The Duchess and Julie were in the large room of Burlington House. They
had paused before a magnificent Turner of the middle period, hitherto
unseen by the public, and the Duchess was reading from the catalogue in
Julie's ear.
She had found Julie alone in Heribert Street, surrounded by books and
proofs, endeavoring, as she reported, to finish a piece of work for Dr.
Meredith. Distressed by her friend's pale cheeks, the Duchess had
insisted on dragging her from the prison-house and changing the current
of her thoughts. Julie, laughing, hesitating, indignant, had at last
yielded--probably in order to avoid another _tête-à-tête_ and another
scene with the little, impetuous lady, and now the Duchess had her safe
and was endeavoring to amuse her.
But it was not easy. Julie, generally so instructed and sympathetic, so
well skilled in the difficult art of seeing pictures with a friend,
might, to-day, never have turned a phrase upon a Constable or a Romney
before. She tried, indeed, to turn them as usual; but the Duchess,
sharply critical and attentive where her beloved Julie was concerned,
perceived the difference acutely! Alack, what languor, what fatigue!
Evelyn became more and more conscious of an inward consternation.
"But, thank goodness, he goes to-morrow--the villain! And when that's
over, it will be all right."
Julie, meanwhile, knew that she was observed, divined, and pitied. Her
pride revolted, but it could wring from her nothing better than a
passive resistance. She could prevent Evelyn from expressing her
thoughts; she could not so command her own bodily frame that the Duchess
should not think. Days of moral and mental struggle, nights of waking,
combined with the serious and sustained effort of a new profession, had
left their mark. There are, moreover, certain wounds to self-love and
self-respect which poison the whole being.
"Julie! you _must_ have a holiday!" cried the Duchess, presently, as
they sat down to rest.
Julie replied that she, Madame Bornier, and the child were going to
Bruges for a week.
"Oh, but that won't be comfortable enough! I'm sure I could arrange
something. Think of all our tiresome houses--eating their heads off!"
Julie firmly refused. She was going to renew old friendships at Bruges;
she would be made much of; and the prospect was as pleasant as any one
need wish.
"Well, of course, if you have made up your mind. When do you go?"
"In three or four days--just before the Easter rush. And you?"
"Oh, we go to Scotland to fish. We must, of course, be killing
something. How long, darling, will you be away?"
"About ten days." Julie pressed the Duchess's little hand in
acknowledgment of the caressing word and look.
"By-the-way, didn't Lord Lackington invite you? Ah, there he is!"
And suddenly, Lord Lackington, examining with fury a picture of his own
which some rascally critic had that morning pronounced to be "Venetian
school" and not the divine Giorgione himself, lifted an angry
countenance to find the Duchess and Julie beside him.
The start which passed through him betrayed itself. He could not yet see
Julie with composure. But when he had pressed her hand and inquired
after her health, he went back to his grievance, being indeed rejoiced
to have secured a pair of listeners.
"Really, the insolence of these fellows in the press! I shall let the
Academy know what I think of it. Not a rag of mine shall they ever see
here again. Ears and little fingers, indeed! Idiots and owls!"
Julie smiled. But it had to be explained to the Duchess that a wise man,
half Italian, half German, had lately arisen who proposed to judge the
authenticity of a picture by its ears, assisted by any peculiarities of
treatment in the little fingers.
"What nonsense!" said the Duchess, with a yawn. "If I were an artist, I
should always draw them different ways."
"Well, not exactly," said Lord Lackington, who, as an artist himself,
was unfortunately debarred from statements of this simplicity. "But the
_ludicrous_ way in which these fools overdo their little discoveries!"
And he walked on, fuming, till the open and unmeasured admiration of the
two ladies for his great Rembrandt, the gem of his collection, now
occupying the place of honor in the large room of the Academy, restored
him to himself.
"Ah, even the biggest ass among them holds his tongue about that!" he
said, exultantly. "But, hallo! What does that call itself?" He looked at
a picture in front of him, then at the catalogue, then at the Duchess.
"That picture is ours," said the Duchess. "Isn't it a dear? It's a
Leonardo da Vinci."
"Leonardo fiddlesticks!" cried Lord Lackington. "Leonardo, indeed! What
absurdity! Really, Duchess, you should tell Crowborough to be more
careful about his things. We mustn't give handles to these fellows."
"What do you mean?" said the Duchess, offended. "If it isn't a Leonardo,
pray what is it?"
