XV

After the long conversation between herself and Lord Lackington which

followed on the momentous confession of her identity, Julie spent a

restless and weary evening, which passed into a restless and weary

night. Was she oppressed by this stirring of old sorrows?--haunted

afresh by her parents' fate?

Ah! Lord Lackington had no sooner left her than she sank motionless into

her chair, and, with the tears excited by the memories of her mother

still in her eyes, she gave herself up to a desperate and sombre

brooding, of which Warkworth's visit of the afternoon was, in truth, the

sole 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, careless

good-humor of his blue eyes was too much, after those days she had

passed 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 the

little Duchess's manner, as she bade farewell to him that night at

Crowborough House, that something was wrong. He must have realized that

Miss Lawrence was an intimate friend of the Moffatts, and that--Or was

he really so foolish as to suppose that his quasi-engagement to this

little heiress, and the encouragement given him, in defiance of the

girl's guardians, by her silly and indiscreet mother, were still hidden

and 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 that

miserable 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 as

he 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. Of

course he had--and of course she'll write that kind of letter to as many

people 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 by

chance 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 Lady

Henry's! Oh, Julie, he's a wretch--_he is!_ Of course he is in love with

you. That's natural enough. But all the time--listen, that nice woman

told me the whole story--he's writing regularly to that little girl. She

and her mother, in spite of the guardians, regard it as an engagement

signed and sealed, and all his friends believe he's _quite_ determined

to marry her because of the money. You may think me an odious little

meddler, 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 the

supposed victim--not Julie's angry eyes, nor all her mocking words from

tremulous lips--had availed in the least to silence the tumult of

alarmed affection in the Duchess's breast. Her Julie had been flouted

and trifled with; and if she was so blind, so infatuated, as not to see

it, she should at least be driven to realize what other people

felt about it.

So she had her say, and Julie had been forced, willy-nilly, upon

discussion and self-defence--nay, upon a promise also. Pale, and stiffly

erect, yet determined all the same to treat it as a laughing matter, she

had vouchsafed the Duchess some kind of assurance that she would for the

future observe a more cautious behavior towards Warkworth. "He is my

_friend_, and whatever any one may say, he shall remain so," she had

said, with a smiling stubbornness which hid something before which the

little Duchess shrank. "But, of course, if I can do anything to please

you, 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 home

and friends and prospects, at one stroke, rather than have pledged

herself to anything of the sort. Evelyn should never bind her to that.

Then, during his days of absence, she had passed through wave after wave

of feeling, while all the time to the outer eye she was occupied with

nothing but the settlement into Lady Mary's strange little house. She

washed, dusted, placed chairs and tables. And meanwhile a wild

expectancy of his first letter possessed her. Surely there would be some

anxiety in it, some fear, some disclosure of himself, and of the

struggle in his mind between interest and love?

Nothing of the kind. His first letter was the letter of one sure of his

correspondent, sure of his reception and of his ground; a happy and

intimate 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's

mind. The contrast between the _pose_ of the letter and the sly reality

behind bred a sudden anguish of jealousy, concerned not so much with

Warkworth as with this little, unknown creature, who, without any

effort, any desert--by the mere virtue of money and blood--sat waiting

in arrogant expectancy till what she desired should come to her. How was

it possible to feel any compunction towards her? Julie felt none.

As to the rest of Miss Lawrence's gossip--that Warkworth was supposed to

have "behaved badly," to have led the pretty child to compromise herself

with him at Simla in ways which Simla society regarded as inadmissible

and "bad form"; that the guardians had angrily intervened, and that he

was under a promise, habitually broken by the connivance of the girl's

mother, not to see or correspond with the heiress till she was

twenty-one, in other words, for the next two years--what did these

things matter to her? Had she ever supposed that Warkworth, in regard to

money or his career, was influenced by any other than the ordinary

worldly motives? She knew very well that he was neither saint nor

ascetic. These details--or accusations--did not, properly speaking,

concern her at all. She had divined and accepted his character, in all

its average human selfishness and faultiness, long ago. She loved him

passionately 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 in

her no repulsion whatever. Julie, in her own way, was a great romantic;

but owing to the economic notions of marriage, especially the whole

conception of the _dot_, prevailing in the French or Belgian minds amid

whom she had passed her later girlhood, she never dreamed for a moment

of blaming Warkworth for placing money foremost in his plans of

matrimony. She resembled one of the famous _amoureuses_ of the

eighteenth century, who in writing to the man she loved but could not

marry, advises him to take a wife to mend his fortunes, and proposes to

him various tempting morsels--_une jeune personne_, sixteen, with

neither father nor mother, only a brother. "They will give her on her

marriage thirteen thousand francs a year, and the aunt will be quite

content to keep her and look after her for some time." And if that won't

do--"I know a man who would be only too happy to have you for a

son-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 your

happiness above all things; how to procure it--there lies the chief

interest of my life."

