Delafield was walking through the Park towards Victoria Gate. A pair of
beautiful roans pulled up suddenly beside him, and a little figure with
a waving hand bent to him from a carriage.
"Jacob, where are you off to? Let me give you a lift?"
The gentleman addressed took off his hat.
"Much obliged to you, but I want some exercise. I say, where did Freddie
get that pair?"
"I don't know, he doesn't tell me. Jacob, you must get in. I want to
speak to you."
Rather unwillingly, Delafield obeyed, and away they sped.
"J'ai un tas de choses à vous dire," she said, speaking low, and in
French, so as to protect herself from the servants in front. "Jacob, I'm
_very_ unhappy about Julie."
Delafield frowned uncomfortably.
"Why? Hadn't you better leave her alone?"
"Oh, of course, I know you think me a chatterbox. I don't care. You
_must_ let me tell you some fresh news about her. It _isn't_ gossip, and
you and I are her best friends. Oh, Freddie's so disagreeable about her.
Jacob, you've got to help and advise a little. Now, do listen. It's your
duty--your downright catechism duty."
And she poured into his reluctant ear the tale which Miss Emily
Lawrence nearly a fortnight before had confided to her.
"Of course," she wound up, "you'll say it's only what we knew or guessed
long ago. But you see, Jacob, we didn't _know_. It might have been just
gossip. And then, besides"--she frowned and dropped her voice till it
was only just audible--"this horrid man hadn't made our Julie so--so
conspicuous, and Lady Henry hadn't turned out such a toad--and,
altogether, Jacob, I'm dreadfully worried."
"Don't be," said Jacob, dryly.
"And what a creature!" cried the Duchess, unheeding. "They say that poor
Moffatt child will soon have fretted herself ill, if the guardians don't
give way about the two years."
"What two years?"
"The two years that she must wait--till she is twenty-one. Oh, Jacob,
you know that!" exclaimed the Duchess, impatient with him. "I've told
you scores of times."
"I'm not in the least interested in Miss Moffatt's affairs."
"But you ought to be, for they concern Julie," cried the Duchess. "Can't
you imagine what kind of things people are saying? Lady Henry has spread
it about that it was all to see him she bribed the Bruton Street
servants to let her give the Wednesday party as usual--that she had been
flirting with him abominably for months, and using Lady Henry's name in
the most impertinent ways. And now, suddenly, everybody seems to know
_something_ about this Indian engagement. You may imagine it doesn't
look very well for our poor Julie. The other night at Chatton House I
was furious. I made Julie go. I wanted her to show herself, and keep up
her friends. Well, it was _horrid_! One or two old frights, who used to
be only too thankful to Julie for reminding Lady Henry to invite them,
put their noses in the air and behaved odiously. And even some of the
nicer ones seemed changed--I could see Julie felt it."
"Nothing of all that will do her any real harm," said Jacob, rather
contemptuously.
"Well, no. I know, of course, that her real friends will never forsake
her--never, never! But, Jacob"--the Duchess hesitated, her charming
little face furrowed with thought--"if only so much of it weren't true.
She herself--"
"Please, Evelyn," said Delafield, with decision, "don't tell me anything
she may have said to you."
The Duchess flushed.
"I shouldn't have betrayed any confidence," she said, proudly. "And I
must consult with some one who cares about her. Dr. Meredith lunched
with me to-day, and he said a few words to me afterwards. He's quite
anxious, too--and unhappy. Captain Warkworth's always there--always!
Even I have been hardly able to see her the last few days. Last Sunday
they took the little lame child and went into the country for the
whole day--"
"Well, what is there to object to in that?" cried Jacob.
"I didn't say there was anything to object to," said the Duchess,
looking at him with eyes half angry, half perplexed. "Only it's so
unlike her. She had promised to be at home that afternoon for several
old friends, and they found her flown, without a word. And think how
sweet Julie is always about such things--what delicious notes she
writes, how she hates to put anybody out or disappoint them! And now,
not a word of excuse to anybody. And she looks so _ill_--so white, so
fixed--like a person in a dream which she can't shake off. I'm just
miserable about her. And I hate, _hate_ that man--engaged to her own
cousin all the time!" cried the little Duchess, under her breath, as she
passionately tore some violets at her waist to pieces and flung them out
of the carriage. Then she turned to Jacob.
"But, of course, if you don't care twopence about all this, Jacob, it's
no good talking to you!"
Her taunt fell quite unnoticed. Jacob turned to her with smiling
composure.
