Julie le Breton was sitting alone in her own small sitting-room. It was
the morning of the Tuesday following her Sunday scene with Lady Henry,
and she was busy with various household affairs. A small hamper of
flowers, newly arrived from Lady Henry's Surrey garden, and not yet
unpacked, was standing open on the table, with various empty
flower-glasses beside it. Julie was, at the moment, occupied with the
"Stores order" for the month, and Lady Henry's cook-housekeeper had but
just 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 of
various generations of Delafields in the past. But for an observant eye
it contained a good many objects which threw light upon its present
occupant's character and history. In a small bookcase beside the fire
were a number of volumes in French bindings. They represented either the
French classics--Racine, Bossuet, Châteaubriand, Lamartine--which had
formed the study of Julie's convent days, or those other books--George
Sand, Victor Hugo, Alfred de Musset, Mazzini, Leopardi, together with
the poets and novelists of revolutionary Russia or Polish nationalism or
Irish rebellion--which had been the favorite reading of both Lady Rose
and her lover. They were but a hundred in all; but for Julie Le Breton
they stood for the bridge by which, at will, memory and dreamful pity
might carry her back into that vanished life she had once shared with
her parents--those strange beings, so calm and yet so passionate in
their beliefs, so wilful and yet so patient in their deeds, by whose
acts her own experience was still wholly conditioned. In her little room
there were no portraits of them visible. But on a side-table stood a
small carved triptych. The oblong wings, which were open, contained
photographs of figures from one of the great Bruges Memlings. The centre
was covered by two wooden leaves delicately carved, and the leaves were
locked. The inquisitive housemaid who dusted the room had once tried to
open them.--in vain.
On a stand near the fire lay two or three yellow volumes--some recent
French essays, a volume of memoirs, a tale of Bourget's, and so forth.
These were flanked by Sir Henry Maine's _Popular Government_, and a
recent brilliant study of English policy in Egypt--both of them with the
name "Richard J. Montresor" on the title-page. The last number of Dr.
Meredith's paper, _The New Rambler_, was there also; and, with the
paper-knife still in its leaves, the journal of the latest French
traveller in Mokembe, a small "H.W." inscribed in the top right-hand
corner of its gray cover.
Julie finished her Stores order with a sigh of relief. Then she wrote
half a dozen business notes, and prepared a few checks for Lady Henry's
signature. When this was done the two dachshunds, who had been lying on
the rug spying out her every movement, began to jump upon her.
But Julie laughed in their faces. "It's raining," she said, pointing to
the window--"_raining!_ So there! Either you won't go out at all, or
you'll go with John."
John was the second footman, whom the dogs hated. They returned
crestfallen to the rug and to a hungry waiting on Providence. Julie took
up a letter on foreign paper which had reached her that morning, glanced
at the door, and began to reread its closely written sheets. It was from
an English diplomat on a visit to Egypt, a man on whom the eyes of
Europe were at that moment fixed. That he should write to a woman at
all, on the subjects of the letter, involved a compliment _hors ligne_;
that he should write with this ease, this abandonment, was indeed
remarkable. Julie flushed a little as she read. But when she came to the
end she put it aside with a look of worry. "I _wish_ he'd write to Lady
Henry," was her thought. "She hasn't had a line from him for weeks. I
shouldn't wonder if she suspects already. When any one talks of Egypt, I
daren't open my lips."
For fear of betraying the very minute and first-hand information that
was possessed by Lady Henry's companion? With a smile and a shrug she
locked the letter away in one of the drawers of her writing-table, and
took up an envelope which had lain beneath it. From this--again with a
look round her--she half drew out a photograph. The grizzled head and
spectacled eyes of Dr. Meredith emerged. Julie's expression softened;
her eyebrows went up a little; then she slightly shook her head, like
one who protests that if something has gone wrong, it
isn't--isn't--their fault. Unwillingly she looked at the last words of
the 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 of
all. She had read it three times already, and knew it practically by
heart. So she left the sheets undisturbed in their envelope. But she
raised the whole to her lips, and pressed it there, while her eyes, as
they slowly filled with tears, travelled--unseeing--to the wintry street
beyond the window. Eyes and face wore the same expression as Wilfrid
Bury 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 street
outside. Julie Le Breton started, for no one whose life is dependent on
a daily letter can hear that common sound without a thrill. Then she
smiled sadly at herself. "_My_ joy is over for to-day!" And she turned
away with the letter in her hand.