This notion of things, more or less disguised, was to Julie customary

and familiar; and it was no more incompatible in her with the notions

and standards of high sentiment, such as she might be supposed to have

derived from her parents, than it is in the Latin races generally.

No doubt it had been mingled in her, especially since her settlement in

Lady Henry's house, with the more English idea of "falling in love"--the

idea which puts personal choice first in marriage, and makes the matter

of dowry subordinate to that mysterious election and affinity which the

Englishman calls "love." Certainly, during the winter, Julie had hoped

to lead Warkworth to marry her. As a poor man, of course, he must have

money. But her secret feeling had been that her place in society, her

influence with important people, had a money value, and that he would

perceive this.

Well, she had been a mere trusting fool, and he had deceived her. There

was his crime--not in seeking money and trusting to money. He had told

her falsehoods and misled her. He was doing it still. His letter implied

that he loved her? Possibly. It implied to Julie's ear still more

plainly that he stood tacitly and resolutely by Aileen Moffatt and her

money, and that all he was prepared to offer to the dear friend of his

heart was a more or less ambiguous relation, lasting over two years

perhaps--till his engagement might be announced.

A dumb and bitter anger mounted within her. She recalled the manner in

which he had evaded her first questions, and her opinion became very

much that of the Duchess. She had, indeed, been mocked, and treated like

a child. So she sent no answer to his first letter, and when his second

came 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 in

the spring dawn her groping fingers drew it trembling towards her and

slipped it under her pillow. By the time the full morning had come she

had opened it, read and reread it--had bathed it, indeed, with

her tears.

But her anger persisted, and when Warkworth appeared on her threshold it

flamed 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 herself

particularly soft and gracious to Delafield. Warkworth now would break

with her--might, perhaps, be glad of the chance to return safely and

without further risks to his heiress.

She sat on in the dark, thinking over every word, every look. Presently

Thérèse 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 Lord

Lackington.

As she went up-stairs to her little room her heart reproached her. In

their interview the old man had shown great sweetness of feeling, a

delicate and remorseful tenderness, hardly to have been looked for in a

being so fantastic and self-willed. The shock of their conversation had

deepened the lines in a face upon which age had at last begun to make

those marks which are not another beauty, but the end of beauty. When

she 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. Lady

Blanche seldom came to town, and, for the most part, he lived alone in

the fine house in St. James's Square, of which she had heard her

mother talk.

He liked her--had liked her from the first. How natural that she should

tend and brighten his old age--how natural, and how impossible! He was

not the man to brave the difficulties and discomforts inseparable from

the sudden appearance of an illegitimate granddaughter in his household,

and if he had been, Julie, in her fierce, new-born independence, would

have shrunk from such a step. But she had been drawn to him; her heart

had 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 and

papers, and all the signs of the literary trade, she miserably bid

herself 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 had

the literary instinct and aptitude, and she must earn money. She looked

at her half-written article, and sighed to her books to save her.

That evening Thérèse, who adored her, watched her with a wistful and

stealthy affection. Her idol was strangely sad and pale. But she asked

no questions. All she could do was to hover about "mademoiselle" with

soft, flattering services, till mademoiselle went to bed, and then to

lie awake herself, quietly waiting till all sounds in the room opposite

had died away, and she might comfort her dumb and timid devotion with

the hope that Julie slept.

Sleep, however, or no sleep, Julie was up early next day. Before the

post arrived she was already dressed, and on the point of descending to

the morning coffee, which, in the old, frugal, Bruges fashion, she and

Léonie and the child took in the kitchen together. Lady Henry's opinion

of her as a soft and luxurious person dependent on dainty living was, in

truth, absurdly far from the mark. After those years of rich food and

many servants in Lady Henry's household, she had resumed the penurious

Belgian ways at once, without effort--indeed, with alacrity. In the

morning she helped Léonie and Thérèse with the housework. Her quick

fingers washed and rubbed and dusted. In less than a week she knew every

glass and cup in Cousin Mary Leicester's well-filled china cupboard, and

she and Thérèse between them kept the two sitting-rooms spotless. She

who had at once made friends and tools of Lady Henry's servants,

disdained, so it appeared, to be served beyond what was absolutely

necessary in her own house. A charwoman, indeed, came in the morning for

the roughest work, but by ten o'clock she was gone, and Julie, Madame

Bornier, 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 handled

them with a Napoleonic success. She bought as the French poor buy, so

far as the West End would let her, and Julie had soon perceived that

their expenditure, even in this heart of Mayfair, would be incredibly

small. Whereby she felt herself more and more mistress of her fate. By

her own unaided hands would she provide for herself and her household.

