IX

When Miss Le Breton reached the hall, a footman was at the outer door

reciting Lady Henry's excuses as each fresh carriage drove up; while in

the inner vestibule, which was well screened from the view of the

street, was a group of men, still in their hats and over-coats, talking

and 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 I

am sure she would like me to give you her message and to tell you how

she is. She would not like her old friends to be alarmed. Would you come

in for a moment? There is a fire in the library. Mr. Delafield, don't

you 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 relation

of Lady Henry's, to take the lead.

"By all means," said that young man, after perhaps a moment's

hesitation, and throwing off his coat.

"Only _please_ make no noise!" said Miss Le Breton, turning to the

group. "Lady Henry might be disturbed."

Every one came in, as it were, on tiptoe. In each face a sense of the

humor of the situation fought with the consciousness of its dangers. As

soon as Montresor saw the little Duchess by the fire, he threw up his

hands in relief.

"I breathe again," he said, greeting her with effusion. "Duchess, where

thou goest, I may go. But I feel like a boy robbing a hen-roost. Let me

introduce my friend, General Fergus. Take us both, pray, under your

protection!"

"On the contrary," said the Duchess, as she returned General Fergus's

bow, "you are both so magnificent that no one would dare to

protect you."

For they were both in uniform, and the General was resplendent with

stars and medals.

"We have been dining with royalty." said Montresor. "We want some

relaxation."

He put on his eye-glasses, looked round the room, and gently rubbed his

hands.

"How very agreeable this is! What a charming room! I never saw it

before. 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 distinguished

Frenchman 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 fair

mustache, first to the Duchess and then to Lord Lackington and Jacob.

"The director of the French Foreign Office," said Montresor, in an aside

to the Duchess. "He hates us like poison. But if you haven't already

asked him to dinner--I warned you last week he was coming--pray do

it at once!"

Meanwhile the Frenchman, his introductions over, looked curiously round

the room, studied its stately emptiness, the books on the walls under a

trellis-work, faintly gilt, the three fine pictures; then his eyes

passed to the tall and slender lady who had addressed him in such

perfect French, and to the little Duchess in her flutter of lace and

satin, the turn of her small neck, and the blaze of her jewels. "These

Englishwomen overdo their jewels," he thought, with distaste. "But they

overdo 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, his

mind 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 a

Wednesday evening," he said, with a sudden touch of feeling which became

him. "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 my

word, the very thing my soul was longing for--a cup of coffee!"

For at the moment Hutton and two footmen entered with trays containing

tea and coffee, lemonade and cakes.

"Shut the door, Hutton, _please_," Mademoiselle Le Breton implored, and

the door was shut at once.

"We mustn't, _mustn't_ make any noise!" she said, her finger on her

lip, looking first at Montresor and then at Delafield. The group

laughed, moved their spoons softly, and once more lowered their voices.

But the coffee brought a spirit of festivity. Chairs were drawn up. The

blazing fire shone out upon a semicircle of people representing just

those elements of mingled intimacy and novelty which go to make

conversation. And in five minutes Mademoiselle Le Breton was leading it

as usual. A brilliant French book had recently appeared dealing with

certain points of the Egyptian question in a manner so interesting,

supple, and apparently impartial that the attention of Europe had been

won. Its author had been formerly a prominent official of the French

Foreign 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, and

secretly pricked by the presence of an English cabinet minister,

relinquished the half-disdainful reserve with which he had entered, and

took pains. He drew the man in question, _en silhouette_, with a hostile

touch so sure, an irony so light, that his success was instant

and great.

Lord Lackington woke up. Handsome, white-haired dreamer that he was, he

had been looking into the fire, half--smiling, more occupied, in truth,

with his own thoughts than with his companions. Delafield had brought

him in; he did not exactly know why he was there, except that he liked

Mademoiselle Le Breton, and often wondered how the deuce Lady Henry had

ever discovered such an interesting and delightful person to fill such

an uncomfortable position. But this Frenchman challenged and excited

him. He, too, began to talk French, and soon the whole room was talking

it, with an advantage to Julie Le Breton which quickly made itself

apparent. In English she was a link, a social conjunction; she eased all

difficulties, she pieced all threads. But in French her tongue was

loosened, though never beyond the point of grace, the point of delicate

adjustment to the talkers round her.