"Why, a bad school copy, of course!" said Lord Lackington, hotly. "Look
at the eyes"--he took out a pencil and pointed--"look at the neck, look
at the fingers!"
The Duchess pouted.
"Oh!" she said. "Then there is something in fingers!"
Lord Lackington's face suddenly relaxed. He broke into a shout of
laughter, _bon enfant_ that he was; and the Duchess laughed, too; but
under cover of their merriment she, mindful of quite other things, drew
him a little farther away from Julie.
"I thought you had asked her to Nonpareil for Easter?" she said, in his
ear, with a motion of her pretty head towards Julie in the distance.
"Yes, but, my dear lady, Blanche won't come home! She and Aileen put it
off, and put it off. Now she says they mean to spend May in
Switzerland--may perhaps be away the whole summer! I had counted on
them for Easter. I am dependent on Blanche for hostess. It is really too
bad of her. Everything has broken down, and William and I (he named his
youngest son) are going to the Uredales' for a fortnight."
Lord Uredale, his eldest son, a sportsman and farmer, troubled by none
of his father's originalities, reigned over the second family "place,"
in Herefordshire, beside the Wye.
"Has Aileen any love affairs yet?" said the Duchess, abruptly, raising
her face to his.
Lord Lackington looked surprised.
"Not that I know of. However, I dare say they wouldn't tell me. I'm a
sieve, I know. Have you heard of any? Tell me." He stooped to her with
roguish eagerness. "I like to steal a march on Blanche."
So he knew nothing--while half their world was talking! It was very
characteristic, however. Except for his own hobbies, artistic, medical,
or military, Lord Lackington had walked through life as a Johnny
Head-in-Air, from his youth till now. His children had not trusted him
with their secrets, and he had never discovered them for himself.
"Is there any likeness between Julie and Aileen?" whispered the Duchess.
Lord Lackington started. Both turned their eyes towards Julie, as she
stood some ten yards away from them, in front of a refined and
mysterious profile of the cinque-cento--some lady, perhaps, of the
d'Este or Sforza families, attributed to Ambrogio da Predis. In her
soft, black dress, delicately folded and draped to hide her excessive
thinness, her small toque fitting closely over her wealth of hair, her
only ornaments a long and slender chain set with uncut jewels which Lord
Lackington had brought her the day before, and a bunch of violets which
the Duchess had just slipped into her belt, she was as rare and delicate
as the picture. But she turned her face towards them, and Lord
Lackington made a sudden exclamation.
"No! Good Heavens, no! Aileen was a dancing-sprite when I saw her last,
and this poor girl!--Duchess, why does she look like that? So sad, so
bloodless!"
He turned upon her impetuously, his face frowning and disturbed.
The Duchess sighed.
"You and I have just got to do all we can for her," she said, relieved
to see that Julie had wandered farther away, as though it pleased her to
be left to herself.
"But I would do anything--everything!" cried Lord Lackington. "Of
course, none of us can undo the past. But I offered yesterday to make
full provision for her. She has refused. She has the most Quixotic
notions, poor child!"
"No, let her earn her own living yet awhile. It will do her good.
But--shall I tell you secrets?" The Duchess looked at him, knitting her
small brows.
"Tell me what I ought to know--no more," he said, gravely, with a
dignity contrasting oddly with his school-boy curiosity in the matter of
little Aileen's lover.
The Duchess hesitated. Just in front of her was a picture of the
Venetian school representing St. George, Princess Saba, and the dragon.
The princess, a long and slender victim, with bowed head and fettered
hands, reminded her of Julie. The dragon--perfidious, encroaching
wretch!--he was easy enough of interpretation. But from the blue
distance, thank Heaven! spurs the champion. Oh, ye heavenly powers, give
him wings and strength! "St. George--St. George to the rescue!"
"Well," she said, slowly, "I can tell you of some one who is very
devoted to Julie--some one worthy of her. Come with me."
And she took him away into the next room, still talking in his ear.