"You have forgotten, my dear Evelyn, all this time, that Warkworth goes
away--to mid-Africa--in little more than two weeks."
"I wish it was two minutes," said the Duchess, fuming.
Delafield made no reply for a while. He seemed to be studying the effect
of a pale shaft of sunlight which had just come stealing down through
layers of thin gray cloud to dance upon the Serpentine. Presently, as
they left the Serpentine behind them, he turned to his companion with
more apparent sympathy.
"We can't do anything, Evelyn, and we've no right whatever to talk of
alarm, or anxiety--to _talk_ of it, mind! It's--it's disloyal. Forgive
me," he added, hastily, "I know you don't gossip. But it fills me with
rage that other people should be doing it."
The brusquerie of his manner disconcerted the little lady beside him.
She recovered herself, however, and said, with a touch of sarcasm,
tempered by a rather trembling lip:
"Your rage won't prevent their gossiping, Mr. Jacob, I thought, perhaps,
your _friendship_ might have done something to stop it--to--to influence
Julie," she added, uncertainly.
"My friendship, as you call it, is of no use whatever," he said,
obstinately. "Warkworth will go away, and if you and others do their
best to protect Miss Le Breton, talk will soon die out. Behave as if you
had never heard the man's name before--stare the people down. Why, good
Heavens! you have a thousand arts! But, of course, if the little flame
is to be blown into a blaze by a score of so-called friends--"
He shrugged his shoulders.
The Duchess did not take his rebukes kindly, not having, in truth,
deserved them.
"You are rude and unkind, Jacob," she said, almost with the tears in her
eyes. "And you don't understand--it is because I myself am so anxious--"
"For that reason, play the part with all your might," he said,
unyieldingly. "Really, even you and I oughtn't to talk of it any more.
But there _is_ one thing I want very much to know about Miss Le Breton."
He bent towards her, smiling, though in truth he was disgusted with
himself, vexed with her, and out of tune with all the world.
The Duchess made a little face.
"All very well, but after such a lecture as you have indulged in, I
think I prefer not to say any more about Julie."
"Do. I'm ashamed of myself--except that I don't retract one word, not
one. Be kind, all the same, and tell me--if you know--has she spoken to
Lord Lackington?"
The Duchess still frowned, but a few more apologetic expressions on his
part restored a temper that had always a natural tendency to peace.
Indeed, Jacob's _boutades_ never went long unpardoned. An only child
herself, he, her first cousin, had played the part of brother in her
life, since the days when she first tottered in long frocks, and he had
never played it in any mincing fashion. His words were often blunt. She
smarted and forgave--much more quickly than she forgave her husband. But
then, with him, she was in love.
So she presently vouchsafed to give Jacob the news that Lord Lackington
at last knew the secret--that he had behaved well--had shown much
feeling, in fact--so that poor Julie--
But Jacob again cut short the sentimentalisms, the little touching
phrases in which the woman delighted.
"What is he going to do for her?" he said, impatiently. "Will he make
any provision for her? Is there any way by which she can live in his
house--take care of him?"
The Duchess shook her head.
"At seventy-five one can't begin to explain a thing as big as that.
Julie perfectly understands, and doesn't wish it."
"But as to money?" persisted Jacob.
"Julie says nothing about money. How odd you are, Jacob! I thought that
was the last thing needful in your eyes."
Jacob did not reply. If he had, he would probably have said that what
was harmful or useless for men might be needful for women--for the
weakness of women. But he kept silence, while the vague intensity of the
eyes, the pursed and twisted mouth, showed that his mind was full
of thoughts.
Suddenly he perceived that the carriage was nearing Victoria Gate. He
called to the coachman to stop, and jumped out.
"Good-bye, Evelyn. Don't bear me malice. You're a good friend," he said
in her ear--"a real good friend. But don't let people talk to you--not
even elderly ladies with the best intentions. I tell you it will be a
fight, and one of the best weapons is"--he touched his lips
significantly, smiled at her, and was gone.
The Duchess passed out of the Park. Delafield turned as though in the
direction of the Marble Arch, but as soon as the carriage was out of
sight he paused and quickly retraced his steps towards Kensington
Gardens. Here, in this third week of March, some of the thorns and
lilacs were already in leaf. The grass was springing, and the chatter of
many sparrows filled the air. Faint patches of sun flecked the ground
between the trees, and blue hazes, already redeemed from the dreariness
of winter, filled the dim planes of distance and mingled with the low,
silvery clouds. He found a quiet spot, remote from nursery-maids and
children, and there he wandered to and fro, indefinitely, his hands
behind his back. All the anxieties for which he had scolded his cousin
possessed him, only sharpened tenfold; he was in torture, and he
was helpless.