But she did not place it in the same drawer with the others. She moved
across to the little carved triptych, and, after listening a moment to
the sounds in the house, she opened its closed doors with a gold key
that hung on her watch-chain and had been hidden in the bosom of
her dress.
The doors fell open. Inside, on a background of dark velvet, hung two
miniatures, lightly framed in gold and linked together by a graceful
scroll-work in gold. They were of fine French work, and they represented
a man and woman, both handsome, young, and of a remarkable distinction
of aspect. The faces, nevertheless, hardly gave pleasure. There was in
each of them a look at once absent and eager--the look of those who have
cared much and ardently for "man," and very little, comparatively,
for men.
The miniatures had not been meant for the triptych, nor the triptych for
them. It had been adapted to them by loving hands; but there was room
for other things in the velvet-lined hollow, and a packet of letters was
already reposing there. Julie slipped the letter of the morning inside
the elastic band which held the packet; then she closed and locked the
doors, returning the key to its place in her dress. Both the lock and
hinges of this little hiding-place were well and strongly made, and when
the wings also were shut and locked one saw nothing but a massively
framed photograph of the Bruges belfry resting on a wooden support.
She had hardly completed her little task when there was a sudden noise
of footsteps in the passage outside.
"Julie!" said a light voice, subdued to a laughing whisper. "May I come
in?"
The Duchess stood on the threshold, her small, shell-pink face emerging
from 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 shut
the door upon the two ladies.
"Oh, my dear!" said the Duchess, throwing herself into Julie's arms. "I
came up so quietly! I told Hutton not to disturb Lady Henry, and I just
crept up-stairs, holding my skirts. Wasn't it heroic of me to put my
poor little head into the lion's den like this? But when I got your
letter this morning saying you couldn't come to me, I vowed I would just
see 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, the
old wretch!"
"You're quite mistaken," said Julie, smiling. "Lady Henry says I may
help you with the bazaar."
"No!" The Duchess threw up her hands in amazement. "How have you managed
that?"
"By giving in. But, Evelyn, I'm not coming."
"Oh, Julie!" The Duchess threw herself back in her chair and fixed a
pair 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't
provoke 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 been
behaving--since Sunday?"
Julie looked uncertain.
"Oh, there is an armed truce. I was made to have a fire in my bedroom
last 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 it
in your letter. But, Julie"--her voice dropped to a whisper--"was
anything 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 that
he proposed, and an impertinence that you refused?"
"She was complimentary at the time," said Julie, half smiling. "But
since--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 thoughts
were far away. And presently she broke out, with the _étourderie_ that
became 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 almost
a 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 little
hands on her friend's knee--"haven't you got _any_ ambitions?"
"Plenty. Oh, I should like very well to play the duchess, with you to
instruct me," said Julie, caressing the hands. "But I must choose my
duke. And till the right one appears, I prefer my own wild ways."
"Afraid of Jacob Delafield? How odd!" said the Duchess, with her chin on
her hands.
"It may be odd to you," said Julie, with vivacity. "In reality, it's not
in the least odd. There's the same quality in him that there is in Lady
Henry--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 her
head. The gesture was all strength and will, like the stretching of a
sea-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 saw
a great deal of her, and he says that she and her mother were adored in
India. They were thought so quaint and sweet--unlike other people--and
the girl so lovely, in a sort of gossamer way. And who do you think was
always about with them--at Peshawar first, and then at Simla--so that
everybody talked? Captain Warkworth! My man believed there was an
understanding between them."
Julie had begun to fill the flower-glasses with water and unpack the
flower-basket. Her back was towards the Duchess. After a moment she
replied, 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-mines
alone, besides land. Has Captain Warkworth ever said anything to you
about 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 as
anybody else. They don't _look_ money, as the City men do--that's why we
women fall in love with them--but they _think_ it, all the same."
Julie made no reply. The Duchess could see nothing of her. But the
little lady's face showed the flutter of one determined to venture yet a
little farther on thin ice.
"Julie, I've done everything you've asked me. I sent a card for the 20th
to that _rather_ dreadful woman, Lady Froswick. I was very clever with
Freddie 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 keen
about it?"
The Duchess's cheeks were by now one flush. She had a romantic affection
for Julie, and would not have offended her for the world.