* * * * *
When they returned, Lord Lackington was radiant. With a new eagerness he
looked for Julie's distant figure amid the groups scattered about the
central room. The Duchess had sworn him to secrecy, indeed; and he meant
to be discretion itself. But--Jacob Delafield! Yes, that, indeed, would
be a solution. His pride was acutely pleased; his affection--of which he
already began to feel no small store for this charming woman of his own
blood, this poor granddaughter _de la main gauche_--was strengthened and
stimulated. She was sad now and out of spirits, poor thing, because, no
doubt, of this horrid business with Lady Henry, to whom, by-the-way, he
had written his mind. But time would see to that--time--gently and
discreetly assisted by himself and the Duchess. It was impossible that
she should finally hold out against such a good fellow--impossible, and
most unreasonable. No. Rose's daughter would be brought back safely to
her mother's world and class, and poor Rose's tragedy would at last work
itself out for good. How strange, romantic, and providential!
In such a mood did he now devote himself to Julie. He chattered about
the pictures; he gossiped about their owners; he excused himself for
the absence of "that gad-about Blanche"; he made her promise him a
Whitsuntide visit instead, and whispered in her ear, "You shall have
_her_ room"; he paid her the most handsome and gallant attentions,
natural to the man of fashion _par excellence_, mingled with something
intimate, brusque, capricious, which marked her his own, and of the
family. Seventy-five!--with that step, that carriage of the shoulders,
that vivacity! Ridiculous!
And Julie could not but respond.
Something stole into her heart that had never yet lodged there. She must
love the old man--she did. When he left her for the Duchess her eyes
followed him--her dark-rimmed, wistful eyes.
"I must be off," said Lord Lackington, presently, buttoning up his coat.
"This, ladies, has been dalliance. I now go to my duties. Read me in the
_Times_ to-morrow. I shall make a rattling speech. You see, I shall
rub it in."
"Montresor?" said the Duchess.
Lord Lackington nodded. That afternoon he proposed to strew the floor of
the House of Lords with the _débris_ of Montresor's farcical reforms.
Suddenly he pulled himself up.
"Duchess, look round you, at those two in the doorway. Isn't it--by
George, it is!--Chudleigh and his boy!"
"Yes--yes, it is," said the Duchess, in some excitement. "Don't
recognize them. Don't speak to him. Jacob implored me not."
And she hurried her companions along till they were well out of the
track of the new-comers; then on the threshold of another room she
paused, and, touching Julie on the arm, said, in a whisper:
"Now look back. That's Jacob's Duke, and his poor, poor boy!"
Julie threw a hurried glance towards the two figures; but that glance
impressed forever upon her memory a most tragic sight.
A man of middle height, sallow, and careworn, with jet-black hair and
beard, supported a sickly lad, apparently about seventeen, who clung to
his arm and coughed at intervals. The father moved as though in a dream.
He looked at the pictures with unseeing, lustreless eyes, except when
the boy asked him a question. Then he would smile, stoop his head and
answer, only to resume again immediately his melancholy passivity. The
boy, meanwhile, his lips gently parted over his white teeth, his blue
eyes wide open and intent upon the pictures, his emaciated cheeks deeply
flushed, wore an aspect of patient suffering, of docile dependence,
peculiarly touching.
It was evident the father and son thought of none but each other. From
time to time the man would make the boy rest on one of the seats in the
middle of the room, and the boy would look up and chatter to his
companion standing before him. Then again they would resume their walk,
the boy leaning on his father. Clearly the poor lad was marked for
death; clearly, also, he was the desire of his father's heart.
"The possessor, and the heir, of perhaps the finest houses and the most
magnificent estates in England," said Lord Lackington, with a shrug of
pity. "And Chudleigh would gladly give them all to keep that
boy alive."
Julie turned away. Strange thoughts had been passing and repassing
through her brain.
Then, with angry loathing, she flung her thoughts from her. What did the
Chudleigh inheritance matter to her? That night she said good-bye to the
man she loved. These three miserable, burning weeks were done. Her
heart, her life, would go with Warkworth to Africa and the desert. If at
the beginning of this period of passion--so short in prospect, and, to
look back upon, an eternity--she had ever supposed that power or wealth
could make her amends for the loss of her lover, she was in no mood to
calculate such compensations to-day. Parting was too near, the anguish
in her veins too sharp.
"Jacob takes them to Paris to-morrow," said the Duchess to Lord
Lackington. "The Duke has heard of some new doctor."
* * * * *
An hour or two later, Sir Wilfrid Bury, in the smoking-room of his club,
took out a letter which he had that morning received from Lady Henry
Delafield and gave it a second reading.