However, when at last he emerged from his solitude, and took a hansom to
the Chudleigh estate office in Spring Gardens, he resolutely shook off
the thoughts which had been weighing upon him. He took his usual
interest in his work, and did it with his usual capacity.
* * * * *
Towards five o'clock in the afternoon, Delafield found himself in
Cureton Street. As he turned down Heribert Street he saw a cab in front
of him. It stopped at Miss Le Breton's door, and Warkworth jumped out.
The door was quickly opened to him, and he went in without having turned
his eyes towards the man at the far corner of the street.
Delafield paused irresolute. Finally he walked back to his club in
Piccadilly, where he dawdled over the newspapers till nearly seven.
Then he once more betook himself to Heribert Street.
"Is Miss Le Breton at home?"
Thérèse looked at him with a sudden flickering of her clear eyes.
"I think so, sir," she said, with soft hesitation, and she slowly led
him across the hall.
The drawing-room door opened. Major Warkworth emerged.
"Ah, how do you do?" he said, shortly, staring in a kind of bewilderment
as he saw Delafield. Then he hurriedly looked for his hat, ran down the
stairs, and was gone.
"Announce me, please," said Delafield, peremptorily, to the little girl.
"Tell Miss Le Breton that I am here." And he drew back from the open
door of the drawing-room. Thérèse slipped in, and reappeared.
"Please to walk in, sir," she said, in her shy, low voice, and Delafield
entered. From the hall he had caught one involuntary glimpse of Julie,
standing stiff and straight in the middle of the room, her hands clasped
to her breast--a figure in pain. When he went in, she was in her usual
seat by the fire, with her embroidery frame in front of her.
"May I come in? It is rather late."
"Oh, by all means! Do you bring me any news of Evelyn? I haven't seen
her for three days."
He seated himself beside her. It was hard, indeed, for him to hide all
signs of the tumult within. But he held a firm grip upon himself.
"I saw Evelyn this afternoon. She complained that you had had no time
for her lately."
Julie bent over her work. He saw that her fingers were so unsteady that
she could hardly make them obey her.
"There has been a great deal to do, even in this little house. Evelyn
forgets; she has an army of servants; we have only our hands and
our time."
She looked up, smiling. He made no reply, and the smile died from her
face, suddenly, as though some one had blown out a light. She returned
to her work, or pretended to. But her aspect had left him inwardly
shaken. The eyes, disproportionately large and brilliant, were of an
emphasis almost ghastly, the usually clear complexion was flecked and
cloudy, the mouth dry-lipped. She looked much older than she had done a
fortnight before. And the fact was the more noticeable because in her
dress she had now wholly discarded the touch of stateliness--almost
old-maidishness--which had once seemed appropriate to the position of
Lady Henry's companion. She was wearing a little gown of her youth, a
blue cotton, which two years before had been put aside as too slight
and juvenile. Never had the form within it seemed so girlish, so
appealing. But the face was heart-rending.
After a pause he moved a little closer to her.
"Do you know that you are looking quite ill?"
"Then my looks are misleading. I am very well."
"I am afraid I don't put much faith in that remark. When do you mean to
take a holiday?"
"Oh, very soon. Léonie, my little housekeeper, talks of going to Bruges
to wind up all her affairs there and bring back some furniture that she
has warehoused. I may go with her. I, too, have some property stored
there. I should go and see some old friends--the _soeurs_, for instance,
with whom I went to school. In the old days I was a torment to them, and
they were tyrants to me. But they are quite nice to me now--they give me
_patisserie_, and stroke my hands and spoil me."
And she rattled on about the friends she might revisit, in a hollow,
perfunctory way, which set him on edge.
"I don't see that anything of that kind will do you any good. You want
rest of mind and body. I expect those last scenes with Lady Henry cost
you more than you knew. There are wounds one does not notice at
the time--"
"Which afterwards bleed inwardly?" She laughed. "No, no, I am not
bleeding for Lady Henry. By-the-way, what news of her?"
"Sir Wilfrid told me to-day that he had had a letter. She is at Torquay,
and she thinks there are too many curates at Torquay. She is not at all
in a good temper."
Julie looked up.
"You know that she is trying to punish me. A great many people seem to
have been written to."
"That will blow over."
"I don't know. How confident I was at one time that, if there was a
breach, it would be Lady Henry that would suffer! It makes me hot to
remember some things I said--to Sir Wilfrid, in particular. I see now
that I shall not be troubled with society in this little house."