Julie turned round. She was always pale, and the Duchess saw nothing
unusual.
"Am I so keen?"
"Julie, you have done everything in the world for this man since he came
home."
"Well, he interested me," said Julie, stepping back to look at the
effect of one of the vases. "The first evening he was here, he saved me
from Lady Henry--twice. He's alone in the world, too, which attracts
me. You see, I happen to know what it's like. An only son, and an
orphan, and no family interest to push him--"
"So you thought you'd push him? Oh, Julie, you're a darling--but you're
rather a wire-puller, aren't you?"
Julie smiled faintly.
"Well, perhaps I like to feel, sometimes, that I have a little power. I
haven'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, I
would 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 remember
what they owe to you."
Did she feel the hand lying in her own shake? At any rate, it was
brusquely withdrawn, and Julie walked to the end of the table to fetch
some 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, but
I can't."
"Yes, I understand. Julie!" The Duchess rose impulsively, and threw
herself into a chair beside the table where she could watch the face and
movements of Mademoiselle Le Breton. "Julie, I want so much to talk to
you--about _business_. You're not to be offended. Julie, _if_ you leave
Lady Henry, how will you manage?"
"How shall I live, you mean?" said Julie, smiling at the euphemism in
which this little person, for whom existence had rained gold
and flowers since her cradle, had enwrapped the hard facts of
bread-and-butter--facts with which she was so little acquainted that
she 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, the
delicate 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 old
lady!"
"No. I should keep my freedom. But Dr. Meredith has offered me work, and
got me a promise of more."
The Duchess opened her eyes.
"Writing! Well, of course, we all know you can do anything you want to
do. And you won't let anybody help you at all?"
"I won't let anybody give me money, if that's what you mean," said
Julie, smiling. But it was a smile without accent, without gayety.
The Duchess, watching her, said to herself, "Since I came in she is
changed--quite changed."
"Julie, you're horribly proud!"
Julie's face contracted a little.
"How much 'power' should I have left, do you think--how much
self-respect--if I took money from my friends?"
"Well, not money, perhaps. But, Julie, you know all about Freddie's
London property. It's abominable how much he has. There are always a few
houses 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 take
it, Julie?"
Her voice had the coaxing inflections of a child. Julie hesitated.
"Only if the Duke himself offered it," she said, finally, with a brusque
stiffening 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 I
came about. Will you come with me to Lady Hubert to-night? Do! Freddie's
away, and I hate going by myself."
"To Lady Hubert's?" said Julie, starting a little. "I wonder what Lady
Henry would say?"
"Tell her Jacob won't be there," said the Duchess, laughing. "Then she
won't make any difficulties."
"Shall I go and ask her?"
"Gracious! let me get out of the house first. Give her a message from me
that 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 civil
things you can to her about to-night, and wire me this afternoon. If
all'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 and
crushed it.
"I'll go," she said, to herself. "Yes, I'll go."
Her letter of the morning, as it happened, had included the following
sentences:
"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 very
much to my liking. But I hear that he has gone back to the country. And
there are a few people who frequent Lady Hubert, who might just now
be of use."
Lady Henry gave her consent that Mademoiselle Le Breton should accompany
the Duchess to Lady Hubert's party almost with effusion. "It will be
very dull," she said. "My sister-in-law makes a desert and calls it
society. But if you want to go, go. As to Evelyn Crowborough, I am
engaged to my dentist to-morrow morning."
When at night this message was reported to the Duchess, as she and Julie
were 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 at
Lady Henry's feet, and look at you through my glasses as though I had
never seen you before. On Thursday I leave a French book; on Friday I
send the baby to see her. Goodness, what a time it takes!" said the
Duchess, raising her very white and very small shoulders. "Well, for my
life, 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 the
same conscious brilliance, the same thrill in the air, as pertained to
the gatherings in Bruton Street. But there was a more solid social
comfort, such as befits people untroubled by the certainty that the
world is looking on. The guests of Bruton Street laughed, as well-bred
people should, at the estimation in which Lady Henry's salon was held,
by those especially who did not belong to it. Still, the mere knowledge
of this outside estimate kept up a certain tension. At Lady Hubert's
there was no tension, and the agreeable nobodies who found their way in
were not made to blush for the agreeable nothings of their conversation.
