface, suddenly, as though some one had blown out a light. She returnedto her work, or pretended to. But her aspect had left him inwardlyshaken. The eyes, disproportionately large and brilliant, were of anemphasis almost ghastly, the usually clear complexion was flecked andcloudy, the mouth dry-lipped. She looked much older than she had done afortnight before. And the fact was the more noticeable because in herdress she had now wholly discarded the touch of stateliness--almostold-maidishness--which had once seemed appropriate to the position ofLady Henry's companion. She was wearing a little gown of her youth, ablue cotton, which two years before had been put aside as too slightand juvenile. Never had the form within it seemed so girlish, soappealing. But the face was heart-rending. 

After a pause he moved a little closer to her. 

"Do you know that you are looking quite ill?"

"Then my looks are misleading. I am very well. "

"I am afraid I don't put much faith in that remark. When do you mean totake a holiday?"

"Oh, very soon. Léonie, my little housekeeper, talks of going to Brugesto wind up all her affairs there and bring back some furniture that shehas warehoused. I may go with her. I, too, have some property storedthere. I should go and see some old friends--the _soeurs_, for instance, with whom I went to school. In the old days I was a torment to them, andthey were tyrants to me. But they are quite nice to me now--they give me_patisserie_, and stroke my hands and spoil me. "

And she rattled on about the friends she might revisit, in a hollow, perfunctory way, which set him on edge. 

"I don't see that anything of that kind will do you any good. You wantrest of mind and body. I expect those last scenes with Lady Henry costyou more than you knew. There are wounds one does not notice atthe time--"

"Which afterwards bleed inwardly?" She laughed. "No, no, I am notbleeding for Lady Henry. By-the-way, what news of her?"

"Sir Wilfrid told me to-day that he had had a letter. She is at Torquay, and she thinks there are too many curates at Torquay. She is not at allin a good temper. "

Julie looked up. 

"You know that she is trying to punish me. A great many people seem tohave been written to. "

"That will blow over. "

"I don't know. How confident I was at one time that, if there was abreach, it would be Lady Henry that would suffer! It makes me hot toremember some things I said--to Sir Wilfrid, in particular. I see nowthat I shall not be troubled with society in this little house. "

"It is too early for you to guess anything of that kind. "

"Not at all! London is pretty full. The affair has made a noise. Thosewho meant to stand by me would have called, don't you think?"

The quivering bitterness of her face was most pitiful in Jacob's eyes. 

"Oh, people take their time, " he said, trying to speak lightly. 

She shook her head. 

"It's ridiculous that I should care. One's self-love, I suppose--_that_bleeds! Evelyn has made me send out cards for a little house-warming. She said I must. She made me go to that smart party at Chatton House theother night. It was a great mistake. People turned their backs on me. And this, too, will be a mistake--and a failure. "

"You were kind enough to send me a card. "

"Yes--and you must come?"

She looked at him with a sudden nervous appeal, which made another tugon his self-control. 

"Of course I shall come. "

"Do you remember your own saying--that awful evening--that I had devotedfriends? Well, we shall soon see. "

"That depends only on yourself, " he replied, with gentle deliberation. 

She started--threw him a doubtful look. 

"If you mean that I must take a great deal of trouble, I am afraid Ican't. I am too tired. "

And she sank back in her chair. 

The sigh that accompanied the words seemed to him involuntary, unconscious. 

"I didn't mean that--altogether, " he said, after a moment. 

She moved restlessly. 

"Then, really, I don't know what you meant. I suppose all friendshipdepends on one's self. "

She drew her embroidery frame towards her again, and he was left towonder at his own audacity. "Do you know, " she said, presently, her eyesapparently busy with her silks, "that I have told Lord Lackington?"

"Yes. Evelyn gave me that news. How has the old man behaved?"

"Oh, very well--most kindly. He has already formed a habit, almost, of'dropping in' upon me at all hours. I have had to appoint him times andseasons, or there would be no work done. He sits here and raves aboutyoung Mrs. Delaray--you know he is painting her portrait, for the famousseries?--and draws her profile on the backs of my letters. He reciteshis speeches to me; he asks my advice as to his fights with his tenantsor his miners. In short, I'm adopted--I'm almost the real thing. "

She smiled, and then again, as she turned over her silks, he heard hersigh--a long breath of weariness. It was strange and terrible in hisear--the contrast between this unconscious sound, drawn as it were fromthe oppressed heart of pain, and her languidly, smiling words. 

"Has he spoken to you of the Moffatts?" he asked her, presently, notlooking at her. 

A sharp crimson color rushed over her face. 

"Not much. He and Lady Blanche are not great friends. And I have madehim promise to keep my secret from her till I give him leave totell it. "

"It will have to be known to her some time, will it not?"

"Perhaps, " she said, impatiently. "Perhaps, when I can make up my mind. "

Then she pushed aside her frame and would talk no more about LordLackington. She gave him, somehow, the impression of a personsuffocating, struggling for breath and air. And yet her hand was icy, and she presently went to the fire, complaining of the east wind; and ashe put on the coal he saw her shiver. 

"Shall I force her to tell me everything?" he thought to himself. 

Did she divine the obscure struggle in his mind? At any rate she seemedanxious to cut short their _tête-à-tête_. She asked him to come and lookat some engravings which the Duchess had sent round for theembellishment of the dining-room. Then she summoned Madame Bornier, andasked him a number of questions on Léonie's behalf, with reference tosome little investment of the ex-governess's savings, which had beendropping in value. Meanwhile, as she kept him talking, she leanedherself against the lintel of the door, forgetting every now and thenthat any one else was there, and letting the true self appear, like somedrowned thing floating into sight. Delafield disposed of MadameBornier's affairs, hardly knowing what he said, but showing in truth hisusual conscience and kindness. Then when Léonie was contented, Julie sawthe little cripple crossing the hall, and called to her. 

"Ah, ma chérie! How is the poor little foot?"

And turning to Delafield, she explained volubly that Thérèse had givenherself a slight twist on the stairs that morning, pressing the child toher side the while with a tender gesture. The child nestled against her. 

"Shall maman keep back supper?" Thérèse half whispered, looking atDelafield. 

"No, no, I must go!" cried Delafield, rousing himself and looking forhis hat. 

"I would ask you to stay, " said Julie, smiling, "just to show offLéonie's cooking; but there wouldn't be enough for a great big man. Andyou're probably dining with dukes. "

Delafield disclaimed any such intention, and they went back to thedrawing-room to look for his hat and stick. Julie still had her armround Thérèse and would not let the child go. She clearly avoided beingleft alone with him; and yet it seemed, even to his modesty, that shewas loath to see him depart. She talked first of her little _ménage_, asthough proud of their daily economies and contrivances; then of herliterary work and its prospects; then of her debt to Meredith. Neverbefore had she thus admitted him to her domestic and private life. Itwas as though she leaned upon his sympathy, his advice, his mereneighborhood. And her pale, changed face had never seemed to him sobeautiful--never, in fact, truly beautiful till now. The dying down ofthe brilliance and energy of the strongly marked character, which hadmade her the life of the Bruton Street salon, into this mildness, thisdespondency, this hidden weariness, had left her infinitely more lovelyin his eyes. But how to restrain himself much longer from taking thesad, gracious woman in his arms and coercing her into sanity andhappiness!

At last he tore himself away. 

"You won't forget Wednesday?" she said to him, as she followed him intothe hall. 

"No. Is there anything else that you wish--that I could do?"

"No, nothing. But if there is I will ask. "

Then, looking up, she shrank from something in his face--somethingaccusing, passionate, profound. 

He wrung her hand. 

"Promise that you will ask. "

She murmured something, and he turned away. 

 * * * * *

She came back alone into the drawing-room. 

"Oh, what a good man!" she said, sighing. "What a good man!"

And then, all in a moment, she was thankful that he was gone--that shewas alone with and mistress of her pain. 

The passion and misery which his visit had interrupted swept back uponher in a rushing swirl, blinding and choking every sense. Ah, what ascene, to which his coming had put an end--scene of bitterness, ofrecrimination, not restrained even by this impending anguishof parting!

It came as a close to a week during which she and Warkworth had beenplaying the game which they had chosen to play, according to itsappointed rules--the delicacies and restraints of friendship masking, and at the same time inflaming, a most unhappy, poisonous, and growinglove. And, finally, there had risen upon them a storm-wave offeeling--tyrannous, tempestuous--bursting in reproach and agitation, leaving behind it, bare and menacing, the old, ugly facts, unaltered andunalterable. 

Warkworth was little less miserable than herself. That she knew. Heloved her, as it were, to his own anger and surprise. And he suffered indeserting her, more than he had ever suffered yet through any humanaffection. 

But his purpose through it all remained stubbornly fixed; that, also, she knew. For nearly a year Aileen Moffatt's fortune and AileenMoffatt's family connections had entered into all his calculations ofthe future. Only a few more years in the army, then retirement withample means, a charming wife, and a seat in Parliament. To jeopardize aplan so manifestly desirable, so easy to carry out, so far-reaching inits favorable effects upon his life, for the sake of those hard anddoubtful alternatives in which a marriage with Julie would involve him, never seriously entered his mind. When he suffered he merely said tohimself, steadily, that time would heal the smart for both of them. 

"Only one thing would be absolutely fatal for all of us--that I shouldbreak with Aileen. "

Julie read these obscure processes in Warkworth's mind with perfectclearness. She was powerless to change them; but that afternoon she had, at any rate, beaten her wings against the bars, and the exhaustion andanguish of her revolt, her reproaches, were still upon her. 

The spring night had fallen. The room was hot, and she threw a windowopen. Some thorns in the garden beneath had thickened into leaf. Theyrose in a dark mass beneath the window. Overhead, beyond the haze of thegreat city, a few stars twinkled, and the dim roar of London life beatfrom all sides upon this quiet corner which still held Lady Mary'sold house. 

Julie's eyes strained into the darkness; her head swam with weakness andweariness. Suddenly she gave a cry--she pressed her hands to her heart. Upon the darkness outside there rose a face, so sharply drawn, solife-like, that it printed itself forever upon the quivering tissues ofthe brain. It was Warkworth's face, not as she had seen it last, but insome strange extremity of physical ill--drawn, haggard, in a coldsweat--the eyes glazed, the hair matted, the parched lips open as thoughthey cried for help. She stood gazing. Then the eyes turned, and theagony in them looked out upon her. 

Her whole sense was absorbed by the phantom; her being hung upon it. Then, as it faded on the quiet trees, she tottered to a chair and hidher face. Common sense told her that she was the victim of her own tirednerves and tortured fancy. But the memory of Cousin Mary Leicester'ssecond sight, of her "visions" in this very room, crept upon her andgripped her heart. A ghostly horror seized her of the room, the house, and her own tempestuous nature. She groped her way out, in blind andhurrying panic--glad of the lamp in the hall, glad of the sounds in thehouse, glad, above all, of Thérèse's thin hands as they once more stolelovingly round her own. 

XVII

The Duchess and Julie were in the large room of Burlington House. Theyhad paused before a magnificent Turner of the middle period, hithertounseen by the public, and the Duchess was reading from the catalogue inJulie's ear. 

She had found Julie alone in Heribert Street, surrounded by books andproofs, endeavoring, as she reported, to finish a piece of work for Dr. Meredith. Distressed by her friend's pale cheeks, the Duchess hadinsisted on dragging her from the prison-house and changing the currentof her thoughts. Julie, laughing, hesitating, indignant, had at lastyielded--probably in order to avoid another _tête-à-tête_ and anotherscene with the little, impetuous lady, and now the Duchess had her safeand was endeavoring to amuse her. 

But it was not easy. Julie, generally so instructed and sympathetic, sowell skilled in the difficult art of seeing pictures with a friend, might, to-day, never have turned a phrase upon a Constable or a Romneybefore. She tried, indeed, to turn them as usual; but the Duchess, sharply critical and attentive where her beloved Julie was concerned, perceived the difference acutely! Alack, what languor, what fatigue!Evelyn became more and more conscious of an inward consternation. 

"But, thank goodness, he goes to-morrow--the villain! And when that'sover, it will be all right. "

Julie, meanwhile, knew that she was observed, divined, and pitied. Herpride revolted, but it could wring from her nothing better than apassive resistance. She could prevent Evelyn from expressing herthoughts; she could not so command her own bodily frame that the Duchessshould not think. Days of moral and mental struggle, nights of waking, combined with the serious and sustained effort of a new profession, hadleft their mark. There are, moreover, certain wounds to self-love andself-respect which poison the whole being. 

"Julie! you _must_ have a holiday!" cried the Duchess, presently, asthey sat down to rest. 

Julie replied that she, Madame Bornier, and the child were going toBruges for a week. 

"Oh, but that won't be comfortable enough! I'm sure I could arrangesomething. Think of all our tiresome houses--eating their heads off!"

Julie firmly refused. She was going to renew old friendships at Bruges;she would be made much of; and the prospect was as pleasant as any oneneed wish. 

"Well, of course, if you have made up your mind. When do you go?"

"In three or four days--just before the Easter rush. And you?"

"Oh, we go to Scotland to fish. We must, of course, be killingsomething. How long, darling, will you be away?"

"About ten days. " Julie pressed the Duchess's little hand inacknowledgment of the caressing word and look. 

"By-the-way, didn't Lord Lackington invite you? Ah, there he is!"

And suddenly, Lord Lackington, examining with fury a picture of his ownwhich some rascally critic had that morning pronounced to be "Venetianschool" and not the divine Giorgione himself, lifted an angrycountenance to find the Duchess and Julie beside him. 

The start which passed through him betrayed itself. He could not yet seeJulie with composure. But when he had pressed her hand and inquiredafter her health, he went back to his grievance, being indeed rejoicedto have secured a pair of listeners. 

"Really, the insolence of these fellows in the press! I shall let theAcademy know what I think of it. Not a rag of mine shall they ever seehere again. Ears and little fingers, indeed! Idiots and owls!"

Julie smiled. But it had to be explained to the Duchess that a wise man, half Italian, half German, had lately arisen who proposed to judge theauthenticity of a picture by its ears, assisted by any peculiarities oftreatment in the little fingers. 

"What nonsense!" said the Duchess, with a yawn. "If I were an artist, Ishould always draw them different ways. "

"Well, not exactly, " said Lord Lackington, who, as an artist himself, was unfortunately debarred from statements of this simplicity. "But the_ludicrous_ way in which these fools overdo their little discoveries!"

And he walked on, fuming, till the open and unmeasured admiration of thetwo ladies for his great Rembrandt, the gem of his collection, nowoccupying the place of honor in the large room of the Academy, restoredhim to himself. 

"Ah, even the biggest ass among them holds his tongue about that!" hesaid, exultantly. "But, hallo! What does that call itself?" He looked ata picture in front of him, then at the catalogue, then at the Duchess. 

"That picture is ours, " said the Duchess. "Isn't it a dear? It's aLeonardo da Vinci. "

"Leonardo fiddlesticks!" cried Lord Lackington. "Leonardo, indeed! Whatabsurdity! Really, Duchess, you should tell Crowborough to be morecareful about his things. We mustn't give handles to these fellows. "

"What do you mean?" said the Duchess, offended. "If it isn't a Leonardo, pray what is it?"

"Why, a bad school copy, of course!" said Lord Lackington, hotly. "Lookat the eyes"--he took out a pencil and pointed--"look at the neck, lookat the fingers!"

The Duchess pouted. 

"Oh!" she said. "Then there is something in fingers!"

Lord Lackington's face suddenly relaxed. He broke into a shout oflaughter, _bon enfant_ that he was; and the Duchess laughed, too; butunder cover of their merriment she, mindful of quite other things, drewhim a little farther away from Julie. 

"I thought you had asked her to Nonpareil for Easter?" she said, in hisear, with a motion of her pretty head towards Julie in the distance. 

"Yes, but, my dear lady, Blanche won't come home! She and Aileen put itoff, and put it off. Now she says they mean to spend May inSwitzerland--may perhaps be away the whole summer! I had counted onthem for Easter. I am dependent on Blanche for hostess. It is really toobad of her. Everything has broken down, and William and I (he named hisyoungest son) are going to the Uredales' for a fortnight. "

Lord Uredale, his eldest son, a sportsman and farmer, troubled by noneof his father's originalities, reigned over the second family "place, "in Herefordshire, beside the Wye. 

"Has Aileen any love affairs yet?" said the Duchess, abruptly, raisingher face to his. 

Lord Lackington looked surprised. 

"Not that I know of. However, I dare say they wouldn't tell me. I'm asieve, I know. Have you heard of any? Tell me. " He stooped to her withroguish eagerness. "I like to steal a march on Blanche. "

So he knew nothing--while half their world was talking! It was verycharacteristic, however. Except for his own hobbies, artistic, medical, or military, Lord Lackington had walked through life as a JohnnyHead-in-Air, from his youth till now. His children had not trusted himwith their secrets, and he had never discovered them for himself. 

"Is there any likeness between Julie and Aileen?" whispered the Duchess. 

Lord Lackington started. Both turned their eyes towards Julie, as shestood some ten yards away from them, in front of a refined andmysterious profile of the cinque-cento--some lady, perhaps, of thed'Este or Sforza families, attributed to Ambrogio da Predis. In hersoft, black dress, delicately folded and draped to hide her excessivethinness, her small toque fitting closely over her wealth of hair, heronly ornaments a long and slender chain set with uncut jewels which LordLackington had brought her the day before, and a bunch of violets whichthe Duchess had just slipped into her belt, she was as rare and delicateas the picture. But she turned her face towards them, and LordLackington made a sudden exclamation. 

"No! Good Heavens, no! Aileen was a dancing-sprite when I saw her last, and this poor girl!--Duchess, why does she look like that? So sad, sobloodless!"

He turned upon her impetuously, his face frowning and disturbed. 

The Duchess sighed. 

"You and I have just got to do all we can for her, " she said, relievedto see that Julie had wandered farther away, as though it pleased her tobe left to herself. 

"But I would do anything--everything!" cried Lord Lackington. "Ofcourse, none of us can undo the past. But I offered yesterday to makefull provision for her. She has refused. She has the most Quixoticnotions, poor child!"

"No, let her earn her own living yet awhile. It will do her good. But--shall I tell you secrets?" The Duchess looked at him, knitting hersmall brows. 

"Tell me what I ought to know--no more, " he said, gravely, with adignity contrasting oddly with his school-boy curiosity in the matter oflittle Aileen's lover. 

The Duchess hesitated. Just in front of her was a picture of theVenetian school representing St. George, Princess Saba, and the dragon. The princess, a long and slender victim, with bowed head and fetteredhands, reminded her of Julie. The dragon--perfidious, encroachingwretch!--he was easy enough of interpretation. But from the bluedistance, thank Heaven! spurs the champion. Oh, ye heavenly powers, givehim wings and strength! "St. George--St. George to the rescue!"

"Well, " she said, slowly, "I can tell you of some one who is verydevoted to Julie--some one worthy of her. Come with me. "

And she took him away into the next room, still talking in his ear. 

 * * * * *

When they returned, Lord Lackington was radiant. With a new eagerness helooked for Julie's distant figure amid the groups scattered about thecentral room. The Duchess had sworn him to secrecy, indeed; and he meantto be discretion itself. But--Jacob Delafield! Yes, that, indeed, wouldbe a solution. His pride was acutely pleased; his affection--of which healready began to feel no small store for this charming woman of his ownblood, this poor granddaughter _de la main gauche_--was strengthened andstimulated. She was sad now and out of spirits, poor thing, because, nodoubt, of this horrid business with Lady Henry, to whom, by-the-way, hehad written his mind. But time would see to that--time--gently anddiscreetly assisted by himself and the Duchess. It was impossible thatshe should finally hold out against such a good fellow--impossible, andmost unreasonable. No. Rose's daughter would be brought back safely toher mother's world and class, and poor Rose's tragedy would at last workitself out for good. How strange, romantic, and providential!

In such a mood did he now devote himself to Julie. He chattered aboutthe pictures; he gossiped about their owners; he excused himself forthe absence of "that gad-about Blanche"; he made her promise him aWhitsuntide visit instead, and whispered in her ear, "You shall have_her_ room"; he paid her the most handsome and gallant attentions, natural to the man of fashion _par excellence_, mingled with somethingintimate, brusque, capricious, which marked her his own, and of thefamily. Seventy-five!--with that step, that carriage of the shoulders, that vivacity! Ridiculous!

And Julie could not but respond. 

Something stole into her heart that had never yet lodged there. She mustlove the old man--she did. When he left her for the Duchess her eyesfollowed him--her dark-rimmed, wistful eyes. 

"I must be off, " said Lord Lackington, presently, buttoning up his coat. "This, ladies, has been dalliance. I now go to my duties. Read me in the_Times_ to-morrow. I shall make a rattling speech. You see, I shallrub it in. "

"Montresor?" said the Duchess. 

Lord Lackington nodded. That afternoon he proposed to strew the floor ofthe House of Lords with the _débris_ of Montresor's farcical reforms. 

Suddenly he pulled himself up. 

"Duchess, look round you, at those two in the doorway. Isn't it--byGeorge, it is!--Chudleigh and his boy!"

"Yes--yes, it is, " said the Duchess, in some excitement. "Don'trecognize them. Don't speak to him. Jacob implored me not. "

And she hurried her companions along till they were well out of thetrack of the new-comers; then on the threshold of another room shepaused, and, touching Julie on the arm, said, in a whisper:

"Now look back. That's Jacob's Duke, and his poor, poor boy!"

Julie threw a hurried glance towards the two figures; but that glanceimpressed forever upon her memory a most tragic sight. 

A man of middle height, sallow, and careworn, with jet-black hair andbeard, supported a sickly lad, apparently about seventeen, who clung tohis arm and coughed at intervals. The father moved as though in a dream. He looked at the pictures with unseeing, lustreless eyes, except whenthe boy asked him a question. Then he would smile, stoop his head andanswer, only to resume again immediately his melancholy passivity. Theboy, meanwhile, his lips gently parted over his white teeth, his blueeyes wide open and intent upon the pictures, his emaciated cheeks deeplyflushed, wore an aspect of patient suffering, of docile dependence, peculiarly touching. 

It was evident the father and son thought of none but each other. Fromtime to time the man would make the boy rest on one of the seats in themiddle of the room, and the boy would look up and chatter to hiscompanion standing before him. Then again they would resume their walk, the boy leaning on his father. Clearly the poor lad was marked fordeath; clearly, also, he was the desire of his father's heart. 

"The possessor, and the heir, of perhaps the finest houses and the mostmagnificent estates in England, " said Lord Lackington, with a shrug ofpity. "And Chudleigh would gladly give them all to keep thatboy alive. "

Julie turned away. Strange thoughts had been passing and repassingthrough her brain. 

Then, with angry loathing, she flung her thoughts from her. What did theChudleigh inheritance matter to her? That night she said good-bye to theman she loved. These three miserable, burning weeks were done. Herheart, her life, would go with Warkworth to Africa and the desert. If atthe beginning of this period of passion--so short in prospect, and, tolook back upon, an eternity--she had ever supposed that power or wealthcould make her amends for the loss of her lover, she was in no mood tocalculate such compensations to-day. Parting was too near, the anguishin her veins too sharp. 

"Jacob takes them to Paris to-morrow, " said the Duchess to LordLackington. "The Duke has heard of some new doctor. "

 * * * * *

An hour or two later, Sir Wilfrid Bury, in the smoking-room of his club, took out a letter which he had that morning received from Lady HenryDelafield and gave it a second reading. 

 "So I hear that mademoiselle's social prospects are not, after all, so triumphant as both she and I imagined. I gave the world credit for more fools than it seems actually to possess; and she--well, I own I am a little puzzled. Has she taken leave of her senses? I am told that she is constantly seen with this man; that in spite of all denials there can be no doubt of his engagement to the Moffatt girl; and that _en somme_ she has done herself no good by the whole affair. But, after all, poor soul, she is disinterested. She stands to gain nothing, as I understand; and she risks a good deal. From this comfortable distance, I really find something touching in her behavior. 

 "She gives her first 'Wednesday, ' I understand, to-morrow. 'Mademoiselle Le Breton at home!' I confess I am curious. By all means go, and send me a full report. Mr. Montresor and his wife will certainly be there. He and I have been corresponding, of course. He wishes to persuade me that he feels himself in some way responsible for mademoiselle's position, and for my dismissal of her; that I ought to allow him in consequence full freedom of action. I cannot see matters in the same light. But, as I tell him, the change will be all to his advantage. He exchanges a fractious old woman, always ready to tell him unpleasant truths, for one who has made flattery her _métier_. If he wants quantity she will give it him. Quality he can dispense with--as I have seen for some time past. 

 "Lord Lackington has written me an impertinent letter. It seems she has revealed herself, and _il s'en prend à moi_, because I kept the secret from him, and because I have now dared to dismiss his granddaughter. I am in the midst of a reply which amuses me. He is to cast off his belongings as he pleases; but when a lady of the Chantrey blood--no matter how she came by it--condescends to enter a paid employment, legitimate or illegitimate, she must be treated _en reine_, or Lord L. Will know the reason why. 'Here is one hundred pounds a year, and let me hear no more of you, ' he says to her at sixteen. Thirteen years later I take her in, respect his wishes, and keep the secret. She misbehaves herself, and I dismiss her. Where is the grievance? He himself made her a _lectrice_, and now complains that she is expected to do her duty in that line of life. He himself banished her from the family, and now grumbles that I did not at once foist her upon him. He would like to escape the odium of his former action by blaming me; but I am not meek, and I shall make him regret his letter. 

 "As for Jacob Delafield, don't trouble yourself to write me any further news of him. He has insulted me lately in a way I shall not soon forgive--nothing to do, however, with the lady who says she refused him. Whether her report be veracious or no matters nothing to me, any more than his chances of succeeding to the Captain's place. He is one of the ingenious fools who despise the old ways of ruining themselves, and in the end achieve it as well as the commoner sort. He owes me a good deal, and at one time it pleased me to imagine that he was capable both of affection and gratitude. That is the worst of being a woman; we pass from one illusion to another; love is only the beginning; there are a dozen to come after. 

 "You will scold me for a bitter tongue. Well, my dear Wilfrid, I am not gay here. There are too many women, too many church services, and I see too much of my doctor. I pine for London, and I don't see why I should have been driven out of it by an _intrigante_. 

 "Write to me, my dear Wilfrid. I am not quite so bad as I paint myself; say to yourself she has arthritis, she is sixty-five, and her new companion reads aloud with a twang; then you will only wonder at my moderation. "

Sir Wilfrid returned the letter to his pocket. That day, at luncheonwith Lady Hubert, he had had the curiosity to question Susan Delafield, Jacob's fair-haired sister, as to the reasons for her brother's quarrelwith Lady Henry. 

It appeared that being now in receipt of what seemed to himself, at anyrate, a large salary as his cousin's agent, he had thought it his dutyto save up and repay the sums which Lady Henry had formerly spent uponhis education. 

His letter enclosing the money had reached that lady during the firstweek of her stay at Torquay. It was, no doubt, couched in terms lesscordial or more formal than would have been the case before Miss LeBreton's expulsion. "Not that he defends her altogether, " said SusanDelafield, who was herself inclined to side with Lady Henry; "but asLady Henry has refused to see him since, it was not much good beingfriendly, was it?"

Anyway, the letter and its enclosure had completed a breach alreadybegun. Lady Henry had taken furious offence; the check had beeninsultingly returned, and had now gone to swell the finances of aLondon hospital. 

Sir Wilfrid was just reflecting that Jacob's honesty had better havewaited for a more propitious season, when, looking up, he saw the WarMinister beside him, in the act of searching for a newspaper. 

"Released?" said Bury, with a smile. 

"Yes, thank Heaven. Lackington is, I believe, still pounding at me inthe House of Lords. But that amuses him and doesn't hurt me. "

"You'll carry your resolutions?"

"Oh, dear, yes, with no trouble at all, " said the Minister, almost withsulkiness, as he threw himself into a chair and looked with distaste atthe newspaper he had taken up. 

Sir Wilfrid surveyed him. 

"We meet to-night?" he said, presently. 

"You mean in Heribert Street? I suppose so, " said Montresor, withoutcordiality. 

"I have just got a letter from her ladyship. "

"Well, I hope it is more agreeable than those she writes to me. A moreunreasonable old woman--"

The tired Minister took up _Punch_, looked at a page, and flung it downagain. Then he said:

"Are you going?"

"I don't know. Lady Henry gives me leave, which makes me feel myself akind of spy. "

"Oh, never mind. Come along. Mademoiselle Julie will want all oursupport. I don't hear her as kindly spoken of just now as Ishould wish. "

"No. Lady Henry has more personal hold than we thought. "

"And Mademoiselle Julie less tact. Why, in the name of goodness, doesshe go and get herself talked about with the particular man who isengaged to her little cousin? You know, by-the-way, that the story ofher parentage is leaking out fast? Most people seem to know somethingabout it. "

"Well, that was bound to come. Will it do her good or harm?"

"Harm, for the present. A few people are straitlaced, and a good manyfeel they have been taken in. But, anyway, this flirtation isa mistake. "

"Nobody really knows whether the man is engaged to the Moffatt girl orno. The guardians have forbidden it. "

"At any rate, everybody is kind enough to say so. It's a blunder onMademoiselle Julie's part. As to the man himself, of course, there isnothing to say. He is a very clever fellow. " Montresor looked at hiscompanion with a sudden stiffness, as though defying contradiction. "Hewill do this piece of work that we have given him to do extremely well. "

"The Mokembe mission?"

Montresor nodded. 

"He had very considerable claims, and was appointed entirely on hismilitary record. All the tales as to Mademoiselle's influence--with me, for instance--that Lady Henry has been putting into circulation areeither absurd fiction or have only the very smallest foundationin fact. "

Sir Wilfrid smiled amicably and diverted the conversation. 

"Warkworth starts at once?"

"He goes to Paris to-morrow. I recommended him to see Pattison, theMilitary Secretary there, who was in the expedition of five years back. "

 * * * * *

"This hasn't gone as well as it ought, " said Dr. Meredith, in the ear ofthe Duchess. 

They were standing inside the door of Julie's little drawing-room. TheDuchess, in a dazzling frock of white and silver, which placed Clarisseamong the divinities of her craft, looked round her with a lookof worry. 

"What's the matter with the tiresome creatures? Why is everybody goingso early? And there are not half the people here who ought to be here. "

Meredith shrugged his shoulders. 

"I saw you at Chatton House the other night, " he said, in the same tone. 

"Well?" said the Duchess, sharply. 

"It seemed to me there was something of a demonstration. "

"Against Julie? Let them try it!" said the little lady, with evasivedefiance. "We shall be too strong for them. "

"Lady Henry is putting her back into it. I confess I never thought shewould be either so venomous or so successful. "

"Julie will come out all right. "

"She would--triumphantly--if--"

The Duchess glanced at him uneasily. 

"I believe you are overworking her. She looks skin and bone. "

Dr. Meredith shook his head. 

"On the contrary, I have been holding her back. But it seems she wantsto earn a good deal of money. "

"That's so absurd, " cried the Duchess, "when there are people onlypining to give her some of theirs. "

"No, no, " said the journalist, brusquely. "She is quite right there. Oh, it would be all right if she were herself. She would make short work ofLady Henry. But, Mademoiselle Julie"--for she glided past them, and heraised his voice--"sit down and rest yourself. Don't take somuch trouble. "

She flung them a smile. 

"Lord Lackington is going, " and she hurried on. 

Lord Lackington was standing in a group which contained Sir Wilfrid Buryand Mr. Montresor. 

"Well, good-bye, good-bye, " he said, as she came up to him. "I must go. I'm nearly asleep. "

"Tired with abusing me?" said Montresor, nonchalantly, turning roundupon him. 

"No, only with trying to make head or tail of you, " said Lackington, gayly. Then he stooped over Julie. 

"Take care of yourself. Come back rosier--and _fatter_. "

"I'm perfectly well. Let me come with you. "

"No, don't trouble yourself. " For she had followed him into the halland found his coat for him. All the arrangements for her little"evening" had been of the simplest. That had been a point of pride withher. Madame Bornier and Thérèse dispensing tea and coffee in thedining-room, one hired parlor-maid, and she herself active and busyeverywhere. Certain French models were in her head, and memories of hermother's bare little salon in Bruges, with its good talk, and itsthinnest of thin refreshments--a few cups of weak tea, or glasses of_eau sucrée_, with a plate of _patisserie_. 