So that presently, and by insensible gradations, she was the queen of

the room. The Duchess in ecstasy pinched Jacob Delafield's wrist, and

forgetting all that she ought to have remembered, whispered,

rapturously, in his ear, "Isn't she enchanting--Julie--to-night?" That

gentleman made no answer. The Duchess, remembering, shrank back, and

spoke no more, till Jacob looked round upon her with a friendly smile

which set her tongue free again.

M. du Bartas, meanwhile, began to consider this lady in black with more

and more attention. The talk glided into a general discussion of the

Egyptian position. Those were the days before Arabi, when elements of

danger and of doubt abounded, and none knew what a month might bring

forth. With perfect tact Julie guided the conversation, so that all

difficulties, whether for the French official or the English statesman,

were avoided with a skill that no one realized till each separate rock

was safely passed. Presently Montresor looked from her to Du Bartas with

a grin. The Frenchman's eyes were round with astonishment. Julie had

been saying the lightest but the wisest things; she had been touching

incidents and personalities known only to the initiated with a

restrained gayety which often broke down into a charming shyness, which

was ready to be scared away in a moment by a tone--too serious or too

polemical--which jarred with the general key of the conversation, which

never imposed itself, and was like the ripple on a summer sea. But the

summer sea has its depths, and this modest gayety was the mark of an

intimate 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. I

think I'll stop it. Even she mayn't quite understand what should and

shouldn't be said before this gentleman."

So he gave the conversation a turn, and Mademoiselle Le Breton took the

hint at once. She called others to the front--it was like a change of

dancers in the ballet--while she rested, no less charming as a listener

than as a talker, her black eyes turning from one to another and radiant

with the animation of success.

But one thing--at last--she had forgotten. She had forgotten to impose

any curb upon the voices round her. The Duchess and Lord Lackington were

sparring like a couple of children, and Montresor broke in from time to

time with his loud laugh and gruff throat voice. Meredith, the

Frenchman, Warkworth, and General Fergus were discussing a grand review

which had been held the day before. Delafield had moved round to the

back of Julie's chair, and she was talking to him, while all the time

her eyes were on General Fergus and her brain was puzzling as to how she

was to secure the five minutes' talk with him she wanted. He was one of

the intimates of the Commander-in-Chief. She herself had suggested to

Montresor, of course in Lady Henry's name, that he should be brought to

Bruton Street some Wednesday evening.

Presently there was a little shifting of groups. Julie saw that

Montresor and Captain Warkworth were together by the fireplace, that the

young man with his hands held out to the blaze and his back to her was

talking eagerly, while Montresor, looking outward into the room, his

great black head bent a little towards his companion, was putting sharp

little questions from time to time, with as few words as might be. Julie

understood that an important conversation was going on--that Montresor,

whose mind various friends of hers had been endeavoring to make up for

him, 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 a

strong mouth slightly underhung, and a dogged chin, the whole lit by

eyes that were the chosen homes of truth, humanity, and will. Presently

she discovered, as they drew their chairs a little back from the circle,

that she, too, was to be encouraged to talk about Warkworth. The General

was, of course, intimately 'acquainted with his professional record; but

there were certain additional Indian opinions--a few incidents in the

young man's earlier career, including, especially, a shooting expedition

of much daring in the very district to which the important Mokembe

mission was now to be addressed, together with some quotations from

private letters of her own, or Lady Henry's, which Julie, with her usual

skill, was able to slip into his ear, all on the assumption, delicately

maintained, that she was merely talking of a friend of Lady Henry's, as

Lady Henry herself would have talked, to much better effect, had she

been present.

The General gave her a grave and friendly attention. Few men had done

sterner or more daring feats in the field. Yet here he sat, relaxed,

courteous, kind, trusting his companions simply, as it was his instinct

to trust all women. Julie's heart beat fast. What an exciting, what an

important evening!...

Suddenly there was a voice in her ear.

"Do you know, I think we ought to clear out. It must be close on

midnight."

She looked up, startled, to see Jacob Delafield. His expression--of

doubt or discomfort--recalled her at once to the realities of her own

situation.

But before she could reply, a sound struck on her ear. She sprang to her

feet.

"What was that?" she said.

A voice was heard in the hall.