Lady Hubert herself made for ease--partly, no doubt, for stupidity. She
was 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--and
Lady Hubert's temper was once more placid, as Providence had meant it to
be. During the coming season it was her firm intention to marry her
daughter, who now stood beside her as she received her guests--a blonde,
sweet-featured girl, given, however, so it was said, to good works, and
not at all inclined to trouble herself overmuch about a husband.
The rooms were fairly full; and the entry of the Duchess and
Mademoiselle Le Breton was one of the incidents of the evening, and
visibly quickened the pulses of the assembly. The little Dresden-china
Duchess, with her clothes, her jewels, and her smiles, had been, since
her marriage, one of the chief favorites of fashion. She had been
brought up in the depths of the country, and married at eighteen. After
six years she was not in the least tired of her popularity or its
penalties. All the life in her dainty person, her glancing eyes, and
small, smiling lips rose, as it were, to meet the stir that she evoked.
She vaguely saw herself as Titania, and played the part with childish
glee. 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 in
the House of Lords, and the Duchess was amusing herself. Sir Wilfrid
Bury, who arrived not long after his goddaughter, found her the centre
first of a body-guard of cousins, including among them apparently a
great many handsome young men, and then of a small crowd, whose vaguely
smiling faces reflected the pleasure that was to be got, even at a
distance, out of her young and merry beauty.
Julie Le Breton was not with her. But in the next room Sir Wilfrid soon
perceived the form and face which, in their own way, exacted quite as
much attention from the world as those of the Duchess. She was talking
with many people, and, as usual, he could not help watching her. Never
yet 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 call
them beautiful. Yet beautiful they were, by every canon of form and
color. No doubt it was something in their expression that offended his
own well-drilled instincts.
He found himself thinking suspicious thoughts about most of the
conversations in which he saw her engaged. Why was she bestowing those
careful smiles on that intolerable woman, Lady Froswick? And what an
acquaintance she seemed to have among these elderly soldiers, who might
at all times be reckoned on at Lady Hubert's parties! One gray-haired
veteran after another recalled himself to her attention, got his few
minutes with her, and passed on smiling. Certain high officials, too,
were no less friendly. Her court, it seemed to him, was mainly composed
of the middle-aged; to-night, at any rate, she left the young to the
Duchess. And it was on the whole a court of men. The women, as he now
perceived, were a trifle more reserved. There was not, indeed, a trace
of exclusion. They were glad to see her; glad, he thought, to be noticed
by her. But they did not yield themselves--or so he fancied--with the
same wholeness as their husbands.
"How old is she?" he asked himself. "About nine-and-twenty?... Jacob's
age--or a trifle older."
After a time he lost sight of her, and in the amusement of his own
evening forgot her. But as the rooms were beginning to thin he walked
through them, looking for a famous collection of miniatures that
belonged to Lady Hubert. English family history was one of his hobbies,
and he was far better acquainted with the Delafield statesmen, and the
Delafield beauties of the past, than were any of their modern
descendants. Lady Hubert's Cosways and Plimers had made a lively
impression upon him in days gone by, and he meant to renew acquaintance
with them.
But they had been moved from the room in which he remembered them, and
he was led on through a series of drawing-rooms, now nearly empty, till
on 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 the
new-comer.
"Is it very late?" she said, gathering up her fan and gloves. "We have
been looking at Lady Hubert's miniatures. That lady with the muff"--she
pointed to the case which occupied a conspicuous position in the
room--"is really wonderful. Can you tell me, Sir Wilfrid, where the
Duchess is?"
"No, but I can help you find her," said that gentleman, forgetting the
miniatures and endeavoring to look at neither of his companions.
"And I must rush," said Captain Warkworth, looking at his watch. "I told
a 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 most
intimate and critical conversation was somehow borne in upon Sir
Wilfrid. 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 then
shook off the charge. Surely a few pin-pricks were her desert! That she
should defend her own secrets was, as Delafield had said, legitimate
enough. But when a man offers you his services, you should not befool
him 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 affected
anything of the girl; at the fine but old-fashioned necklace of pearls
and diamonds--no doubt her mother's--which clasped her singularly
slender throat. At any rate, she showed nothing. She began to talk again
of the Delafield miniatures, using her fan the while with graceful
deliberation; and presently they found the Duchess.
"Is she an adventuress, or is she not?" thought Bury, as his hansom
carried him away from Rutland Gate. "If she marries Jacob, it will be a
queer business."