The hired parlor-maid was whistling for a cab in the service of someother departing guest; so Julie herself put Lord Lackington into hiscoat, much to his discomfort. 

"I don't think you ought to have come, " she said to him, with softreproach. "Why did you have that fainting fit before dinner?"

"I say! Who's been telling tales?"

"Sir Wilfrid Bury met your son, Mr. Chantrey, at dinner. "

"Bill can never hold his tongue. Oh, it was nothing; not with the propertreatment, mind you. Of course, if the allopaths were to get theirknives into me--but, thank God! I'm out of that _galère_. Well, in afortnight, isn't it? We shall both be in town again. I don't like sayinggood-bye. "

And he took both her hands in his. 

"It all seems so strange to me still--so strange!" he murmured. 

"Next week I shall see mamma's grave, " said Julie, under her breath. "Shall I put some flowers there for you?"

The fine blue eyes above her wavered. He bent to her. 

"Yes. And write to me. Come back soon. Oh, you'll see. Things will allcome right, perfectly right, in spite of Lady Henry. "

Confidence, encouragement, a charming raillery, an enthusiastictenderness--all these beamed upon her from the old man's tone andgesture. She was puzzled. But with another pressure of the hand he wasgone. She stood looking after him. And as the carriage drove away, thesound of the wheels hurt her. It was the withdrawal of somethingprotecting--something more her own, when all was said, than anythingelse which remained to her. 

As she returned to the drawing-room, Dr. Meredith intercepted her. 

"You want me to send you some work to take abroad?" he said, in a lowvoice. "I shall do nothing of the kind. "

"Why?"

"Because you ought to have a complete holiday. "

"Very well. Then I sha'n't be able to pay my way, " she said, with atired smile. 

"Remember the doctor's bills if you fall ill. "

"Ill! I am never ill, " she said, with scorn. Then she looked round theroom deliberately, and her gaze returned to her companion. "I am notlikely to be fatigued with society, am I?" she added, in a voice thatdid not attempt to disguise the bitterness within. 

"My dear lady, you are hardly installed. "

"I have been here a month--the critical month. Now was the moment tostand by me, or throw me over--n'est-ce pas? This is my first party, myhouse-warming. I gave a fortnight's notice; I asked about sixty people, whom I knew _well_. Some did not answer at all. Of the rest, halfdeclined--rather curtly, in many instances. And of those who accepted, not all are here. And, oh, how it dragged!"

Meredith looked at her rather guiltily, not knowing what to say. It wastrue the evening had dragged. In both their minds there rose the memoryof Lady Henry's "Wednesdays, " the beautiful rooms, the varied andbrilliant company, the power and consideration which had attended LadyHenry's companion. 

"I suppose, " said Julie, shrugging her shoulders, "I had been thinkingof the French _maîtresses de salon_, like a fool; of Mademoiselle del'Espinasse--or Madame Mohl--imagining that people would come to _me_for a cup of tea and an agreeable hour. But in England, it seems, peoplemust be paid to talk. Talk is a business affair--you give it for aconsideration. "

"No, no! You'll build it up, " said Meredith. In his heart of hearts hesaid to himself that she had not been herself that night. Her wonderfulsocial instincts, her memory, her adroitness, had somehow failed her. And from a hostess strained, conscious, and only artificially gay, thelittle gathering had taken its note. 

"You have the old guard, anyway, " added the journalist, with a smile, ashe looked round the room. The Duchess, Delafield, Montresor and hiswife, General McGill, and three or four other old _habitués_ of theBruton Street evenings were scattered about the little drawing-room. General Fergus, too, was there--had arrived early, and was staying late. His frank soldier's face, the accent, cheerful, homely, careless, withwhich he threw off talk full of marrow, talk only possible--for all itssimplicity--to a man whose life had been already closely mingled withthe fortunes of his country, had done something to bind Julie's poorlittle party together. Her eye rested on him with gratitude. Then shereplied to Meredith. 

"Mr. Montresor will scarcely come again. "

"What do you mean? Ungrateful lady! Montresor! who has alreadysacrificed Lady Henry and the habits of thirty years to your_beaux yeux_!"

"That is what he will never forgive me, " said Julie, sadly. "He hassatisfied his pride, and I--have lost a friend. "

"Pessimist! Mrs. Montresor seemed to me most friendly. "

Julie laughed. 

"_She_, of course, is enchanted. Her husband has never been her own tillnow. She married him, subject to Lady Henry's rights. But all that shewill soon forget--and my existence with it. "

"I won't argue. It only makes you more stubborn, " said Meredith. "Ah, still they come!"

For the door opened to admit the tall figure of Major Warkworth. 

"Am I very late?" he said, with a surprised look as he glanced at thethinly scattered room. Julie greeted him, and he excused himself on theground of a dinner which had begun just an hour late, owing to thetardiness of a cabinet minister. 

Meredith observed the young man with some attention, from the darkcorner in which Julie had left him. The gossip of the moment hadreached him also, but he had not paid much heed to it. It seemed to himthat no one knew anything first-hand of the Moffatt affair. And forhimself, he found it difficult to believe that Julie Le Breton was anyman's dupe. 

She must marry, poor thing! Of course she must marry. Since it had beenplain to him that she would never listen to his own suit, thisgreat-hearted and clear-brained man had done his best to stifle inhimself all small or grasping impulses. But this fellow--with hisinferior temper and morale--alack! why are the clever women such fools?

If only she had confided in him--her old and tried friend--he thought hecould have put things before her, so as to influence without offendingher. But he suffered--had always suffered--from the jealous reservewhich underlay her charm, her inborn tendency to secretivenessand intrigue. 

Now, as he watched her few words with Warkworth, it seemed to him thathe saw the signs of some hidden relation. How flushed she was suddenly, and her eyes so bright!

He was not allowed much time or scope, however, for observation. Warkworth took a turn round the room, chatted a little with this personand that, then, on the plea that he was off to Paris early on thefollowing morning, approached his hostess again to take his leave. 

"Ah, yes, you start to-morrow, " said Montresor, rising. "Well, good luckto you--good luck to you. "

General Fergus, too, advanced. The whole room, indeed, awoke to thesituation, and all the remaining guests grouped themselves round theyoung soldier. Even the Duchess was thawed a little by this actualmoment of departure. After all, the man was going on hiscountry's service. 

"No child's play, this mission, I can assure you, " General McGill hadsaid to her. "Warkworth will want all the powers he has--of mindor body. "

The slim, young fellow, so boyishly elegant in his well-cutevening-dress, received the ovation offered to him with an evidentpleasure which tried to hide itself in the usual English ways. He hadbeen very pale when he came in. But his cheek reddened as Montresorgrasped him by the hand, as the two generals bade him a cordialgodspeed, as Sir Wilfrid gave him a jesting message for the Britishrepresentative in Egypt, and as the ladies present accorded him thoseflattering and admiring looks that woman keeps for valor. 

Julie counted for little in these farewells. She stood _apart_ andrather silent. "_They_ have had their good-bye, " thought the Duchess, with a thrill she could not help. 

"Three days in Paris?" said Sir Wilfrid. "A fortnight to Denga--and thenhow long before you start for the interior?"

"Oh, three weeks for collecting porters and supplies. They're drillingthe escort already. We should be off by the middle of May. "

"A bad month, " said General Fergus, shrugging his shoulders. 

"Unfortunately, affairs won't wait. But I am already stiff withquinine, " laughed Warkworth--"or I shall be by the time I get to Denga. Good-bye--good-bye. "

And in another moment he was gone. Miss Le Breton had given him herhand and wished him "Bon voyage, " like everybody else. 

The party broke up. The Duchess kissed her Julie with peculiartenderness; Delafield pressed her hand, and his deep, kind eyes gave hera lingering look, of which, however, she was quite unconscious; Meredithrenewed his half-irritable, half-affectionate counsels of rest andrecreation; Mrs. Montresor was conventionally effusive; Montresor alonebade the mistress of the house a somewhat cold and perfunctory farewell. Even Sir Wilfrid was a little touched, he knew not why; he vowed tohimself that his report to Lady Henry on the morrow should contain nofood for malice, and inwardly he forgave Mademoiselle Julie the oldromancings. 

XVIII

It was twenty minutes since the last carriage had driven away. Julie wasstill waiting in the little hall, pacing its squares of black-and-whitemarble, slowly, backward and forward. 

There was a low knock on the door. 

She opened it. Warkworth appeared on the threshold, and the high moonbehind him threw a bright ray into the dim hall, where all but one faintlight had been extinguished. She pointed to the drawing-room. 

"I will come directly. Let me just go and ask Léonie to sit up. "

Warkworth went into the drawing-room. Julie opened the dining-room door. Madame Bornier was engaged in washing and putting away the china andglass which had been used for Julie's modest refreshments. 

"Léonie, you won't go to bed? Major Warkworth is here. "

Madame Bornier did not raise her head. 

"How long will he be?"

"Perhaps half an hour. "

"It is already past midnight. "

"Léonie, he goes to-morrow. "

"Très bien. Mais--sais-tu, ma chère, ce n'est pas convenable, ce que tufais là!"

And the older woman, straightening herself, looked her foster-sisterfull in the face. A kind of watch-dog anxiety, a sulky, protestingaffection breathed from her rugged features. 

Julie went up to her, not angrily, but rather with a pleading humility. 

The two women held a rapid colloquy in low tones--Madame Bornierremonstrating, Julie softly getting her way. 

Then Madame Bornier returned to her work, and Julie went to thedrawing-room. 

Warkworth sprang up as she entered. Both paused and wavered. Then hewent up to her, and roughly, irresistibly, drew her into his arms. Sheheld back a moment, but finally yielded, and clasping her hands roundhis neck she buried her face on his breast. 

They stood so for some minutes, absolutely silent, save for her hurriedbreathing, his head bowed upon hers. 

"Julie, how can we say good-bye?" he whispered, at last. 

She disengaged herself, and, seeing his face, she tried for composure. 

"Come and sit down. "

She led him to the window, which he had thrown open as he entered theroom, and they sat beside it, hand in hand. A mild April night shoneoutside. Gusts of moist air floated in upon them. There were dim lightsand shadows in the garden and on the shuttered facade of thegreat house. 

"Is it forever?" said Julie, in a low, stifled voice. "Good-bye--forever?"

She felt his hand tremble, but she did not look at him. She seemed tobe reciting words long since spoken in the mind. 

"You will be away--perhaps a year? Then you go back to India, andthen--"

She paused. 

Warkworth was physically conscious, as it were, of a letter he carriedin his coat-pocket--a letter from Lady Blanche Moffatt which had reachedhim that morning, the letter of a _grande dame_, reduced to undignifiedremonstrance by sheer maternal terror--terror for the health and life ofa child as fragile and ethereal as a wild rose in May. Reports hadreached her; but no--they could not be true! She bade him be thankfulthat not a breath of suspicion had yet touched Aileen. As for herself, let him write and reassure her at once. Otherwise--

And the latter part of the letter conveyed a veiled menace thatWarkworth perfectly understood. 

No--in that direction, no escape; his own past actions closed him in. And henceforth, it was clear, he must walk more warily. 

But how blame himself for these feelings of which he was now conscioustowards Julie Le Breton--the strongest, probably, that a man not builtfor passion would ever know. His relation towards her had grown upon himunawares, and now their own hands were about to cut it at the root. Whatblame to either of them? Fate had been at work; and he felt himselfglorified by a situation so tragically sincere, and by emotions of whicha month before he would have secretly held himself incapable. 

Resolutely, in this last meeting with Julie, he gave these emotionsplay. He possessed himself of her cold hands as she put her desolatequestion--"And then?"--and kissed them fervently. 

"Julie, if you and I had met a year ago, what happened in India wouldnever have happened. You know that!"

"Do I? But it only hurts me to _think it away_ like that. There itis--it has happened. "

She turned upon him suddenly. 

"Have you any picture of her?"

He hesitated. 

"Yes, " he said, at last. 

"Have you got it here?"

"Why do you ask, dear one? This one evening is _ours_. "

And again he tried to draw her to him. But she persisted. 

"I feel sure you have it. Show it me. "

"Julie, you and you only are in my thoughts!"

"Then do what I ask. " She bent to him with a wild, entreating air; herlips almost touched his cheek. Unwillingly he drew out a letter-casefrom his breast-pocket, and took from it a little photograph which hehanded to her. 

She looked at it with eager eyes. A face framed, as it were, out of snowand fire lay in her hand, a thing most delicate, most frail, yet steepedin feeling and significance--a child's face with its soft curls of brownhair, and the upper lip raised above the white, small teeth, as thoughin a young wonder; yet behind its sweetness, what suggestions of apoetic or tragic sensibility! The slender neck carried the little headwith girlish dignity; the clear, timid eyes seemed at once to shrinkfrom and trust the spectator. 

Julie returned the little picture, and hid her face with her hands. Warkworth watched her uncomfortably, and at last drew her hands away. 

"What are you thinking of?" he said, almost with violence. "Don't shutme out!"

"I am not jealous now, " she said, looking at him piteously. "I don'thate her. And if she knew all--she couldn't--hate me. "

"No one could hate her. She is an angel. But she is not my Julie!" hesaid, vehemently, and he thrust the little picture into hispocket again. 

"Tell me, " she said, after a pause, laying her hand on his knee, "whendid you begin to think of me--differently? All the winter, when we usedto meet, you never--you never loved me then?"

"How, placed as I was, could I let myself think of love? I only knewthat I wanted to see you, to talk to you, to write to you--that the daywhen we did not meet was a lost day. Don't be so proud!" He tried tolaugh at her. "You didn't think of me in any special way, either. Youwere much too busy making bishops, or judges, or academicians. Oh, Julie, I was so afraid of you in those early days!"

"The first night we met, " she said, passionately, "I found a carnationyou had worn in your button-hole. I put it under my pillow, and felt forit in the dark like a talisman. You had stood between me and Lady Henrytwice. You had smiled at me and pressed my hand--not as others did, butas though you understood _me_, myself--as though, at least, you wishedto understand. Then came the joy of joys, that I could help you--that Icould do something for you. Ah, how it altered life for me! I neverturned the corner of a street that I did not count on the chance ofseeing you beyond--suddenly--on my path. I never heard your voice thatit did not thrill me from head to foot. I never made a new friend oracquaintance that I did not ask myself first how I could thereby serveyou. I never saw you come into the room that my heart did not leap. Inever slept but you were in my dreams. I loathed London when you wereout of it. It was paradise when you were there. "

Straining back from him as he still held her hands, her whole face andform shook with the energy of her confession. Her wonderful hair, loosened from the thin gold bands in which it had been confined duringthe evening, fell in a glossy confusion about her brow and slender neck;its black masses, the melting brilliance of the eyes, the tragic freedomof the attitude gave both to form and face a wild and poignant beauty. 

Warkworth, beside her, was conscious first of amazement, then of a kindof repulsion--a kind of fear--till all else was lost in a hurry of joyand gratitude. 

The tears stood on his cheek. "Julie, you shame me--you trample me intothe earth!"

He tried to gather her in his arms, but she resisted, Caresses were notwhat those eyes demanded--eyes feverishly bright with the memory of herown past dreams, Presently, indeed, she withdrew herself from him. Sherose and closed the window; she put the lamp in another place; shebrought her rebellious hair into order. 

"We must not be so mad, " she said, with a quivering smile, as she againseated herself, but at some distance from him. "You see, for me thegreat question is "--her voice became low and rapid--"What am I going todo with the future? For you it is all plain. We part to-night. You haveyour career, your marriage. I withdraw from your life--absolutely. But for me--"

She paused. It was the manner of one trying to see her way in the dark. 

"Your social gifts, " said Warkworth, in agitation, "your friends, Julie--these will occupy your mind. Then, of course, you will, you mustmarry! Oh, you'll soon forget me, Julie! I pray you may!"

"My social gifts?" she repeated, disregarding the rest of his speech. "Ihave told you already they have broken down. Society sides with LadyHenry. I am to be made to know my place--I do know it!"

"The Duchess will fight for you. "

She laughed. 

"The Duke won't let her--nor shall I. "

"You'll marry, " he repeated, with emotion. "You'll find some one worthyof you--some one who will give you the great position for which youwere born. "

"I could have it at any moment, " she said, looking him quietly in theeyes. 

Warkworth drew back, conscious of a disagreeable shock. He had beentalking in generalities, giving away the future with that fluentprodigality, that easy prophecy which costs so little. What didshe mean?

"_Delafield?"_ he cried. 

And he waited for her reply--which lingered--in a tense and growingeagerness. The notion had crossed his mind once or twice during thewinter, only to be dismissed as ridiculous. Then, on the occasion oftheir first quarrel, when Julie had snubbed him in Delafield's presenceand to Delafield's advantage, he had been conscious of a momentaryalarm. But Julie, who on that one and only occasion had paraded herintimacy with Delafield, thenceforward said not a word of him, andWarkworth's jealousy had died for lack of fuel. In relation to Julie, Delafield had been surely the mere shadow and agent of his little cousinthe Duchess--a friendly, knight-errant sort of person, with a liking forthe distressed. What! the heir-presumptive of Chudleigh Abbey, and oneof the most famous of English dukedoms, when even he, the struggling, penurious officer, would never have dreamed of such a match?

Julie, meanwhile, heard only jealousy in his exclamation, and itcaressed her ear, her heart. She was tempted once more, woman-like, todwell upon the other lover, and again something compelling and delicatein her feeling towards Delafield forbade. 

"No, you mustn't make me tell you any more, " she said, putting the nameaside with a proud gesture. "It would be poor and mean. But it's true. Ihave only to put out my hand for what you call 'a great position, ' Ihave refused to put it out. Sometimes, of course, it has dazzled me. To-night it seems to me--dust and ashes. No; when we two have saidgood-bye, I shall begin life again. And this time I shall live it in myown way, for my own ends. I'm very tired. Henceforth 'I'll walk where myown nature would be leading--it vexes me to choose another guide. '"

And as she spoke the words of one of the chainless souls of history, ina voice passionately full and rich, she sprang to her feet, and, drawingher slender form to its full height, she locked her hands behind her, and began to pace the room with a wild, free step. 

Every nerve in Warkworth's frame was tingling. He was carried out ofhimself, first by the rebellion of her look and manner, then by thisfact, so new, so astounding, which her very evasion had confirmed. During her whole contest with Lady Henry, and now, in her presentambiguous position, she had Delafield, and through Delafield the Englishgreat world, in the hollow of her hand? This nameless woman--no longerin her first youth. And she had refused? He watched her in a speechlesswonder and incredulity. 

The thought leaped. "And this sublime folly--this madness--was for_me_?"

It stirred and intoxicated him. Yet she was not thereby raised in hiseyes. Nay, the contrary. With the passion which was rapidly mounting inhis veins there mingled--poor Julie!--a curious diminution of respect. 

"Julie!" He held out his hand to her peremptorily. "Come to me again. You are so wonderful to-night, in that white dress--like a wild muse. Ishall always see you so. Come!"

She obeyed, and gave him her hands, standing beside his chair. But herface was still absorbed. 

"To be free, " she said, under her breath--"free, like my parents, fromall these petty struggles and conventions!"

Then she felt his kisses on her hands, and her expression changed. 

"How we cheat ourselves with words!" she whispered, trembling, and, withdrawing one hand, she smoothed back the light-brown curls from hisbrow with that protecting tenderness which had always entered into herlove for him. "To-night we are here--together--this one last night! Andto-morrow, at this time, you'll be in Paris; perhaps you'll be lookingout at the lights--and the crowds on the Boulevard--and thechestnut-trees. They'll just be in their first leaf--I know sowell!--and the little thin leaves will be shining so green under thelamps--and I shall be here--and it will be all over and donewith--forever. What will it matter whether I am free or not free? Ishall be _alone_! That's all a woman knows. "

Her voice died away. Warkworth rose. He put his arms round her, and shedid not resist. 

"Julie, " he said in her ear, "why should you be alone?"

A silence fell between them. 

"I--I don't understand, " she said, at last. 

"Julie, listen! I shall be three days in Paris, but my business can beperfectly done in one. What if you met me there after to-morrow? Whatharm would it be? We are not babes, we two. We understand life. And whowould have any right to blame or to meddle? Julie, I know a little innin the valley of the Bièvre, quite near Paris, but all wood and field. No English tourists ever go there. Sometimes an artist or two--but thisis not the time of year. Julie, why shouldn't we spend our last two daysthere--together--away from all the world, before we say good-bye? You'vebeen afraid here of prying people--of the Duchess even--of MadameBornier--how she scowls at me sometimes! Why shouldn't we sweep all thataway--and be happy! Nobody should ever--nobody _could_ ever know. " Hisvoice dropped, became still more hurried and soft. "We might go asbrother and sister--that would be quite simple. You are practicallyFrench. I speak French well. Who is to have an idea, a suspicion of ouridentity? The spring there is mild and warm. The Bois de Verrières closeby is full of flowers. When my father was alive, and I was a child, wewent once, to economize, for a year, to a village a mile or two away. But I knew this place quite well. A lovely, green, quiet spot! With yourpoetical ideas, Julie, you would delight in it. Two days--wandering inthe woods--together! Then I put you into the train for Brussels, and Igo my way. But to all eternity, Julie, those days will have been ours!"

At the first words, almost, Julie had disengaged herself. Pushing himfrom her with both hands, she listened to him in a dumb amazement. Thecolor first deserted her face, then returned in a flood. 

"So you despise me?" she said, catching her breath. 

"No. I adore you. "

She fell upon a chair and hid her eyes. He first knelt beside her, arguing and soothing; then he paced up and down before her, talking veryfast and low, defending and developing the scheme, till it stood beforethem complete and tempting in all its details. 

Julie did not look up, nor did she speak. At last, Warkworth, full oftears, and stifled with his own emotions, threw open the window again ina craving for air and coolness. A scent of fresh leaves and moistenedearth floated up from the shrubbery beneath the window. The scent, thebranching trees, the wide, mild spaces of air brought relief. He leanedout, bathing his brow in the night. A tumult of voices seemed to beechoing through his mind, dominated by one which held the restdefiantly in check. 

"Is she a mere girl, to be 'led astray'? A moment of happiness--whatharm?--for either of us?"

Then he returned to Julie. 

"Julie!" He touched her shoulder, trembling. Had she banished himforever? It seemed to him that in these minutes he had passed through aninfinity of experience. Was he not the nobler, the more truly man? Letthe moralists talk. 

"Julie!" he repeated, in an anguish. 

She raised her head, and he saw that she had been crying. But there wasin her face a light, a wildness, a yearning that reassured him. She puther arm round him and pressed her cheek to his. He divined that she, too, had lived and felt a thousand hours in one. With a glow of ecstaticjoy he began to talk to her again, her head resting on his shoulder, herslender hands crushed in his. 

And Julie, meanwhile, was saying to herself, "Either I go to him, as heasks, or in a few minutes I must send him away--forever. "

And then as she clung to him, so warm and near, her strength failed her. Nothing in the world mattered to her at that moment but this handsome, curly head bowed upon her own, this voice that called her all the namesof love, this transformation of the man's earlier prudence, or ambition, or duplicity, into this eager tenderness, this anguish in separation.... 

"Listen, dear!" He whispered to her. "All my business can be got throughthe day before you come. I have two men to see. A day will be ample. Idine at the Embassy to-morrow night--that is arranged; the day after Ilunch with the Military Secretary; then--a thousand regrets, but I musthurry on to meet some friends in Italy. So I turn my back on Paris, andfor two days I belong to Julie--and she to me. Say yes, Julie--my Julie!"

He bent over her, his hands framing her face. 

"Say yes, " he urged, "and put off for both of us that word--_alone_!"

His low voice sank into her heart. He waited, till his strained sensecaught the murmured words which conveyed to him the madness and theastonishment of victory. 

 * * * * *

Léonie had shut up the house, in a grim silence, and had taken her wayup-stairs to bed. 

Julie, too, was in her room. She sat on the edge of her bed, her headdrooped, her hands clasped before her absently, like Hope stilllistening for the last sounds of the harp of life. The candle beside hershowed her, in the big mirror opposite, her grace, the white confusionof her dress. 

She had expected reaction, but it did not come. She was still borne on awarm tide of will and energy. All that she was about to do seemed to herstill perfectly natural and right. Petty scruples, conventionalhesitations, the refusal of life's great moments--these are what arewrong, these are what disgrace!

Romance beckoned to her, and many a secret tendency towards the lawlesspaths of conduct, infused into her by the associations and affections ofher childhood. The _horror naturalis_ which protects the great majorityof women from the wilder ways of passion was in her weakened or dormant. She was the illegitimate child of a mother who had defied law for love, and of that fact she had been conscious all her life. 

A sharp contempt, indeed, arose within her for the interpretation thatthe common mind would be sure to place upon her action. 

"What matter! I am my own mistress--responsible to no one. I choose formyself--I dare for myself!"

And when at last she rose, first loosening and then twisting the blackmasses of her hair, it seemed to her that the form in the glass was thatof another woman, treading another earth. She trampled cowardice underfoot; she freed herself from--"was uns alle bändigt, das Gemeine!"

Then as she stood before the oval mirror in a classical frame, whichadorned the mantel-piece of what had once been Lady Mary Leicester'sroom, her eye was vaguely caught by the little family pictures and textswhich hung on either side of it. Lady Mary and her sister as children, their plain faces emerging timidly from their white, high-waistedfrocks; Lady 'Mary's mother, an old lady in a white coif and kerchief, wearing a look austerely kind; on the other side a clergyman, perhapsthe brother of the old lady, with a similar type of face, thoughgentler--a face nourished on the _Christian Year_; and above and belowthem two or three card-board texts, carefully illuminated by Lady MaryLeicester herself:

"Thou, Lord, knowest my down-sitting and my uprising. "

"Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow. "

"Fear not, little flock. It is your Father's good pleasure to give youthe kingdom. "

 * * * * *

Julie observed these fragments, absently at first, then with repulsion. This Anglican pietism, so well fed, so narrowly sheltered, whichmeasured the universe with its foot-rule, seemed to her quasi-Catholiceye merely fatuous and hypocritical. It is not by such forces, shethought, that the true world of men and women is governed. 

As she turned away she noticed two little Catholic pictures, such as shehad been accustomed in her convent days to carry in her books ofdevotion, carefully propped up beneath the texts. 

"Ah, Thérèse!" she said to herself, with a sudden feeling of pain. "Isthe child asleep?"

She listened. A little cough sounded from the neighboring room. Juliecrossed the landing. 

"Thérèse! tu ne dors pas encore?"

A voice said, softly, in the darkness, "Je t'attendais, mademoiselle. "

Julie went to the child's bed, put down her candle, and stooped to kissher. 

The child's thin hand caressed her cheek. 

"Ah, it will be good--to be in Bruges--with mademoiselle. "

Julie drew herself away. 

"I sha'n't be there to-morrow, dear. "

"Not there! Oh, mademoiselle!"

The child's voice was pitiful. 

"I shall join you there. But I find I must go to Paris first. I--I havesome business there. "

"But maman said--"

"Yes, I have only just made up my mind. I shall tell maman to-morrowmorning, "

"You go alone, mademoiselle?"

"Why not, dear goose?"

"Vous êtes fatiguée. I would like to come with you, and carry your cloakand the umbrellas. "

"You, indeed!" said Julie. "It would end, wouldn't it, in my carryingyou--besides the cloak and the umbrellas?"

Then she knelt down beside the child and took her in her arms. 

"Do you love me, Thérèse?"

The child drew a long breath. With her little, twisted hands she strokedthe beautiful hair so close to her. 

"Do you, Thérèse?"

A kiss fell on Julie's cheek. 

"Ce soir, j'ai beaucoup prié la Sainte Vierge pour vous!" she said, in atimid and hurried whisper. 

Julie made no immediate reply. She rose from her knees, her hand stillclasped in that of the crippled girl. 

"Did you put those pictures on my mantel-piece, Thérèse?"

"Yes. "

"Why?"

The child hesitated. 

"It does one good to look at them--n'est-ce pas?--when one is sad?"

"Why do you suppose I am sad?"

Thérèse was silent a moment; then she flung her little skeleton armsround Julie, and Julie felt her crying. 

"Well, I won't be sad any more, " said Julie, comforting her. "When we'reall in Bruges together, you'll see. "

And smiling at the child, she tucked her into her white bed and lefther. 

Then from this exquisite and innocent affection she passed back into thetumult of her own thoughts and plans. Through the restless night herparents were often in her mind. She was the child of revolt, and as shethought of the meeting before her she seemed to be but entering upon aheritage inevitable from the beginning. A sense of enfranchisement, ofpassionate enlargement, upheld her, as of a life coming to its fruit. 

 * * * * *

"Creil!"

A flashing vision of a station and its lights, and the Paris trainrushed on through cold showers of sleet and driving wind, a return ofwinter in the heart of spring. 

On they sped through the half-hour which still divided them from theGare du Nord. Julie, in her thick veil, sat motionless in her corner. She was not conscious of any particular agitation. Her mind was strainednot to forget any of Warkworth's directions. She was to drive acrossimmediately to the Gare de Sceaux, in the Place Denfert-Rochereau, wherehe would meet her. They were to dine at an obscure inn near the station, and go down by the last train to the little town in the wooded valley ofthe Bièvre, where they were to stay. 

She had her luggage with her in the carriage. There would be nocustom-house delays. 

Ah, the lights of Paris beginning! She peered into the rain, consciousof a sort of home-coming joy. She loved the French world and the Frenchsights and sounds--these tall, dingy houses of the _banlieue_, the dregsof a great architecture; the advertisements; the look of the streets. 

The train slackened into the Nord Station. The blue-frocked porterscrowded into the carriages. 

"C'est tout, madame? Vous n'avez pas de grands bagages?"

"No, nothing. Find me a cab at once. "

There was a great crowd outside. She hurried on as quickly as she could, revolving what was to be said if any acquaintance were to accost her. Bygreat good luck, and by travelling second class both in the train and onthe boat, she had avoided meeting anybody she knew. But the Nord Stationwas crowded with English people, and she pushed her way through in anervous terror. 

"Miss Le Breton!"

She turned abruptly. In the white glare of the electric lights she didnot at first recognize the man who had spoken to her. Then she drewback. Her heart beat wildly. For she had distinguished the face of JacobDelafield. 

He came forward to meet her as she passed the barrier at the end of theplatform, his aspect full of what seemed to her an extraordinaryanimation, significance, as though she were expected. 

"Miss Le Breton! What an astonishing, what a fortunate meeting! I have amessage for you from Evelyn. "

"From Evelyn?" She echoed the words mechanically as she shook hands. 

"Wait a moment, " he said, leading her aside towards the waiting-room, while the crowd that was going to the _douane_ passed them by. Then heturned to Julie's porter. 

"Attendez un instant. "

The man sulkily shook his head, dropped Julie's bag at their feet, andhurried off in search of a more lucrative job. 

"I am going back to-night, " added Delafield, hurriedly. "How strangethat I should have met you, for I have very sad news for you! LordLackington had an attack this morning, from which he cannot recover. Thedoctors give him perhaps forty-eight hours. He has asked foryou--urgently. The Duchess tells me so in a long telegram I had from herto-day. But she supposed you to be in Bruges. She has wired there. Youwill go back, will you not?"

"Go back?" said Julie, staring at him helplessly. "Go back to-night?"

"The evening train starts in little more than an hour. You would be justin time, I think, to see the old man alive. "

She still looked at him in bewilderment, at the blue eyes under theheavily moulded brows, and the mouth with its imperative, and yeteager--or tremulous?--expression. She perceived that he hung uponher answer. 

She drew her hand piteously across her eyes as though to shut out thecrowds, the station, and the urgency of this personality beside her. Despair was in her heart. How to consent? How to refuse?

"But my friends, " she stammered--"the friends with whom I was going tostay--they will be alarmed. "

"Could you not telegraph to them? They would understand, surely. Theoffice is close by. "

She let herself be hurried along, not knowing what to do. Delafieldwalked beside her. If she had been able to observe him, she must havebeen struck afresh by the pale intensity, the controlled agitationof his face. 

"Is it really so serious?" she asked, pausing a moment, as though inresistance. 