"So I hear that mademoiselle's social prospects are not,
after all, so triumphant as both she and I imagined. I gave
the world credit for more fools than it seems actually to
possess; and she--well, I own I am a little puzzled. Has she
taken leave of her senses? I am told that she is constantly
seen with this man; that in spite of all denials there can be
no doubt of his engagement to the Moffatt girl; and that _en
somme_ she has done herself no good by the whole affair. But,
after all, poor soul, she is disinterested. She stands to
gain nothing, as I understand; and she risks a good deal.
From this comfortable distance, I really find something
touching in her behavior.
"She gives her first 'Wednesday,' I understand, to-morrow.
'Mademoiselle Le Breton at home!' I confess I am curious. By
all means go, and send me a full report. Mr. Montresor and
his wife will certainly be there. He and I have been
corresponding, of course. He wishes to persuade me that he
feels himself in some way responsible for mademoiselle's
position, and for my dismissal of her; that I ought to allow
him in consequence full freedom of action. I cannot see
matters in the same light. But, as I tell him, the change
will be all to his advantage. He exchanges a fractious old
woman, always ready to tell him unpleasant truths, for one
who has made flattery her _métier_. If he wants quantity she
will give it him. Quality he can dispense with--as I have
seen for some time past.
"Lord Lackington has written me an impertinent letter. It
seems she has revealed herself, and _il s'en prend à moi_,
because I kept the secret from him, and because I have now
dared to dismiss his granddaughter. I am in the midst of a
reply which amuses me. He is to cast off his belongings as he
pleases; but when a lady of the Chantrey blood--no matter how
she came by it--condescends to enter a paid employment,
legitimate or illegitimate, she must be treated _en reine_,
or Lord L. will know the reason why. 'Here is one hundred
pounds a year, and let me hear no more of you,' he says to
her at sixteen. Thirteen years later I take her in, respect
his wishes, and keep the secret. She misbehaves herself, and
I dismiss her. Where is the grievance? He himself made her a
_lectrice_, and now complains that she is expected to do her
duty in that line of life. He himself banished her from the
family, and now grumbles that I did not at once foist her
upon him. He would like to escape the odium of his former
action by blaming me; but I am not meek, and I shall make him
regret his letter.
"As for Jacob Delafield, don't trouble yourself to write me
any further news of him. He has insulted me lately in a way I
shall not soon forgive--nothing to do, however, with the lady
who says she refused him. Whether her report be veracious or
no matters nothing to me, any more than his chances of
succeeding to the Captain's place. He is one of the ingenious
fools who despise the old ways of ruining themselves, and in
the end achieve it as well as the commoner sort. He owes me a
good deal, and at one time it pleased me to imagine that he
was capable both of affection and gratitude. That is the
worst of being a woman; we pass from one illusion to another;
love is only the beginning; there are a dozen to come after.
"You will scold me for a bitter tongue. Well, my dear
Wilfrid, I am not gay here. There are too many women, too
many church services, and I see too much of my doctor. I pine
for London, and I don't see why I should have been driven out
of it by an _intrigante_.
"Write to me, my dear Wilfrid. I am not quite so bad as I
paint myself; say to yourself she has arthritis, she is
sixty-five, and her new companion reads aloud with a twang;
then you will only wonder at my moderation."
Sir Wilfrid returned the letter to his pocket. That day, at luncheon
with Lady Hubert, he had had the curiosity to question Susan Delafield,
Jacob's fair-haired sister, as to the reasons for her brother's quarrel
with Lady Henry.
It appeared that being now in receipt of what seemed to himself, at any
rate, a large salary as his cousin's agent, he had thought it his duty
to save up and repay the sums which Lady Henry had formerly spent upon
his education.
His letter enclosing the money had reached that lady during the first
week of her stay at Torquay. It was, no doubt, couched in terms less
cordial or more formal than would have been the case before Miss Le
Breton's expulsion. "Not that he defends her altogether," said Susan
Delafield, who was herself inclined to side with Lady Henry; "but as
Lady Henry has refused to see him since, it was not much good being
friendly, was it?"
Anyway, the letter and its enclosure had completed a breach already
begun. Lady Henry had taken furious offence; the check had been
insultingly returned, and had now gone to swell the finances of a
London hospital.
Sir Wilfrid was just reflecting that Jacob's honesty had better have
waited for a more propitious season, when, looking up, he saw the War
Minister beside him, in the act of searching for a newspaper.