Julie Le Breton caught the chair behind her, and Delafield saw her turn

pale. But before she or he could speak again, the door of the library

was thrown open.

"Good Heavens!" said Montresor, springing to his feet. "Lady Henry!"

* * * * *

M. du Bartas lifted astonished eyes. On the threshold of the room stood

an old lady, leaning heavily on two sticks. She was deathly pale, and

her fierce eyes blazed upon the scene before her. Within the bright,

fire-lit room the social comedy was being played at its best; but here

surely was Tragedy--or Fate. Who was she? What did it mean?

The Duchess rushed to her, and fell, of course, upon the one thing she

should not have said.

"Oh, Aunt Flora, dear Aunt Flora! But we thought you were too ill to

come down!"

"So I perceive," said Lady Henry, putting her aside. "So you, and this

lady"--she pointed a shaking finger at Julie--"have held my reception

for me. I am enormously obliged. You have also"--she looked at the

coffee-cups--"provided my guests with refreshment. I thank you. I trust

my servants have given you satisfaction.

"Gentlemen"--she turned to the rest of the company, who stood

stupefied--"I fear I cannot ask you to remain with me longer. The hour

is late, and I am--as you see--indisposed. But I trust, on some future

occasion, 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 French

Foreign Office."

At this appeal to her English hospitality and her social chivalry, Lady

Henry 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 will

write to you to propose another meeting--should my health allow."

"Enchanté, madame," murmured the Frenchman, more embarrassed than he had

ever been in his life. "Permettez--moi de vous faire mes plus sincères

excuses."

"Not at all, monsieur, you owe me none."

Montresor again approached her.

"Let me tell you," he said, imploringly, "how this has happened--how

innocent we all are--"

"Another time, if you please," she said, with a most cutting calm. "As I

said before, it is late. If I had been equal to entertaining you"--she

looked round upon them all--"I should not have told my butler to make my

excuses. 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 supported

her--"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 turned

and went without a word. So did the Duchess, whimpering, her hand in

Delafield's arm. As she passed Julie, who stood as though turned to

stone, 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 am

concerned, Miss Le Breton will have no engagements."

Lord Lackington quietly said, "Good-night, Lady Henry," and, without

offering to shake hands, walked past her. As he came to the spot where

Julie Le Breton stood, that lady made a sudden, impetuous movement

towards him. Strange words were on her lips, a strange expression

in 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, leaning

heavily 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 he

held out his hand, and she placed hers in it mechanically.

"It will be all right," he whispered, kindly. "Lady Henry will soon be

herself 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 keen

sense of humor, and as he said good-night to this unlawful hostess,

whose plight he understood no more than his own, his mouth twitched with

repressed laughter. But Dr. Meredith did not laugh. He pressed Julie's

hand in both of his. Looking behind him, he saw that Jacob Delafield,

who had just returned from the hall, was endeavoring to appease Lady

Henry. He bent towards Julie.

"Don't deceive yourself," he said, quickly, in a low voice; "this is the

end. Remember my letter. Let me hear to-morrow."

As Dr. Meredith left the room, Julie lifted her eyes. Only Jacob

Delafield and Lady Henry were left.

Harry Warkworth, too, was gone--without a word? She looked round her

piteously. She could not remember that he had spoken--that he had bade

her farewell. A strange pang convulsed her. She scarcely heard what Lady

Henry was saying to Jacob Delafield. Yet the words were emphatic enough.

"Much obliged to you, Jacob. But when I want your advice in my household

affairs, I will ask it. You and Evelyn Crowborough have meddled a good

deal too much in them already. Good-night. Hutton will get you a cab."

And with a slight but imperious gesture, Lady Henry motioned towards the

door. Jacob hesitated, then quietly took his departure. He threw Julie a

look of anxious appeal as he went out. But she did not see it; her

troubled gaze was fixed on Lady Henry.

* * * * *

That lady eyed her companion with composure, though by now even the old

lips were wholly blanched.

"There is really no need for any conversation between us, Miss Le

Breton," 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 say

good-night to me--you had determined on this adventure? You had been

good enough, I see, to rearrange my room--to give my servants

your orders."

Julie stood stonily erect. She made her dry lips answer as best they

could.

"We meant no harm," she said, coldly. "It all came about very simply. A

few people came in to inquire after you. I regret they should have

stayed talking so long."