"It is the end. Of that there can be no question. You have touched hisheart very deeply. He longs to see her, Evelyn says. And his daughterand granddaughter are still abroad--Miss Moffatt, indeed, is ill atFlorence with a touch of diphtheria. He is alone with his two sons. You will go?"

Even in her confusion, the strangeness of it all was borne in uponher--his insistence, the extraordinary chance of their meeting, hisgrave, commanding manner. 

"How could you know I was here?" she said, in bewilderment. 

"I didn't know, " he said, slowly. "But, thank God, I have met you. Idread to think of your fatigue, but you will be glad just to see himagain--just to give him his last wish--won't you?" he said, pleadingly. "Here is the telegraph-office. Shall I do it for you?"

"No, thank you. I--I must think how to word it. Please wait. "

She went in alone. As she took the pencil into her hands a low groanburst from her lips. The man writing in the next compartment turnedround in astonishment. She controlled herself and began to write. Therewas no escape. She must submit; and all was over. 

She telegraphed to Warkworth, care of the Chef de Gare, at the SceauxStation, and also to the country inn. 

"Have met Mr. Delafield by chance at Nord Station. Lord Lackingtondying. Must return to-night. Where shall I write? Good-bye. "

When it was done she could hardly totter out of the office. Delafieldmade her take his arm. 

"You must have some food. Then I will go and get a sleeping-car for youto Calais. There will be no crowd to-night. At Calais I will look afteryou if you will allow me. "

"You are crossing to-night?" she said, vaguely. Her lips framed thewords with difficulty. 

"Yes. I came over with my cousins yesterday. "

She asked nothing more. It did not occur to her to notice that he had noluggage, no bag, no rug, none of the paraphernalia of travel. In herdespairing fatigue and misery she let him guide her as he would. 

He made her take some soup, then some coffee, all that she could makeherself swallow. There was a dismal period of waiting, during which shewas hardly conscious of where she was or of what was going on round her. 

Then she found herself in the sleeping-car, in a reserved compartment, alone. Once more the train moved through the night. The miles flewby--the miles that forever parted her from Warkworth. 

XIX

The train was speeding through the forest country of Chantilly. A palemoon had risen, and beneath its light the straight forest roads, interminably long, stretched into the distance; the vaporous masses ofyoung and budding trees hurried past the eye of the traveller; so, also, the white hamlets, already dark and silent; the stations with theirlights and figures; the great wood-piles beside the line. 

Delafield, in his second-class carriage, sat sleepless and erect. Thenight was bitterly cold. He wore the light overcoat in which he had leftthe Hôtel du Rhin that afternoon for a stroll before dinner, and had noother wrap or covering. But he felt nothing, was conscious of nothingbut the rushing current of his own thoughts. 

The events of the two preceding days, the meaning of them, thesignificance of his own action and its consequences--it was with thesematerials that his mind dealt perpetually, combining, interpreting, deducing, now in one way, now in another. His mood contained bothexcitement and dread. But with a main temper of calmness, courage, invincible determination, these elements did not at all interfere. 

The day before, he had left London with his cousins, the Duke ofChudleigh, and young Lord Elmira, the invalid boy. They were bound toParis to consult a new doctor, and Jacob had offered to convey themthere. In spite of all the apparatus of servants and couriers with whichthey were surrounded, they always seemed to him, on their journeys, asingularly lonely and hapless pair, and he knew that they leaned uponhim and prized his company. 

On the way to Paris, at the Calais buffet, he had noticed HenryWarkworth, and had given him a passing nod. It had been understood thenight before in Heribert Street that they would both be crossing onthe morrow. 

On the following day--the day of Julie's journey--Delafield, who wasanxiously awaiting the return of his two companions from their interviewwith the great physician they were consulting, was strolling up the Ruede la Paix, just before luncheon, when, outside the Hôtel Mirabeau, heran into a man whom he immediately perceived to be Warkworth. 

Politeness involved the exchange of a few sentences, although a secretantagonism between the two men had revealed itself from the first day oftheir meeting in Lady Henry's drawing-room. Each word of their shortconversation rang clearly through Delafield's memory. 

"You are at the 'Rhin'?" said Warkworth. 

"Yes, for a couple more days. Shall we meet at the Embassy to-morrow?"

"No. I dined there last night. My business here is done. I start forRome to-night. "

"Lucky man. They have put on a new fast train, haven't they?"

"Yes. You leave the Gare de Lyon at 7. 15, and you are at Rome the secondmorning, in good time. "

"Magnificent! Why don't we all rush south? Well, good-bye again, andgood luck. "

They touched hands perfunctorily and parted. 

This happened about mid-day. While Delafield and his cousins werelunching, a telegram from the Duchess of Crowborough was handed toJacob. He had wired to her early in the morning to ask for the addressin Paris of an old friend of his, who was also a cousin of hers. Thetelegram contained:

 "Thirty-six Avenue Friedland. Lord Lackington heart-attack this morning. Dying. Has asked urgently for Julie. Blanche Moffatt detained Florence by daughter's illness. All circumstances most sad. Woman Heribert Street gave me Bruges address. Have wired Julie there. "

The message set vibrating in Delafield's mind the tender memory whichalready existed there of his last talk with Julie, of her strangedependence and gentleness, her haunting and pleading personality. Hehoped with all his heart she might reach the old man in time, that histwo sons, Uredale and William, would treat her kindly, and that it wouldbe found when the end came that he had made due provision for her as hisgranddaughter. 

But he had small leisure to give to thoughts of this kind. Thephysician's report in the morning had not been encouraging, and his twotravelling companions demanded all the sympathy and support he couldgive them. He went out with them in the afternoon to the Hôtel de laTerrasse at St. Germain. The Duke, a nervous hypochondriac, could notsleep in the noise of Paris, and was accustomed to a certain apartmentin this well-known hotel, which was often reserved for him. Jacob leftthem about six o'clock to return to Paris. He was to meet one of theEmbassy attachés--an old Oxford friend--at the Café Gaillard for dinner. He dressed at the "Rhin, " put on an overcoat, and set out to walk to theRue Gaillard about half-past seven. As he approached the "Mirabeau, " hesaw a cab with luggage standing at the door. A man came out with thehotel _concierge_. To his astonishment, Delafield recognized Warkworth. 

The young officer seemed in a hurry and out of temper. At any rate, hejumped into the cab without taking any notice of the two _sommeliers_and the _concierge_ who stood round expectant of francs, and when the_concierge_ in his stiffest manner asked where the man was to drive, Warkworth put his head out of the window and said, hastily, tothe _cocher_:

"D'abord, à la Gare de Sceaux! Puis, je vous dirai. Mais dépêchez-vous!"

The cab rolled away, and Delafield walked on. 

Half-past seven, striking from all the Paris towers! And Warkworth'sintention in the morning was to leave the Gare de Lyon at 7. 15. But itseemed he was now bound, at 7. 30, for the Gare de Sceaux, from whichpoint of departure it was clear that no reasonable man would think ofstarting for the Eternal City. 

"_D'abord, _ à la Gare de Sceaux!"

Then he was not catching a train?--at any rate, immediately. He had someother business first, and was perhaps going to the station to deposithis luggage?

Suddenly a thought, a suspicion, flashed through Delafield's mind, whichset his heart thumping in his breast. In after days he was often puzzledto account for its origin, still more for the extraordinary force withwhich it at once took possession of all his energies. In his moremystical moments of later life he rose to the secret belief that God hadspoken to him. 

At any rate, he at once hailed a cab, and, thinking no more of hisdinner engagement, he drove post-haste to the Nord Station. In thosedays the Calais train arrived at eight. He reached the station a fewminutes before it appeared. When at last it drew up, amid the crowd onthe platform it took him only a few seconds to distinguish the dark andelegant head of Julie Le Breton. 

A pang shot through him that pierced to the very centre of life. He wasconscious of a prayer for help and a clear mind. But on his way to thestation he had rapidly thought out a plan on which to act should thismad notion in his brain turn out to have any support in reality. 

It had so much support that Julie Le Breton was there--in Paris--and notat Bruges, as she had led the Duchess to suppose. And when she turnedher startled face upon him, his wild fancy became, for himself, acertainty. 

 * * * * *

"Amiens! Cinq minutes d'arrêt. "

Delafield got out and walked up and down the platform. He passed theclosed and darkened windows of the sleeping-car; and it seemed to hisabnormally quickened sense that he was beside her, bending over her, andthat he said to her:

"Courage! You are saved! Let us thank God!"

A boy from the refreshment-room came along, wheeling a barrow on whichwere tea and coffee. 

Delafield eagerly drank a cup of tea and put his hand into his pocket topay for it. He found there three francs and his ticket. After paying forthe tea he examined his purse. That contained an English half-crown. 

So he had had with him just enough to get his own second-class ticket, her first-class, and a sleeping-car. That was good fortune, seeing thatthe bulk of his money, with his return ticket, was reposing in hisdressing-case at the Hôtel du Rhin. 

"En voiture! En voiture, s'il vous plaît!"

He settled himself once more in his corner, and the train rushed on. This time it was the strange hour at the Gare du Nord which he livedthrough again, her white face opposite to him in the refreshment-room, the bewilderment and misery she had been so little able to conceal, herspasmodic attempts at conversation, a few vague words about LordLackington or the Duchess, and then pauses, when her great eyes, haggardand weary, stared into vacancy, and he knew well enough that herthoughts were with Warkworth, and that she was in fierce rebellionagainst his presence there, and this action into which he hadforced her. 

As for him, he perfectly understood the dilemma in which she stood. Either she must accept the duty of returning to the death-bed of the oldman, her mother's father, or she must confess her appointment withWarkworth. 

Yet--suppose he had been mistaken? Well, the telegram from the Duchesscovered his whole action. Lord Lackington _was_ dying; and apart fromall question of feeling, Julie Le Breton's friends must naturally desirethat he should see her, acknowledge her before his two sons, and, withtheir consent, provide for her before his death. 

But, ah, he had not been mistaken! He remembered her hurried refusalwhen he had asked her if he should telegraph for her to her Paris"friends"--how, in a sudden shame, he had turned away that he might notsee the beloved false face as she spoke, might not seem to watch orsuspect her. 

He had just had time to send off a messenger, first to his friend at theCafé Gaillard, and then to the Hôtel du Rhin, before escorting her tothe sleeping-car. 

Ah, how piteous had been that dull bewilderment with which she hadturned to him!

"But--my ticket?"

"Here they are. Oh, never mind--we will settle in town. Try to sleep. You must be very tired. "

And then it seemed to him that her lips trembled, like those of amiserable child; and surely, surely, she must hear that mad beating ofhis pulse!

Boulogne was gone in a flash. Here was the Somme, stretched in a palesilver flood beneath the moon--a land of dunes and stunted pines, ofwide sea-marshes, over which came the roar of the Channel. Then againthe sea was left behind, and the rich Picard country rolled away toright and left. Lights here and there, in cottage or villa--the lights, perhaps, of birth or death--companions of hope or despair. 

Calais!

The train moved slowly up to the boat-side. Delafield jumped out. Thesleeping-car was yielding up its passengers. He soon made out the smallblack hat and veil, the slender form in the dark travelling-dress. 

Was she fainting? For she seemed to him to waver as he approached her, and the porter who had taken her rugs and bag was looking at her inastonishment. In an instant he had drawn her arm within his, and wassupporting her as he best could, "The car was very hot, and I am so tired. I only want some air. "

They reached the deck. 

"You will go down-stairs?"

"No, no--some air!" she murmured, and he saw that she could hardly keepher feet. 

But in a few moments they had reached the shelter on the upper deckusually so well filled with chairs and passengers on a day crossing. Nowit was entirely deserted. The boat was not full, the night was cold andstormy, and the stream of passengers had poured down into the shelter ofthe lower deck. 

Julie sank into a chair. Delafield hurriedly loosened the shawl shecarried with her from its attendant bag and umbrella, and wrapped itround her. 

"It will be a rough crossing, " he said, in her ear. "Can you stand it ondeck?"

"I am a good sailor. Let me stay here. "

Her eyes closed. He stooped over her in an anguish. One of the boatofficials approached him. 

"Madame ferait mieux de descendre, monsieur. La traversée ne sera pasbonne. "

Delafield explained that the lady must have air, and was a good sailor. Then he pressed into the man's hand his three francs, and sent him forbrandy and an extra covering of some kind. The man went unwillingly. 

During the whole bustle of departure, Delafield saw nothing but Julie'shelpless and motionless form; he heard nothing but the faint words bywhich, once or twice, she tried to convey to him that she was notunconscious. 

The brandy came. The man who brought it again objected to Julie'spresence on deck. Delafield took no heed. He was absorbed in makingJulie swallow some of the brandy. 

At last they were off. The vessel glided slowly out of the old harbor, and they were immediately in rough water. 

Delafield was roused by a peremptory voice at his elbow. 

"This lady ought not to stay here, sir. There is plenty of room in theladies' cabin. "

Delafield looked up and recognized the captain of the boat, the same manwho, thirty-six hours before, had shown special civilities to the Dukeof Chudleigh and his party. 

"Ah, you are Captain Whittaker, " he said. 

The shrewd, stout man who had accosted him raised his eyebrows inastonishment. 

Delafield drew him aside a moment. After a short conversation thecaptain lifted his cap and departed, with a few words to the subordinateofficer who had drawn his attention to the matter. Henceforward theywere unmolested, and presently the officer brought a pillow and stripedblanket, saying they might be useful to the lady. Julie was sooncomfortably placed, lying down on the seat under the wooden shelter. Delicacy seemed to suggest that her companion should leave herto herself. 

Jacob walked up and down briskly, trying to shake off the cold whichbenumbed him. Every now and then he paused to look at the lights on thereceding French coast, at its gray phantom line sweeping southward underthe stormy moon, or disappearing to the north in clouds of rain. Therewas a roar of waves and a dashing of spray. The boat, not a large one, was pitching heavily, and the few male passengers who had at firsthaunted the deck soon disappeared. 

Delafield hung over the surging water in a strange exaltation, halfphysical, half moral. The wild salt strength and savor of the seabreathed something akin to that passionate force of will which hadimpelled him to the enterprise in which he stood. No mere man of theworld could have dared it; most men of the world, as he was well aware, would have condemned or ridiculed it. But for one who saw life andconduct _sub specie æternitatis_ it had seemed natural enough. 

The wind blew fierce and cold. He made his way back to Julie's side. Tohis surprise, she had raised herself and was sitting propped up againstthe corner of the seat, her veil thrown back. 

"You are better?" he said, stooping to her, so as to be heard againstthe boom of the waves. "This rough weather does not affect you?"

She made a negative sign. He drew his camp-stool beside her. Suddenlyshe asked him what time it was. The haggard nobleness of her pale faceamid the folds of black veil, the absent passion of the eye, thrilled tohis heart. Where were her thoughts?

"Nearly four o'clock. " He drew out his watch. "You see it is beginningto lighten, "

And he pointed to the sky, in which that indefinable lifting of thedarkness which precedes the dawn was taking place, and to the fardistances of sea, where a sort of livid clarity was beginning to absorband vanquish that stormy play of alternate dark and moonlight which hadprevailed when they left the French shore. 

He had hardly spoken, when he felt that her eyes were fixed upon him. 

To look at his watch, he had thrown open his long Newmarket coat, forgetting that in so doing he disclosed the evening-dress in which hehad robed himself at the Hôtel du Rhin for his friend's dinner at theCafé Gaillard. 

He hastily rebuttoned his coat, and turned his face seaward once more. But he heard her voice, and was obliged to come close to her that hemight catch the words. 

"You have given me your wraps, " she said, with difficulty. "You willsuffer. "

"Not at all. You have your own rug, and one that the captain provided. Ikeep myself quite warm with moving about. "

There was a pause. His mind began to fill with alarm. He was not of themen who act a part with ease; but, having got through so far, he hadcalculated on preserving his secret. 

Flight was best, and he was just turning away when a gesture of hersarrested him. Again he stooped till their faces were near enough to lether voice reach him. 

"Why are you in evening-dress?"

"I had intended to dine with a friend. There was not time to change. "

"Then you did not mean to cross to-night?"

He delayed a moment, trying to collect his thoughts. 

"Not when I dressed for dinner, but some sudden news decided me. "

Her head fell back wearily against the support behind it. The eyesclosed, and he, thinking she would perhaps sleep, was about to rise fromhis seat, when the pressure of her hand upon his arm detained him. Hesat still and the hand was withdrawn. 

There was a lessening of the roar in their ears. Under the lee of theEnglish shore the wind was milder, the "terror-music" of the sea lesstriumphant. And over everything was stealing the first discriminatingtouch of the coming light. Her face was clear now; and Delafield, atlast venturing to look at her, saw that her eyes were open again, andtrembled at their expression. There was in them a wild suspicion. Secretly, steadily, he nerved himself to meet the blow that he foresaw. 

"Mr. Delafield, have you told me all the truth?"

She sat up as she spoke, deadly pale but rigid. With an impatient handshe threw off the wraps which had covered her. Her face commandedan answer. 

"Certainly I have told you the truth. "

"Was it the whole truth? It seems--it seems to me that you were notprepared yourself for this journey--that there is some mystery--which Ido not understand--which I resent!"

"But what mystery? When I saw you, I of course thought of Evelyn'stelegram. "

"I should like to see that telegram. "

He hesitated. If he had been more skilled in the little falsehoods ofevery day he would simply have said that he had left it at the hotel. But he lost his chance. Nor at the moment did he clearly perceive whatharm it would do to show it to her. The telegram was in his pocket, andhe handed it to her. 

There was a dim oil-lamp in the shelter. With difficulty she held thefluttering paper up and just divined the words. Then the wind carried itaway and blew it overboard. He rose and leaned against the edge of theshelter, looking down upon her. There was in his mind a sense ofsomething solemn approaching, round which this sudden lull of blast andwave seemed to draw a "wind-warm space, " closing them in. 

"Why did you come with me?" she persisted, in an agitation she could nowscarcely control. "It is evident you had not meant to travel. You haveno luggage, and you are in evening-dress. And I remember now--you senttwo letters from the station!"

"I wished to be your escort. "

Her gesture was almost one of scorn at the evasion. 

"Why were you at the station at all? Evelyn had told you I was atBruges. And--you were dining out. I--I can't understand!"

She spoke with a frowning intensity, a strange queenliness, in which wasneither guilt nor confusion. 

A voice spoke in Delafield's heart. "Tell her!" it said. 

He bent nearer to her. 

"Miss Le Breton, with what friends were you going to stay in Paris?"

She breathed quick. 

"I am not a school-girl, I think, that I should be asked questions ofthat kind. "

"But on your answer depends mine. "

She looked at him in amazement. His gentle kindness had disappeared. Shesaw, instead, that Jacob Delafield whom her instinct had divined fromthe beginning behind the modest and courteous outer man, the JacobDelafield of whom she had told the Duchess she was afraid. 

But her passion swept every other thought out of its way. With dim agonyand rage she began to perceive that she had been duped. 

"Mr. Delafield"--she tried for calm--"I don't understand your attitude, but, so far as I do understand it, I find it intolerable. If you havedeceived me--"

"I have not deceived you. Lord Lackington is dying. "

"But that is not why you were at the station, " she repeated, passionately. "Why did you meet the English train?"

Her eyes, clear now in the cold light, shone upon him imperiously. 

Again the inner voice said: "Speak--get away from conventionalities. Speak--soul to soul!"

He sat down once more beside her. His gaze sought the ground. Then, withsharp suddenness, he looked her in the face. 

"Miss Le Breton, you were going to Paris to meet Major Warkworth?"

She drew back. 

"And if I was?" she said, with a wild defiance. 

"I had to prevent it, that was all. "

His tone was calm and resolution itself. 

"Who--who gave you authority over me?"

"One may save--even by violence. You were too precious to be allowed todestroy yourself. "

His look, so sad and strong, the look of a deep compassion, fasteneditself upon her. He felt himself, indeed, possessed by a force not hisown, that same force which in its supreme degree made of St. Francis"the great tamer of souls. "

"Who asked you to be our judge? Neither I nor Major Warkworth owe youanything. "

"No. But I owed you help--as a man--as your friend. The truth wassomehow borne in upon me. You were risking your honor--I threw myselfin the way. "

Every word seemed to madden her. 

"What--what could you know of the circumstances?" cried her choked, laboring voice. "It is unpardonable--an outrage! You know nothing eitherof him or of me. "

She clasped her hands to her breast in a piteous, magnificent gesture, as though she were defending her lover and her love. 

"I know that you have suffered much, " he said, dropping his eyes beforeher, "but you would suffer infinitely more if--"

"If you had not interfered. " Her veil had fallen over her face again. She flung it back in impatient despair. "Mr. Delafield, I can do withoutyour anxieties. "

"But not"--he spoke slowly--"without your own self-respect. "

Julie's face trembled. She hid it in her hands. 

"Go!" she said. "Go!"

He went to the farther end of the ship and stood there motionless, looking towards the land but seeing nothing. On all sides the darknesswas lifting, and in the distance there gleamed already the whitenessthat was Dover. His whole being was shaken with that experience whichcomes so rarely to cumbered and superficial men--the intimate wrestle ofone personality with another. It seemed to him he was not worthy of it. 

After some little time, when only a quarter of an hour lay between theship and Dover pier, he went back to Julie. 

She was sitting perfectly still, her hands clasped in front of her, herveil drawn down. 

"May I say one word to you?" he said, gently. 

She did not speak. 

"It is this. What I have confessed to you to-night is, of course, buriedbetween us. It is as though it had never been said. I have given youpain. I ask your pardon from the bottom of my heart, and, at the sametime"--his voice trembled--"I thank God that I had the courage todo it!"

She threw him a glance that showed her a quivering lip and the pallor ofintense emotion. 

"I know you think you were right, " she said, in a voice dull andstrained, "but henceforth we can only be enemies. You have tyrannizedover me in the name of standards that you revere and I reject. I canonly beg you to let my life alone for the future. "

He said nothing. She rose, dizzily, to her feet. They were rapidlyapproaching the pier. 

[Illustration: "HER HANDS CLASPED IN FRONT OF HER"]

With the cold aloofness of one who feels it more dignified to submitthan to struggle, she allowed him to assist her in landing. He put herinto the Victoria train, travelling himself in another carriage. 

As he walked beside her down the platform of Victoria Station, she saidto him:

"I shall be obliged if you will tell Evelyn that I have returned. "

"I go to her at once. "

She suddenly paused, and he saw that she was looking helplessly at oneof the newspaper placards of the night before. First among its itemsappeared: "Critical state of Lord Lackington. "

He hardly knew how far she would allow him to have any furthercommunication with her, but her pale exhaustion made it impossible notto offer to serve her. 

"It would be early to go for news now, " he said, gently. "It woulddisturb the house. But in a couple of hours from now"--the station clockpointed to 6. 15--"if you will allow me, I will leave the morningbulletin at your door. "

She hesitated. 

"You must rest, or you will have no strength for nursing, " he continued, in the same studiously guarded tone. "But if you would prefer anothermessenger--"

"I have none, " and she raised her hand to her brow in mute, unconsciousconfession of an utter weakness and bewilderment. 

"Then let me go, " he said, softly. 

It seemed to him that she was so physically weary as to be incapableeither of assent or resistance. He put her into her cab, and gave thedriver his directions. She looked at him uncertainly. But he did notoffer his hand. From those blue eyes of his there shot out upon her onepiercing glance--manly, entreating, sad. He lifted his hat and was gone. 

XX

"Jacob, what brings you back so soon?" The Duchess ran into the room, atrim little figure in her morning dress of blue-and-white cloth, withher small spitz leaping beside her. 

Delafield advanced. 

"I came to tell you that I got your telegram yesterday, and that in theevening, by an extraordinary and fortunate chance, I met Miss Le Bretonin Paris--"

"You met Julie in Paris?" echoed the Duchess, in astonishment. 

"She had come to spend a couple of days with some friends there beforegoing on to Bruges. I gave her the news of Lord Lackington's illness, and she at once turned back. She was much fatigued and distressed, andthe night was stormy. I put her into the sleeping-car, and came backmyself to see if I could be any assistance to her. And at Calais I wasof some use. The crossing was very rough. "

"Julie was in Paris?" repeated the Duchess, as though she had heardnothing else of what he had been saying. 

Her eyes, so blue and large in her small, irregular face, sought thoseof her cousin and endeavored to read them. 

"It seems to have been a rapid change of plan. And it was a great strokeof luck my meeting her. "

"But how--and where?"

"Oh, there is no time for going into that, " said Delafield, impatiently. "But I knew you would like to know that she was here--after your messageyesterday. We arrived a little after six this morning. About nine I wentfor news to St. James's Square. There is a slight rally. "

"Did you see Lord Uredale? Did you say anything about Julie?" asked theDuchess, eagerly. 

"I merely asked at the door, and took the bulletin to Miss Le Breton. Will you see Uredale and arrange it? I gather you saw him yesterday. "

"By all means, " said the Duchess, musing. "Oh, it was so curiousyesterday. Lord Lackington had just told them. You should have seenthose two men. "

"The sons?"

The Duchess nodded. 

"They don't like it. They were as stiff as pokers. But they will doabsolutely the right thing. They see at once that she must be providedfor. And when he asked for her they told me to telegraph, if I couldfind out where she was. Well, of all the extraordinary chances. "

She looked at him again, oddly, a spot of red on either small cheek. Delafield took no notice. He was pacing up and down, apparentlyin thought. 

"Suppose you take her there?" he said, pausing abruptly before her. 

"To St. James's Square? What did you tell her?"

"That he was a trifle better, and that you would come to her. "

"Yes, it would be hard for her to go alone, " said the Duchess, reflectively. She looked at her watch. "Only a little after eleven. Ring, please, Jacob. "

The carriage was ordered. Meanwhile the little lady inquired eagerlyafter her Julie. Had she been exhausted by the double journey? Was shealone in Paris, or was Madame Bornier with her?

Jacob had understood that Madame Bornier and the little girl had gonestraight to Bruges. 

The Duchess looked down and then looked up. 

"Did--did you come across Major Warkworth?"

"Yes, I saw him for a moment in the Rue de la Paix, He was starting forRome. "

The Duchess turned away as though ashamed of her question, and gave herorders for the carriage. Then her attention was suddenly drawn to hercousin. "How pale you look, Jacob, " she said, approaching him. "Won'tyou have something--some wine?"

Delafield refused, declaring that all he wanted was an hour or two'ssleep. 

"I go back to Paris to-morrow, " he said, as he prepared to take hisleave. "Will you be here to-night if I look in?"

"Alack! we go to Scotland to-night! It was just a piece of luck that youfound me this morning. Freddie is fuming to get away. "

Delafield paused a moment. Then he abruptly shook hands and went. 

"He wants news of what happens at St. James's Square, " thought theDuchess, suddenly, and she ran after him to the top of the stairs. "Jacob! If you don't mind a horrid mess to-night, Freddie and I shall bedining alone--of course we must have something to eat. Somewhere abouteight. Do look in. There'll be a cutlet--on a trunk--anyway. "

Delafield laughed, hesitated, and finally accepted. 

The Duchess went back to the drawing-room, not a little puzzled andexcited. 

"It's very, _very_ odd, " she said to herself. "And what _is_ the matterwith Jacob?"

 * * * * *

Half an hour later she drove to the splendid house in St. James's Squarewhere Lord Lackington lay dying. 

She asked for Lord Uredale, the eldest son, and waited in the librarytill he came. 

He was a tall, squarely built man, with fair hair already gray, andsomewhat absent and impassive manners. 

At sight of him the Duchess's eyes filled with tears. She hurried tohim, her soft nature dissolved in sympathy. 

"How is your father?"

"A trifle easier, though the doctors say there is no real improvement. But he is quite conscious--knows us all. I have just been reading himthe debate. "

"You told me yesterday he had asked for Miss Le Breton, " said theDuchess, raising herself on tiptoe as though to bring her low tonescloser to his ear. "She's here--in town, I mean. She came back fromParis last night. "

Lord Uredale showed no emotion of any kind. Emotion was not in his line. 

"Then my father would like to see her, " he said, in a dry, ordinaryvoice, which jarred upon the sentimental Duchess. 

"When shall I bring her?"

"He is now comfortable and resting. If you are free--"

The Duchess replied that she would go to Heribert Street at once. AsLord Uredale took her to her carriage a young man ran down the stepshastily, raised his hat, and disappeared. 

Lord Uredale explained that he was the husband of the famous youngbeauty, Mrs. Delaray, whose portrait Lord Lackington had been engagedupon at the time of his seizure. Having been all his life a skilfulartist, a man of fashion, and a harmless haunter of lovely women, LordLackington, as the Duchess knew, had all but completed a gallery of ahundred portraits, representing the beauty of the reign. Mrs. Delaray'swould have been the hundredth in a series of which Mrs. Norton wasthe first. 

"He has been making arrangements with the husband to get it finished, "said Lord Uredale; "it has been on his mind. "

The Duchess shivered a little. 

"He knows he won't finish it?"

"Quite well. "

"And he still thinks of those things?"

"Yes--or politics, " said Lord Uredale, smiling faintly. "I have writtento Mr. Montresor. There are two or three points my father wants todiscuss with him. "

"And he is not depressed, or troubled about himself?"

"Not in the least. He will be grateful if you will bring him Miss LeBreton. "

 * * * * *

"Julie, my darling, are you fit to come with me?"

The Duchess held her friend in her arms, soothing and caressing her. How forlorn was the little house, under its dust-sheets, on this rainy, spring morning! And Julie, amid the dismantled drawing-room, stoodspectrally white and still, listening, with scarcely a word in reply, tothe affection, or the pity, or the news which the Duchess pouredout upon her. 

"Shall we go now? I am quite ready. "

And she withdrew herself from the loving grasp which held her, and puton her hat and gloves. 

"You ought to be in bed, " said the Duchess. "Those night journeys aretoo abominable. Even Jacob looks a wreck. But what an extraordinarychance, Julie, that Jacob should have found you! How did you come acrosseach other?"

"At the Nord Station, " said Julie, as she pinned her veil before theglass over the mantel-piece. 

Some instinct silenced the Duchess. She asked no more questions, andthey started for St. James's Square. 

"You won't mind if I don't talk?" said Julie, leaning back and closingher eyes. "I seem still to have the sea in my ears. "

The Duchess looked at her tenderly, clasping her hand close, and thecarriage rolled along. But just before they reached St. James's Square, Julie hastily raised the fingers which held her own and kissed them. 

"Oh, Julie, " said the Duchess, reproachfully, "I don't like you to dothat!"

She flushed and frowned. It was she who ought to pay such acts ofhomage, not Julie. 

 * * * * *

"Father, Miss Le Breton is here. "

"Let her come in, Jack--and the Duchess, too. "

Lord Uredale went back to the door. Two figures came noiselessly intothe room, the Duchess in front, with Julie's hand in hers. 

Lord Lackington was propped up in bed, and breathing fast. But he smiledas they approached him. 

"This is good-bye, dear Duchess, " he said, in a whisper, as she bentover him. Then, with a spark of his old gayety in the eyes, "I should bea cur to grumble. Life has been very agreeable. Ah, Julie!"

Julie dropped gently on her knees beside him and laid her cheek againsthis arm. At the mention of her name the old man's face had clouded asthough the thoughts she called up had suddenly rebuked his words to theDuchess. He feebly moved his hands towards hers, and there was silencein the room for a few moments. 

"Uredale!"

"Yes, father. "

"This is Rose's daughter. "

His eyes lifted themselves to those of his son. 

"I know, father. If Miss Le Breton will allow us, we will do what we canto be of service to her. "

Bill Chantrey, the younger brother, gravely nodded assent. They wereboth men of middle age, the younger over forty. They did not resembletheir father, nor was there any trace in either of them of his waywardfascination. They were a pair of well-set-up, well-bred Englishmen, surprised at nothing, and quite incapable of showing any emotion inpublic; yet just and kindly men. As Julie entered the house they hadboth solemnly shaken hands with her, in a manner which showed at oncetheir determination, as far as they were concerned, to avoid anythingsentimental or in the nature of a scene, and their readiness to do whatcould be rightly demanded of them. 