"Released?" said Bury, with a smile.
"Yes, thank Heaven. Lackington is, I believe, still pounding at me in
the House of Lords. But that amuses him and doesn't hurt me."
"You'll carry your resolutions?"
"Oh, dear, yes, with no trouble at all," said the Minister, almost with
sulkiness, as he threw himself into a chair and looked with distaste at
the newspaper he had taken up.
Sir Wilfrid surveyed him.
"We meet to-night?" he said, presently.
"You mean in Heribert Street? I suppose so," said Montresor, without
cordiality.
"I have just got a letter from her ladyship."
"Well, I hope it is more agreeable than those she writes to me. A more
unreasonable old woman--"
The tired Minister took up _Punch_, looked at a page, and flung it down
again. Then he said:
"Are you going?"
"I don't know. Lady Henry gives me leave, which makes me feel myself a
kind of spy."
"Oh, never mind. Come along. Mademoiselle Julie will want all our
support. I don't hear her as kindly spoken of just now as I
should wish."
"No. Lady Henry has more personal hold than we thought."
"And Mademoiselle Julie less tact. Why, in the name of goodness, does
she go and get herself talked about with the particular man who is
engaged to her little cousin? You know, by-the-way, that the story of
her parentage is leaking out fast? Most people seem to know something
about it."
"Well, that was bound to come. Will it do her good or harm?"
"Harm, for the present. A few people are straitlaced, and a good many
feel they have been taken in. But, anyway, this flirtation is
a mistake."
"Nobody really knows whether the man is engaged to the Moffatt girl or
no. The guardians have forbidden it."
"At any rate, everybody is kind enough to say so. It's a blunder on
Mademoiselle Julie's part. As to the man himself, of course, there is
nothing to say. He is a very clever fellow." Montresor looked at his
companion with a sudden stiffness, as though defying contradiction. "He
will do this piece of work that we have given him to do extremely well."
"The Mokembe mission?"
Montresor nodded.
"He had very considerable claims, and was appointed entirely on his
military record. All the tales as to Mademoiselle's influence--with me,
for instance--that Lady Henry has been putting into circulation are
either absurd fiction or have only the very smallest foundation
in fact."
Sir Wilfrid smiled amicably and diverted the conversation.
"Warkworth starts at once?"
"He goes to Paris to-morrow. I recommended him to see Pattison, the
Military Secretary there, who was in the expedition of five years back."
* * * * *
"This hasn't gone as well as it ought," said Dr. Meredith, in the ear of
the Duchess.
They were standing inside the door of Julie's little drawing-room. The
Duchess, in a dazzling frock of white and silver, which placed Clarisse
among the divinities of her craft, looked round her with a look
of worry.
"What's the matter with the tiresome creatures? Why is everybody going
so early? And there are not half the people here who ought to be here."
Meredith shrugged his shoulders.
"I saw you at Chatton House the other night," he said, in the same tone.
"Well?" said the Duchess, sharply.
"It seemed to me there was something of a demonstration."
"Against Julie? Let them try it!" said the little lady, with evasive
defiance. "We shall be too strong for them."
"Lady Henry is putting her back into it. I confess I never thought she
would be either so venomous or so successful."
"Julie will come out all right."
"She would--triumphantly--if--"
The Duchess glanced at him uneasily.
"I believe you are overworking her. She looks skin and bone."
Dr. Meredith shook his head.
"On the contrary, I have been holding her back. But it seems she wants
to earn a good deal of money."
"That's so absurd," cried the Duchess, "when there are people only
pining to give her some of theirs."
"No, no," said the journalist, brusquely. "She is quite right there. Oh,
it would be all right if she were herself. She would make short work of
Lady Henry. But, Mademoiselle Julie"--for she glided past them, and he
raised his voice--"sit down and rest yourself. Don't take so
much trouble."
She flung them a smile.
"Lord Lackington is going," and she hurried on.
Lord Lackington was standing in a group which contained Sir Wilfrid Bury
and Mr. Montresor.
"Well, good-bye, good-bye," he said, as she came up to him. "I must go.
I'm nearly asleep."
"Tired with abusing me?" said Montresor, nonchalantly, turning round
upon him.
"No, only with trying to make head or tail of you," said Lackington,
gayly. Then he stooped over Julie.
"Take care of yourself. Come back rosier--and _fatter_."
"I'm perfectly well. Let me come with you."