Lady Henry smiled in contempt.

"You hardly show your usual ability by these remarks. The room you stand

in"--she glanced significantly at the lights and the chairs--"gives you

the 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 lips

twitching. "Say them now, mademoiselle."

"You are suffering." Julie made an uncertain step forward. "You ought to

be 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 first

visitor."

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 my

house for your own intrigues."

Julie felt herself physically wavering under the lash of these

sentences. 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 the

contrary, I have borne what no one else would have borne. I have devoted

myself to you and your interests, and you have trampled upon and

tortured 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 your

romantic view of the office of companion."

"You need only have taken a human view," said Julie, in a voice that

pierced; "I was alone, poor--worse than motherless. You might have done

what you would with me. A little indulgence, and I should have been your

devoted 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. One

of 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 her

difficult 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 kill

yourself. Let me at least call Dixon."

"You will do nothing of the kind," said Lady Henry, indomitable, though

tortured by weakness and rheumatism. "Dixon is in my room, where I bade

her remain. You should have thought of the consequences of this before

you embarked upon it. If I were to die in mounting these stairs, I would

not let you help me."

"Oh!" cried Julie, as though she had been struck, and hid her eyes with

her hand.

Slowly, laboriously, Lady Henry dragged herself from step to step. As

she turned the corner of the staircase, and could therefore be no longer

seen from below, some one softly opened the door of the dining-room and

entered the hall.

Julie looked round her, startled. She saw Jacob Delafield, who put his

finger to his lip.

Moved by a sudden impulse, she bowed her head on the banister of the

stairs against which she was leaning and broke into stifled sobs.

Jacob Delafield came up to her and took her hand. She felt his own

tremble, and yet its grasp was firm and supporting.

"Courage!" he said, bending over her. "Try not to give way. You will

want all your fortitude."

"Listen!" She gasped, trying vainly to control herself, and they both

listened 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_ have

loved 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 sounds

had 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 nor

mentally had she the strength to repulse him. If he had taken her in his

arms, she could hardly have resisted. But he did not attempt to conquer

more than her hand. He stood beside her, letting her feel the whole

mute, impetuous offer of his manhood--thrown at her feet to do what she

would 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. She

told me to say that--Hutton gave me a little note from her. Your home

must be with her till we can all settle what is best. You know very well

you have devoted friends. But now good-night. Try to sleep. Evelyn and I

will 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 every

shadow. All her nerve and daring were gone. The thought that she must

spend yet another night under the roof of this old woman who hated her

filled her with terror. When she reached her room she locked her door

and wept for hours in a forlorn and aching misery.

X

The Duchess was in her morning-room. On the rug, in marked and, as it

seemed to her plaintive eyes, brutal contrast with the endless

photographs of her babies and women friends which crowded her

mantel-piece, stood the Duke, much out of temper. He was a powerfully

built man, some twenty years older than his wife, with a dark

complexion, enlivened by ruddy cheeks and prominent, red lips. His eyes

were of a cold, clear gray; his hair very black, thick, and wiry. An

extremely vigorous person, more than adequately aware of his own

importance, tanned and seasoned by the life of his class, by the

yachting, hunting, and shooting in which his own existence was largely

spent, slow in perception, and of a sulky temper--so one might have read

him at first sight. But these impressions only took you a certain way in

judging the character of the Duchess's husband.

As to the sulkiness, there could be no question on this particular

morning--though, indeed, his ill-humor deserved a more positive and

energetic name.

"You have got yourself and me," he was declaring, "into a most

disagreeable and unnecessary scrape. This letter of Lady Henry's"--he

held it up--"is one of the most annoying that I have received for many a

day. Lady Henry seems to me perfectly justified. You _have_ been

behaving in a quite unwarrantable way. And now you tell me that this

woman, who is the cause of it all, of whose conduct I thoroughly and

entirely disapprove, is coming to stay here, in my house, whether I like

it or not, and you expect me to be civil to her. If you persist, I shall

go down to Brackmoor till she is pleased to depart. I won't countenance

the thing at all, and, whatever you may do, _I_ shall apologize to

Lady Henry."

"There's nothing to apologize for," cried the drooping Duchess, plucking

up a little spirit. "Nobody meant any harm. Why shouldn't the old

friends go in to ask after her? Hutton--that old butler that has been

with Aunt Flora for twenty years--_asked_ us to come in."