"It is too early for you to guess anything of that kind."
"Not at all! London is pretty full. The affair has made a noise. Those
who meant to stand by me would have called, don't you think?"
The quivering bitterness of her face was most pitiful in Jacob's eyes.
"Oh, people take their time," he said, trying to speak lightly.
She shook her head.
"It's ridiculous that I should care. One's self-love, I suppose--_that_
bleeds! Evelyn has made me send out cards for a little house-warming.
She said I must. She made me go to that smart party at Chatton House the
other night. It was a great mistake. People turned their backs on me.
And this, too, will be a mistake--and a failure."
"You were kind enough to send me a card."
"Yes--and you must come?"
She looked at him with a sudden nervous appeal, which made another tug
on his self-control.
"Of course I shall come."
"Do you remember your own saying--that awful evening--that I had devoted
friends? Well, we shall soon see."
"That depends only on yourself," he replied, with gentle deliberation.
She started--threw him a doubtful look.
"If you mean that I must take a great deal of trouble, I am afraid I
can't. I am too tired."
And she sank back in her chair.
The sigh that accompanied the words seemed to him involuntary,
unconscious.
"I didn't mean that--altogether," he said, after a moment.
She moved restlessly.
"Then, really, I don't know what you meant. I suppose all friendship
depends on one's self."
She drew her embroidery frame towards her again, and he was left to
wonder at his own audacity. "Do you know," she said, presently, her eyes
apparently busy with her silks, "that I have told Lord Lackington?"
"Yes. Evelyn gave me that news. How has the old man behaved?"
"Oh, very well--most kindly. He has already formed a habit, almost, of
'dropping in' upon me at all hours. I have had to appoint him times and
seasons, or there would be no work done. He sits here and raves about
young Mrs. Delaray--you know he is painting her portrait, for the famous
series?--and draws her profile on the backs of my letters. He recites
his speeches to me; he asks my advice as to his fights with his tenants
or his miners. In short, I'm adopted--I'm almost the real thing."
She smiled, and then again, as she turned over her silks, he heard her
sigh--a long breath of weariness. It was strange and terrible in his
ear--the contrast between this unconscious sound, drawn as it were from
the oppressed heart of pain, and her languidly, smiling words.
"Has he spoken to you of the Moffatts?" he asked her, presently, not
looking at her.
A sharp crimson color rushed over her face.
"Not much. He and Lady Blanche are not great friends. And I have made
him promise to keep my secret from her till I give him leave to
tell it."
"It will have to be known to her some time, will it not?"
"Perhaps," she said, impatiently. "Perhaps, when I can make up my mind."
Then she pushed aside her frame and would talk no more about Lord
Lackington. She gave him, somehow, the impression of a person
suffocating, struggling for breath and air. And yet her hand was icy,
and she presently went to the fire, complaining of the east wind; and as
he put on the coal he saw her shiver.
"Shall I force her to tell me everything?" he thought to himself.
Did she divine the obscure struggle in his mind? At any rate she seemed
anxious to cut short their _tête-à-tête_. She asked him to come and look
at some engravings which the Duchess had sent round for the
embellishment of the dining-room. Then she summoned Madame Bornier, and
asked him a number of questions on Léonie's behalf, with reference to
some little investment of the ex-governess's savings, which had been
dropping in value. Meanwhile, as she kept him talking, she leaned
herself against the lintel of the door, forgetting every now and then
that any one else was there, and letting the true self appear, like some
drowned thing floating into sight. Delafield disposed of Madame
Bornier's affairs, hardly knowing what he said, but showing in truth his
usual conscience and kindness. Then when Léonie was contented, Julie saw
the little cripple crossing the hall, and called to her.
"Ah, ma chérie! How is the poor little foot?"
And turning to Delafield, she explained volubly that Thérèse had given
herself a slight twist on the stairs that morning, pressing the child to
her side the while with a tender gesture. The child nestled against her.
"Shall maman keep back supper?" Thérèse half whispered, looking at
Delafield.
"No, no, I must go!" cried Delafield, rousing himself and looking for
his hat.
"I would ask you to stay," said Julie, smiling, "just to show off
Léonie's cooking; but there wouldn't be enough for a great big man. And
you're probably dining with dukes."