"No, don't trouble yourself." For she had followed him into the hall
and found his coat for him. All the arrangements for her little
"evening" had been of the simplest. That had been a point of pride with
her. Madame Bornier and Thérèse dispensing tea and coffee in the
dining-room, one hired parlor-maid, and she herself active and busy
everywhere. Certain French models were in her head, and memories of her
mother's bare little salon in Bruges, with its good talk, and its
thinnest of thin refreshments--a few cups of weak tea, or glasses of
_eau sucrée_, with a plate of _patisserie_.
The hired parlor-maid was whistling for a cab in the service of some
other departing guest; so Julie herself put Lord Lackington into his
coat, much to his discomfort.
"I don't think you ought to have come," she said to him, with soft
reproach. "Why did you have that fainting fit before dinner?"
"I say! Who's been telling tales?"
"Sir Wilfrid Bury met your son, Mr. Chantrey, at dinner."
"Bill can never hold his tongue. Oh, it was nothing; not with the proper
treatment, mind you. Of course, if the allopaths were to get their
knives into me--but, thank God! I'm out of that _galère_. Well, in a
fortnight, isn't it? We shall both be in town again. I don't like saying
good-bye."
And he took both her hands in his.
"It all seems so strange to me still--so strange!" he murmured.
"Next week I shall see mamma's grave," said Julie, under her breath.
"Shall I put some flowers there for you?"
The fine blue eyes above her wavered. He bent to her.
"Yes. And write to me. Come back soon. Oh, you'll see. Things will all
come right, perfectly right, in spite of Lady Henry."
Confidence, encouragement, a charming raillery, an enthusiastic
tenderness--all these beamed upon her from the old man's tone and
gesture. She was puzzled. But with another pressure of the hand he was
gone. She stood looking after him. And as the carriage drove away, the
sound of the wheels hurt her. It was the withdrawal of something
protecting--something more her own, when all was said, than anything
else which remained to her.
As she returned to the drawing-room, Dr. Meredith intercepted her.
"You want me to send you some work to take abroad?" he said, in a low
voice. "I shall do nothing of the kind."
"Why?"
"Because you ought to have a complete holiday."
"Very well. Then I sha'n't be able to pay my way," she said, with a
tired smile.
"Remember the doctor's bills if you fall ill."
"Ill! I am never ill," she said, with scorn. Then she looked round the
room deliberately, and her gaze returned to her companion. "I am not
likely to be fatigued with society, am I?" she added, in a voice that
did not attempt to disguise the bitterness within.
"My dear lady, you are hardly installed."
"I have been here a month--the critical month. Now was the moment to
stand by me, or throw me over--n'est-ce pas? This is my first party, my
house-warming. I gave a fortnight's notice; I asked about sixty people,
whom I knew _well_. Some did not answer at all. Of the rest, half
declined--rather curtly, in many instances. And of those who accepted,
not all are here. And, oh, how it dragged!"
Meredith looked at her rather guiltily, not knowing what to say. It was
true the evening had dragged. In both their minds there rose the memory
of Lady Henry's "Wednesdays," the beautiful rooms, the varied and
brilliant company, the power and consideration which had attended Lady
Henry's companion.
"I suppose," said Julie, shrugging her shoulders, "I had been thinking
of the French _maîtresses de salon_, like a fool; of Mademoiselle de
l'Espinasse--or Madame Mohl--imagining that people would come to _me_
for a cup of tea and an agreeable hour. But in England, it seems, people
must be paid to talk. Talk is a business affair--you give it for a
consideration."
"No, no! You'll build it up," said Meredith. In his heart of hearts he
said to himself that she had not been herself that night. Her wonderful
social instincts, her memory, her adroitness, had somehow failed her.
And from a hostess strained, conscious, and only artificially gay, the
little gathering had taken its note.
"You have the old guard, anyway," added the journalist, with a smile, as
he looked round the room. The Duchess, Delafield, Montresor and his
wife, General McGill, and three or four other old _habitués_ of the
Bruton Street evenings were scattered about the little drawing-room.
General Fergus, too, was there--had arrived early, and was staying late.
His frank soldier's face, the accent, cheerful, homely, careless, with
which he threw off talk full of marrow, talk only possible--for all its
simplicity--to a man whose life had been already closely mingled with
the fortunes of his country, had done something to bind Julie's poor
little party together. Her eye rested on him with gratitude. Then she
replied to Meredith.