"Then he did what he had no business to do, and he deserves to be

dismissed at a day's notice. Why, Lady Henry tells me that it was a

regular party--that the room was all arranged for it by that most

audacious young woman--that the servants were ordered about--that it

lasted till nearly midnight, and that the noise you all made positively

woke Lady Henry out of her sleep. Really, Evelyn, that you should have

been mixed up in such an affair is more unpalatable to me than I can

find 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 lips

quivering with a secret that, once out, would perhaps silence him at

once--would, at any rate, as children do when they give a shake to their

spillikins, 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 without

replying.

"What is there to know that I don't know?" insisted the Duke. "Something

that makes the matter still worse, I suppose?"

"Well, that depends," said the Duchess, reflectively. A gleam of

mischief had slipped into her face, though for a moment the tears had

not 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 to

discuss 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 yet

whether I mean to write at all. And as for the riddle, Freddie, you've

seen 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 of

somebody?"

The Duchess was growing excited. Suddenly she jumped up; the little

spitz rolled off her lap; she ran to her husband and took him by the

fronts 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 we

have 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 second

son, 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 at

her.

His wife again caught him by the coat, and, so imprisoning him, she

poured out her story very fast, very incoherently, and with a very

evident uncertainty as to what its effect might be.

And indeed the effect was by no means easy to determine. The Duke was

first incredulous, then bewildered by the very mixed facts which she

poured out upon him. He tried to cross-examine her _en route_, but he

gained little by that; she only shook him a little, insisting the more

vehemently on telling the story her own way. At last their two

impatiences had nearly come to a dead-lock. But the Duke managed to free

himself physically, and so regained a little freedom of mind.

"Well, upon my word," he said, as he resumed his march up and

down--"upon my word!" Then, as he stood still before her, "You say she

is Marriott Dalrymple's daughter?"

"And Lord Lackington's granddaughter." said the Duchess, panting a

little from her exertions. "And, oh, what a blind bat you were not to

see it at once--from the likeness!"

"As if one had any right to infer such a thing from a likeness!" said

the 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, I

know you believe it to be true--only makes me"--he stiffened his

back--"the more determined to break off the connection between her and

you. A woman of such antecedents is not a fit companion for my wife,

independently of the fact that she seems to be, in herself, an

intriguing 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, she

ought--well, she ought to be all the more careful to live in a modest

and retired way, instead of, as I understand, making herself the rival

of Lady Henry. I never heard anything so preposterous--so--so indecent!

She shows no proper sense, and, as for you, I deeply regret you should

have been brought into any contact with such a disgraceful story."

"Freddie!" The Duchess went into a helpless, half-hysterical fit of

laughter.

But the Duke merely expanded, as it seemed, still further--to his utmost

height and bulk. "Oh, dear," thought the Duchess, in despair, "now he is

going to be like his mother!" Her strictly Evangelical mother-in-law,

with whom the Duke had made his bachelor home for many years, had been

the scourge of her early married life; and though for Freddie's sake she

had 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 too

quickly dried.

There could be no question about it, the Duke was painfully like his

mother as he replied:

"I fear that your education, Evelyn, has led you to take such things far

more lightly than you ought. I am old-fashioned. Illegitimacy with me

_does_ carry a stigma, and the sins of the fathers _are_ visited upon

the children. At any rate, we who occupy a prominent social place have

no right to do anything which may lead others to think lightly of God's

law. I am sorry to speak plainly, Evelyn. I dare say you don't like

these sentiments, but you know, at least, that I am quite honest in

expressing them."

The Duke turned to her, not without dignity. He was and had been from

his boyhood a person of irreproachable morals--earnest and religious

according to his lights, a good son, husband, and father. His wife

looked at him with mingled feelings.

"Well, all I know is," she said, passionately beating her little foot on

the carpet before her, "that, by all accounts, the only thing to do with

Colonel 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 to

this lady, your story does not affect me in her favor in the smallest

degree. She has had her education; Lord Lackington gives her one hundred

pounds a year; if she is a self-respecting woman she will look after

herself. I _don't_ want to have her here, and I beg you won't invite

her. A couple of nights, perhaps--I don't mind that--but not

for longer."