Delafield disclaimed any such intention, and they went back to the
drawing-room to look for his hat and stick. Julie still had her arm
round Thérèse and would not let the child go. She clearly avoided being
left alone with him; and yet it seemed, even to his modesty, that she
was loath to see him depart. She talked first of her little _ménage_, as
though proud of their daily economies and contrivances; then of her
literary work and its prospects; then of her debt to Meredith. Never
before had she thus admitted him to her domestic and private life. It
was as though she leaned upon his sympathy, his advice, his mere
neighborhood. And her pale, changed face had never seemed to him so
beautiful--never, in fact, truly beautiful till now. The dying down of
the brilliance and energy of the strongly marked character, which had
made her the life of the Bruton Street salon, into this mildness, this
despondency, this hidden weariness, had left her infinitely more lovely
in his eyes. But how to restrain himself much longer from taking the
sad, gracious woman in his arms and coercing her into sanity and
happiness!
At last he tore himself away.
"You won't forget Wednesday?" she said to him, as she followed him into
the hall.
"No. Is there anything else that you wish--that I could do?"
"No, nothing. But if there is I will ask."
Then, looking up, she shrank from something in his face--something
accusing, passionate, profound.
He wrung her hand.
"Promise that you will ask."
She murmured something, and he turned away.
* * * * *
She came back alone into the drawing-room.
"Oh, what a good man!" she said, sighing. "What a good man!"
And then, all in a moment, she was thankful that he was gone--that she
was alone with and mistress of her pain.
The passion and misery which his visit had interrupted swept back upon
her in a rushing swirl, blinding and choking every sense. Ah, what a
scene, to which his coming had put an end--scene of bitterness, of
recrimination, not restrained even by this impending anguish
of parting!
It came as a close to a week during which she and Warkworth had been
playing the game which they had chosen to play, according to its
appointed rules--the delicacies and restraints of friendship masking,
and at the same time inflaming, a most unhappy, poisonous, and growing
love. And, finally, there had risen upon them a storm-wave of
feeling--tyrannous, tempestuous--bursting in reproach and agitation,
leaving behind it, bare and menacing, the old, ugly facts, unaltered and
unalterable.
Warkworth was little less miserable than herself. That she knew. He
loved her, as it were, to his own anger and surprise. And he suffered in
deserting her, more than he had ever suffered yet through any human
affection.
But his purpose through it all remained stubbornly fixed; that, also,
she knew. For nearly a year Aileen Moffatt's fortune and Aileen
Moffatt's family connections had entered into all his calculations of
the future. Only a few more years in the army, then retirement with
ample means, a charming wife, and a seat in Parliament. To jeopardize a
plan so manifestly desirable, so easy to carry out, so far-reaching in
its favorable effects upon his life, for the sake of those hard and
doubtful alternatives in which a marriage with Julie would involve him,
never seriously entered his mind. When he suffered he merely said to
himself, steadily, that time would heal the smart for both of them.
"Only one thing would be absolutely fatal for all of us--that I should
break with Aileen."
Julie read these obscure processes in Warkworth's mind with perfect
clearness. She was powerless to change them; but that afternoon she had,
at any rate, beaten her wings against the bars, and the exhaustion and
anguish of her revolt, her reproaches, were still upon her.
The spring night had fallen. The room was hot, and she threw a window
open. Some thorns in the garden beneath had thickened into leaf. They
rose in a dark mass beneath the window. Overhead, beyond the haze of the
great city, a few stars twinkled, and the dim roar of London life beat
from all sides upon this quiet corner which still held Lady Mary's
old house.
Julie's eyes strained into the darkness; her head swam with weakness and
weariness. Suddenly she gave a cry--she pressed her hands to her heart.
Upon the darkness outside there rose a face, so sharply drawn, so
life-like, that it printed itself forever upon the quivering tissues of
the brain. It was Warkworth's face, not as she had seen it last, but in
some strange extremity of physical ill--drawn, haggard, in a cold
sweat--the eyes glazed, the hair matted, the parched lips open as though
they cried for help. She stood gazing. Then the eyes turned, and the
agony in them looked out upon her.
Her whole sense was absorbed by the phantom; her being hung upon it.
Then, as it faded on the quiet trees, she tottered to a chair and hid
her face. Common sense told her that she was the victim of her own tired
nerves and tortured fancy. But the memory of Cousin Mary Leicester's
second sight, of her "visions" in this very room, crept upon her and
gripped her heart. A ghostly horror seized her of the room, the house,
and her own tempestuous nature. She groped her way out, in blind and
hurrying panic--glad of the lamp in the hall, glad of the sounds in the
house, glad, above all, of Thérèse's thin hands as they once more stole
lovingly round her own.