Julie hardly listened to Lord Uredale's little speech. She had eyes andears only for her grandfather. As she knelt beside him, her face bowedupon his hand, the ice within her was breaking up, that dumb andstraitening anguish in which she had lived since that moment at the NordStation in which she had grasped the meaning and the implications ofDelafield's hurried words. Was everything to be swept away from her atonce--her lover, and now this dear old man, to whom her heart, crushedand bleeding as it was, yearned with all its strength?

Lord Lackington supposed that she was weeping. 

"Don't grieve, my dear, " he murmured. "It must come to an end sometime--'_cette charmante promenade à travers la réalité_!'"

And he smiled at her, agreeably vain to the last of that French accentand that French memory which--so his look implied--they two couldappreciate, each in the other. Then he turned to the Duchess. 

"Duchess, you knew this secret before me. But I forgive _you_, and thankyou. You have been very good to Rose's child. Julie has told me--and--Ihave observed--"

"Oh, dear Lord Lackington!" Evelyn bent over him. "Trust her to me, " shesaid, with a lovely yearning to comfort and cheer him breathing from herlittle face. 

He smiled. 

"To you--and--"

He did not finish the sentence. 

After a pause he made a little gesture of farewell which the Duchessunderstood. She kissed his hand and turned away weeping. 

"Nurse--where is nurse?" said Lord Lackington. 

Both the nurse and the doctor, who had withdrawn a little distance fromthe family group, came forward. 

"Doctor, give me some strength, " said the laboring voice, not withoutits old wilfulness of accent. 

He moved his arm towards the young homoeopath, who injected strychnine. Then he looked at the nurse. 

"Brandy--and--lift me. "

All was done as he desired. 

"Now go, please, " he said to his sons. "I wish to be left with Julie. "

 * * * * *

For some moments, that seemed interminable to Julie, Lord Lackington laysilent. A feverish flush, a revival of life in the black eyes hadfollowed on the administration of the two stimulants. He seemed to begathering all his forces. 

At last he laid his hand on her arm. "You shouldn't be alone, " he said, abruptly. 

His expression had grown anxious, even imperious. She felt a vague pangof dread as she tried to assure him that she had kind friends, and thather work would be her resource. 

Lord Lackington frowned. 

"That won't do, " he said, almost vehemently. "You have great talents, but you are weak--you are a woman--you must marry. "

Julie stared at him, whiter even than when she had entered hisroom--helpless to avert what she began to foresee. 

"Jacob Delafield is devoted to you. You should marry him, dear--youshould marry him. "

The room seemed to swim around her. But his face was still plain--thepurpled lips and cheeks, the urgency in the eyes, as of one pursued byan overtaking force, the magnificent brow, the crown of white hair. 

She summoned all her powers and told him hurriedly that he wasmistaken--entirely mistaken. Mr. Delafield had, indeed, proposed to her, but, apart from her own unwillingness, she had reason to know that hisfeelings towards her were now entirely changed. He neither loved her northought well of her. 

Lord Lackington lay there, obstinate, patient, incredulous. At last heinterrupted her. 

"You make yourself believe these things. But they are not true. Delafield is attached to you. I know it. "

He nodded to her with his masterful, affectionate look. And before shecould find words again he had resumed. 

"He could give you a great position. Don't despise it. We Englishbig-wigs have a good time. "

A ghostly, humorous ray shot out upon her; then he felt for her hand. 

"Dear Julie, why won't you?"

"If you were to ask him, " she cried, in despair, "he would tell you as Ido. "

And across her miserable thoughts there flashed two mingledimages--Warkworth waiting, waiting for her at the Sceaux Station, andthat look of agonized reproach in Delafield's haggard face as he hadparted from her in the dawn of this strange, this incredible day. 

And here beside her, with the tyranny of the dying, this dear babblerwandered on in broken words, with painful breath, pleading, scolding, counselling. She felt that he was exhausting himself. She begged him tolet her recall nurse and doctor. He shook his head, and when he could nolonger speak, he clung to her hand, his gaze solemnly, insistently, fixed upon her. 

Her spirit writhed and rebelled. But she was helpless in the presence ofthis mortal weakness, this affection, half earthly, half beautiful, onits knees before her. 

A thought struck her. Why not content him? Whatever pledges she gavewould die with him. What did it matter? It was cruelty to deny him thewords--the mere empty words--he asked of her. 

"I--I would do anything to please you!" she said, with a sudden burst ofuncontrollable tears, as she laid her head down beside him on thepillow. "If he _were_ to ask me again, of course, for your sake, I wouldconsider it once more. Dear, dear friend, won't that satisfy you?"

Lord Lackington was silent a few moments, then he smiled. 

"That's a promise?"

She raised herself and looked at him, conscious of a sick movement ofterror. What was there in his mind, still so quick, fertile, ingenious, under the very shadow of death?

He waited for her answer, feebly pressing her hand. 

"Yes, " she said, faintly, and once more hid her face beside him. 

Then, for some little time, the dying man neither stirred nor spoke. Atlast Julie heard:

"I used to be afraid of death--that was in middle life. Every night itwas a torment. But now, for many years, I have not been afraid atall.... Byron--Lord Byron--said to me, once, he would not changeanything in his life; but he would have preferred not to have lived atall. I could not say that. I have enjoyed it all--being an Englishman, and an English peer--pictures, politics, society--everything. Perhaps itwasn't fair. There are so many poor devils. "

Julie pressed his hand to her lips. But in her thoughts there rose thesudden, sharp memory of her mother's death--of that bitter stoicism andabandonment in which the younger life had closed, in comparison withthis peace, this complacency. 

Yet it was a complacency rich in sweetness. His next words were toassure her tenderly that he had made provision for her. "Uredale andBill--will see to it. They're good fellows. Often--they've thought me--apretty fool. But they've been kind to me--always. "

Then, after another interval, he lifted himself in bed, with morestrength than she had supposed he could exert, looked at her earnestly, and asked her, in the same painful whisper, whether she believed inanother life. 

"Yes, " said Julie. But her shrinking, perfunctory manner evidentlydistressed him. He resumed, with a furrowed brow:

"You ought. It is good for us to believe it. "

"I must hope, at any rate, that I shall see you again--and mamma, " shesaid, smiling on him through her tears. 

"I wonder what it will be like, " he replied, after a pause. His tone andlook implied a freakish, a whimsical curiosity, yet full of charm. Then, motioning to her to come nearer, and speaking into her ear:

"Your poor mother, Julie, was never happy--never! There must be laws, you see--and churches--and religious customs. It's because--we're madeof such wretched stuff. My wife, when she died--made me promise tocontinue going to church--and praying. And--without it--I should havebeen a bad man. Though I've had plenty of sceptical thoughts--plenty. Your poor parents rebelled--against all that. They suffered--theysuffered. But you'll make up--you're a noble woman--you'll make up. "

He laid his hand on her head. She offered no reply; but through theinner mind there rushed the incidents, passions, revolts of thepreceding days. 

But for that strange chance of Delafield's appearance in her path--achance no more intelligible to her now, after the pondering of severalfeverish hours, than it had been at the moment of her firstsuspicion--where and what would she be now? A dishonored woman, perhaps, with a life-secret to keep; cut off, as her mother had been, from thestraight-living, law-abiding world. 

The touch of the old man's hand upon her hair roused in her a firstrecoil, a first shattering doubt of the impulse which had carried her toParis. Since Delafield left her in the early dawn she had been pouringout a broken, passionate heart in a letter to Warkworth. No misgivingswhile she was writing it as to the all-sufficing legitimacy of love!

But here, in this cold neighborhood of the grave--brought back to gazein spirit; on her mother's tragedy--she shrank, she trembled. Her proudintelligence denied the stain, and bade her hate and despise herrescuer. And, meanwhile, things also inherited and inborn, the fruit ofa remoter ancestry, rising from the dimmest and deepest caverns ofpersonality, silenced the clamor of the naturalist mind. One moment shefelt herself seized with terror lest anything should break down the veilbetween her real self and this unsuspecting tenderness of the dying man;the next she rose in revolt against her own fear. Was she to findherself, after all, a mere weak penitent--meanly grateful to JacobDelafield? Her heart cried out to Warkworth in a protesting anguish. 

So absorbed in thought was she that she did not notice how long thesilence had lasted. 

"He seems to be sleeping, " said a low voice beside her. 

She looked up to see the doctor, with Lord Uredale. Gently releasingherself, she kissed Lord Lackington's forehead, and rose to her feet. 

Suddenly the patient opened his eyes, and as he seemed to become awareof the figures beside him, he again lifted himself in bed, and a gleammost animated, most vivacious, passed over his features. 

"Brougham's not asked, " he said, with a little chuckle of amusement. "Isn't it a joke?"

The two men beside him looked at each other. Lord Uredale approached thebed. 

"Not asked to what, father?" he said, gently. 

"Why, to the Queen's fancy ball, of course, " said Lord Lackington, stillsmiling. "Such a to-do! All the elderly sticks practising minuets fortheir lives!"

A voluble flow of talk followed--hardly intelligible. The words"Melbourne" and "Lady Holland" emerged--the fragment, apparently, of adispute with the latter, in which "Allen" intervened--the names of"Palmerston" and "that dear chap, Villiers. "

Lord Uredale sighed. The young doctor looked at him interrogatively. 

"He is thinking of his old friends, " said the son. "That was the Queen'sball, I imagine, of '42. I have often heard him describe mymother's dress. "

But while he was speaking the fitful energy died away. The old manceased to talk; his eyelids fell. But the smile still lingered about hismouth, and as he settled himself on his pillows, like one who rests, thespectators were struck by the urbane and distinguished beauty of hisaspect. The purple flush had died again into mortal pallor. Illness hadmasked or refined the weakness of mouth and chin; the beautiful head andcountenance, with their characteristic notes of youth, impetuosity, akind of gay detachment, had never been more beautiful. 

The young doctor looked stealthily from the recumbent figure to the talland slender woman standing absorbed and grief-stricken beside the bed. The likeness was as evident to him as it had been, in the winter, to SirWilfrid Bury. 

 * * * * *

As he was escorting her down-stairs, Lord Uredale said to his companion, "Foster thinks he may still live twenty-four hours. "

"If he asks for me again, " said Julie, now shrouded once more behind athick, black veil, "you will send?"

He gravely assented. 

"It is a great pity, " he said, with a certain stiffness--did itunconsciously mark the difference between her and his legitimatekindred?--"that my sister Lady Blanche and her daughter cannot bewith us. "

"They are in Italy?"

"At Florence. My niece has had an attack of diphtheria. She couldneither travel nor could her mother leave her. "

Then pausing in the hall, he added in a low voice, and with someembarrassment:

"My father has told you, I believe, of the addition he has made to hiswill?"

Julie drew back. 

"I neither asked for it nor desired it, " she said, in her coldest andclearest voice. 

"That I quite understand, " said Lord Uredale. "But--you cannot hurt himby refusing. "

She hesitated. 

"No. But afterwards--I must be free to follow my own judgment. "

"We cannot take what does not belong to us, " he said, with somesharpness. "My brother and I are named as your trustees. Believe me, wewill do our best. "

Meanwhile the younger brother had come out of the library to bid herfarewell. She felt that she was under critical observation, though bothpairs of gray eyes refrained from any appearance of scrutiny. Her pridecame to her aid, and she did not shrink from the short conversationwhich the two brothers evidently desired. When it was over, and thebrothers returned to the hall after putting her into the Duchess'scarriage, the younger said to the elder:

"She can behave herself, Johnnie. "

They looked at each other, with their hands in their pockets. A littlenod passed between them--an augur-like acceptance of this new andirregular member of the family. 

"Yes, she has excellent manners, " said Uredale. "And really, after thetales Lady Henry has been spreading--that's something!"

"Oh, I always thought Lady Henry an old cat, " said Bill, tranquilly. "That don't matter. "

The Chantrey brothers had not been among Lady Henry's _habitués_. In hereyes, they were the dull sons of an agreeable father. They werehumorously aware of it, and bore her little malice. 

"No, " said Uredale, raising his eyebrows; "but the 'affaire Warkworth'?If there's any truth in what one hears, that's deuced unpleasant. "

Bill Chantrey whistled. 

"It's hard luck on that poor child Aileen that it should be her owncousin interfering with her preserves. By-the-way"--he stooped to lookat the letters on the hall table--"do you see there's a letter forfather from Blanche? And in a letter I got from her by the same post, she says that she has told him the whole story. According to her, Aileen's too ill to be thwarted, and she wants the governor to see theguardians. I say, Johnnie"--he looked at his brother--"we'll not troublethe father with it now?"

"Certainly not, " said Uredale, with a sigh. "I saw one of thetrustees--Jack Underwood--yesterday. He told me Blanche and the childwere more infatuated than ever. Very likely what one hears is a pack oflies. If not, I hope this woman will have the good taste to drop it. Father has charged me to write to Blanche and tell her the whole storyof poor Rose, and of this girl's revealing herself. Blanche, it appears, is just as much in the dark as we were. "

"If this gossip has got round to her, her feelings will be mixed. Oh, well, I've great faith in the money, " said Bill Chantrey, carelessly, asthey began to mount the stairs again. "It sounds disgusting; but if thechild wants him I suppose she must have him. And, anyway, the man's offto Africa for a twelvemonth at least. Miss Le Breton will have time toforget him. One can't say that either he or she has behaved withdelicacy--unless, indeed, she knew nothing of Aileen, which is quiteprobable. "

"Well, don't ask me to tackle her, " said Uredale. "She has the ways ofan empress. "

Bill Chantrey shrugged his shoulders. "And, by George! she looks as ifshe could fall in love, " he said, slowly. "Magnificent eyes, Johnnie. Ipropose to make a study of our new niece. "

"Lord Uredale!" said a voice on the stairs. 

The young doctor descended rapidly to meet them. 

"His lordship is asking for some one, " he said. "He seems excited. But Icannot catch the name. "

Lord Uredale ran up-stairs. 

 * * * * *

Later in the day a man emerged from Lackington House and walked rapidlytowards the Mall. It was Jacob Delafield. 

He passed across the Mall and into St. James's Park. There he threwhimself on the first seat he saw, in an absorption so deep that itexcited the wondering notice of more than one passer-by. 

After about half an hour he roused himself, and walked, still in thesame brown study, to his lodgings in Jermyn Street. There he found aletter which he eagerly opened. 

 * * * * *

"DEAR JACOB, --Julie came back this morning about one o'clock. I waitedfor her--and at first she seemed quite calm and composed. But suddenly, as I was sitting beside her, talking, she fainted away in her chair, andI was terribly alarmed. We sent for a doctor at once. He shakes his headover her, and says there are all the signs of a severe strain of bodyand mind. No wonder, indeed--our poor Julie! Oh, how I _loathe_ somepeople! Well, there she is in bed, Madame Bornier away, and everybody. Isimply _can't_ go to Scotland. But Freddie is just mad. Do, Jacob, there's a dear, go and dine with him to-night and cheer him up. He vowshe won't go north without me. _Perhaps_ I'll come to-morrow. I could nomore leave Julie to-night than fly. 

"She'll be ill for weeks. What I ought to do is to take her abroad. She's _very_ dear and good; but, oh, Jacob, as she lies there I _feel_her heart's broken. And it's not Lord Lackington. Oh no! though I'm sureshe loved him. _Do_ go to Freddie, there's a dear. "

 * * * * *

"No, that I won't!" said Delafield, with a laugh that choked him, as hethrew the letter down. 

He tried to write an answer, but could not achieve even the simplestnote. Then he began a pacing of his room, which lasted till he droppedinto his chair, worn out with the sheer physical exhaustion of the nightand day. When his servant came in he found his master in a heavy sleep. And, at Crowborough House, the Duke dined and fumed alone. 

XXI

"Why does any one stay in England who _can_ make the trip to Paradise?"said the Duchess, as she leaned lazily back in the corner of the boatand trailed her fingers in the waters of Como. 

It was a balmy April afternoon, and she and Julie were floating througha scene enchanted, incomparable. When spring descends upon the shores ofthe Lago di Como, she brings with her all the graces, all the beauties, all the fine, delicate, and temperate delights of which earth and skyare capable, and she pours them forth upon a land of perfect loveliness. Around the shores of other lakes--Maggiore, Lugano, Garda--bluemountains rise, and the vineyards spread their green and dazzlingterraces to the sun. Only Como can show in unmatched union a maincomposition, incomparably grand and harmonious, combined with everyjewelled, or glowing, or exquisite detail. Nowhere do the mountains leantowards each other in such an ordered splendor as that which bends roundthe northern shores of Como. Nowhere do buttressed masses rise behindeach other, to right and left of a blue water-way, in lines statelier ormore noble than those kept by the mountains of the Lecco Lake, as theymarshal themselves on either hand, along the approaches to Lombardy andVenetia; bearing aloft, as though on the purple pillars of some majesticgateway, the great curtain of dazzling cloud which, on a sunny day, hangs over the Brescian plain--a glorious drop-scene, interposed betweenthe dwellers on the Como Mountains, and those marble towns, Brescia, Verona, Padua, which thread the way to Venice. 

And within this divine frame-work, between the glistening snows whichstill, in April, crown and glorify the heights, and those reflections ofthem which lie encalmed in the deep bosom of the lake, there's not afoot of pasture, not a shelf of vineyard, not a slope of forest wherethe spring is not at work, dyeing the turf with gentians, starring itwith narcissuses, or drawing across it the first golden net-work of thechestnut leaves; where the mere emerald of the grass is not in itself athing to refresh the very springs of being; where the peach-blossom andthe wild-cherry and the olive are not perpetually weaving patterns onthe blue, which ravish the very heart out of your breast. And alreadythe roses are beginning to pour over the walls; the wistaria is climbingup the cypresses; a pomp of camellias and azaleas is in all the gardens;while in the grassy bays that run up into the hills the primrose banksstill keep their sweet austerity, and the triumph of spring over thejust banished winter is still sharp and new. 

And in the heart and sense of Julie Le Breton, as she sat beside theDuchess, listening absently to the talk of the old boatman, who, withhis oars resting idly in his hands, was chattering to the ladies, arenewing force akin to that of the spring was also at its healing andlife-giving work. She had still the delicate, tremulous look of onerecovering from a sore wrestle with physical ill; but in her aspectthere were suggestions more intimate, more moving than this. Those whohave lain down and risen up with pain; those who have been face to facewith passion and folly and self-judgment; those who have been forced toseek with eagerness for some answer to those questions which themajority of us never ask, "Whither is my life leading me--and what is itworth to me or to any other living soul?"--these are the men and womenwho now and then touch or startle us with the eyes and the voice ofJulie, if, at least, we have the capacity that responds. Sir WilfridBury, for instance, prince of self-governed and reasonable men, was notto be touched by Julie. For him, in spite of her keen intelligence, shewas the _type passionné_, from which he instinctively recoiled--the Dukeof Crowborough the same. Such men feel towards such women as Julie LeBreton hostility or satire; for what they ask, above all, of the womenof their world is a kind of simplicity, a kind of lightness which makeslife easier for men. 

But for natures like Evelyn Crowborough--or Meredith--or JacobDelafield--the Julie-type has perennial attractions. For these are all_children of feeling_, allied in this, however different in intelligenceor philosophy. They are attracted by the storm-tossed temperament initself; by mere sensibility; by that which, in the technical language ofCatholicism, suggests or possesses "the gift of tears. " At any rate, pity and love for her poor Julie--however foolish, however faulty--laywarm in Evelyn Crowborough's breast; they had brought her to Como; theykept her now battling on the one hand with her husband's angry lettersand on the other with the melancholy of her most perplexing, mostappealing friend. 

"I had often heard" [wrote the sore-tried Duke] "of the ravages wroughtin family life by these absurd and unreasonable female friendships, butI never thought that it would be you, Evelyn, who would bring them hometo me. I won't repeat the arguments I have used a hundred times in vain. But once again I implore and demand that you should find some kind, responsible person to look after Miss Le Breton--I don't care what youpay--and that you yourself should come home to me and the children andthe thousand and one duties you are neglecting. 

"As for the spring month in Scotland, which I generally enjoy so much, that has been already entirely ruined. And now the season is apparentlyto be ruined also. On the Shropshire property there is an importantelection coming on, as I am sure you know; and the Premier said to meonly yesterday that he hoped you were already up and doing. The GrandDuke of C---- will be in London within the next fortnight. Iparticularly want to show him some civility. But what can I do withoutyou--and how on earth am I to explain your absence?

"Once more, Evelyn, I beg and I demand that you should come home. "

To which the Duchess had rushed off a reply without a post's delay. 

"Oh, Freddie, you are such a wooden-headed darling! As if I hadn'texplained till I'm black in the face. I'm glad, anyway, you didn't saycommand; that would really have made difficulties. 

"As for the election, I'm sure if I was at home I should think it verygood fun. Out here I am extremely doubtful whether we ought to do suchthings as you and Lord M---- suggest. A duke shouldn't interfere inelections. Anyway, I'm sure it's good for my character to consider it alittle--though I quite admit you may lose the election. 

"The Grand Duke is a horrid wretch, and if he wasn't a grand duke you'dbe the first to cut him. I had to spend a whole dinner-time last year inteaching him his proper place. It was very humiliating, and not at allamusing. You can have a men's dinner for him. That's all he's fit for. 

"And as for the babies, Mrs. Robson sends me a telegram every morning. Ican't make out that they have had a finger-ache since I went away, and Iam sure mothers are entirely superfluous. All the same, I think aboutthem a great deal, especially at night. Last night I tried to thinkabout their education--if only I wasn't such a sleepy creature! But, atany rate, I never in my life tried to think about it at home. So that'sso much to the good. 

"Indeed, I'll come back to you soon, you poor, forsaken, old thing! ButJulie has no one in the world, and I feel like a Newfoundland dog whohas pulled some one out of the water. The water was deep; and the life'sonly just coming back; and the dog's not much good. But he sits there, for company, till the doctor comes, and that's just what I'm doing. 

"I know you don't approve of the notions I have in my head now. Butthat's because you don't understand. Why don't you come out and join us?Then you'd like Julie as much as I do; everything would be quite simple;and I shouldn't be in the least jealous. 

"Dr. Meredith is coming here, probably to-night, and Jacob should arriveto-morrow on his way to Venice, where poor Chudleigh and his boy are. "

 * * * * *

The _breva_, or fair-weather wind, from the north was blowing freshlyyet softly down the lake. The afternoon sun was burning on Bellaggio, onthe long terrace of the Melzi villa, on the white mist of fruit-blossomthat lay lightly on the green slopes above San Giovanni. 

Suddenly the Duchess and the boatman left the common topics of every dayby which the Duchess was trying to improve her Italian--such as theproposed enlargement of the Bellevue Hotel, the new villas that werespringing up, the gardens of the Villa Carlotta, and so forth. Evelynhad carelessly asked the old man whether he had been in any of thefighting of '59, and in an instant, under her eyes, he became anotherbeing. Out rolled a torrent of speech; the oars lay idly on the water;and through the man's gnarled and wrinkled face there blazed a high andillumining passion. Novara and its beaten king, in '49; the ten years ofwaiting, when a whole people bode its time, in a gay, grim silence; thegrudging victory of Magenta; the fivefold struggle that wrenched thehills of San Martino from the Austrians; the humiliations and the rageof Villafranca--of all these had this wasted graybeard made a part. Andhe talked of them with the Latin eloquence and facility, as no veteranof the north could have talked; he was in a moment the equal of thesegreat affairs in which he had mingled; so that one felt in him the sonof a race which had been rolled and polished--a pebble, as it were, fromrocks which had made the primeval frame-work of the world--in the maincourse and stream of history. 

Then from the campaign of '59 he fell back on the Five Days of Milan in'48--the immortal days, when a populace drove out an army, and whatbegan almost in jest ended in a delirium, a stupefaction of victory. Hislanguage was hot, broken, confused, like the street fighting itchronicled. Afterwards--a further sharpening and blanching of the oldface--and he had carried them deep into the black years of Italy'spatience and Austria's revenge. Throwing out a thin arm, he pointedtowards town after town on the lake shores, now in the brilliance ofsunset, now in the shadow of the northern slope--Gravedona, Varenna, Argegno--towns which had each of them given their sons to the Austrianbullet and the Austrian lash for the ransom of Italy. 

He ran through the sacred names--Stazzonelli, Riccini, Crescieri, Ronchetti, Ceresa, Previtali--young men, almost all of them, shot forthe possession of a gun or a knife, for helping their comrades in theAustrian army to desert, for "insulting conduct" towards an Austriansoldier or officer. 

Of one of these executions, which he had himself witnessed atVarese--the shooting of a young fellow of six-and-twenty, his own friendand kinsman--he gave an account which blanched the Duchess's cheeks andbrought the big tears into her eyes. Then, when he saw the effect he hadproduced, the old man trembled. 

"Ah, eccellenza, " he cried, "but it had to be! The Italians had to showthey knew how to die; then God let them live. Ecco, eccellenza!"

And he drew from his breast-pocket, with shaking hands, an old envelopetied round with string. When he had untied it, a piece of paper emerged, brown with age and worn with much reading. It was a rudely printedbroadsheet containing an account of the last words and sufferings of themartyrs of Mantua--those conspirators of 1852--from whose graves anddungeons sprang, tenfold renewed, the regenerating and liberating forceswhich, but a few years later, drove out the Austrian with the Bourbon, together. 

"See here, eccellenza, " he said, as he tenderly spread out its tatteredfolds and gave it into the Duchess's hand. "Have the goodness to lookwhere is that black mark. There you will find the last words of DonEnrico Tazzoli, the half-brother of my father. He was a priest, eccellenza. Ah, it was not then as it is now! The priests were then forItaly. They hanged three of them at Mantua alone. As for Don Enrico, first they stripped him of his priesthood, and then they hanged him. Andthose were his last words, and the last words of Scarsellini also, whosuffered with him. _Veda eccellenza_! As for me, I know them froma boy. "

And while the Duchess read, the old man repeated tags and fragmentsunder his breath, as he once more resumed the oars and drove the boatgently towards Menaggio. 

"_The multitude of victims has not robbed us of courage in the past, norwill it so rob us in the future--till victory dawns. The cause of thepeople is like the cause of religion--it triumphs only through itsmartyrs.... You--who survive--will conquer, and in your victory we, thedead, shall live_.... 

"_Take no thought for us; the blood of the forerunners is like the seedwhich the wise husbandman scatters on the fertile ground_.... _Teach ouryoung men how to adore and how to suffer for a great idea. Workincessantly at that; so shall our country come to birth; and grieve notfor us!... Yes, Italy shall be one! To that all things point. _ WORK!_There is no obstacle that cannot be overcome, no opposition that cannotbe destroyed. The_ HOW _and the_ WHEN _only remain to be solved. You, more fortunate than we, will find the clew to the riddle, when allthings are accomplished, and the times are ripe.... Hope!--my parents, and my brothers--hope always!--waste no time in weeping_. "

The Duchess read aloud the Italian, and Julie stooped over her shoulderto follow the words. 

"Marvellous!" said Julie, in a low voice, as she sank back into herplace. "A youth of twenty-seven, with the rope round his neck, and hecomforts himself with 'Italy. ' What's 'Italy' to him, or he to 'Italy'?"Not even an immediate paradise. "Is there anybody capable of it now?"

Her face and attitude had lost their languor. As the Duchess returnedhis treasure to the old man she looked at Julie with joy. Not since herillness had there been any such sign of warmth and energy. 

And, indeed, as they floated on, past the glow of Bellaggio, towards thebroad gold and azure of the farther lake, the world-defying passion thatbreathed from these words of dead and murdered Italians played as abracing and renewing power on Julie's still feeble being. It was akin tothe high snows on those far Alps that closed in the lake--to the purewind that blew from them--to the "gleam, the shadow, and the peacesupreme, " amid which their little boat pressed on towards the shore. 

"What matter, " cried the intelligence, but as though through sobs--"whatmatter the individual struggle and misery? These can be lived down. Theheart can be silenced--nerves steadied--strength restored. Will and idearemain--the eternal spectacle of the world, and the eternal thirst ofman to see, to know, to feel, to realize himself, if not in one passion, then in another. If not in love, then in patriotism--art--thought. "

 * * * * *

The Duchess and Julie landed presently beneath the villa of which theywere the passing tenants. The Duchess mounted the double staircase wherethe banksia already hung in a golden curtain over the marble balustrade. Her face was thoughtful. She had to write her daily letter to the absentand reproachful Duke. 

Julie parted from her with a caress, and paused awhile to watch thesmall figure till it mounted out of sight. Her friend had become verydear to her. A new humility, a new gratitude filled her heart. Evelynshould not sacrifice herself much longer. When she had insisted oncarrying her patient abroad, Julie had neither mind nor will wherewithto resist. But now--the Duke should soon come to his own again. 

She herself turned inland for that short walk by which each day shetested her returning strength. She climbed the winding road to Criante, the lovely village above Cadenabbia; then, turning to the left, shemounted a path that led to the woods which overhang the famous gardensof the Villa Carlotta. 

Such a path! To the left hand, and, as it seemed, steeply beneath herfeet, all earth and heaven--the wide lake, the purple mountains, theglories of a flaming sky. On the calm spaces of water lay a shimmer ofcrimson and gold, repeating the noble splendor of the clouds; themidgelike boats crept from shore to shore; and, midway between Bellaggioand Cadenabbia, the steam-boat, a white speck, drew a silver furrow. Toher right a green hill-side--each blade of grass, each flower, eachtuft of heath, enskied, transfigured, by the broad light that pouredacross it from the hidden west. And on the very hill-top a few scatteredolives, peaches, and wild cherries scrawled upon the blue, their bare, leaning stems, their pearly whites, their golden pinks and featherygrays all in a glory of sunset that made of them things enchanted, aerial, fantastical, like a dance of Botticelli angels on the height. 

And presently a sheltered bank in a green hollow, where Julie sat downto rest. But nature, in this tranquil spot, had still new pageants, newsorceries wherewith to play upon the nerves of wonder. Across the hollowa great crag clothed in still leafless chestnut-trees reared itselfagainst the lake. The innumerable lines of stem and branch, warm brownor steely gray, were drawn sharp on silver air, while at the very summitof the rock one superb tree with branching limbs, touched with intenseblack, sprang high above the rest, the proud plume or ensign of thewood. Through the trunks the blaze of distant snow and the purples ofcraggy mountains; in front the glistening spray of peach or cherryblossom, breaking the still wintry beauty of that majestic grove. And inall the air, dropping from the heaven, spread on the hills, orshimmering on the lake, a diffusion of purest rose and deepest blue, lake and cloud and mountain each melting into the other, as thoughheaven and earth conspired merely to give value and relief to the year'snew birth, to this near sparkle of young leaf and blossom which shonelike points of fire on the deep breast of the distance. 

On the green ledge which ran round the hollow were children tugging at agoat. Opposite was a _contadino's_ house of gray stone. A water-wheelturned beside it, and a stream, brought down from the hills, ranchattering past, a white and dancing thread of water. Everything wasvery still and soft. The children and the river made their voices heard;and there were nightingales singing in the woods below. Otherwise allwas quiet. With a tranquil and stealthy joy the spring was takingpossession. Nay--the Angelus! It swung over the lake and rolled fromvillage to village.... 

The tears were in Julie's eyes. Such beauty as this was apt now to crushand break her. All her being was still sore, and this appeal of naturewas sometimes more than she could bear. 

Only a few short weeks since Warkworth had gone out of her life--sinceDelafield at a stroke had saved her from ruin--since Lord Lackington hadpassed away. 

One letter had reached her from Warkworth, a wild and incoherent letter, written at night in a little room of a squalid hotel near the Gare deSceaux. Her telegram had reached him, and for him, as for her, allwas over. 

But the letter was by no means a mere cry of baffled passion. There wasin it a new note of moral anguish, as fresh and startling in her ear, coming from him, as the cry of passion itself. In the language ofreligion, it was the utterance of a man "convicted of sin. "

 "How long is it since that man gave me your telegram? I was pacing up and down the departure platform, working myself into an agony of nervousness and anxiety as the time went by, wondering what on earth had happened to you, when the _chef de gare_ came up: 'Monsieur attend une dépêche?' There were some stupid formalities--at last I got it. It seemed to me I had already guessed what it contained. 

 "So it was _Delafield_ who met you--Delafield who turned you back?

 "I saw him outside the hotel yesterday, and we exchanged a few words. I have always disliked his long, pale face and his high and mighty ways--at any rate, towards plain fellows, who don't belong to the classes, like me. Yesterday I was more than usually anxious to get rid of him. 