"Oh, as to that, you may be very sure she won't stay here unless you're

very particularly nice to her. There'll be plenty of people

glad--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 should

find 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 be

among 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 my

letter 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 house

in particular--that little place at the back of Cureton Street where

Cousin Mary Leicester lived so long--which is in your hands still, I

know, for you told me so last week--which is vacant and

furnished--Cousin Mary left you the furniture, as if we hadn't got

enough!--and it would be the _very_ thing for Julie, if only you'd lend

it to her till she can turn round."

The Duchess was now standing up, confronting her lord, her hands

grasping the chair behind her, her small form alive with eagerness and

the feminine determination to get her own way, by fair means or foul.

"Cureton Street!" said the Duke, almost at the end of his tether. "And

how 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 has

promised her work."

"Sheer lunacy! In six months time you'd have to step in and pay all her

bills."

"I should like to see anybody dare to propose to Julie to pay her

bills!" cried the Duchess, with scorn. "You see, the great pity is,

Freddie, that you don't know anything at all about her. But that

house--wasn't it made out of a stable? It has got six rooms, I

know--three bedrooms up-stairs, and two sitting-rooms and a kitchen

below. With one good maid and a boy Julie could be perfectly

comfortable. She would earn four hundred pounds--Dr. Meredith has

promised her--she has one hundred pounds a year of her own. She would

pay no rent, of course. She would have just enough to live on, poor,

dear thing! And she would be able to gather her old friends

round her when she wanted them. A cup of tea and her delightful

conversation--that's all they'd ever want."

"Oh, go on--go on!" said the Duke, throwing himself exasperated into an

arm-chair; "the ease with which you dispose of my property on behalf of

a young woman who has caused me most acute annoyance, who has embroiled

us with a near relation for whom I have a very particular respect! _Her

friends_, indeed! Lady Henry's friends, you mean. Poor Lady Henry tells

me in this letter that her circle will be completely scattered. This

mischievous woman in three years has destroyed what it has taken Lady

Henry nearly thirty to build up. Now look here, Evelyn"--the Duke sat up

and slapped his knee--"as to this Cureton Street plan, I will do nothing

of the kind. You may have Miss Le Breton here for two or three nights if

you like--I shall probably go down to the country--and, of course, I

have no objection to make if you wish to help her find another

situation--"

"Another situation!" cried the Duchess, beside herself. "Freddie, you

really are impossible! Do you understand that I regard Julie Le Breton

as _my relation_, whatever you may say--that I love her dearly--that

there are fifty people with money and influence ready to help her if you

won't, because she is one of the most charming and distinguished women

in London--that you ought to be _proud_ to do her a service--that I want

you to have the _honor_ of it--there! And if you won't do this little

favor for me--when I ask and beg it of you--I'll make you remember it

for 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 ruffling

about her ears, her cheeks and eyes brilliant with anger--and

something more.

The Duke rose in silent ferocity and sought for some letters which he

had left on the mantel-piece.

"I had better leave you to come to your senses by yourself, and as

quickly as possible," he said, as he put them into his pockets. "No good

can come of any more discussion of this sort."

The Duchess said nothing. She looked out of the window busily, and bit

her lip. Her silence served her better than her speech, for suddenly the

Duke looked round, hesitated, threw down a book he carried, walked up to

her, and took her in his arms.

"You are a very foolish child," he declared, as he held her by main

force and kissed away her tears. "You make me lose my temper--and waste

my time--for nothing."

"Not at all," said the sobbing Duchess, trying to push herself away, and

denying him, as best she could, her soft, flushed face. "You don't, or

you 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're

Lord Lackington's godson, and you're always preaching what he's done for

the army, and what the nation owes him--and--and--"

"Does he know?" said the Duke, abruptly, marvelling at the irrelevance

of these remarks.

"No, not a word. Only six people in London know--Aunt Flora, Sir Wilfrid

Bury"--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 my

knowledge, she has refused him both last year and this. Of course,

naturally, if you won't do anything to help her, she'll probably marry

him--simply as a way out."

"Well, of all the extraordinary affairs!"