Each year there should be a little margin, and she would owe no man

anything. After six months, if she could not afford to pay the Duke a

fair rent for his house--always supposing he allowed her to remain in

it--she would go elsewhere.

As she reached the hall, clad in an old serge dress, which was a

survival from Bruges days, Thérèse ran up to her with the letters.

Julie looked through them, turned and went back to her room. She had

expected the letter which lay on the top, and she must brace herself

to 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 despair

perhaps of the prisoner who had thought himself delivered, only to find

himself caught in fresh and stronger bonds. As for ambition, as for

literature--here, across their voices, broke this voice of the senses,

this desire of "the moth for the star." And she was powerless to resist

it. Ah, why had he not accepted his dismissal--quarrelled with her at

once and forever?

She understood the letter perfectly--what it offered, and what it

tacitly refused. An intimate and exciting friendship--for two years. For

two years he was ready to fill up such time as he could spare from his

clandestine 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--a

hard, strained note, which gave her a kind of desperate joy. It seemed

to her that for months she had been covetously listening for it in vain.

She was beginning to be necessary to him; he had _suffered_--through

her. Never before could she say that to herself. Pleasure she had given

him, 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 the

while 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 its

charming, old-world appointments--a sort of mute relation between her

and it, as though it accepted her for mistress, and she on her side

vowed it a delicate and prudent care--she thought how she could have

delighted in this life which had opened upon her had it come to her a

year ago. The tasks set her by Meredith were congenial and within her

power. Her independence gave her the keenest pleasure. The effort and

conquests of the intellect--she had the mind to love them, to desire

them; 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 of

maternal element had entered into her affection for Warkworth during the

winter. 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 the

folly of their pseudo-friendship and her secret hopes lay bare

before her.

* * * * *

Warkworth came at five.

He entered in the dusk; a little pale, with his graceful head thrown

back, and that half-startled, timid look in his wide, blue eyes--that

misleading look--which made him the boy still, when he chose.

Julie was standing near the window as he came in. As she turned and saw

him there, a flood of tenderness and compunction swept over her. He was

going away. What if she never saw him again?

She shuddered and came forward rapidly, eagerly. He read the meaning of

her movement, her face; and, wringing her hands with a violence that

hurt 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 new

tone.

"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 in

the grate; the windows were closed.

A scent of narcissus--the Duchess had filled the tables with

flowers--floated in the room. Amid its old-fashioned and distinguished

bareness--tempered by flowers, and a litter of foreign books--Julie

seemed at last to have found her proper frame. In her severe black

dress, opening on a delicate vest of white, she had a muselike grace;

and the wreath made by her superb black hair round the fine intelligence

of her brow had never been more striking. Her slender hands busied

themselves with Cousin Mary Leicester's tea-things; and every movement

had 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 her

nervously.

Her flush, her gesture, appealed to him.

"Do you know what I had before me--that day--when you came in?" she

said, 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 Belgian

with English connections, whom Lady Henry met by chance? Isn't that how

you explain me?"

Warkworth had pushed aside his cup.

"I thought--"

He paused in embarrassment, but there was a sparkle of astonished

expectancy in his eyes.

"My mother"--she looked away into the blaze of the fire, and her voice

choked a little--"my mother was Lord Lackington's daughter."

"Lord Lackington's daughter?" echoed Warkworth, in stupefaction. A rush

of ideas and inferences sped through his mind. He thought of Lady

Blanche--things heard in India--and while he stared at her in an

agitated 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 should

be Julie Dalrymple, but--they could never marry--because of

Colonel Delaney."

Her face was still turned away.

All the details of that famous scandal began to come back to him. His

companion, her history, her relations to others, to himself, began to

appear to him in the most astonishing new lights. So, instead of the

mere humble outsider, she belonged all the time to the best English

blood? The society in which he had met her was full of her kindred. No

doubt the Duchess knew--and Montresor.... He was meshed in a net of

thoughts perplexing and confounding, of which the total result was

perhaps that she appeared to him as she sat there, the slender outline

so quiet and still, more attractive and more desirable than ever. The

mystery surrounding her in some way glorified her, and he dimly

perceived that so it must have been for others.

"How did you ever bear the Bruton Street life?" he said, presently, in

a 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 over

the face of the young officer. It was indeed an extraordinary imbroglio

in 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 an

allowance, 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 own

living." She turned to him with a sharp brightness in her black eyes.

"Besides, if Lord Lackington gives me money, he will want to give me

advice. 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 to

hers, which lay on her knee.

She turned to him, startled.