 "So he guessed?

 "It can't have been chance. In some way he guessed. And you have been torn from me. My God! If I could only reach him--if I could fling his contempt in his face! And yet--

 "I have been walking up and down this room all night. The longing for you has been the sharpest suffering I suppose that I have ever known. For I am not one of the many people who enjoy pain. I have kept as free of it as I could. This time it caught and gripped me. Yet that isn't all. There has been something else. 

 "What strange, patched creatures we are! Do you know, Julie, that by the time the dawn came I was on my knees--thanking God that we were parted--that you were on your way home--safe--out of my reach? Was I mad, or what? I can't explain it. I only know that one moment I hated Delafield as a mortal enemy--whether he was conscious of what he had done or no--and the next I found myself blessing him!

 "I understand now what people mean when they talk of conversion. It seems to me that in the hours I have just passed through things have come to light in me that I myself never suspected. I came of an Evangelical stock--I was brought up in a religious household. I suppose that one can't, after all, get away from the blood and the life that one inherits. My poor, old father--I was a bad son, and I know I hastened his death--was a sort of Puritan saint, with very stern ideas. I seem to have been talking with him this night, and shrinking under his condemnation. I could see his old face, as he put before me the thoughts I had dared to entertain, the risks I had been ready to take towards the woman I loved--the woman to whom I owed a deep debt of eternal gratitude. 

 "Julie, it is strange how this appointment affects me. Last night I saw several people at the Embassy--good fellows--who seemed anxious to do all they could for me. Such men never took so much notice of me before. It is plain to me that this task will make or mar me. I may fail. I may die. But if I succeed England will owe me something, and these men at the top of the tree--

 "Good God! how can I go on writing this to you? It's because I came back to the hotel and tossed about half the night brooding over the difference between what these men--these honorable, distinguished fellows--were prepared to think of me, and the blackguard I knew myself to be. What, take everything from a woman's hand, and then turn and try and drag her in the mire--propose to her what one would shoot a man for proposing to one's sister! Thief and cur. 

 "Julie--kind, beloved Julie--forget it all! For God's sake, let's cast it all behind us! As long as I live, your name, your memory will live in my heart. We shall not meet, probably, for many years. You'll marry and be happy yet. Just now I know you're suffering. I seem to see you in the train--on the steamer--your pale face that has lighted up life for me--your dear, slender hands that folded so easily into one of mine. You are in pain, my darling. Your nature is wrenched from its natural supports. And you gave me all your fine, clear mind, and all your heart. I ought to be damned to the deepest hell!

 "Then, again, I say to myself, if only she were here! If only I had her _here_, with her arms round my neck, surely I might have found the courage and the mere manliness to extricate both herself and me from these entanglements. Aileen might have released and forgiven one. 

 "No, no! It's all over! I'll go and do my task. You set it me. You sha'n't be ashamed of me there. 

 "Good-bye, Julie, my love--good-bye--forever!"

These were portions of that strange document composed through theintervals of a long night, which showed in Warkworth's mind the survivalof a moral code, inherited from generations of scrupulous andGod-fearing ancestors, overlaid by selfish living, and now revived underthe stress, the purification partly of deepening passion, partly of ahigh responsibility. The letter was incoherent, illogical; it showed nowthe meaner, now the nobler elements of character; but it was human; itcame from the warm depths of life, and it had exerted in the end acomposing and appeasing force upon the woman to whom it was addressed. He had loved her--if only at the moment of parting--he had loved her! Atthe last there had been feeling, sincerity, anguish, and to these allthings may be forgiven. 

And, indeed, what in her eyes there was to forgive, Julie had longforgiven. Was it his fault if, when they met first, he was alreadypledged--for social and practical reasons which her mind perfectlyrecognized and understood--to Aileen Moffatt? Was it his fault if therelations between herself and him had ripened into a friendship which inits turn could only maintain itself by passing into love? No! It wasshe, whose hidden, insistent passion--nourished, indeed, upon a tragicignorance--had transformed what originally he had a perfect right tooffer and to feel. 

So she defended him; for in so doing she justified herself. And as tothe Paris proposal, he had a right to treat her as a woman capable ofdeciding for herself how far love should carry her; he had a right toassume that her antecedents, her training, and her circumstances werenot those of the ordinary sheltered girl, and that for her love mightnaturally wear a bolder and wilder aspect than for others. He blamedhimself too severely, too passionately; but for this very blame herheart remembered him the more tenderly. For it meant that his mind wastorn and in travail for her, that his thoughts clung to her in apassionate remorse; and again she felt herself loved, and forgave withall her heart. 

All the same, he was gone out of her life, and through the strain andthe unconscious progress to other planes and phases of being, wrought bysickness and convalescence, her own passion for him even was now achanged and blunted thing. 

Was she ashamed of the wild impulse which had carried her to Paris? Itis difficult to say. She was often seized with the shudderingconsciousness of an abyss escaped, with wonder that she was still in thenormal, accepted world, that Evelyn might still be her companion, thatThérèse still adored her more fervently than any saint in the calendar. Perhaps, if the truth were known, she was more abased in her own eyes bythe self-abandonment which had preceded the assignation with Warkworth. She had much intellectual arrogance, and before her acquaintance withWarkworth she had been accustomed to say and to feel that love was butone passion among many, and to despise those who gave it too great aplace. And here she had flung herself into it, like any dull or foolishgirl for whom a love affair represents the only stirring in the pool oflife that she is ever likely to know. 

Well, she must recapture herself and remake her life. As she sat therein the still Italian evening she thought of the old boatman, and thosesocial and intellectual passions to which his burst of patriotism hadrecalled her thoughts. Society, literature, friends, and the ambitionsto which these lead--let her go back to them and build her days afresh. Dr. Meredith was coming. In his talk and companionship she would oncemore dip and temper the tools of mind and taste. No more vainself-arraignment, no more useless regrets. She looked back withbitterness upon a moment of weakness when, in the first stage ofconvalescence, in mortal weariness and loneliness, she had slipped oneevening into the Farm Street church and unburdened her heart inconfession. As she had told the Duchess, the Catholicism instilled intoher youth by the Bruges nuns still laid upon her at times its ghostlyand compelling hand. Now in her renewed strength she was inclined tolook upon it as an element of weakness and disintegration in her nature. She resolved, in future, to free herself more entirely from a useless_Aberglaube_. 

But Meredith was not the only visitor expected at the villa in the nextfew days. She was already schooling herself to face the arrival of JacobDelafield. 

It was curious how the mere thought of Delafield produced an agitation, a shock of feeling, which seemed to spread through all the activities ofbeing. The faint, renascent glamour which had begun to attach toliterature and social life disappeared. She fell into a kind ofbrooding, the sombre restlessness of one who feels in the dark therecurrent presence of an attacking and pursuing power, and is in atremulous uncertainty where or how to meet it. 

The obscure tumult within her represented, in fact, a collision betweenthe pagan and Christian conceptions of life. In self-dependence, inpersonal pride, in her desire to refer all things to the arbitrament ofreason, Julie, whatever her practice, was theoretically a stoic and apagan. But Delafield's personality embodied another "must, " another"ought, " of a totally different kind. And it was a "must" which, in agreat crisis of her life, she also had been forced to obey. There wasthe thought which stung and humiliated. And the fact was irreparable;nor did she see how she was ever to escape from the strange, silent, penetrating relation it had established between her and the man wholoved her and had saved her, against her will. 

During her convalescence at Crowborough House, Delafield had been oftenadmitted. It would have been impossible to exclude him, unless she hadconfided the whole story of the Paris journey to the Duchess. Andwhatever Evelyn might tremblingly guess, from Julie's own mouth she knewnothing. So Delafield had come and gone, bringing Lord Lackington's lastwords, and the account of his funeral, or acting as intermediary inbusiness matters between Julie and the Chantrey brothers. Julie couldnot remember that she had ever asked him for these services. They fellto him, as it were, by common consent, and she had been too weakto resist. 

At first, whenever he entered the room, whenever he approached her, hersense of anger and resentment had been almost unbearable. But little bylittle his courtesy, tact, and coolness had restored a relation betweenthem which, if not the old one, had still many of the outward charactersof intimacy. Not a word, not the remotest allusion reminded her of whathad happened. The man who had stood before her transfigured on the deckof the steamer, stammering out, "I thank God I had the courage to doit!"--it was often hard for her to believe, as she stole a look atDelafield, chatting or writing in the Duchess's drawing-room, that sucha scene had ever taken place. 

 * * * * *

The evening stole on. How was it that whenever she allowed the thoughtof Delafield to obtain a real lodgment in the mind, even the memory ofWarkworth was for the time effaced? Silently, irresistibly, a wild heatof opposition would develop within her. These men round whom, as itwere, there breathes an air of the heights; in whom one feels the secretguard that religion keeps over thoughts and words and acts--herpassionate yet critical nature flung out against them. How are theybetter than others, after all? What right have they over the willsof others?

Nevertheless, as the rose of evening burned on the craggy mountain facebeyond Bellaggio, retreating upward, step by step, till the lastglorious summit had died into the cool and already starlit blues ofnight, Julie, held, as it were, by a reluctant and half-jealousfascination, sat dreaming on the hill-side, not now of Warkworth, not ofthe ambitions of the mind, or society, but simply of the goings andcomings, the aspects and sayings of a man in whose eyes she had onceread the deepest and sternest things of the soul--a condemnation and ananguish above and beyond himself. 

 * * * * *

Dr. Meredith arrived in due time, a jaded Londoner athirst for idlenessand fresh air. The Duchess and Julie carried him hither and thitherabout the lake in the four-oar boat which had been hired for theDuchess's pleasure. Here, enthroned between the two ladies, he passedluxurious hours, and his talk of politics, persons, and books broughtjust that stimulus to Julie's intelligence and spirits for which theDuchess had been secretly longing. 

A first faint color returned to Julie's cheeks. She began to talk again;to resume certain correspondences; to show herself once more--at anyrate intermittently--the affectionate, sympathetic, andbeguiling friend. 

As for Meredith, he knew little, but he suspected a good deal. Therewere certain features in her illness and convalescence which suggestedto him a mental cause; and if there were such a cause, it must, ofcourse, spring from her relations to Warkworth. 

The name of that young officer was never mentioned. Once or twiceMeredith was tempted to introduce it. It rankled in his mind that Juliehad never been frank with him, freely as he had poured his affection ather feet. But a moment of languor or of pallor disarmed him. 

"She is better, " he said to the Duchess one day, abruptly. "Her mind isfull of activity. But why, at times, does she still look somiserable--like a person without hope or future?"

The Duchess looked pensive. They were sitting in the corner of one ofthe villa's terraced walks, amid a scented wilderness of flowers. Abovethem was a canopy of purple and yellow--rose and wistaria; while throughthe arches of the pergola which ran along the walk gleamed all thosevarious blues which make the spell of Como--the blue and white of theclouds, the purple of the mountains, the azure of the lake. 

"Well, she was in love with him. I suppose it takes a little time, " saidthe Duchess, sighing. 

"Why was she in love with him?" said Meredith, impatiently. "As to theMoffatt engagement, naturally, she was kept in the dark?"

"At first, " said the Duchess, hesitating. "And when she knew, poor dear, it was too late!"

"Too late for what?"

"Well, when one falls in love one doesn't all at once shake it offbecause the man deceives you. "

"One _should_, " said Meredith, with energy. "Men are not worth all thatwomen spend upon them. "

"Oh, that's true!" cried the Duchess--"so dreadfully true! But what'sthe good of preaching? We shall go on spending it to the end of time. "

"Well, at any rate, don't choose the dummies and the frauds. "

"Ah, there you talk sense, " said the Duchess. "And if only we had theFrench system in England! If only one could say to Julie: 'Now lookhere, _there's_ your husband! It's all settled--down to plate andlinen--and you've _got_ to marry him!' how happy we should all be. "

Dr. Meredith stared. 

"You have the man in your eye, " he said. 

The Duchess hesitated. 

"Suppose you come a little walk with me in the wood, " she said, at last, gathering up her white skirts. 

Meredith obeyed her. They were away for half an hour, and when theyreturned the journalist's face, flushed and furrowed with thought, wasnot very easy to read. 

Nor was his temper in good condition. It required a climb to the verytop of Monte Crocione to send him back, more or less appeased, aconsenting player in the Duchess's game. For if there are men who areflirts and egotists--who ought to be, yet never are, divined by thesensible woman at a glance--so also there are men too well equipped forthis wicked world, too good, too well born, too desirable. 

It was in this somewhat flinty and carping mood that Meredith preparedhimself for the advent of Jacob Delafield. 

 * * * * *

But when Delafield appeared, Meredith's secret antagonisms were soondissipated. There was certainly no challenging air of prosperity aboutthe young man. 

At first sight, indeed, he was his old cheerful self, always ready for awalk or a row, on easy terms at once with the Italian servants orboatmen. But soon other facts emerged--stealthily, as it were, from theconcealment in which a strong man was trying to keep them. 

"That young man's youth is over, " said Meredith, abruptly, to theDuchess one evening. He pointed to the figure of Delafield, who waspacing, alone with his pipe, up and down one of the lower terraces ofthe garden. 

The Duchess showed a teased expression. 

"It's like something wearing through, " she said, slowly. "I suppose itwas always there, but it didn't show. "

"Name your 'it. '"

"I can't. " But she gave a little shudder, which made Meredith look ather with curiosity. 

"You feel something ghostly--unearthly?"

She nodded assent; crying out, however, immediately afterwards, asthough in compunction, that he was one of the dearest and bestof fellows. 

"Of course he is, " said Meredith. "It is only the mystic in him comingout. He is one of the men who have the sixth sense. "

"Well, all I know is, he has the oddest power over people, " said Evelyn, with another shiver. "If Freddie had it, my life wouldn't be worthliving. Thank goodness, he hasn't a vestige!"

"At bottom it's the power of the priest, " said Meredith. "And you womenare far too susceptible towards it. Nine times out of ten it plays themischief. "

The Duchess was silent a moment. Then she bent towards her companion, finger on lip, her charming eyes glancing significantly towards thelower terrace. The figures on it were now two. Julie and Delafieldpaced together. 

"But this is the tenth!" she said, in an eager whisper. 

Meredith smiled at her, then flung her a dubious "Chi sa?" and changedthe subject. 

 * * * * *

Delafield, who was a fine oar, had soon taken command of the lakeexpeditions; and by the help of two stalwart youths from Tremezzo, thefour-oar was in use from morning till night. Through the broad lakewhich lies between Menaggio and Varenna it sped northward to Gravedona;or beneath the shadowy cliffs of the Villa Serbelloni it slipped overdeep waters, haunted and dark, into the sunny spaces of Lecco; or itcoasted along the steep sides of Monte Primo, so that the travellers init might catch the blue stain of the gentians on the turf, where itsloped into the lucent wave below, or watch the fishermen on the rocks, spearing their prey in the green or golden shallows. 

The weather was glorious--a summer before its time. The wild cherriesshook down their snow upon the grass; but the pears were now in bridalwhite, and a warmer glory of apple-blossom was just beginning to breakupon the blue. The nights were calm and moonlit; the dawns were visionsof mysterious and incredible beauty, wherein mountain and forest andlake were but the garments, diaphanous, impalpable, of some delicate, indwelling light and fire spirit, which breathed and pulsed through thesolidity of rock, no less visibly than through the crystal leagues ofair or the sunlit spaces of water. 

Yet presently, as it were, a hush of waiting, of tension, fell upontheir little party. Nature offered her best; but there was only anapparent acceptance of her bounties. Through the outward flow of talkand amusement, of wanderings on lake or hill, ugly hidden forces of painand strife, regret, misery, resistance, made themselves rarely yetpiercingly felt. 

Julie drooped again. Her cheeks were paler even than when Mereditharrived. Delafield, too, began to be more silent, more absent. He washelpful and courteous as ever, but it began to be seen that his gayetywas an effort, and now and then there were sharp or bitter notes invoice or manner, which jarred, and were not soon forgotten. 

Presently, Meredith and the Duchess found themselves looking on, breathless and astonished, at the struggle of two personalities, thewrestle between two wills. They little knew that it was a renewedstruggle--second wrestle. But silently, by a kind of tacit agreement, they drew away from Delafield and Julie. They dimly understood that hepursued and she resisted; and that for him life was becoming graduallyabsorbed into the two facts of her presence and her resistance. 

"_On ne s'appuie que sur ce qui résiste_. " For both of them these wordswere true. Fundamentally, and beyond all passing causes of grief andanger, each was fascinated by the full strength of nature in the other. Neither could ever forget the other. The hours grew electric, and everytiny incident became charged with spiritual meaning. 

Often for hours together Julie would try to absorb herself in talk withMeredith. But the poor fellow got little joy from it. Presently, at aword or look of Delafield's she would let herself be recaptured, asthough with a proud reluctance; they wandered away together; and oncemore Meredith and the Duchess became the merest by-standers. 

The Duchess shrugged her shoulders over it, and, though she laughed, sometimes the tears were in her eyes. She felt the hovering of passion, but it was no passion known to her own blithe nature. 

And if only this strange state of things might end, one way or other, and set her free to throw her arms round her Duke's neck, and beg hispardon for all these weeks of desertion! She said to herself, ruefully, that her babies would indeed have forgotten her. 

 * * * * *

Yet she stood stoutly to her post, and the weeks passed quickly by. Itwas the dramatic energy of the situation--so much more dramatic in truththan either she or Meredith suspected--that made it such a strain uponthe onlookers. 

One evening they had left the boat at Tremezzo, that they might walkback along that most winning of paths that skirts the lake between thelast houses of Tremezzo and the inn at Cadenabbia. The sunset was nearlyover, but the air was still suffused with its rose and pearl, andfragrant with the scent of flowering laurels. Each mountain face, eachwhite village, either couched on the water's edge or grouped about itsslender campanile on some shoulder of the hills, each house and tree andfigure seemed still penetrated with light, the glorified creatures ofsome just revealed and already fading world. The echoes of the eveningbell were floating on the lake, and from a boat in front, full ofpeasant-folk, there rose a sound of singing, some litany of saint orvirgin, which stole in harmonies, rudely true, across the water. 

"They have been to the pilgrimage church above Lenno, " said Julie, pointing to the boat, and in order to listen to the singing, she found aseat on a low wall above the lake. 

There was no reply, and, looking round her, she saw with a start thatonly Delafield was beside her, that the Duchess and Meredith hadalready rounded the corner of the Villa Carlotta and were out of sight. 

Delafield's gaze was fixed upon her. He was very pale, and suddenlyJulie's breath seemed to fail her. 

"I don't think I can bear it any longer, " he said, as he came close toher. 

"Bear what?"

"That you should look as you do now. "

Julie made no reply. Her eyes, very sad and bitter, searched the bluedimness of the lake in silence. 

Delafield sat down on the wall beside her. Not a soul was in sight. Atthe Cadenabbia Hotel, the _table d'hôte_ had gathered in the visitors; afew boats passed and repassed in the distance, but on land allwas still. 

Suddenly he took her hand with a firm grasp. 

"Are you never going to forgive me?" he said, in a low voice. 

"I suppose I ought to bless you. "

Her face seemed to him to express the tremulous misery of a heartdeeply, perhaps irrevocably, wounded. Emotion rose in a tide, but hecrushed it down. 

He bent over her, speaking with deliberate tenderness. 

"Julie, do you remember what you promised Lord Lackington when he wasdying?"

"Oh!" cried Julie. 

She sprang to her feet, speechless and suffocated. Her eyes expressed amingled pride and terror. 

He paused, confronting her with a pale resolution. 

"You didn't know that I had seen him?"

"Know!"

She turned away fiercely, choking with sobs she could hardly control, as the memory of that by-gone moment returned upon her. 

"I thought as much, " said Delafield, in a low voice. "You hoped never tohear of your promise again. "

She made no answer; but she sank again upon the seat beside the lake, and supporting herself on one delicate hand, which clung to the copingof the wall, she turned her pale and tear-stained face to the lake andthe evening sky. There was in her gesture an unconscious yearning, amute and anguished appeal, as though from the oppressions of humancharacter to the broad strength of nature, that was not lost onDelafield. His mind became the centre of a swift and fierce debate. Onevoice said: "Why are you persecuting her? Respect her weakness and hergrief. " And another replied: "It is because she is weak that she mustyield--must allow herself to be guided and adored. "

He came close to her again. Any passer-by might have supposed that theywere both looking at the distant boat and listening to thepilgrimage chant. 

"Do you think I don't understand why you made that promise?" he said, very gently, and the mere self-control of his voice and manner carried aspell with it for the woman beside him. "It was wrung out of you bykindness for a dying man. You thought I should never know, or I shouldnever claim it. Well, I am selfish. I take advantage. I do claim it. Isaw Lord Lackington only a few hours before his death. 'She mustn't bealone, ' he said to me, several times. And then, almost at the last, 'Askher again. She'll consider it--she promised. '"

Julie turned impetuously. 

"Neither of us is bound by that--neither of us. "

Delafield smiled. 

"Does that mean that I am asking you now because he bade me?"

A pause. Julie must needs raise her eyes to his. She flushed red andwithdrew them. 

"No, " he said, with a long breath, "you don't mean that, and you don'tthink it. As for you--yes, you are bound! Julie, once more I bring youmy plea, and you must consider it. "

"How can I be your wife?" she said, her breast heaving. "You know allthat has happened. It would be monstrous. "

"Not at all, " was his quiet reply. "It would be natural and right. Julie, it is strange that I should be talking to you like this. You'reso much cleverer than I--in some ways, so much stronger. And yet, inothers--you'll let me say it, won't you?--I could help you. I couldprotect you. It's all I care for in the world. "

"How can I be your wife?" she repeated, passionately, wringing herhands. 

"Be what you will--at home. My friend, comrade, housemate. I ask nothingmore--_nothing_. " His voice dropped, and there was a pause. Then heresumed. "But, in the eyes of the world, make me your servant andyour husband!"

"I can't condemn you to such a fate, " she cried. "You know where myheart is. "

Delafield did not waver. 

"I know where your heart was, " he said, with firmness. "You will banishthat man from your thoughts in time. He has no right to be there. I takeall the risks--all. "

"Well, at least for you, I am no hypocrite, " she said, with a quiveringlip. "You know what I am. "

"Yes, I know, and I am at your feet. "

The tears dropped from Julie's eyes. She turned away and hid her faceagainst one of the piers of the wall. 

Delafield attempted no caress. He quietly set himself to draw the lifethat he had to offer her, the comradeship that he proposed to her. Not aword of what the world called his "prospects" entered in. She knew verywell that he could not bring himself to speak of them. Rather, a sort ofascetic and mystical note made itself heard in all he said of thefuture, a note that before now had fascinated and controlled a womanwhose ambition was always strangely tempered with high, poeticalimagination. 

Yet, ambitious she was, and her mind inevitably supplied what his voiceleft unsaid. 

"He will have to fill his place whether he wishes it or no, " she said toherself. "And if, in truth, he desires my help--"

Then she shrank from her own wavering. Look where she would into herlife, it seemed to her that all was monstrous and out of joint. 

"You don't realize what you ask, " she said, at last, in despair. "I amnot what you call a good woman--you know it too well. I don't measurethings by your standards. I am capable of such a journey as you found meon. I can't find in my own mind that I repent it at all. I can tell alie--you can't. I can have the meanest and most sordid thoughts--youcan't. Lady Henry thought me an intriguer--I am one. It is in my blood. And I don't know whether, in the end, I could understand your languageand your life. And if I don't, I shall make you miserable. "

She looked up, her slender frame straightening under what was, in truth, a noble defiance. 

Delafield bent over her and took both her hands forcibly in his own. 

"If all that were true, I would rather risk it a thousand times overthan go out of your life again--a stranger. Julie, you have done madthings for love--you should know what love is. Look in myface--there--your eyes in mine! Give way! The dead ask it of you--and itis God's will. "

And as, drawn by the last, low-spoken words, Julie looked up into hisface, she felt herself enveloped by a mystical and passionate tendernessthat paralyzed her resistance. A force, superhuman, laid its grasp uponher will. With a burst of tears, half in despair, half in revolt, shesubmitted. 

XXII

In the first week of May, Julie Le Breton married Jacob Delafield in theEnglish Church at Florence. The Duchess was there. So was the Duke--asulky and ill-resigned spectator of something which he believed to bethe peculiar and mischievous achievement of his wife. 

At the church door Julie and Delafield left for Camaldoli. 

"Well, if you imagine that I intend to congratulate you or anybody elseupon that performance you are very much mistaken, " said the Duke, as heand his wife drove back to the "Grand Bretagne" together. 

"I don't deny it's--risky, " said the Duchess, her hands on her lap, hereyes dreamily following the streets. 

"Risky!" repeated the Duke, shrugging his shoulders. "Well, I don't wantto speak harshly of your friends, Evelyn, but Miss Le Breton--"

"Mrs. Delafield, " said the Duchess. 

"Mrs. Delafield, then"--the name was evidently a difficultmouthful--"seems to me a most undisciplined and unmanageable woman. Whydoes she look like a tragedy queen at her marriage? Jacob is twice toogood for her, and she'll lead him a life. And how you can reconcile itto your conscience to have misled me so completely as you have in thismatter, I really can't imagine. "

"Misled you?" said Evelyn. 

Her innocence was really a little hard to bear, and not even the beautyof her blue eyes, now happily restored to him, could appease the mentorat her side. 

"You led me plainly to believe, " he repeated, with emphasis, "that if Ihelped her through the crisis of leaving Lady Henry she would relinquishher designs on Delafield. "

"Did I?" said the Duchess. And putting her hands over her face shelaughed rather hysterically. "But that wasn't why you lent her thehouse, Freddie. "

"You coaxed me into it, of course, " said the Duke. 

"No, it was Julie herself got the better of you, " said Evelyn, triumphantly. "You felt her spell, just as we all do, and wanted to dosomething for her. "

"Nothing of the sort, " said the Duke, determined to admit norecollection to his disadvantage. "It was your doing entirely. "

The Duchess thought it discreet to let him at least have the triumph ofher silence, smiling, and a little sarcastic though it were. 

"And of all the undeserved good fortune!" he resumed, feeling in hisirritable disapproval that the moral order of the universe had beensomehow trifled with. "In the first place, she is the daughter of peoplewho flagrantly misconducted themselves--_that_ apparently does her noharm. Then she enters the service of Lady Henry in a confidentialposition, and uses it to work havoc in Lady Henry's social relations. That, I am glad to say, _has_ done her a little harm, although notnearly as much as she deserves. And finally she has a most discreditableflirtation with a man already engaged--to her own cousin, pleaseobserve!--and pulls wires for him all over the place in the mostobjectionable and unwomanly manner. "

"As if everybody didn't do that!" cried the Duchess. "You know, Freddie, that your own mother always used to boast that she had made six bishopsand saved the Establishment. "

The Duke took no notice. 

"And yet there she is! Lord Lackington has left her a fortune--acompetence, anyway. She marries Jacob Delafield--rather a fool, Iconsider, but all the same one of the best fellows in the world. And atany time, to judge from what one hears of the health both of Chudleighand his boy, she may find herself Duchess of Chudleigh. "

The Duke threw himself back in the carriage with the air of one whowaits for Providence to reply. 

"Oh, well, you see, you can't make the world into a moral tale to pleaseyou, " said the Duchess, absently. 

Then, after a pause, she asked, "Are you still going to let them havethe house, Freddie?"

"I imagine that if Jacob Delafield applies to me to let it to _him_, that I shall not refuse him, " said the Duke, stiffly. 

The Duchess smiled behind her fan. Yet her tender heart was not inreality very happy about her Julie. She knew well enough that it was astrange marriage of which they had just been witnesses--a marriagecontaining the seeds of many untoward things only too likely to developunless fate were kinder than rash mortals have any right to expect. 

"I wish to goodness Delafield weren't so religious, " murmured theDuchess, fervently, pursuing her own thoughts. 

"Evelyn!"

"Well, you see, Julie isn't, at all, " she added, hastily. 

"You need not have troubled yourself to tell me that, " was the Duke'sindignant reply. 

 * * * * *

After a fortnight at Camaldoli and Vallombrosa the Delafields turnedtowards Switzerland. Julie, who was a lover of Rousseau and Obermann, had been also busy with the letters of Byron. She wished to see with herown eyes St. Gingolphe and Chillon, Bevay and Glion. 

So one day at the end of May they found themselves at Montreux. ButMontreux was already hot and crowded, and Julie's eyes turned in longingto the heights. They found an old inn at Charnex, whereof the gardencommanded the whole head of the lake, and there they settled themselvesfor a fortnight, till business, in fact, should recall Delafield toEngland. The Duke of Chudleigh had shown all possible kindness andcordiality with regard to the marriage, and the letter in which hewelcomed his cousin's new wife had both touched Julie's feelings andsatisfied her pride. "You are marrying one of the best of men, " wrotethis melancholy father of a dying son. "My boy and I owe him more thancan be written. I can only tell you that for those he loves he grudgesnothing--no labor, no sacrifice of himself. There are no half-measuresin his affections. He has spent himself too long on sick and sorrycreatures like ourselves. It is time he had a little happiness on hisown account. You will give it him, and Mervyn and I will be mostgrateful to you. If joy and health can never be ours, I am not yet sovile as to grudge them to others. God bless you! Jacob will tell youthat my house is not a gay one; but if you and he will sometimes visitit, you will do something to lighten its gloom. "

Julie wondered, as she wrote her very graceful reply, how much the Dukemight know about herself. Jacob had told his cousin, as she knew, thestory of her parentage and of Lord Lackington's recognition of hisgranddaughter. But as soon as the marriage was announced it was notlikely that Lady Henry had been able to hold her tongue. 

A good many interesting tales of his cousin's bride had, indeed, reachedthe melancholy Duke. Lady Henry had done all that she conceived it herduty to do, filling many pages of note-paper with what the Duke regardedas most unnecessary information. 

At any rate, he had brushed it all aside with the impatience of one forwhom nothing on earth had now any savor or value beyond one or twoindispensable affections. "What's good enough for Jacob is good for me, "he wrote to Lady Henry, "and if I may offer you some advice, it is thatyou should not quarrel with Jacob about a matter so vital as hismarriage. Into the rights and wrongs of the story you tell me, I reallycannot enter; but rather than break with Jacob I would welcome _anybody_he chose to present to me. And in this case I understand the lady isvery clever, distinguished, and of good blood on both sides. Have youhad no trouble in your life, my dear Flora, that you can make quarrelswith a light heart? If so, I envy you; but I have neither the energy northe good spirits wherewith to imitate you. "

Julie, of course, knew nothing of this correspondence, though from theDuke's letters to Jacob she divined that something of the kind had takenplace. But it was made quite plain to her that she was to be spared allthe friction and all the difficulty which may often attend the entranceof a person like herself within the circle of a rich and importantfamily like the Delafields. With Lady Henry, indeed, the fight had stillto be fought. But Jacob's mother, influenced on one side by her son andon the other by the head of the family, accepted her daughter-in-lawwith the facile kindliness and good temper that were natural to her;while his sister, the fair-haired and admirable Susan, owed her brothertoo much and loved him too well to be other than friendly to his wife. 

No; on the worldly side all was smooth. The marriage had been carriedthrough with ease and quietness The Duke, in spite of Jacob'sremonstrances, had largely increased his cousin's salary, and Julie wasalready enjoying the income left her by Lord Lackington. She had only toreappear in London as Jacob's wife to resume far more than her oldsocial ascendency. The winning cards had all passed into her hands, andif now there was to be a struggle with Lady Henry, Lady Henry wouldbe worsted. 

All this was or should have been agreeable to the sensitive nerves of awoman who knew the worth of social advantages. It had no effect, however, on the mortal depression which was constantly Julie's portionduring the early weeks of her marriage. 

As for Delafield, he had entered upon this determining experiment of hislife--a marriage, which was merely a legalized comradeship, with thewoman he adored--in the mind of one resolved to pay the price of what hehad done. This graceful and stately woman, with her high intelligenceand her social gifts, was now his own property. She was to be thecompanion of his days and the mistress of his house. But although heknew well that he had a certain strong hold upon her, she did not lovehim, and none of the fusion of true marriage had taken place or couldtake place. So be it. He set himself to build up a relation between themwhich should justify the violence offered to natural and spiritual law. His own delicacy of feeling and perception combined with the strength ofhis passion to make every action of their common day a symbol andsacrament. That her heart regretted Warkworth, that bitterness andlonging, an unspent and baffled love, must be constantly overshadowingher--these things he not only knew, he was forever reminding himself ofthem, driving them, as it were, into consciousness, as the asceticdrives the spikes into his flesh. His task was to comfort her, to makeher forget, to bring her back to common peace and cheerfulness of mind. 