"Mr. Montresor will scarcely come again."
"What do you mean? Ungrateful lady! Montresor! who has already
sacrificed Lady Henry and the habits of thirty years to your
_beaux yeux_!"
"That is what he will never forgive me," said Julie, sadly. "He has
satisfied his pride, and I--have lost a friend."
"Pessimist! Mrs. Montresor seemed to me most friendly."
Julie laughed.
"_She_, of course, is enchanted. Her husband has never been her own till
now. She married him, subject to Lady Henry's rights. But all that she
will soon forget--and my existence with it."
"I won't argue. It only makes you more stubborn," said Meredith. "Ah,
still they come!"
For the door opened to admit the tall figure of Major Warkworth.
"Am I very late?" he said, with a surprised look as he glanced at the
thinly scattered room. Julie greeted him, and he excused himself on the
ground of a dinner which had begun just an hour late, owing to the
tardiness of a cabinet minister.
Meredith observed the young man with some attention, from the dark
corner in which Julie had left him. The gossip of the moment had
reached him also, but he had not paid much heed to it. It seemed to him
that no one knew anything first-hand of the Moffatt affair. And for
himself, he found it difficult to believe that Julie Le Breton was any
man's dupe.
She must marry, poor thing! Of course she must marry. Since it had been
plain to him that she would never listen to his own suit, this
great-hearted and clear-brained man had done his best to stifle in
himself all small or grasping impulses. But this fellow--with his
inferior temper and morale--alack! why are the clever women such fools?
If only she had confided in him--her old and tried friend--he thought he
could have put things before her, so as to influence without offending
her. But he suffered--had always suffered--from the jealous reserve
which underlay her charm, her inborn tendency to secretiveness
and intrigue.
Now, as he watched her few words with Warkworth, it seemed to him that
he saw the signs of some hidden relation. How flushed she was suddenly,
and her eyes so bright!
He was not allowed much time or scope, however, for observation.
Warkworth took a turn round the room, chatted a little with this person
and that, then, on the plea that he was off to Paris early on the
following morning, approached his hostess again to take his leave.
"Ah, yes, you start to-morrow," said Montresor, rising. "Well, good luck
to you--good luck to you."
General Fergus, too, advanced. The whole room, indeed, awoke to the
situation, and all the remaining guests grouped themselves round the
young soldier. Even the Duchess was thawed a little by this actual
moment of departure. After all, the man was going on his
country's service.
"No child's play, this mission, I can assure you," General McGill had
said to her. "Warkworth will want all the powers he has--of mind
or body."
The slim, young fellow, so boyishly elegant in his well-cut
evening-dress, received the ovation offered to him with an evident
pleasure which tried to hide itself in the usual English ways. He had
been very pale when he came in. But his cheek reddened as Montresor
grasped him by the hand, as the two generals bade him a cordial
godspeed, as Sir Wilfrid gave him a jesting message for the British
representative in Egypt, and as the ladies present accorded him those
flattering and admiring looks that woman keeps for valor.
Julie counted for little in these farewells. She stood _apart_ and
rather silent. "_They_ have had their good-bye," thought the Duchess,
with a thrill she could not help.
"Three days in Paris?" said Sir Wilfrid. "A fortnight to Denga--and then
how long before you start for the interior?"
"Oh, three weeks for collecting porters and supplies. They're drilling
the escort already. We should be off by the middle of May."
"A bad month," said General Fergus, shrugging his shoulders.
"Unfortunately, affairs won't wait. But I am already stiff with
quinine," laughed Warkworth--"or I shall be by the time I get to Denga.
Good-bye--good-bye."
And in another moment he was gone. Miss Le Breton had given him her
hand and wished him "Bon voyage," like everybody else.
The party broke up. The Duchess kissed her Julie with peculiar
tenderness; Delafield pressed her hand, and his deep, kind eyes gave her
a lingering look, of which, however, she was quite unconscious; Meredith
renewed his half-irritable, half-affectionate counsels of rest and
recreation; Mrs. Montresor was conventionally effusive; Montresor alone
bade the mistress of the house a somewhat cold and perfunctory farewell.
Even Sir Wilfrid was a little touched, he knew not why; he vowed to
himself that his report to Lady Henry on the morrow should contain no
food for malice, and inwardly he forgave Mademoiselle Julie the old
romancings.