"I want to have no secrets from you," he said, drawing his breath

quickly. "I told you lies one day, because I thought it was my duty to

tell lies. Another person was concerned. But now I can't. Julie!--you'll

let me call you so, won't you? The name is already"--he hesitated; then

the words rushed out--"part of my life! Julie, it's quite true, there is

a kind of understanding between your little cousin Aileen and me. At

Simla 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 three

other men who were there. I proposed to her upon a sudden impulse, and

she accepted me. She is a charming, soft creature. Perhaps I wasn't

justified. Perhaps she ought to have had more chance of seeing the

world. Anyway, there was a great row. Her guardians insisted that I had

behaved badly. They could not know all the details of the matter, and I

was not going to tell them. Finally I promised to withdraw for

two years."

He paused, anxiously studying her face. It had grown very white, and, he

thought, very cold. But she quickly rose, and, looking down upon

him, 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 fresh

supply 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 what

generally happens, isn't it?"

"There are no secrets nowadays," he said, sorely. "And then, there was

Miss 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 to

carry it off lightly.

"The fact is well known, isn't it?"

He sat down, twisting his hat between his hands. Then with an

exclamation 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 friendship

from me. I shall soon be gone. Our lives will go different ways. That

was settled--alack!--before we met. I am honorably bound to that poor

child. She cares for me, and I can't get loose. But these last months

have been happy, haven't they? There are just three weeks left. At

present 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 the

garden, and that, still as she was, her lip quivered.

"What shall I say?" he resumed, with emotion. "It seems to me our case

stands all by itself, alone in the world. We have three weeks--give them

to me. Don't let's play at cross purposes any more. I want to be

sincere--I want to hide nothing from you in these days. Let us throw

aside convention and trust each other, as friends may, so that when I go

we may say to each other, 'Well, it was worth the pain. These have been

days 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 tears

on her cheek. Never had his aspect been so winning. What he proposed

was, 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 whom

he describes himself as 'honorably bound' has a fortune of half a

million. He is determined to have both her money and my heart." Another

inward voice, tragically generous, dashed down the thought, and, at the

moment, rightly; for as he stood over her, breathless and imperious, to

his own joy, to his own exaltation, Warkworth was conscious of a new

sincerity flowing in a tempestuous and stormy current through all the

veins of being.

With a sombre passion which already marked an epoch in their relation,

and contained within itself the elements of new and unforeseen

developments, she gazed silently into his face. Then, leaning back in

her chair, she once more held out to him both her hands.

He gave an exclamation of joy, kissed the hands tenderly, and sat down

beside her.

"Now, then, all your cares, all your thoughts, all your griefs are to be

mine--till fate call us. And I have a thousand things to tell you, to

bless you for, to consult you about. There is not a thought in my mind

that you shall not know--bad, good, and indifferent--if you care to turn

out the rag-bag. Shall I begin with the morning--my experiences at the

club, my little nieces at the Zoo?" He laughed, but suddenly grew

serious again. "No, your story first; you owe it me. Let me know all

that concerns you. Your past, your sorrows, ambitions--everything."

He bent to her imperiously. With a faint, broken smile, her hands still

in his, she assented. It was difficult to begin, then difficult to

control the flood of memory; and it had long been dark when Madame

Bornier, coming in to light the lamp and make up the fire, disturbed an

intimate and searching conversation, which had revealed the two natures

to each other with an agitating fulness.

* * * * *

Yet the results of this memorable evening upon Julie Le Breton were

ultimately such as few could have foreseen.

When Warkworth had left her, she went to her own room and sat for a long

while beside the window, gazing at the dark shrubberies of the Cureton

House garden, at the few twinkling, distant lights.

The vague, golden hopes she had cherished through these past months of

effort and scheming were gone forever. Warkworth would marry Aileen

Moffatt, and use her money for an ambitious career. After these weeks

now lying before them--weeks of dangerous intimacy, dangerous

emotion--she and he would become as strangers to each other. He would be

absorbed by his profession and his rich marriage. She would be left

alone to live her life.

A sudden terror of her own weakness overcame her. No, she could not be

alone. She must place a barrier between herself and this--this strange

threatening of illimitable ruin that sometimes rose upon her from the

dark. "I have no prejudices," she had said to Sir Wilfrid. There were

many moments when she felt a fierce pride in the element of lawlessness,

of defiance, that seemed to be her inheritance from her parents. But

to-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 beyond

these three weeks. What could she make of it? She knew well that she was

not 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 it

would mean to marry him; then suddenly broke down and wept, with

inarticulate cries and sobs, with occasional reminiscences of her old

convent's prayers, appeals half conscious, instinctive, to a God only

half believed.