To this end he began with appealing as much as possible to herintelligence. He warmly encouraged her work for Meredith. From the firstdays of their marriage he became her listener, scholar, and critic. Himself interested mainly in social, economical, or religiousdiscussion, he humbly put himself to school in matters of_belles-lettres_. His object was to enrich Julie's daily life with newambitions and new pleasures, which might replace the broodings of herillness and convalescence, and then, to make her feel that she had athand, in the companion of that life, one who felt a natural interest inall her efforts, a natural pride in all her successes. 

Alack! the calculation was too simple--and too visible. It took toolittle account of the complexities of Julie's nature, of the ravages andthe shock of passion. Julie herself might be ready enough to return tothe things of the mind, but they were no sooner offered to her, as itwere, in exchange for the perilous delights of love, than she grewdumbly restive. She felt herself, also, too much observed, too muchthought over, made too often, if the truth were known, the subject ofreligious or mystical emotion. 

More and more, also, was she conscious of strangeness and eccentricityin the man she had married. It often seemed to that keen and practicalsense which in her mingled so oddly with the capacity for passion that, as they grew older, and her mind recovered tone and balance, she wouldprobably love the world disastrously more and he disastrously less. Andif so, the gulf between them, instead of closing, could but widen. 

One day--a showery day in early June--she was left alone for an hour, while Delafield went down to Montreux to change some circular notes. Julie took a book from the table and strolled out along the lovely roadthat slopes gently downward from Charnex to the old field-emboweredvillage of Brent. 

The rain was just over. It had been a cold rain, and the snow had creptdownward on the heights, and had even powdered the pines of the Cubly. The clouds were sweeping low in the west. Towards Geneva the lake wasmere wide and featureless space--a cold and misty water, melting intothe fringes of the rain-clouds. But to the east, above the Rhônevalley, the sky was lifting; and as Julie sat down upon a midway seatand turned herself eastward, she was met by the full and unveiled gloryof the higher Alps--the Rochers de Naye, the Velan, the Dent du Midi. Onthe jagged peaks of the latter a bright shaft of sun was playing, andthe great white or rock-ribbed mass raised itself above the mists of thelower world, once more unstained and triumphant. 

But the cold _bise_ was still blowing, and Julie, shivering, drew herwrap closer round her. Her heart pined for Como and the south; perhapsfor the little Duchess, who spoiled and petted her in the common, womanish ways. 

The spring--a second spring--was all about her; but in this chillynorthern form it spoke to her with none of the ravishment of Italy. Inthe steep fields above her the narcissuses were bent and bowed withrain; the red-browns of the walnuts glistened in the wet gleams of sun;the fading apple-blossom beside her wore a melancholy beauty; only inthe rich, pushing grass, with its wealth of flowers and its branchingcow-parsley, was there the stubborn life and prophecy of summer. 

Suddenly Julie caught up the book that lay beside her and opened it witha hasty hand. It was one of that set of Saint-Simon which had belongedto her mother, and had already played a part in her own destiny. 

She turned to the famous "character" of the Dauphin, of that modelprince, in whose death Saint-Simon, and Fénelon, and France herself, sawthe eclipse of all great hopes. 

"A prince, affable, gentle, humane, patient, modest, full ofcompunctions, and, as much as his position allowed--sometimes beyondit--humble, and severe towards himself. "

Was it not to the life? "_Affable, doux, humain--patient, modeste--humble et austère pour soi_"--beyond what was expected, beyond, almost, what was becoming?

She read on to the mention of the Dauphine, terrified, in her humanweakness, of so perfect a husband, and trying to beguile or tempt himfrom the heights; to the picture of Louis Quatorze, the grandfather, shamed in his worldly old age by the presence beside him of this saintlyand high-minded youth; of the Court, looking forward with dismay to thetime when it should find itself under the rule of a man who despised andcondemned both its follies and its passions, until she reached thatfinal rapture, where, in a mingled anguish and adoration, Saint-Simonbids eternal farewell to a character and a heart of which France wasnot worthy. 

The lines passed before her, and she was conscious, guiltily conscious, of reading them with a double mind. 

Then she closed the book, held by the thought of her husband--in asomewhat melancholy reverie. 

There is a Catholic word with which in her convent youth she had beenvery familiar--the word _recueilli_--"recollected. " At no timehad it sounded kindly in her ears; for it implied fetters andself--suppressions--of the voluntary and spiritual sort--whollyunwelcome to and unvalued by her own temperament. But who that knew himwell could avoid applying it to Delafield? A man of "recollection"living in the eye of the Eternal; keeping a guard over himself in thesmallest matters of thought and action; mystically possessed by thepassion of a spiritual ideal; in love with charity, purity, simplicity of life. 

She bowed her head upon her hands in dreariness of spirit. Ultimately, what could such a man want with her? What had she to give him? In whatway could she ever be _necessary_ to him? And a woman, even infriendship, must feel herself that to be happy. 

Already this daily state in which she found herself--of owing everythingand giving nothing--produced in her a secret irritation and repulsion;how would it be in the years to come?

"He never saw me as I am, " she thought to herself, looking fretfullyback to their past acquaintance. "I am neither as weak as he thinksme--nor as clever. And how strange it is--this _tension_ in whichhe lives!"

And as she sat there idly plucking at the wet grass, her mind wasoverrun with a motley host of memories--some absurd, some sweet, some ofan austerity that chilled her to the core. She thought of the difficultyshe had in persuading Delafield to allow himself even necessary comfortsand conveniences; a laugh, involuntary, and not without tenderness, crossed her face as she recalled a tale he had told her at Camaldoli, ofthe contempt excited in a young footman of a smart house by themediocrity and exiguity of his garments and personal appointmentsgenerally. "I felt I possessed nothing that he would have taken as agift, " said Delafield, with a grin. "It was chastening. "

Yet though he laughed, he held to it; and Julie was already so much ofthe wife as to be planning how to coax him presently out of aportmanteau and a top-hat that were in truth a disgrace totheir species. 

And all the time _she_ must have the best of everything--a maid, luxurious travelling, dainty food. They had had one or two wrestles onthe subject already. "Why are you to have all the high thinking andplain living to yourself?" she had asked him, angrily, only to be met bythe plea, "Dear, get strong first--then you shall do what you like. "

But it was at La Verna, the mountain height overshadowed by the memoriesof St. Francis, that she seemed to have come nearest to the ascetic andmystical tendency in Delafield. He went about the mountain-paths atransformed being, like one long spiritually athirst who has found thesprings and sources of life. Julie felt a secret terror. Her impressionwas much the same as Meredith's--as of "something wearing through" tothe light of day. Looking back she saw that this temperament, now soplain to view, had been always there; but in the young and capable agentof the Chudleigh property, in the Duchess's cousin, or Lady Henry'snephew, it had passed for the most part unsuspected. How remarkably ithad developed!--whither would it carry them both in the future? Whenthinking about it, she was apt to find herself seized with a suddencraving for Mayfair, "little dinners, " and good talk. 

"What a pity you weren't born a Catholic!--you might have been areligious, " she said to him one night at La Verna, when he had beenreading her some of the _Fioretti_ with occasional comments of his own. 

But he had shaken his head with a smile. 

"You see, I have no creed--or next to none. "

The answer startled her. And in the depths of his blue eyes there seemedto her to be hovering a swarm of thoughts that would not let themselvesloose in her presence, but were none the less the true companions of hismind. She saw herself a moment as Elsa, and her husband as a modernLohengrin, coming spiritually she knew not whence, bound on some questmysterious and unthinkable. 

"What will you do, " she said, suddenly, "when the dukedom comes to you?"

Delafield's aspect darkened in an instant. If he could have shown angerto her, anger there would have been. 

"That is a subject I never think of or discuss, if I can help it, " hesaid, abruptly; and, rising to his feet, he pointed out that the sun wasdeclining fast towards the plain of the Casentino, and they were farfrom their hotel. 

"Inhuman!--unreasonable!" was the cry of the critical sense in her asshe followed him in silence. 

 * * * * *

Innumerable memories of this kind beat on Julie's mind as she satdreamily on her bench among the Swiss meadows. How natural that in theend they should sweep her by reaction into imaginations whollyindifferent--of a drum-and-trumpet history, in the actualfighting world. 

... Far, far in the African desert she followed the march of Warkworth'slittle troop. 

Ah, the blinding light--the African scrub and sand--the long, singleline--the native porters with their loads--the handful of Englishofficers with that slender figure at their head--the endless, waterlesspath with its palms and mangoes and mimosas--the scene rushed upon theinward eye and held it. She felt the heat, the thirst, the weariness ofbone and brain--all the spell and mystery of the unmapped, unconquered land. 

Did he think of her sometimes, at night, under the stars, or in theblaze and mirage of noon? Yes, yes; he thought of her. Each to the othertheir thoughts must travel while they lived. 

In Delafield's eyes, she knew, his love for her had been mere outrageand offence. 

Ah, well, _he_, at least, had needed her. He had desired only verysimple, earthy things--money, position, success--things it was possiblefor a woman to give him, or get for him; and at the last, though it wereonly as a traitor to his word and his _fiancée_, he had asked forlove--asked commonly, hungrily, recklessly, because he could not helpit--and then for pardon! And those are things the memory of which liesdeep, deep in the pulsing, throbbing heart. 

At this point she hurriedly checked and scourged herself, as she did ahundred times a day. 

No, no, _no_! It was all over, and she and Jacob would still make a finething of their life together. Why not?

And all the time there were burning hot tears in her eyes; and as theleaves of Saint-Simon passed idly through her fingers, the tears blottedout the meadows and the flowers, and blurred the figure of a young girlwho was slowly mounting the long slope of road that led from the villageof Brent towards the seat on which Julie was sitting. 

 * * * * *

Gradually the figure approached. The mist cleared from Julie's eyes. Suddenly she found herself giving a close and passionate attention tothe girl upon the road. 

Her form was slight and small; under her shady hat there was a gleam offair hair arranged in smooth, shining masses about her neck and temples. As she approached Julie she raised her eyes absently, and Julie saw aface of singular and delicate beauty, marred, however, by the suggestionof physical fragility, even sickliness, which is carried with it. Onemight have thought it a face blanched by a tropical climate, and for themoment touched into faint color by the keen Alpine air. The eyes, indeed, were full of life; they were no sooner seen but they defined andenforced a personality. Eager, intent, a little fretful, they expresseda nervous energy out of all proportion to their owner's slenderphysique. In this, other bodily signs concurred. As she perceived Julieon the bench, for instance, the girl's slight, habitual frown sharplydeepened; she looked at the stranger with keen observation, both glanceand gesture betraying a quick and restless sensibility. 

As for Julie, she half rose as the girl neared her. Her cheeks wereflushed, her lips parted; she had the air of one about to speak. Thegirl looked at her in a little surprise and passed on. 

She carried a book under her arm, into which were thrust a fewjust-opened letters. She had scarcely passed the bench when an envelopefell out of the book and lay unnoticed on the road. 

Julie drew a long breath. She picked up the envelope. It lay in herhand, and the name she had expected to see was written upon it. 

For a moment she hesitated. Then she ran after the owner of the letter. 

"You dropped this on the road. "

The girl turned hastily. 

"Thank you very much. I am sorry to have given you the trouble--"

Then she paused, arrested evidently by the manner in which Julie stoodregarding her. 

"Did--did you wish to speak to me?" she said, uncertainly. 

"You are Miss Moffatt?"

"Yes. That is my name. But, excuse me. I am afraid I don't rememberyou. " The words were spoken with a charming sweetness and timidity. 

"I am Mrs. Delafield. "

The girl started violently. 

"Are you? I--I beg your pardon!"

She stood in a flushed bewilderment, staring at the lady who hadaddressed her, a troubled consciousness possessing itself of her faceand manner more and more plainly with every moment. 

Julie asked herself, hurriedly: "How much does she know? What has sheheard?" But aloud she gently said: "I thought you must have heard of me. Lord Uredale told me he had written--his father wished it--to LadyBlanche. Your mother and mine were sisters. "

The girl shyly withdrew her eyes. 

"Yes, mother told me. "

There was a moment's silence. The mingled fear and recklessness whichhad accompanied Julie's action disappeared from her mind. In the girl'smanner there was neither jealousy nor hatred, only a young shrinkingand reserve. 

"May I walk with you a little?"

"Please do. Are you staying at Montreux?"

"No; we are at Charnex--and you?"

"We came up two days ago to a little _pension_ at Brent. I wanted to beamong the fields, now the narcissuses are out. If it were warm weatherwe should stay, but mother is afraid of the cold for me. I havebeen ill. "

"I heard that, " said Julie, in a voice gravely kind and winning. "Thatwas why your mother could not come home. "

The girl's eyes suddenly filled with tears. 

"No; poor mother! I wanted her to go--we had a good nurse--but she wouldnot leave me, though she was devoted to my grandfather. She--"

"She is always anxious about you?"

"Yes. My health has been a trouble lately, and since father died--"

"She has only you. "

They walked on a few paces in silence. Then the girl looked up eagerly. 

"You saw grandfather at the last? Do tell me about it, please. My uncleswrite so little. "

Julie obeyed with difficulty. She had not realized how hard it would befor her to talk of Lord Lackington. But she described the old man'sgallant dying as best she could; while Aileen Moffatt listened with thatmanner at once timid and rich in feeling which seemed to be hercharacteristic. 

As they neared the top of the hill where the road begins to inclinetowards Charnex, Julie noticed signs of fatigue in her companion. 

"You have been an invalid, " she said. "You ought not to go farther. MayI take you home? Would your mother dislike to see me?"

The girl paused perceptibly. "Ah, there she is!"

They had turned towards Brent, and Julie saw coming towards them, withsomewhat rapid steps, a small, elderly lady, gray-haired, her featurespartly hidden by her country hat. 

A thrill passed through Julie. This was the sister whose name her motherhad mentioned in her last hour. It was as though something of hermother, something that must throw light upon that mother's life andbeing, were approaching her along this Swiss road. 

But the lady in question, as she neared them, looked with surprise, notunmingled with hauteur, upon her daughter and the stranger beside her. 

"Aileen, why did you go so far? You promised me only to be a quarter ofan hour. "

"I am not tired, mother. Mother, this is Mrs. Delafield. You remember, Uncle Uredale wrote--"

Lady Blanche Moffatt stood still. Once more a fear swept through Julie'smind, and this time it stayed. After an evident hesitation, a hand wascoldly extended. 

"How do you do? I heard from my brothers of your marriage, but they saidyou were in Italy. "

"We have just come from there. "

"And your husband?"

"He has gone down to Montreux, but he should be home very soon now. Weare only a few steps from our little inn. Would you not rest there? MissMoffatt looks very tired. "

There was a pause. Lady Blanche was considering her daughter. Julie sawthe trembling of her wide, irregular mouth, of which the lips wereslightly turned outward. Finally she drew her daughter's hand into herarm, and bent anxiously towards her, scrutinizing her face. 

"Thank you. We will rest a quarter of an hour. Can we get a carriage atCharnex?"

"Yes, I think so, if you will wait a little on our balcony. "

They walked on towards Charnex. Lady Blanche began to talk resolutely ofthe weather, which was, indeed, atrocious. She spoke as she would havedone to the merest acquaintance. There was not a word of her father; nota word, either, of her brother's letter, or of Julie's relationship toherself. Julie accepted the situation with perfect composure, and thethree kept up some sort of a conversation till they reached the pavedstreet of Charnex and the old inn at its lower end. 

Julie guided her companions through its dark passages, till they reachedan outer terrace where there were a few scattered seats, and among thema deck-chair with cushions. 

"Please, " said Julie, as she kindly drew the girl towards it. Aileensmiled and yielded. Julie placed her among the cushions, then broughtout a shawl, and covered her warmly from the sharp, damp air. Aileenthanked her, and lightly touched her hand. A secret sympathy seemed tohave suddenly sprung up between them. 

Lady Blanche sat stiffly beside her daughter, watching her face. Thewarm touch of friendliness in Aileen's manner towards Mrs. Delafieldseemed only to increase the distance and embarrassment of her own. Julieappeared to be quite unconscious. She ordered tea, and made no furtherallusion of any kind to the kindred they had in common. She and LadyBlanche talked as strangers. 

Julie said to herself that she understood. She remembered the evening atCrowborough House, the spinster lady who had been the Moffatts' friend, her own talk with Evelyn. In that way, or in some other, the currentgossip about herself and Warkworth, gossip they had been too mad andmiserable to take much account of, had reached Lady Blanche. LadyBlanche probably abhorred her; though, because of her marriage, therewas to be an outer civility. Meanwhile no sign whatever of any angry orresentful knowledge betrayed itself in the girl's manner. Clearly themother had shielded her. 

Julie felt the flutter of an exquisite relief. She stole many a look atAileen, comparing the reality with that old, ugly notion her jealousyhad found so welcome--of the silly or insolent little creature, possessing all that her betters desired, by the mere brute force ofmoney or birth. And all the time the reality was _this_--so soft, suppliant, ethereal! Here, indeed, was the child of Warkworth'spicture--the innocent, unknowing child, whom their passion hadsacrificed and betrayed. She could see the face now, as it lay piteous, in Warkworth's hand. Then she raised her eyes to the original. And as itlooked at her with timidity and nascent love her own heart beat wildly, now in remorse, now in a reviving jealousy. 

Secretly, behind this mask of convention, were they both thinking ofhim? A girl's thoughts are never far from her lover; and Julie wasconscious, this afternoon, of a strange and mysterious preoccupation, whereof Warkworth was the centre. 

 * * * * *

Gradually the great mountains at the head of the lake freed themselvesfrom the last wandering cloud-wreaths. On the rock faces of the Rochersde Naye the hanging pine-woods, brushed with snow, came into sight. Thewhite walls of Glion shone faintly out, and a pearly gold, which was buta pallid reflection of the Italian glory, diffused itself over mountainand lake. The sun was grudging; there was no caress in the air. Aileenshivered a little in her shawls, and when Julie spoke of Italy thegirl's enthusiasm and longing sprang, as it were, to meet her, and bothwere conscious of another slight link between them. 

Suddenly a sound of steps came to them from below. 

"My husband, " said Julie, rising, and, going to the balustrade, shewaved to Delafield, who had come up from Montreux by one of the steepvineyard paths. "I will tell him you are here, " she added, with whatmight have been taken for the shyness of the young wife. 

She ran down the steps leading from the terrace to the lower garden. Aileen looked at her mother. 

"Isn't she wonderful?" she said, in an ardent whisper. "I could watchher forever. She is the most graceful person I ever saw. Mother, is shelike Aunt Rose?"

Lady Blanche shook her head. 

"Not in the least, " she said, shortly. "She has too much manner for me. "

"Oh, mother!" And the girl caught her mother's hand in caressingremonstrance, as though to say: "Dear little mother, you must like her, because I do; and you mustn't think of Aunt Rose, and all thoseterrible things, except for pity. "

"Hush!" said Lady Blanche, smiling at her a little excitedly. "Hush;they're coming!"

Delafield and Julie emerged from the iron staircase. Lady Blanche turnedand looked at the tall, distinguished pair, her ugly lower lip hardeningungraciously. But she and Delafield had a slight previous acquaintance, and she noticed instantly the charming and solicitous kindness withwhich he greeted her daughter. 

"Julie tells me Miss Moffatt is still far from strong, " he said, returning to the mother. 

Lady Blanche only sighed for answer. He drew a chair beside her, andthey fell into the natural talk of people who belong to the same socialworld, and are travelling in the same scenes. 

Meanwhile Julie was sitting beside the heiress. Not much was said, buteach was conscious of a lively interest in the other, and every now andthen Julie would put out a careful hand and draw the shawls closer aboutthe girl's frail form. The strain of guilty compunction that enteredinto Julie's feeling did but make it the more sensitive. She said toherself in a vague haste that now she would make amends. If only LadyBlanche were willing--

But she should be willing! Julie felt the stirrings of the oldself-confidence, the old trust in a social ingenuity which had, intruth, rarely failed her. Her intriguing, managing instinct made itselffelt--the mood of Lady Henry's companion. 

 * * * * *

Presently, as they were talking, Aileen caught sight of an Englishnewspaper which Delafield had brought up from Montreux. It lay stillunopened on one of the tables of the terrace. 

"Please give it me, " said the girl, stretching out an eager hand. "Itwill have Tiny's marriage, mamma! A cousin of mine, " she explained toJulie, who rose to hand it to her. "A very favorite cousin. Oh, thank you. "

She opened the paper. Julie turned away, that she might relieve LadyBlanche of her teacup. 

Suddenly a cry rang out--a cry of mortal anguish. Two ladies who hadjust stepped out upon the terrace from the hotel drawing-room turned interror; the gardener who was watering the flower-boxes at the fartherend stood arrested. 

"Aileen!" shrieked Lady Blanche, running to her. "What--what is it?"

The paper had dropped to the floor, but the child still pointed to it, gasping. 

"Mother--mother!"

Some intuition woke in Julie. She stood dead-white and dumb, while LadyBlanche threw herself on her daughter. 

"Aileen, darling, what is it?"

The girl, in her agony, threw her arms frantically round her mother, anddragged herself to her feet. She stood tottering, her hand overher eyes. 

"He's dead, mother! He's--dead!"

The last word sank into a sound more horrible even than the first cry. Then she swayed out of her mother's arms. It was Julie who caught her, who laid her once more on the deck-chair--a broken, shrunken form, inwhom all the threads and connections of life had suddenly, as it were, fallen to ruin. Lady Blanche hung over her, pushing Julie away, gathering the unconscious girl madly in her arms. Delafield rushed forwater-and-brandy. Julie snatched the paper and looked at the telegrams. 

High up in the first column was the one she sought. 

 "CAIRO, _June_ 12. --Great regret is felt here at the sudden and tragic news of Major Warkworth's death from fever, which seems to have occurred at a spot some three weeks' distance from the coast, on or about May 25. Letters from the officer who has succeeded him in the command of the Mokembe expedition have now reached Denga. A fortnight after leaving the coast Major Warkworth was attacked with fever; he made a brave struggle against it, but it was of a deadly type, and in less than a week he succumbed. The messenger brought also his private papers and diaries, which have been forwarded to his representatives in England. Major Warkworth was a most promising and able officer, and his loss will be keenly felt. "

Julie fell on her knees beside her swooning cousin. Lady Blanche, meanwhile, was loosening her daughter's dress, chafing her icy hands, ormoaning over her in a delirium of terror. 

"My darling--my darling! Oh, my God! Why did I allow it? Why did I everlet him come near her? It was my fault--my fault! And it's killed her!"

And clinging to her child's irresponsive hands, she looked down upon herin a convulsion of grief, which included not a shadow of regret, not agleam of pity for anything or any one else in the world but this bone ofher bone and flesh of her flesh, which lay stricken there. 

But Julie's mind had ceased to be conscious of the tragedy beside her. It had passed for the second time into the grasp of an illusion whichpossessed itself of the whole being and all its perceptive powers. Before her wide, terror-stricken gaze there rose once more the samepiteous vision which had tortured her in the crisis of her love forWarkworth. Against the eternal snows which close in the lake the phantomhovered in a ghastly relief--emaciated, with matted hair, and purpledcheeks, and eyes--not to be borne!--expressing the dumb anger of a man, still young, who parts unwillingly from life in a last lonely spasm ofuncomforted pain. 

XXIII

It was midnight in the little inn at Charnex. The rain which for so manynights in this miserable June had been beating down upon the village hadat last passed away. The night was clear and still--a night when thevoice of mountain torrents, far distant, might reach the earsuddenly--sharply pure--from the very depths of silence. 

Julie was in bed. She had been scarcely aware of her maid's help inundressing. The ordinary life was, as it were, suspended. Two scenesfloated alternately before her--one the creation of memory, the other ofimagination; and the second was, if possible, the more vivid, the morereal of the two. Now she saw herself in Lady Henry's drawing-room; SirWilfrid Bury and a white-haired general were beside her. The door openedand Warkworth entered--young, handsome, soldierly, with that boyish, conquering air which some admired and others disliked. His eyes methers, and a glow of happiness passed through her. 

Then, at a stroke, the London drawing-room melted away. She was in a lowbell-tent. The sun burned through its sides; the air was stifling. Shestood with two other men and the doctor beside the low camp-bed; herheart was wrung by every movement, every sound; she heard the clickingof the fan in the doctor's hands, she saw the flies on the poor, damp brow. 

And still she had no tears. Only, existence seemed to have ended in agulf of horror, where youth and courage, repentance and high resolve, love and pleasure were all buried and annihilated together. 

That poor girl up-stairs! It had not been possible to take her home. Shewas there with nurse and doctor, her mother hanging upon every difficultbreath. The attack of diphtheria had left a weakened heart and nervoussystem; the shock had been cruel, and the doctor could promise nothingfor the future. 

"Mother--mother!... _Dead!_"

The cry echoed in Julie's ears. It seemed to fill the old, low-ceiledroom in which she lay. Her fancy, preternaturally alive, heard it thrownback from the mountains outside--returned to her in wailing from theinfinite depths of the lake. She was conscious of the vast forms andabysses of nature, there in the darkness, beyond the walls of her room, as something hostile, implacable.... 

And while he lay there dead, under the tropical sand, she was stillliving and breathing here, in this old Swiss inn--Jacob Delafield'swife, at least in name. 

There was a knock at her door. At first she did not answer it. It seemedto be only one of the many dream sounds which tormented her nerves. Thenit was repeated. Mechanically she said "Come in. "

The door opened, and Delafield, carrying a light, which he shaded withhis hand, stood on the threshold. 

"May I come and talk to you?" he said, in a low voice. "I know you arenot sleeping. "

It was the first time he had entered his wife's room. Through all hermisery, Julie felt a strange thrill as her husband's face was thusrevealed to her, brightly illumined, in the loneliness of the night. Then the thrill passed into pain--the pain of a new and sharpperception. 

Delafield, in truth, was some two or three years younger than Warkworth. But the sudden impression on Julie's mind, as she saw him thus, was of aman worn and prematurely aged--markedly older and graver, even, sincetheir marriage, since that memorable evening by the side of Como when, by that moral power of which he seemed often to be the mere channel andorgan, he had overcome her own will and linked her life with his. 

She looked at him in a kind of terror. Why was he so pale--an embodiedgrief? Warkworth's death was not a mortal stroke for _him_. 

He came closer, and still Julie's eyes held him. Was it her fault, this--this shadowed countenance, these suggestions of a dumb strain andconflict, which not even his strong youth could bear without betrayal?Her heart cried out, first in a tragic impatience; then it melted withinher strangely, she knew not how. 

She sat up in bed and held out her hands. He thought of that evening inHeribert Street, after Warkworth had left her, when she had been so sadand yet so docile. The same yearning, the same piteous agitation was inher attitude now. 

He knelt down beside the bed and put his arms round her. She clasped herhands about his neck and hid her face on his shoulder. There ran throughher the first long shudder of weeping. 

"He was so young!" he heard her say through sobs. "So young!"

He raised his hand and touched her hair tenderly. 

"He died serving his country, " he said, commanding his voice withdifficulty. "And you grieve for him like this! I can't pity himso much. "

"You thought ill of him--I know you did. " She spoke between deep, sobbing breaths. "But he wasn't--he wasn't a bad man. "

She fell back on her pillow and the tears rained down her cheeks. 

Delafield kissed her hand in silence. 

"Some day--I'll tell you, " she said, brokenly. 

"Yes, you shall tell me. It would help us both. "

"I'll prove to you he wasn't vile. When--when he proposed that to me hewas distracted. So was I. How could he break off his engagement? Now yousee how she loved him. But we couldn't part--we couldn't say good-bye. It had all come on us unawares. We wanted to belong to each other--justfor two days--and then part forever. Oh, I'll tell you--"

"You shall tell me all--here!" he said, firmly, crushing her delicatehands in his own against his breast, so that she felt the beating ofhis heart. 

"Give me my hand. I'll show you his letter--his last letter to me. " And, trembling, she drew from under her pillow that last scrawled letter, written from the squalid hotel near the Gare de Sceaux. 

No sooner, however, had she placed it in Delafield's hands than she wasconscious of new forces of feeling in herself which robbed the act ofits simplicity. She had meant to plead her lover's cause and her ownwith the friend who was nominally her husband. Her action had been acry for sympathy, as from one soul to another. 

But as Delafield took the letter and began to read, her pulses began toflutter strangely. She recalled the phrases of passion which the lettercontained. She became conscious of new fears, new compunctions. 

For Delafield, too, the moment was one of almost intolerable complexity. This tender intimacy of night--the natural intimacy of husband and wife;this sense, which would not be denied, however sternly he might hold itin check, of her dear form beside him; the little refinements andself-revelations of a woman's room; his half-rights towards her, appealing at once to love, and to the memory of that solemn pledge bywhich he had won her--what man who deserved the name but must beconscious, tempestuously conscious, of such thoughts and facts?

And then, wrestling with these smarts, these impulses, belonging to thenatural, physical life, the powers of the moral being--compassion, self-mastery, generosity; while strengthening and directing all, the manof faith was poignantly aware of the austere and tender voicesof religion. 

Amid this play of influences he read the letter, still kneeling besideher and holding her fingers clasped in his. She had closed her eyes andlay still, save for the occasional tremulous movement of her free hand, which dried the tears on her cheek. 

"Thank you, " he said, at last, with a voice that wavered, as he put theletter down. "Thank you. It was good of you to let me see it. It changesall my thoughts of him henceforward. If he had lived--"

"But he's dead! He's dead!" cried Julie, in a sudden agony, wrenchingher hand from his and burying her face in the pillow. "Just when hewanted to live. Oh, my God--my God! No, there's no God--nothing thatcares--that takes any notice!"

She was shaken by deep, convulsive weeping. Delafield soothed her asbest he could. And presently she stretched out her hand with a quick, piteous gesture, and touched his face. 

"You, too! What have I done to you? How you looked, just now! I bring acurse. Why did you want to marry me? I can't tear this out of myheart--I can't!"

And again she hid herself from him. Delafield bent over her. 

"Do you imagine that I should be poor-souled enough to ask you?"

Suddenly a wild feeling of revolt ran through Julie's mind. Theloftiness of his mood chilled her. An attitude more weakly, passionatelyhuman, a more selfish pity for himself would, in truth, have served himbetter. Had the pain of the living man escaped his control, avengingitself on the supremacy that death had now given to the lover, Delafieldmight have found another Julie in his arms. As it was, her husbandseemed to her perhaps less than man, in being more; she admiredunwillingly, and her stormy heart withdrew itself. 

And when at last she controlled her weeping, and it became evident tohim that she wished once more to be alone, his sensitiveness perfectlydivined the secret reaction in her. He rose from his place beside herwith a deep, involuntary sigh. She heard it, but only to shrink away. 

"You will sleep a little?" he said, looking down upon her. 

"I will try, _mon ami_. "

"If you don't sleep, and would like me to read to you, call me. I am inthe next room. "

She thanked him faintly, and he went away. At the door he paused andcame back again. 

"To-night"--he hesitated--"while the doctors were here, I ran down toMontreux by the short path and telegraphed. The consul at Zanzibar is anold friend of mine. I asked him for more particulars at once, by wire. But the letters can't be here for a fortnight. "

"I know. You're very, very good. "

 * * * * *

Hour after hour Delafield sat motionless in his room, till "high in theValais depths profound" he "saw the morning break. "

There was a little balcony at his command, and as he noiselessly steppedout upon it, between three and four o'clock, he felt himself thesolitary comrade of the mist-veiled lake, of those high, rosy mountainson the eastern verge, the first throne and harbor of the light--of thelower forest-covered hills that "took the morning, " one by one, in aglorious and golden succession. All was fresh, austere, and vast--thespaces of the lake, the distant hollows of high glaciers filled withpurple shadow, the precipices of the Rochers de Naye, where the new snowwas sparkling in the sun, the cool wind that blew towards him from thegates of Italy, down the winding recesses of that superb valley whichhas been a thoroughfare of nations from the beginning of time. 