The Duke released her, and stood bewildered. The Duchess watched him in

some excitement. He was about to speak, when there was a sound in the

anteroom. They moved hastily apart. The door was thrown open, and the

footman 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 persons

whose conversation she had disturbed. She was pale with sleeplessness;

her look was sad and weary. But never had she been more composed, more

elegant. Her closely fitting black cloth dress; her strangely expressive

face, framed by a large hat, very simple, but worn as only the woman of

fashion knows how; her miraculous yet most graceful slenderness; the

delicacy of her hands; the natural dignity of her movements--these

things produced an immediate, though, no doubt, conflicting impression

upon the gentleman who had just been denouncing her. He bowed, with an

involuntary deference which he had not at all meant to show to Lady

Henry's insubordinate companion, and then stood frowning.

But the Duchess ran forward, and, quite heedless of her husband, threw

herself into her friend's arms.

"Oh, Julie, is there anything left of you? I hardly slept a wink for

thinking of you. What did that old--oh, I forgot--do you know my

husband? Freddie, this is my _great_ friend, Miss Le Breton."

The Duke bowed again, silently. Julie looked at him, and then, still

holding the Duchess by the hand, she approached him, a pair of very fine

and 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 she

had written to you. I could not help coming to-day, because Evelyn has

been so kind. But--is it your wish that I should come here?"

The Christian name slipped out unawares, and the Duke winced at it. The

likeness to Lord Lackington--it was certainly astonishing. There ran

through his mind the memory of a visit paid long ago to his early home

by 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 six

years older than the other, had been the life and charm of the party. He

remembered hunting with Lady Rose.

But the confusion in his mind had somehow to be mastered, and he made an

effort.

"I shall be glad if my wife is able to be of any assistance to you, Miss

Le Breton," he said, coldly; "but it would not be honest if I were to

conceal my opinion--so far as I have been able to form it--that Lady

Henry 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 a

good many of those petty prides which the spoiled children of the world

escape 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 her

friend's eager hand, and the Duke collected himself. _He_ brought a

chair, and Julie seated herself.

"I am deeply, deeply distressed about Lady Henry," she said, in a low

voice, by which the Duke felt himself most unwillingly penetrated. "I

don't--oh no, indeed, I don't defend last night. Only--my position has

been very difficult lately. I wanted very much to see the

Duchess--and--it was natural--wasn't it?--that the old friends should

like to be personally informed about Lady Henry's illness? But, of

course, they stayed too long; it was my fault--I ought to have

prevented it."

She paused. This stern-looking man, who stood with his back to the

mantel-piece regarding her, Philistine though he was, had yet a

straight, disinterested air, from which she shrank a little. Honestly,

she would have liked to tell him the truth. But how could she? She did

her best, and her account certainly was no more untrue than scores of

narratives of social incident which issue every day from lips the most

respected and the most veracious. As for the Duchess, she thought it the

height of candor and generosity. The only thing she could have wished,

perhaps, in her inmost heart, was that she had _not_ found Julie alone

with Harry Warkworth. But her loyal lips would have suffered torments

rather than accuse or betray her friend.

The Duke meanwhile went through various phases of opinion as Julie laid

her story before him. Perhaps he was chiefly affected by the tone of

quiet independence--as from equal to equal--in which she addressed him.

His wife's cousin by marriage; the granddaughter of an old and intimate

friend of his own family; the daughter of a man known at one time

throughout Europe, and himself amply well born--all these facts, warm,

living, and still efficacious, stood, as it were, behind this manner of

hers, prompting and endorsing it. But, good Heavens! was illegitimacy to

be as legitimacy?--to carry with it no stains and penalties? Was vice to

be virtue, or as good? The Duke rebelled.

"It is a most unfortunate affair, of that there can be no doubt," he

said, after a moment's silence, when Julie had brought her story to an

end; and then, more sternly, "I shall certainly apologize for my wife's

share 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 me

unopened."

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 Lady

Henry from any further pain or annoyance? She once said to me in a fit

of anger that if I left her in consequence of a quarrel, and any of her

old friends sided with me, she would never see them again."

"I know," said the Duke, sharply. "Her salon will break up. She already

foresees it."

"But why?--why?" cried Julie, in a most becoming distress. "Somehow, we

must prevent it. Unfortunately I must live in London. I have the offer

of work here--journalist's work which cannot be done in the country or

abroad. But I would do all I could to shield Lady Henry."