Not a boat on the wide reaches of the lake; not a voice or other soundof human toil, either from the vineyards below or the meadows above. Meanwhile some instinct, perhaps also some faint movements in her room, told him that Julie was no less wakeful than himself. And was not that alow voice in the room above him--the trained voice and footsteps of anurse? Ah, poor little heiress, she, too, watched with sorrow!

A curious feeling of shame, of self-depreciation crept into his heart. Surely he himself of late had been lying down with fear and rising upwith bitterness? Never a day had passed since they had reachedSwitzerland but he, a man of strong natural passions, had bade himselfface the probable truth that, by a kind of violence, he had married awoman who would never love him--had taken irrevocably a false step, onlytoo likely to be fatal to himself, intolerable to her. 

Nevertheless, steeped as he had been in sadness, in foreboding, and, during this by-gone night, in passionate envy of the dead yet belovedWarkworth, he had never been altogether unhappy. That mysterious_It_--that other divine self of the mystic--God--the enwrapping, sheltering force--had been with him always. It was with him now--itspoke from the mysterious color and light of the dawn. 

How, then, could he ever equal Julie in _experience_, in the true andpoignant feeling of any grief whatever? His mind was in a strange, double state. It was like one who feels himself unfairly protected by amagic armor; he would almost throw it aside in a remorseful eagernessto be with his brethren, and as his brethren, in the sore weakness anddarkness of the human combat; and then he thinks of the hand that gavethe shield, and his heart melts in awe. 

"_Friend of my soul and of the world, make me thy tool--thy instrument!Thou art Love! Speak through me! Draw her heart to mine_. "

At last, knowing that there was no sleep in him, and realizing that hehad brooded enough, he made his way out of the hotel and up through thefresh and dew-drenched meadows, where the haymakers were just appearing, to the Les Avants stream. A plunge into one of its cool basinsretempered the whole man. He walked back through the scentedfield-paths, resolutely restraining his mind from the thoughts of thenight, hammering out, indeed, in his head a scheme for the establishmentof small holdings on certain derelict land in Wiltshire belonging tohis cousin. 

As he was descending on Charnex, he met the postman and took hisletters. One among them, from the Duke of Chudleigh, contained a mostlamentable account of Lord Elmira. The father and son had returned toEngland, and an angry, inclement May had brought a touch of pneumonia toadd to all the lad's other woes. In itself it was not much--was, indeed, passing away. "But it has used up most of his strength, " said the Duke, "and you know whether he had any to waste. Don't forget him. Heconstantly thinks and talks of you. "

Delafield restlessly wondered when he could get home. But he realizedthat Julie would now feel herself tragically linked to the Moffatts, andhow could he leave her? He piteously told himself that here, and now, was his chance with her. As he bore himself now towards her, in thishour of her grief for Warkworth, so, perhaps, would their future be. 

Yet the claims of kindred were strong. He suffered much inward distressas he thought of the father and son, and their old touching dependenceupon him. Chudleigh, as Jacob knew well, was himself incurably ill. Could he long survive his poor boy?

And so that other thought, which Jacob spent so much ingenuity inavoiding, rushed upon him unawares. The near, inevitable expectation ofthe famous dukedom, which, in the case of almost any other man inEngland, must at least have quickened the blood with a naturalexcitement, produced in Delafield's mind a mere dull sense ofapproaching torment. Perhaps there was something non-sane in hisrepulsion, something that linked itself with his father's "queerness, "or the bigotry and fanaticism of his grandmother, the EvangelicalDuchess, with her "swarm of parsons, " as Sir Wilfrid remembered her. Theoddity, which had been violent or brutal in earlier generations, showeditself in him, one might have said, in a radical transposition ofvalues, a singularity of criterion, which the ordinary robust Englishmanmight very well dismiss with impatience as folly or cant. 

Yet it was neither; and the feeling had, in truth, its own logic andhistory. He had lived from his youth up among the pageants of rank andpossession. They had no glamour for him; he realized their burdens, their ineffectiveness for all the more precious kinds of happiness--howcould he not, with these two forlorn figures of Chudleigh and his boyalways before him? As for imagination and poetry, Delafield, with amind that was either positive or mystical--the mind, one might say, ofthe land-agent or the saint--failed to see where they came in. Familytradition, no doubt, carries a thrill. But what thrill is there in themere possession of a vast number of acres of land, of more houses, newand old, than any human being can possibly live in, of more money thanany reasonable man can ever spend, and more responsibilities than he canever meet? Such things often seemed to Delafield pure calamity--mereburdens upon life and breath. That he could and must be forced, sometime, by law and custom, to take them up, was nothing but a socialbarbarity. 

Mingled with all which, of course, was his passionate sense of spiritualdemocracy. To be throned apart, like a divine being, surrounded by thebought homage of one's fellows, and possessed of more power than a mancan decently use, was a condition which excited in Delafield the samekind of contemptuous revolt that it would have excited in St. Francis. "Be not ye called master"--a Christian even of his transcendental andheterodox sort, if he _were_ a Christian, must surely hold these wordsin awe, at least so far as concerned any mastery of the external orsecular kind. To masteries of another order the saint has never beendisinclined. 

As he once more struck the village street, this familiar whirl ofthoughts was buzzing in Delafield's mind, pierced, however, by onesharper and newer. Julie! Did he know--had he ever dared to findout--how she regarded this future which was overtaking them? She hadtried to sound _him_; she had never revealed herself. 

In Lady Henry's house he had often noticed in Julie that she had animaginative tenderness for rank or great fortune. At first it had seemedto him a woman's natural romanticism; then he explained it to himself asclosely connected with her efforts to serve Warkworth. 

But suppose he were made to feel that there, after all, lay hercompensation? She had submitted to a loveless marriage and lost herlover; but the dukedom was to make amends. He knew well that it would beso with nine women out of ten. But the bare thought that it might be sowith Julie maddened him. He then was to be for her, in the future, themere symbol of the vulgarer pleasures and opportunities, while Warkworthheld her heart?

Nay!

He stood still, strengthening in himself the glad and sufficient answer. She had refused him twice--knowing all his circumstances. At this momenthe adored her doubly for those old rebuffs. 

 * * * * *

Within twenty-four hours Delafield had received a telegram from hisfriend at Zanzibar. For the most part it recapitulated the news alreadysent to Cairo, and thence transmitted to the English papers. But itadded the information that Warkworth had been buried in the neighborhoodof a certain village on the caravan route to Mokembe, and that specialpains had been taken to mark the spot. And the message concluded: "Finefellow. Hard luck. Everybody awfully sorry here. "

These words brought Delafield a sudden look of passionate gratitude fromJulie's dark and sunken eyes. She rested her face against his sleeve andpressed his hand. 

Lady Blanche also wept over the telegram, exclaiming that she hadalways believed in Henry Warkworth, and now, perhaps, those busybodieswho at Simla had been pleased to concern themselves with her affairs andAileen's would see cause to be ashamed of themselves. 

To Delafield's discomfort, indeed, she poured out upon him a stream ofconfidences he would have gladly avoided. He had brought the telegram toher sitting-room. In the room adjoining it was Aileen, still, accordingto her mother's account, very ill, and almost speechless. Under theshadow of such a tragedy it seemed to him amazing that a mother couldfind words in which to tell her daughter's story to a comparativestranger. Lady Blanche appeared to him an ill-balanced and foolishwoman; a prey, on the one hand, to various obscure jealousies andantagonisms, and on the other to a romantic and sentimental temperwhich, once roused, gloried in despising "the world, " by which shegenerally meant a very ordinary degree of prudence. 

She was in chronic disagreement, it seemed, with her daughter'sguardians, and had been so from the first moment of her widowhood, thetruth being that she was jealous of their legal powers over Aileen'sfortune and destiny, and determined, notwithstanding, to have her ownway with her own child. The wilfulness and caprice of the father, whichhad taken such strange and desperate forms in Rose Delaney, appearedshorn of all its attraction and romance in the smaller, moreconventional, and meaner egotisms of Lady Blanche. 

And yet, in her own way, she was full of heart. She lost her head over alove affair. She could deny Aileen nothing. That was what her casualIndian acquaintances meant by calling her "sweet. " When Warkworth'sattentions, pushed with an ardor which would have driven any prudentmother to an instant departure from India, had made a timid and charmingchild of eighteen the talk of Simla, Lady Blanche, excited anddishevelled--was it her personal untidiness which accounted for theother epithet of "quaint, " which had floated to the Duchess's ear, andbeen by her reported to Julie?--refused to break her daughter's heart. Warkworth, indeed, had begun long before by flattering the mother'svanity and sense of possession, and she now threw herself hotly into hiscause as against Aileen's odious trustees. 

They, of course, always believed the worst of everybody. As for her, allshe wanted for the child was a good husband. Was it not better, in aworld of fortune-hunters, that Aileen, with her half-million, shouldmarry early? Of money, she had, one would think, enough. It was only thegreed of certain persons which could possibly desire more. Birth? Theyoung man was honorably born, good-looking, well mannered. What did youwant more? _She_ accepted a democratic age; and the obstacles thrown byAileen's guardians in the way of an immediate engagement between theyoung people appeared to her, so she declared, either vulgar orridiculous. 

Well, poor lady, she had suffered for her whims. First of all, herlevity had perceived, with surprise and terror, the hold that passionwas taking on the delicate and sensitive nature of Aileen. This younggirl, so innocent and spotless in thought, so virginally sweet inmanner, so guileless in action, developed a power of loving, anabsorption of the whole being in the beloved, such as our modern worldbut rarely sees. 

She lived, she breathed for Warkworth. Her health, always frail, suffered from their separation. She became a thin and frail vision--a"gossamer girl" indeed. The ordinary life of travel and society lost allhold upon her; she passed through it in a mood of weariness and distastethat was in itself a danger to vital force. The mother becamedesperately alarmed, and made a number of flurried concessions. Letters, at any rate, should be allowed, in spite of the guardians, and withouttheir knowledge. Yet each letter caused emotions which ran like astorm-wind through the child's fragile being, and seemed to exhaust theyoung life at its source. Then came the diphtheria, acting withpoisonous effect on a nervous system already overstrained. 

And in the midst of the mother's anxieties there burst upon her thesudden, incredible tale that Warkworth--to whom she herself was writingregularly, and to whom Aileen, from her bed, was sending littlepencilled notes, sweetly meant to comfort a sighing lover--had beenentangling himself in London with another, a Miss Le Breton, positivelya nobody, as far as birth and position were concerned, the paidcompanion of Lady Henry Delafield, and yet, as it appeared, a handsome, intriguing, unscrupulous hussy, just the kind of hawk to snatch a morselfrom a dove's mouth--a woman, in fact, with whom a littlebread-and-butter girl like Aileen might very well have no chance. 

Emily Lawrence's letter, in the tone of the candid friend, written afterher evening at Crowborough House, had roused a mingled anguish and furyin the mother's breast. She lifted her eyes from it to look at Aileen, propped up in bed, her head thrown back against the pillow, and herlittle hands closed happily over Warkworth's letters; and she wentstraight from that vision to write to the traitor. 

The traitor defended and excused himself by return of post. He imploredher to pay no attention to the calumnious distortion of a friendshipwhich had already served Aileen's interests no less than his own. It waslargely to Miss Le Breton's influence that he owed the appointment whichwas to advance him so materially in his career. At the same time hethought it would be wise if Lady Blanche kept not only the silly gossipthat was going about, but even this true and innocent fact, fromAileen's knowledge. One never knew how a girl would take such things, and he would rather explain it himself at his own time. 

Lady Blanche had to be content. And meanwhile the glory of the Mokembeappointment was a strong factor in Aileen's recovery. She exulted overit by day and night, and she wrote the letters of an angel. 

The mother watched her writing them with mixed feelings. As toWarkworth's replies, which she was sometimes allowed to see, LadyBlanche, who had been a susceptible girl, and the heroine of several"affairs, " was secretly and strongly of opinion that men's love-letters, at any rate, were poor things nowadays, compared with what theyhad been. 

But Aileen was more than satisfied with them. How busy he must be, andwith such important business! Poor, harassed darling, how good of him towrite her a word--to give her a thought!

 * * * * *

And now Lady Blanche beheld her child crushed and broken, a nervouswreck, before her life had truly begun. The agonies which the motherendured were very real, and should have been touching. But she was not atouching person. All her personal traits--her red-rimmed eyes, herstraggling hair, the slight, disagreeable twist in her nose andmouth--combined, with her signal lack of dignity and reticence, to stirthe impatience rather than the sympathy of the by-stander. 

"And mamma was so fond of her, " Julie would say to herself sometimes, inwonder, proudly contrasting the wild grace and originality of herdisgraced mother with the awkward, slipshod ways of the sister who hadremained a great lady. 

Meanwhile, Lady Blanche was, indeed, perpetually conscious of herstrange niece, perpetually thinking of the story her brothers had toldher, perpetually trying to recall the sister she had lost so young, andthen turning from all such things to brood angrily over the Lawrenceletter, and the various other rumors which had reached her ofWarkworth's relations to Miss Le Breton. 

What was in the woman's mind now? She looked pale and tragic enough. Butwhat right had she to grieve--or, if she did grieve, to be pitied?

Jacob Delafield had been fool enough to marry her, and fate would makeher a duchess. So true it is that they who have no business to flourishdo flourish, like green bay-trees. 

As to poor Rose--sometimes there would rise on Lady Blanche's mind thesudden picture of herself and the lost, dark-eyed sister, scampering ontheir ponies through the country lanes of their childhood; of herlessons with Rose, her worship of Rose; and then of that black curtainof mystery and reprobation which for the younger child of sixteen hadsuddenly descended upon Rose and all that concerned her. 

But Rose's daughter! All one could say was that she had turned out asthe child of such proceedings might be expected to turn out--a minx. Theaunt's conviction as to that stood firm. And while Rose's face and fatehad sunk into the shadows of the past, even for her sister, Aileen was_here_, struggling for her delicate, threatened life, her hand always inthe hand of this woman who had tried to steal her lover from her, hersoft, hopeless eyes, so tragically unconscious, bent upon the boldintriguer. 

What possessed the child? Warkworth's letters, Julie's company--thoseseemed to be all she desired. 

And at last, in the June beauty and brilliance, when a triumphant summerhad banished the pitiful spring, when the meadows were all perfume andcolor, and the clear mountains, in a clear sky, upheld the ever-new andnever-ending pomp of dawn and noon and night, the little, wastedcreature looked up into Julie's face, and, without tears, gasped outher story. 

"These are his letters. Some day I'll--I'll read you some of them; andthis--is his picture. I know you saw him at Lady Henry's. He mentionedyour name. Will you please tell me everything--all the times you sawhim, and what he talked of? You see I am much stronger. I can bearit all now. "

 * * * * *

Meanwhile, for Delafield, this fortnight of waiting--waiting for theAfrican letters, waiting for the revival of life in Aileen--was a periodof extraordinary tension, when all the powers of nerve and brain seemedto be tested and tried to the utmost. He himself was absorbed inwatching Julie and in dealing with her. 

In the first place, as he saw, she could give no free course to grief. The tragic yearning, the agonized tenderness and pity which consumedher, must be crushed out of sight as far as possible. They would havebeen an offence to Lady Blanche, a bewilderment to Aileen. And it was onher relation to her new-found cousin that, as Delafield perceived, hermoral life for the moment turned. This frail girl was on the brink ofperishing because death had taken Warkworth from her. And Julie knewwell that Warkworth had neither loved her nor deserved her--that he hadgone to Africa and to death with another image in his heart. 

There was a perpetual and irreparable cruelty in the situation. And fromthe remorse of it Julie could not escape. Day by day she was moreprofoundly touched by the clinging, tender creature, more sharplyscourged by the knowledge that the affection developing between themcould never be without its barrier and its mystery, that something mustalways remain undisclosed, lest Aileen cast her off in horror. 

It was a new moral suffering, in one whose life had been based hithertoon intellect, or passion. In a sense it held at bay even her grief forWarkworth, her intolerable compassion for his fate. In sheer dread lestthe girl should find her out and hate her, she lost insensibly the firstpoignancy of sorrow. 

These secrets of feeling left her constantly pale and silent. Yet hergrace had never been more evident. All the inmates of the little_pension_, the landlord's family, the servants, the visitors, as thedays passed, felt the romance and thrill of her presence. Lady Blancheevoked impatience of ennui. She was inconsiderate; she was meddlesome;she soon ceased even to be pathetic. But for Julie every foot ran, everyeye smiled. 

Then, when the day was over, Delafield's opportunity began. Julie couldnot sleep. He gradually established the right to read with her and talkwith her. It was a relation very singular, and very intimate. She wouldadmit him at his knock, and he would find her on her sofa, very sad, often in tears, her black hair loose upon her shoulders. Outwardly therewas often much ceremony, even distance between them; inwardly, each wasexploring the other, and Julie's attitude towards Delafield was becomingmore uncertain, more touched with emotion. 

What was, perhaps, most noticeable in it was a new timidity, a touch ofanxious respect towards him. In the old days, what with her literarycultivation and her social success, she had always been the flatteredand admired one of their little group. Delafield felt himself clumsy andtongue-tied beside her. It was a superiority on her part very naturaland never ungraceful, and it was his chief delight to bring it forward, to insist upon it, to take it for granted. 

But the relation between them had silently shifted. 

"You _judge_--you are always judging, " she had said once, impatiently, to Delafield. And now it was round these judgments, these inwardverdicts of his, on life or character, that she was perpetuallyhovering. She was infinitely curious about them. She would wrench themfrom him, and then would often shiver away from him in resentment. 

He, meanwhile, as he advanced further in the knowledge of her strangenature, was more and more bewildered by her--her perversities andcaprices, her brilliancies and powers, her utter lack of any standard orscheme of life. She had been for a long time, as it seemed to him, thecreature of her exquisite social instincts--then the creature ofpassion. But what a woman through it all, and how adorable, with thosepoetic gestures and looks, those melancholy, gracious airs that ravishedhim perpetually! And now this new attitude, as of a child leaning, wistfully looking in your face, asking to be led, to be wrestled andreasoned with. 

The days, as they passed, produced in him a secret and mountingintoxication. Then, perhaps for a day or two, there would be a reaction, both foreseeing that a kind of spiritual tyranny might arise from theirrelation, and both recoiling from it.... 

One night she was very restless and silent. There seemed to be no meansof approach to her true mind. Suddenly he took her hand--it was somedays since they had spoken of Warkworth--and almost roughly reminded herof her promise to tell him all. 

She rebelled. But his look and manner held her, and the inner miserysought an outlet. Submissively she began to speak, in her low, murmuringvoice; she went back over the past--the winter in Bruton Street; thefirst news of the Moffatt engagement; her efforts for Warkworth'spromotion; the history of the evening party which had led to herbanishment; the struggle in her own mind and Warkworth's; the sudden madschemes of their last interview; the rush of the Paris journey. 

The mingled exaltation and anguish, the comparative absence of regretwith which she told the story, produced an astonishing effect onDelafield. And in both minds, as the story proceeded, there emerged evermore clearly the consciousness of that imperious act by which he hadsaved her. 

Suddenly she stopped. 

"I know you can find no excuse for it all, " she said, in excitement. 

"Yes; for all--but for one thing, " was his low reply. 

She shrank, her eyes on his face. 

"That poor child, " he said, under his breath. 

She looked at him piteously. 

"Did you ever realize what you were doing?" he asked her, raising herhand to his lips. 

"No, no! How could I? I thought of some one so different--I had neverseen her--"

She paused, her wide--seeking gaze fixed upon him through tears, asthough she pleaded with him to find explanations--palliatives. 

But he gently shook his head. 

Suddenly, shaken with weeping, she bowed her face upon the hands thatheld her own. It was like one who relinquishes all pleading, alldefence, and throws herself on the mercy of the judge. 

He tenderly asked her pardon if he had wounded her. But he shrank fromoffering any caress. The outward signs of life's most poignant and mostbeautiful moments are generally very simple and austere. 

XXIV

"You have had a disquieting letter?"

The voice was Julie's. Delafield was standing, apparently in thought, atthe farther corner of the little, raised terrace of the hotel. Sheapproached him with an affectionate anxiety, of which he was instantlyconscious. 

"I am afraid I may have to leave you to-night, " he said, turning towardsher, and holding out the letter in his hand. 

It contained a few agitated lines from the Duke of Chudleigh. 

"They tell me my lad can't get over this. He's made a gallant fight, butthis beats us. A week or two--no more. Ask Mrs. Delafield to let youcome. She will, I know. She wrote to me very kindly. Mervyn keepstalking of you. You'd come, if you heard him. It's ghastly--the crueltyof it all. Whether I can live without him, that's the point. "

"You'll go, of course?" said Julie, returning it. 

"To-night, if you allow it. "

"Of course. You ought. "

"I hate leaving you alone, with this trouble on your hands, " said Jacob, in some agitation. "What are your plans?"

"I could follow you next week. Aileen comes down to-day. And I shouldlike to wait here for the mail. "

"In five days, about, it should be here, " said Delafield. 

There was a silence. She dropped into a chair beside the balustrade ofthe terrace, which was wreathed in wistaria, and looked out upon thevast landscape of the lake. His thought was, "How can the mail matter toher? She cannot suppose that he had written--"

Aloud he said, in some embarrassment, "You expect letters yourself?"

"I expect nothing, " she said, after a pause. "But Aileen is living onthe chance of letters. "

"There may be nothing for her--except, indeed, her letters to him--poorchild!"

"She knows that. But the hope keeps her alive. "

"And you?" thought Delafield, with an inward groan, as he looked downupon her pale profile. He had a moment's hateful vision of himself asthe elder brother in the parable. Was Julie's mind to be the home of aneternal antithesis between the living husband and the dead lover--inwhich the latter had forever the _beau rôle_?

Then, impatiently, Jacob wrenched himself from mean thoughts. It was asthough he bared his head remorse-fully before the dead man. 

"I will go to the Foreign Office, " he said, in her ear, "as I passthrough town. They will have letters. All the information I can get youshall have at once. "

"Thank you, _mon ami_", she said, almost inaudibly. 

Then she looked up, and he was startled by her eyes. Where he hadexpected grief, he saw a shrinking animation. 

"Write to me often, " she said, imperiously. 

"Of course. But don't trouble to answer much. Your hands are so fullhere. "

She frowned. 

"Trouble! Why do you spoil me so? Demand--insist--that I should write!"

"Very well, " he said, smiling, "I demand--I insist!"

She drew a long breath, and went slowly away from him into the house. Certainly the antagonism of her secret thoughts, though it persisted, was no longer merely cold or critical. For it concerned one who was notonly the master of his own life, but threatened unexpectedly to becomethe master of hers. 

She had begun, indeed, to please her imagination with the idea of arelation between them, which, while it ignored the ordinary relations ofmarriage, should yet include many of the intimacies and refinements oflove. More and more did the surprises of his character arrest and occupyher mind. She found, indeed, no "plaster saint. " Her cool intelligencesoon detected the traces of a peevish or stubborn temper, and of anatural inertia, perpetually combated, however, by the spiritual energyof a new and other self exfoliating from the old; a self whose acts andways she watched, sometimes with the held breath of fascination, sometimes with a return of shrinking or fear. That a man should not onlyappear but be so good was still in her eyes a little absurd. Perhaps herfeeling was at bottom the common feeling of the sceptical nature. "Weshould listen to the higher voices; but in such a way that if anotherhypothesis were true, we should not have been too completely duped. "

She was ready, also, to convict him of certain prejudices andsuperstitions which roused in her an intellectual impatience. But whenall was said, Delafield, unconsciously, was drawing her towards him, asthe fowler draws a fluttering bird. It was the exquisite refinement ofthose spiritual insights and powers he possessed which constantlyappealed, not only to her heart, but--a very important matter in Julie'scase--to her taste, to her own carefully tempered instinct for the rareand beautiful. 

He was the master, then, she admitted, of a certain vein of spiritualgenius. Well, here should he lead--and even, if he pleased, command her. She would sit at his feet, and he should open to her ranges of feeling, delights, and subtleties of moral sensation hitherto unknown to her. 

Thus the feeling of ennui and reaction which had marked the first weeksof her married life had now wholly disappeared. Delafield was no longerdull or pedantic in her eyes. She passed alternately from moments ofintolerable smart and pity for the dead to moments of agitation andexpectancy connected with her husband. She thought over their meeting ofthe night before; she looked forward to similar hours to come. 

Meanwhile his relation towards her in many matters was still naïvelyignorant and humble--determined by the simplicity of a man of some realgreatness, who never dreamed of claiming tastes or knowledge he did notpossess, whether in small things or large. This phase, however, onlygave the more value to one which frequently succeeded it. For suddenlythe conversation would enter regions where he felt himself peculiarly athome, and, with the same unconsciousness on his part, she would be madeto feel the dignity and authority which surrounded his ethical andspiritual life. And these contrasts--this weakness and thisstrength--combined with the man-and-woman element which is alwayspresent in any situation of the kind, gave rise to a very varied andgradually intensifying play of feeling between them. Feeling onlypossible, no doubt, for the _raffinés_ of this world; but for them fullof strange charm, and even of excitement. 

 * * * * *

Delafield left the little inn for Montreux, Lausanne, and London thatafternoon. He bent to kiss his wife at the moment of his departure, inthe bare sitting-room that had been improvised for them on the groundfloor of the hotel, and as she let her face linger ever so littleagainst his she felt strong arms flung round her, and was crushedagainst his breast in a hungry embrace. When he released her with aflush and a murmured word of apology she shook her head, smiling sadlybut saying nothing. The door closed on him, and at the sound she made ahasty step forward. 

"Jacob! Take me with you!"

But her voice died in the rattle and bustle of the diligence outside, and she was left trembling from head to foot, under a conflict ofemotions that seemed now to exalt, now to degrade her. 

Half an hour after Delafield's departure there appeared on the terraceof the hotel a tottering, emaciated form--Aileen Moffatt, in a blackdress and hat, clinging to her mother's arm. But she refused thedeck--chair, which they had spread with cushions and shawls. 

"No; let me sit up. " And she took an ordinary chair, looking round uponthe lake and the little flowery terrace with a slow, absorbed look, likeone trying to remember. Suddenly she bowed her head on her hands. 

"Aileen!" cried Lady Blanche, in an agony. 

But the girl motioned her away. "Don't, mummy. I'm all right. "

And restraining any further emotion, she laid her arms on the balustradeand gazed long and calmly into the purple depths and gleaming snows ofthe Rhône valley. Her hat oppressed her and she took it off, revealingthe abundance of her delicately golden hair, which, in its lack oflustre and spring, seemed to share in the physical distress and loss ofthe whole personality. 

The face was that of a doomed creature, incapable now of making anysuccessful struggle for the right to live. What had been sensibility hadbecome melancholy; the slight, chronic frown was deeper, the pale lipsmore pinched. Yet intermittently there was still great sweetness, thelast effort of a "beautiful soul" meant for happiness, and witheredbefore its time. 

As Julie stood beside her, while Lady Blanche had gone to fetch a bookfrom the salon, the poor child put out her hand and grasped thatof Julie. 

"It is quite possible I may get the letter to-night, " she said, in ahurried whisper. "My maid went down to Montreux--there is a clever manat the post-office who tried to make it out for us. He thinks it'll beto-night. "

"Don't be too disappointed if nothing comes, " said Julie, caressing thehand. Its thinness, its icy and lifeless touch, dismayed her. Ah, howeasily might this physical wreck have been her doing!

 * * * * *

The bells of Montreux struck half-past six. A restless and agonizedexpectation began to show itself in all the movements of the invalid. She left her chair and began to pace the little terrace on Julie's arm. Her dragging step, the mournful black of her dress, the struggle betweenyouth and death in her sharpened face, made her a tragic presence. Juliecould hardly bear it, while all the time she, too, was secretly andbreathlessly waiting for Warkworth's last words. 

Lady Blanche returned, and Julie hurried away. 

She passed through the hotel and walked down the Montreux road. The posthad already reached the first houses of the village, and the postman, who knew her, willingly gave her the letters. 

Yes, a packet for Aileen, addressed in an unknown hand to a Londonaddress, and forwarded thence. It bore the Denga postmark. 

And another for herself, readdressed from London by Madame Bornier. Shetore off the outer envelope; beneath was a letter of which the addresswas feebly written in Warkworth's hand: "Mademoiselle Le Breton, 3Heribert Street, London. "

She had the strength to carry her own letter to her room, to callAileen's maid and send her with the other packet to Lady Blanche. Thenshe locked herself in.... 

Oh, the poor, crumpled page, and the labored hand-writing!

"Julie, I am dying. They are such good fellows, but they can't save me. It's horrible. 

"I saw the news of your engagement in a paper the day before I leftDenga. You're right. He'll make you happy. Tell him I said so. Oh, myGod, I shall never trouble you again! I bless you for the letter youwrote me. Here it is.... No, I can't--can't read it. Drowsy. No pain--"

And here the pen had dropped from his hand. Searching for somethingmore, she drew from the envelope the wild and passionate letter she hadwritten him at Heribert Street, in the early morning after her returnfrom Paris, while she was waiting for Delafield to bring her the news ofLord Lackington's state. 

 * * * * *

The small _table d'hôte_ of the Hotel Michel was still furtherdiminished that night. Lady Blanche was with her daughter, and Mrs. Delafield did not appear. 

But the moon was hanging in glory over the lake when Julie, unable tobear her room and her thoughts any longer, threw a lace scarf about herhead and neck, and went blindly climbing through the upward pathsleading to Les Avants. The roads were silver in the moonlight; so wasthe lake, save where the great mountain shadows lay across the easternend. And suddenly, white, through pine-trees, "Jaman, delicately tall!"

The air cooled her brow, and from the deep, enveloping night her tornheart drew balm, and a first soothing of the pulse of pain. Every nowand then, as she sat down to rest, a waking dream overshadowed her. Sheseemed to be supporting Warkworth in her arms; his dying head lay uponher breast, and she murmured courage and love into his ear. But not asJulie Le Breton. Through all the anguish of what was almost an illusionof the senses, she still felt herself Delafield's wife. And in thatflood of silent speech she poured out on Warkworth, it was as though sheoffered him also Jacob's compassion, Jacob's homage, mingled withher own. 

Once she found herself sitting at the edge of a meadow, environed by theheavy scents of flowers. Some apple-trees with whitened trunks rosebetween her and the lake a thousand feet below. The walls of Chillon, the houses of Montreux, caught the light; opposite, the deep forests ofBouveret and St. Gingolphe lay black upon the lake; above them rode themoon. And to the east the high Alps, their pure lines a little effacedand withdrawn, as when a light veil hangs over a sanctuary. 

Julie looked out upon a vast freedom of space, and by a naturalconnection she seemed to be also surveying her own world of life andfeeling, her past and her future. She thought of her childhood and herparents, of her harsh, combative youth, of the years with Lady Henry, ofWarkworth, of her husband, and the life into which his strong hand hadso suddenly and rashly drawn her. Her thoughts took none of thereligious paths so familiar to his. And yet her reverie was so farreligious that her mind seemed to herself to be quivering under theonset of affections, emotions, awes, till now unknown, and that, lookingback, she was conscious of a groping sense of significance, of purpose, in all that had befallen her. Yet to this sense she could put no words. Only, in the end, through the constant action of her visualizingimagination, it connected itself with Delafield's face, and with thememory of many of his recent acts and sayings. 

It was one of those hours which determine the history of a man or woman. And the august Alpine beauty entered in, so that Julie, in this sad andthrilling act of self-probing, felt herself in the presence of powersand dominations divine. 

Her face, stained with tears, took gradually some of the calm, theloftiness of the night. Yet the close-shut, brooding mouth would slipsometimes into a smile exquisitely soft and gentle, as though the heartremembered something which seemed to the intelligence at once folly andsweetness. 

What was going on within her was, to her own consciousness, a strangething. It appeared to her as a kind of simplification, a return tochildhood; or, rather, was it the emergence in the grown mind, tiredwith the clamor of its own egotistical or passionate life, of someinstincts, natural to the child, which she, nevertheless, as a child hadnever known; instincts of trust, of self-abandonment, steeped, perhaps, in those tears which are themselves only another happiness?... 