"What about Mr. Montresor?" said the Duke, abruptly. Montresor had been

the well-known Châteaubriand to Lady Henry's Madame Récamier for more

than a generation.

Julie turned to him with eagerness.

"Mr. Montresor wrote to me early this morning. The letter reached me at

breakfast. In Mrs. Montresor's name and his own, he asked me to stay

with them till my plans developed. He--he was kind enough to say he felt

himself 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 at

once to Lady Henry. I hope he has done so."

"And so you refused--excuse these questions--Mrs. Montresor's

invitation?"

The working of the Duke's mind was revealed in his drawn and puzzled

brows.

"Certainly." The speaker looked at him with surprise. "Lady Henry would

never have forgiven that. It could not be thought of. Lord Lackington

also"--but her voice wavered.

"Yes?" said the Duchess, eagerly, throwing herself on a stool at Julie's

feet 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 her

handkerchief 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 and

murmured over it.

"Was there ever such a situation?" thought the Duke, much shaken. "And

she has already, if Evelyn is to be believed, refused the chance--the

practical 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 to

him, "I cannot approve--and Evelyn ought not to approve--of much that

has taken place during your residence with Lady Henry. But I understand

that your post was not an easy one, and I recognize the forbearance of

your present attitude. Evelyn is much distressed about it all. On the

understanding that you will do what you can to soften this breach for

Lady Henry, I shall be, glad if you will allow me to come partially to

your assistance."

Julie looked up gravely, her eyebrows lifting. The Duke found himself

reddening as he went on.

"I have a little house near here--a little furnished house--Evelyn will

explain to you. It happens to be vacant. If you will accept a loan of

it, say for six months"--the Duchess frowned--"you will give me

pleasure. I will explain my action to Lady Henry, and endeavor to soften

her feelings."

He paused. Miss Le Breton's face was grateful, touched with emotion, but

more than hesitating.

"You are very good. But I have no claim upon you at all. And I can

support myself."

A touch of haughtiness slipped into her manner as she gently rose to her

feet. "Thank God, I did not offer her money!" thought the Duke,

strangely perturbed.

"Julie, dear Julie," implored the Duchess. "It's such a tiny little

place, and it is quite musty for want of living in. Nobody has set foot

in it but the caretaker for two years, and it would be really a kindness

to us to go and live there--wouldn't it, Freddie? And there's all the

furniture just as it was, down to the bellows and the snuffers. If you'd

only 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 Mary

Leicester. Oh, do say yes, Julie! They shall light the fires, and I'll

send in a few sheets and things, and you'll feel as though you'd been

there for years. Do, Julie!"

Julie shook her head.

"I came here," she said, in a voice that was still unsteady, "to ask for

advice, 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 I

should 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 to

confess myself to the Duke, and to point out to him how matters could be

made easier for Lady Henry."

The penitent, yet dignified, sadness of her manner and voice completed

the discomfiture--the temporary discomfiture--of the Duke.

"Miss Le Breton," he said, abruptly, coming to stand beside her, "I

remember your mother."

Julie's eyes filled. Her hand still held her veil, but it paused in its

task.

"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 was

very kind to me, and I thought her a kind of goddess. When I first heard

her story, years afterwards, it shocked me awfully. For her sake,

accept my offer. I don't think lightly of such actions as your

mother's--not at all. But I can't bear to think of her daughter alone

and friendless in London."

Yet even as he spoke he seemed to be listening to another person. He did

not himself understand the feelings which animated him, nor the strength

with which his recollections of Lady Rose had suddenly invaded him.

Julie leaned her arms on the mantel-piece, and hid her face. She had

turned 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 a

moment's notice. And it was a great deal my fault. You _must_ let us

help you!"

Julie did not answer, but, partially disengaging herself, and without

looking 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 the

arrangements. The keys shall be here this afternoon. Miss Le Breton, of

course, stays here till things are settled. As for me, I must really be

off to my meeting. One thing, Miss Le Breton--"

"Yes."

"I think," he said, gravely, "you ought to reveal yourself to Lord

Lackington."

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 what

he 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 his

wife had ever done. What _could_ have made him behave in this

extraordinary, this preposterous way? A touch of foolish

romance--immoral romance--of which he was already ashamed? Or the one

bare fact that this woman had refused Jacob Delafield?