But hush! What are our poor words in the presence of these noblersecrets of the wrestling and mounting spirit!

 * * * * *

On the way down she saw another figure emerge from the dark. 

"Lady Blanche!"

Lady Blanche stood still. 

"The hotel was stifling, " she said, in a voice that vainly tried forsteadiness. 

Julie perceived that she had been weeping. 

"Aileen is asleep?"

"Perhaps. They have given her something to make her sleep. "

They walked on towards the hotel. 

Julie hesitated. 

"She was not disappointed?" she said, at last, in a low voice. 

"No!" said the mother, sharply. "But one knew, of course, there must beletters for her. Thank God, she can feel that his very last thought wasfor her! The letters which have reached her are dated the day before thefatal attack began--giving a complete account of his march--mostinteresting--showing how he trusted her already--though she is such achild. It will tranquillize her to feel how completely she possessed hisheart--poor fellow!"

Julie said nothing, and Lady Blanche, with bitter satisfaction, feltrather than saw what seemed to her the just humiliation expressed in thedrooping and black-veiled figure beside her. 

Next day there was once more a tinge of color on Aileen's cheeks. Herbeautiful hair fell round her once more in a soft life and confusion, and the roses which her mother had placed beside her on the bed were notin too pitiful contrast with her frail loveliness. 

"Read it, please, " she said, as soon as she found herself alone withJulie, pushing her letter tenderly towards her. "He tells meeverything--everything! All he was doing and hoping--consults me ineverything. Isn't it an honor--when I'm so ignorant and childish? I'lltry to be brave--try to be worthy--"

And while her whole frame was shaken with deep, silent sobs, shegreedily watched Julie read the letter. 

"Oughtn't I to try and live, " she said, dashing away her tears, as Juliereturned it, "when he loved me so?"

Julie kissed her with a passionate and guilty pity. The letter mighthave been written to any friend, to any charming child for whom a mucholder man had a kindness. It gave a business-like account of theirmarch, dilated on one or two points of policy, drew some humoroussketches of his companions, and concluded with a few affectionate andplayful sentences. 

But when the wrestle with death began, Warkworth wrote but one lastletter, uttered but one cry of the heart, and it lay now inJulie's bosom. 

 * * * * *

A few days passed. Delafield's letters were short and full of sadness. Elmira still lived; but any day or hour might see the end. As for thefather--But the subject was too tragic to be written of, even to her. Not to feel, not to realize; there lay the only chance of keeping one'sown courage, and so of being any help whatever to two of the mostmiserable of human beings. 

At last, rather more than a week after Delafield's departure, cametwo telegrams. One was from Delafield--"Mervyn died this morning. Duke's condition causes great anxiety. " The other from EvelynCrowborough--"Elmira died this morning. Going down to Shropshire tohelp Jacob. "

Julie threw down the telegrams. A rush of proud tears came to her eyes. She swept to the door of her room, opened it, and called her maid. 

The maid came, and when she saw the sparkling looks and strained bearingof her mistress, wondered what crime she was to be rebuked for. Juliemerely bade her pack at once, as it was her intention to catch theeight o'clock through train at Lausanne that night for England. 

 * * * * *

Twenty hours later the train carrying Julie to London entered VictoriaStation. On the platform stood the little Duchess, impatientlyexpectant. Julie was clasped in her arms, and had no time to wonder atthe pallor and distraction of her friend before she was hurried into thebrougham waiting beyond the train. 

"Oh, Julie!" cried the Duchess, catching the traveller's hands, as theydrove away. "Julie, darling!"

Julie turned to her in amazement. The blue eyes fixed upon her had notears, but in them, and in the Duchess's whole aspect, was expressed avivid horror and agitation which struck at Julie's heart. 

"What is it?" she said, catching her breath. "What is it?"

"Julie, I was going to Faircourt this morning. First your telegramstopped me. I thought I'd wait and go with you. Then came another, fromDelafield. The Duke! The poor Duke!"

Julie's attitude changed unconsciously--instantly. 

"Yes; tell me!"

"It's in all the papers to-night--on the placards--don't look out!" Andthe Duchess lifted her hand and drew down the blinds of the brougham. "He was in a most anxious state yesterday, but they thought him calmerat night, and he insisted on being left alone. The doctors still kept awatch, but he managed in some mysterious way to evade them all, and thismorning he was missed. After two hours they found him--in the riverthat runs below the house!"

There was a silence. 

"And Jacob?" said Julie, hoarsely. 

"That's what I'm so anxious about, " exclaimed the Duchess. "Oh, I amthankful you've come! You know how Jacob's always felt about the Dukeand Mervyn--how he's hated the notion of succeeding. And Susan, who wentdown yesterday, telegraphed to me last night--before this horror--thathe was 'terribly strained and overwrought. '"

"Succeeding?" said Julie, vaguely. Mechanically she had drawn up theblind again, and her eyes followed the dingy lines of the VauxhallBridge Road, till suddenly they turned away from the placards outside asmall stationer's shop which announced: "Tragic death of the Duke ofChudleigh and his son. "

The Duchess looked at her curiously without replying. Julie seemed to begrappling with some idea which escaped her, or, rather, was presentlyexpelled by one more urgent. 

"Is Jacob ill?" she said, abruptly, looking her companion full in theface. 

"I only know what I've told you. Susan says 'strained and overwrought. 'Oh, it'll be all right when he gets you!"

Julie made no reply. She sat motionless, and the Duchess, stealinganother glance at her, must needs, even in this tragic turmoil, allowherself the reflection that she was a more delicate study inblack-and-white, a more refined and accented personality than ever. 

"You won't mind, " said Evelyn, timidly, after a pause; "but Lady Henryis staying with me, and also Sir Wilfrid Bury, who had such a bad coldin his lodgings that I went down there a week ago, got the doctor'sleave, and carried him off there and then. And Mr. Montresor's comingin. He particularly wanted, he said, just to press your hand. But theysha'n't bother you if you're tired. Our train goes at 10. 10, and Freddiehas got the express stopped for us at Westonport--about three inthe morning. "

The carriage rolled into Grosvenor Square, and presently stopped beforeCrowborough House. Julie alighted, looked round her at the July green ofthe square, at the brightness of the window-boxes, and then at the groomof the chambers who was taking her wraps from her--the same man who, inthe old days, used to feed Lady Henry's dogs with sweet biscuit. Itstruck her that he was showing her a very particular and eagerattention. 

 * * * * *

Meanwhile in the Duchess's drawing--room a little knot of people wasgathered--Lady Henry, Sir Wilfrid Bury, and Dr. Meredith. Their demeanorillustrated both the subduing and the exciting influence of greatevents. Lady Henry was more talkative than usual. Sir Wilfridmore silent. 

Lady Henry seemed to have profited by her stay at Torquay. As she satupright in a stiff chair, her hands resting on her stick, she presentedher characteristic aspect of English solidity, crossed by a certain freeand foreign animation. She had been already wrangling with Sir Wilfrid, and giving her opinion freely on the "socialistic" views on rank andproperty attributed to Jacob Delafield. "If _he_ can't digest the cake, that doesn't mean it isn't good, " had been her last impatient remark, when Sir Wilfrid interrupted her. 

"Only a few minutes more, " he said, looking at his watch. "Now, then, what line do we take? How much is our friend likely to know?"

"Unless she has lost her eyesight--which Evelyn has not reported--shewill know most of what matters before she has gone a hundred yards fromthe station, " said Lady Henry, dryly. 

"Oh, the streets! Yes; but persons are often curiously dazed by such agallop of events. "

"Not Julie Le Breton!"

"I should like to be informed as to the part you are about to play, "said Sir Wilfrid, in a lower voice, "that I may play up to it. Whereare you?"

Both looked at Meredith, who had walked to a distant window and wasstanding there looking out upon the square. Lady Henry was well awarethat _he_ had not forgiven her, and, to tell the truth, was ratheranxious that he should. So she, too, dropped her voice. 

"I bow to the institutions of my country, " she said, a little sparkle inthe strong, gray eye. 

"In other words, you forgive a duchess?"

"I acknowledge the head of the family, and the greater carries theless. "

"Suppose Jacob should be unforgiving?"

"He hasn't the spirit. "

"And she?"

"Her conscience will be on my side. "

"I thought it was your theory that she had none?"

"Jacob, let us hope, will have developed some. He has a good deal tospare. "

Sir Wilfrid laughed. "So it is you who will do the pardoning?"

"I shall offer an armed and honorable peace. The Duchess of Chudleighmay intrigue and tell lies, if she pleases. I am not giving her ahundred a year. "

There was a pause. 

"Why, if I may ask, " said Sir Wilfrid, at the end of it, "did youquarrel with Jacob? I understand there was a separate cause:"

Lady Henry hesitated. 

"He paid me a debt, " she said, at last, and a sudden flush rose in herold, blanched cheek. 

"And that annoyed you? You have the oddest code!"

Lady Henry bit her lip. 

"One does not like one's money thrown in one's face. "

"Most unreasonable of women!"

"Never mind, Wilfrid. We all have our feelings. "

"Precisely. Well, no doubt Jacob will make peace. As for--Ah, here comesMontresor!"

A visible tremor passed through Lady Henry. The door was thrown open, and the footman announced the Minister for War. 

"Her grace, sir, is not yet returned. "

Montresor stumbled into the room, and even with his eye-glassescarefully adjusted, did not at once perceive who was in it. 

Sir Wilfrid went towards him. 

"Ah, Bury! Convalescent, I hope?"

"Quite. The Duchess has gone to meet Mrs. Delafield. "

"Mrs. --?" Montresor's mouth opened. "But, of course, you know?"

"Oh yes, I know. But one's tongue has to get oiled. You see Lady Henry?"

Montresor started. 

"I am glad to see Lady Henry, " he replied, stiffly. 

Lady Henry slowly rose and advanced two steps. She quietly held out herhand to him, and, smiling, looked him in the face. 

"Take it. There is no longer any cause of quarrel between us. I raisethe embargo. "

The Minister took the hand, and shook his head. 

"Ah, but you had no right to impose it, " he said, with energy. 

"Oh, for goodness sake, meet me half-way, " cried Lady Henry, "or I shallnever hold out!"

Sir Wilfrid, whose half-embarrassed gaze was bent on the ground, lookedup and was certain that he saw a gleam of moisture in thosewrinkled eyes. 

"Why have you held out so long? What does it matter to me whether MissJulie be a duchess or no? That doesn't make up to me for all the monthsyou've shut your door on me. And I was always given to understand, by-the-way, that it wouldn't matter to you. "

"I've had three months at Torquay, " said Lady Henry, raising hershoulders. 

"I hope it was dull to distraction. "

"It was. And my doctor tells me the more I fret the more gout I mayexpect. "

"So all this is not generosity, but health?"

"Kiss my hand, sir, and have done with it! You are all avenged. AtTorquay I had four companions in seven weeks. "

"More power to them!" said Montresor. "Meredith, come here. Shall weaccept the pleas?"

Meredith came slowly from the window, his hands behind his back. 

"Lady Henry commands and we obey, " he said, slowly. "But to-day begins anew world--founded in ruin, like the rest of them. "

He raised his fine eyes, in which there was no laughter, rather a dreamyintensity. Lady Henry shrank. 

"If you're thinking of Chudleigh, " she said, uncertainly, "be glad forhim. It was release. As for Henry Warkworth--"

"Ah, poor fellow!" said Montresor, perfunctorily. "Poor fellow!"

He had dropped Lady Henry's hand, but he now recaptured it, enclosingthe thin, jewelled fingers in his own. 

"Well, well, then it's peace, with all my heart. " He stooped and lightlykissed the fingers. "And now, when do you expect our friend?"

"At any moment, " said Lady Henry. 

She seated herself, and Montresor beside her. 

"I am told, " said Montresor, "that this horror will not only affectDelafield personally, but that he will regard the dukedom as acalamity. "

"Hm!--and you believe it?" said Lady Henry. 

"I try to, " was the Minister's laughing reply. "Ah, surely, here theyare!"

Meredith turned from the window, to which he had gone back. 

"The carriage has just arrived, " he announced, and he stood fidgeting, standing first on one foot, then on the other, and running his handthrough his mane of gray hair. His large features were pale, and anyclose observer would have detected the quiver of emotion. 

A sound of voices from the anteroom, the Duchess's light tones floatingto the top. At the same time a door on the other side of thedrawing-room opened and the Duke of Crowborough appeared. 

"I think I hear my wife, " he said, as he greeted Montresor and hurriedlycrossed the room. 

There was a rustle of quick steps, and the little Duchess entered. 

"Freddie, here is Julie!"

Behind appeared a tall figure in black. Everybody in the room advanced, including Lady Henry, who, however, after a few steps stood still behindthe others, leaning on her stick. 

Julie looked round the little circle, then at the Duke of Crowborough, who had gravely given her his hand. The suppressed excitement already inthe room clearly communicated itself to her. She did not lose herself-command for an instant, but her face pleaded. 

"Is it really true? Perhaps there is some mistake?"

"I fear there can be none, " said the Duke, sadly. "Poor Chudleigh hadbeen long dead when they found him. "

"Freddie, " said the Duchess, interrupting, "I have told Greswell weshall want the carriage at half-past nine for Euston. Will that do?"

"Perfectly. "

Greswell, the handsome groom of the chambers, approached Julie. 

"Your grace's maid wishes to know whether it is your grace's wish thatshe should go round to Heribert Street before taking the luggageto Euston?"

Julie looked at the man, bewildered. Then a stormy color rushed into hercheeks. 

"Does he mean my maid?" she said to the Duke, piteously. 

"Certainly. Will you give your orders?"

She gave them, and then, turning again to the Duke, she covered her eyeswith her hands a moment. 

"What does it all mean?" she said, faltering. "It seems as though wewere all mad. "

"You understand, of course, that Jacob succeeds?" said the Duke, notwithout coldness; and he stood still an instant, gazing at this woman, who must now, he supposed, feel herself at the very summit of herambitions. 

Julie drew a long breath. Then she perceived Lady Henry. Instantly, impetuously, she crossed the room. But as she reached that composed andformidable figure, the old timidity, the old fear, seized her. Shepaused abruptly, but she held out her hand. 

Lady Henry took it. The two women stood regarding each other, while theother persons in the room instinctively turned away from their meeting. Lady Henry's first look was one of curiosity. Then, before theindefinable, ennobling change in Julie's face, now full of the paleagitation of memory, the eyes of the older woman wavered and dropped. But she soon recovered herself. 

"We meet again under very strange circumstances, " she said, quietly;"though I have long foreseen them. As for our former experience, we werein a false relation, and it made fools of us both. You and Jacob are nowthe heads of the family. And if you like to make friends with me on thisnew footing, I am ready. As to my behavior, I think it was natural; butif it rankles in your mind, I apologize. "

The personal pride of the owner, curbed in its turn by the pride oftradition and family, spoke strangely from these words. Julie stoodtrembling, her chest heaving. 

"I, too, regret--and apologize, " she said, in a low voice. 

"Then we begin again. But now you must let Evelyn take you to rest foran hour or two. I am sorry you have this hurried journey to-night. "

Julie pressed her hands to her breast with one of those dramaticmovements that were natural to her. 

"Oh, I must see Jacob!" she said, under her breath--"I must see Jacob!"

And she turned away, looking vaguely round her. Meredith approached. 

"Comfort yourself, " he said, very gently, pressing her hand in both ofhis. "It has been a great shock, but when you get there he'll beall right. "

"Jacob?"

Her expression, the piteous note in her voice, awoke in him an answeringsense of pain. He wondered how it might be between the husband and wife. Yet it was borne in upon him, as upon Lady Henry, that her marriage, however interpreted, had brought with it profound and intimatetransformation. A different woman stood before him. And when, after afew more words, the Duchess swept down upon them, insisting that Juliemust rest awhile, Meredith stood looking after the retreating figures, filled with the old, bitter sense of human separateness, and thefragmentariness of all human affections. Then he made his farewells tothe Duke and Lady Henry, and slipped away. He had turned a page in thebook of life; and as he walked through Grosvenor Square he applied hismind resolutely to one of the political "causes" with which, as apowerful and fighting journalist, he was at that moment occupied. 

Lady Henry, too, watched Julie's exit from the room. 

"So now she supposes herself in love with Jacob?" she thought, withamusement, as she resumed her seat. 

"What if Delafield refuses to be made a duke?" said Sir Wilfrid, in herear. 

"It would be a situation new to the Constitution, " said Lady Henry, composedly. "I advise you, however, to wait till it occurs. "

 * * * * *

The northern express rushed onward through the night. Rugby, Stafford, Crewe had been left behind. The Yorkshire valleys and moors began toshow themselves in pale ridges and folds under the moon. Julie, wakefulin her corner opposite the little, sleeping Duchess, was conscious of aninterminable rush of images through a brain that longed for a fewunconscious and forgetful moments. She thought of the deferentialstation-master at Euston; of the fuss attending their arrival on theplatform; of the arrangements made for stopping the express at theYorkshire Station, where they were to alight. 

Faircourt? Was it the great Early-Georgian house of which she had heardJacob speak--the vast pile, half barrack, half palace, in which, according to him, no human being could be either happy or at home?

And this was now his--and hers? Again the whirl of thoughts swept anddanced round her. 

A wild, hill country. In the valleys, the blackness of thick trees, thegleam of rivers, the huge, lifeless factories; and beyond, the high, silver edges, the sharp shadows of the moors.... The train slackened, and the little Duchess woke at once. 

"Ten minutes to three. Oh, Julie, here we are!"

The dawn was just coldly showing as they alighted. Carriages andservants were waiting, and various persons whose identity and functionit was not easy to grasp. One of them, however, at once approached Juliewith a privileged air, and she perceived that he was a doctor. 

"I am very glad that your grace has come, " he said, as he raised hishat. "The trouble with the Duke is shock, and want of sleep. "

Julie looked at him, still bewildered. 

"How long has my husband been ill?"

He walked on beside her, describing in as few words as possible theharrowing days preceding the death of the boy, Delafield's attempts tosoothe and control the father, the stratagem by which the poor Duke hadoutwitted them all, and the weary hours of search through the night, under a drizzling rain, which had resulted, about dawn, in the discoveryof the Duke's body in one of the deeper holes of the river. 

"When the procession returned to the house, your husband"--the speakerframed the words uncertainly--"had a long fainting-fit. It was probablycaused by the exhaustion of the search--many hours without food--andmany sleepless nights. We kept him in his room all day. But towardsevening he insisted on getting up. The restlessness he shows is itself asign of shock. I trust, now you are here, you may be able to persuadehim to spare himself. Otherwise the consequences might be grave. "

The drive to the house lay mainly through a vast park, dotted with stiffand melancholy woods. The morning was cloudy; even the wild roses in thehedges and the daisies in the grass had neither gayety nor color. Soonthe house appeared--an immense pile of stone, with a pillared centre, and wings to east and west, built in a hollow, gray and sunless. Themournful blinds drawn closely down made of it rather a mausoleum for thedead than a home for the living. 

At the approach of the carriage, however, doors were thrown open, servants appeared, and on the steps, trembling and heavy-eyed, stoodSusan Delafield. 

She looked timidly at Julie, and then, as they passed into the greatcentral hall, the two kissed each other with tears. 

"He is in his room, waiting for you. The doctors persuaded him not tocome down. But he is dressed, and reading and writing. We don't believehe has slept at all for a week. "

 * * * * *

"Through there, " said Susan Delafield, stepping back. "That is thedoor. "

[Illustration: "SHE FOUND HERSELF KNEELING BESIDE HIM"]

Julie softly opened it, and closed it behind her. Delafield had heardher approach, and was standing by the table, supporting himself upon it. His aspect filled Julie with horror. She ran to him and threw herarms round him. He sank back into his chair, and she found herselfkneeling beside him, murmuring to him, while his head rested uponher shoulder. 

"Jacob, I am here! Oh, I ought to have been here all through! It'sterrible--terrible! But, Jacob, you won't suffer so--now I'm here--nowwe're together--now I love you, Jacob?"

Her voice broke in tears. She put back the hair from his brow, kissinghim with a tenderness in which there was a yearning and lovely humility. Then she drew a little away, waiting for him to speak, in an agony. 

But for a time he seemed unable to speak. He feebly released himself, asthough he could not bear the emotion she offered him, and hiseyes closed. 

"Jacob, come and lie down!" she said, in terror. "Let me call thedoctors. "

He shook his head, and a faint pressure from his hand bade her sitbeside him. 

"I shall be better soon. Give me time. I'll tell you--"

Then silence again. She sat holding his hand, her eyes fixed upon him. Time passed, she knew not how. Susan came into the room--a smallsitting-room in the east wing--to tell her that the neighboring bedroomhad been prepared for herself. Julie only looked up for an instant witha dumb sign of refusal. A doctor came in, and Delafield made a painfuleffort to take the few spoonfuls of food and stimulant pressed upon him. Then he buried his face in the side of the arm-chair. 

"Please let us be alone, " he said, with a touch of his oldperemptoriness, and both Susan and the doctor obeyed. 

But it was long before he could collect energy enough to talk. When hedid, he made an effort to tell her the story of the boy's death, and thefather's self-destruction. He told it leaning forward in his chair, hiseyes on the ground, his hands loosely joined, his voice broken andlabored. Julie listened, gathering from his report an impression ofhorror, tragic and irremediable, similar to that which had shaken thebalance of his own mind. And when he suddenly looked up with the words, "And now _I_ am expected to take their place--to profit by their deaths!What rightful law of God or man binds me to accept a life and aresponsibility that I loathe?" Julie drew back as though he had struckher. His face, his tone were not his own--there was a violence, a threatin them, addressed, as it were, specially to _her_. "If it were not foryou, " his eyes seemed to say, "I could refuse this thing, which willdestroy me, soul and body. "

She was silent, her pulses fluttering, and he resumed, speaking like onegroping his way:

"I could have done the work, of course--I have done it for five years. Icould have looked after the estate and the people. But the money, theparaphernalia, the hordes of servants, the mummery of the life! Why, Julie, should we be forced into it? What happiness--I ask you--whathappiness can it bring to either of us?"

And again he looked up, and again it seemed to Julie that his expressionwas one of animated hostility and antagonism--antagonism to her, asembodying for the moment all the arguments--of advantage, custom, law--he was, in his own mind, fighting and denying. With a failing heartshe felt herself very far from him. Was there not also something in hisattitude, unconsciously, of that old primal antagonism of the man tothe woman, of the stronger to the weaker, the more spiritual to themore earthy?

"You think, no doubt, " he said, after a pause, "that it is my duty totake this thing, even if I _could_ lay it down?"

"I don't know what I think, " she said, hurriedly. "It is very strange, of course, what you say. We ought to discuss it thoroughly. Let me havea little time. "

He gave an impatient sigh, then suddenly rose. 

"Will you come and look at them?"

She, too, rose and put her hand in his. 

"Take me where you will. "

"It is not horrible, " he said, shading his eyes a moment. "They are atpeace. "

With a feeble step, leaning on her arm, he guided her through the great, darkened house. Julie was dimly aware of wide staircases, of galleriesand high halls, of the pictures of past Delafields looking down uponthem. The morning was now far advanced. Many persons were at work in thehouse, but Julie was conscious of them only as distant figures thatvanished at their approach. They walked alone, guarded from allintrusion by the awe and sympathy of the unseen human beingsaround them. 

Delafield opened the closed door. 

The father and son lay together, side by side, the boy's face in a verywinning repose, which at first sight concealed the traces of his longsuffering; the father's also--closed eyes and sternly shutmouth--suggesting, not the despair which had driven him to his death, but, rather, as in sombre triumph, the all-forgetting, all-effacingsleep which he had won from death. 

They stood a moment, till Delafield fell on his knees. Julie kneltbeside him. She prayed for a while; then she wearied, being, indeed, worn out with her journey. But Delafield was motionless, and it seemedto Julie that he hardly breathed. 

She rose to her feet, and found her eyes for the first time flooded withtears. Never for many weeks had she felt so lonely, or so utterlyunhappy. She would have given anything to forget herself in comfortingJacob. But he seemed to have no need of her, no thought of her. 

As she vaguely looked round her, she saw that beside the dead man was atable holding some violets--the only flowers in the room--somephotographs, and a few well--worn books. Softly she took up one. It wasa copy of the _Meditations of Marcus Aurelius_, much noted andunderlined. It would have seemed to her sacrilege to look too close; butshe presently perceived a letter between its pages, and in the morninglight, which now came strongly into the room through a window looking onthe garden, she saw plainly that it was written on thin, foreign paper, that it was closed, and addressed to her husband. 

"Jacob!"

She touched him softly on the shoulder, alarmed by his long immobility. 

He looked up, and it appeared to Julie as though he were shaking offwith difficulty some abnormal and trancelike state. But he rose, lookingat her strangely. 

"Jacob, this is yours. "

He took the book abruptly, almost as if she had no right to be holdingit. Then, as he saw the letter, the color rushed into his face. He tookit, and after a moment's hesitation walked to the window and opened it. 

She saw him waver, and ran to his support. But he put out a hand whichchecked her. 

"It was the last thing he wrote, " he said; and then, uncertainly, andwithout reading any but the first words of the letter, he put it intohis pocket. 

Julie drew back, humiliated. His gesture said that to a secret sointimate and sacred he did not propose to admit his wife. 

They went back silently to the room from which they had come. Sentenceafter sentence came to Julie's lips, but it seemed useless to say them, and once more, but in a totally new way, she was "afraid" of the manbeside her. 

 * * * * *

She left him shortly after, by his own wish. 

"I will lie down, and you must rest, " he said, with decision. 

So she bathed and dressed, and presently she allowed the kind, fair-haired Susan to give her food, and pour out her own history of thedeath-week which she and Jacob had passed through. But in all that wassaid, Julie noticed that Susan spoke of her brother very little, and ofhis inheritance and present position not at all. And once or twice shenoticed a wondering or meditative expression in the girl's charming eyesas they rested on herself, and realized that the sense of mystery, ofhushed expectancy, was not confined to her own mind. 

When Susan left her at nine o'clock, it was to give a number ofnecessary orders in the house. The inquest was to be held in themorning, and the whole day would be filled with arrangements for thedouble funeral. The house would be thronged with officials of all sorts. "Poor Jacob!" said the sister, sighing, as she went away. 

But the tragic tumult had not yet begun. The house was still quiet, andJulie was for the first time alone. 

She drew up the blinds, and stood gazing out upon the park, now floodedwith light; at the famous Italian garden beneath the windows, with itsfountains and statues; at the wide lake which filled the middledistance; and the hills beyond it, with the plantations and avenueswhich showed the extension of the park as far as the eye could see. 

Julie knew very well what it all implied. Her years with Lady Henry, inconnection with her own hidden sense of birth and family, had shown herwith sufficient plainness the conditions under which the English noblelives. She _was_ actually, at that moment, Duchess of Chudleigh; herstrong intelligence faced and appreciated the fact; the social scope andpower implied in those three words were all the more vivid to herimagination because of her history and up-bringing. She had not grown tomaturity _inside_, like Delafield, but as an exile from a life which wasyet naturally hers--an exile, full, sometimes, of envy, and thepassions of envy. 

It had no terrors for her--quite the contrary--this high social state. Rather, there were moments when her whole nature reached out to it, in aproud and confident ambition. Nor had she any mystical demurrer to make. The originality which in some ways she richly possessed was notconcerned in the least with the upsetting of class distinctions, and asa Catholic she had been taught loyally to accept them. 

The minutes passed away. Julie sank deeper and deeper into reverie, herhead leaning against the side of the window, her hands clasped beforeher on her black dress. Once or twice she found the tears dropping fromher eyes, and once or twice she smiled. 

She was not thinking of the tragic circumstances amid which she stood. From that short trance of feeling even the piteous figures of the deadfather and son faded away. Warkworth entered into it, but alreadyinvested with the passionless and sexless beauty of a worldwhere--whether it be to us poetry or reality--"they neither marry norare given in marriage. " Her warm and living thoughts spent themselves onone theme only--the redressing of a spiritual balance. She was no longera beggar to her husband; she had the wherewithal to give. She had beenthe mere recipient, burdened with debts beyond her paying; now--

And then it was that her smiles came--tremluous, fugitive, exultant. 

 * * * * *

A bell rang in the long corridor, and the slight sound recalled her tolife and action. She walked towards the door which separated her fromthe sitting-room where she had left her husband, and opened itwithout knocking. 

Delafield was sitting at a writing-table in the window. He hadapparently been writing; but she found him in a moment of pause, playingabsently with the pen he still held. 

As she entered he looked up, and it seemed to her that his aspect andhis mood had changed. Her sudden and indefinable sense of this made iteasier for her to hasten to him, and to hold out her hands to him. 

"Jacob, you asked me a question just now, and I begged you to give metime. But I am here to answer it. If it would be to your happiness torefuse the dukedom, refuse it. I will not stand in your way, and I willnever reproach you. I suppose"--she made herself smile upon him--"thereare ways of doing such a strange thing. You will be much criticised, perhaps much blamed. But if it seems to you right, do it. I'll juststand by you and help you. Whatever makes you happy shall make me happy, if only--"

Delafield had risen impetuously and held her by both hands. His breastheaved, and the hurrying of her own breath would now hardly lether speak. 

"If only what?" he said, hoarsely. 

She raised her eyes. 

"If only, _mon ami_"--she disengaged one hand and laid it gently on hisshoulder--"you will give me your trust, and"--her voicedropped--"your love!"

They gazed at each other. Between them, around them hovered thoughts ofthe past--of Warkworth, of the gray Channel waves, of the spiritualrelation which had grown up between them in Switzerland, mingled withthe consciousness of this new, incalculable present, and of the growthand change in themselves. 

"You'd give it all up?" said Delafield, gently, still holding her atarm's-length. 

"Yes, " she nodded to him, with a smile. 

"For me? For my sake?"

She smiled again. He drew a long breath, and turning to the tablebehind him, took up a letter which was lying there. 

"I want you to read that, " he said, holding it out to her. 

She drew back, with a little, involuntary frown. 

He understood. 

"Dearest, " he cried, pressing her hand passionately, "I have been in thegrip of all the powers of death! Read it--be good to me!"

Standing beside him, with his arm round her, she read the melancholyDuke's last words:

 "My Dear Jacob, --I leave you a heavy task, which I know well is, in your eyes, a mere burden. But, for my sake, accept it. The man who runs away has small right to counsel courage. But you know what my struggle has been. You'll judge me mercifully, if no one else does. There is in you, too, the little, bitter drop that spoils us all; but you won't be alone. You have your wife, and you love her. Take my place here, care for our people, speak of us sometimes to your children, and pray for us. I bless you, dear fellow. The only moments of comfort I have ever known this last year have come from you. I would live on if I could, but I must--_must_ have sleep. "

Julie dropped the paper. She turned to look at her husband. 

"Since I read that, " he said, in a low voice, "I have been sitting herealone--or, rather, it is my belief that I have not been alone. But"--hehesitated--"it is very difficult for me to speak of that--even to you. At any rate, I have felt the touch of discipline, of command. My poorcousin deserted. I, it seems"--he drew a long and painful breath--"mustkeep to the ranks. "

"Let us discuss it, " said Julie; and sitting down, hand in hand, theytalked quietly and gravely. 

Suddenly, Delafield turned to her with renewed emotion. 

"I feel already the energy, the honorable ambition you will bring to it. But still, you'd have given it up, Julie? You'd have given it up?"

Julie chose her words. 

"Yes. But now that we are to keep it, will you hate me if, someday--when we are less sad--I get pleasure from it? I sha'n't be able tohelp it. When we were at La Verna, I felt that you ought to have beenborn in the thirteenth century, that you were really meant to wedpoverty and follow St. Francis. But now you have got to be horribly, hopelessly rich. And I, all the time, am a worldling, and a modern. Whatyou'll suffer from, I shall perhaps--enjoy. "

The word fell harshly on the darkened room. Delafield shivered, asthough he felt the overshadowing dead. Julie impetuously took his hand. 

"It will be my part to be a worldling--for your sake, " she said, herbreath wavering. Their eyes met. From her face shone a revelation, abeauty that enwrapped them both. Delafield fell on his knees beside her, and laid his head upon her breast. The exquisite gesture with which shefolded her arms about him told her inmost thought. At last he neededher, and the dear knowledge filled and tamed her heart. 

THE END