When Miss Le Breton reached the hall, a footman was at the outer door reciting Lady Henry's excuses as each fresh carriage drove up; while in the inner vestibule, which was well screened from the view of the street, was a group of men, still in their hats and over-coats, talking and laughing in subdued voices.
Julie Le Breton came forward. The hats were removed, and the tall, stooping form of Montresor advanced.
"Lady Henry issosorry," said Julie, in a soft, lowered voice. "But I am sure she would like me to give you her message and to tell you how she is. She would not like her old friends to be alarmed. Would you come in for a moment? There is a fire in the library. Mr. Delafield, don't you think that would be best?... Will you tell Hutton not to let inanybodyelse?"
She looked at him uncertainly, as though appealing to him, as a relation of Lady Henry's, to take the lead.
"By all means," said that young man, after perhaps a moment's hesitation, and throwing off his coat.
"Onlypleasemake no noise!" said Miss Le Breton, turning to the group. "Lady Henry might be disturbed."
Every one came in, as it were, on tiptoe. In each face a sense of the humor of the situation fought with the consciousness of its dangers. As soon as Montresor saw the little Duchess by the fire, he threw up his hands in relief.
"I breathe again," he said, greeting her with effusion. "Duchess, where thou goest, I may go. But I feel like a boy robbing a hen-roost. Let me introduce my friend, General Fergus. Take us both, pray, under your protection!"
"On the contrary," said the Duchess, as she returned General Fergus's bow, "you are both so magnificent that no one would dare to protect you."
For they were both in uniform, and the General was resplendent with stars and medals.
"We have been dining with royalty." said Montresor. "We want some relaxation."
He put on his eye-glasses, looked round the room, and gently rubbed his hands.
"How very agreeable this is! What a charming room! I never saw it before. What are we doing here? Is it a party? Why shouldn't it be? Meredith, have you introduced M. du Bartas to the Duchess? Ah, I see--"
For Julie Le Breton was already conversing with the distinguished Frenchman wearing the rosette of the Legion of Honor in his button-hole, who had followed Dr. Meredith into the room. As Montresor spoke, however, she came forward, and in a French which was a joy to the ear, she presented M. du Bartas, a tall, well-built Norman with a fair mustache, first to the Duchess and then to Lord Lackington and Jacob.
"The director of the French Foreign Office," said Montresor, in an aside to the Duchess. "He hates us like poison. But if you haven't already asked him to dinner--I warned you last week he was coming--pray do it at once!"
Meanwhile the Frenchman, his introductions over, looked curiously round the room, studied its stately emptiness, the books on the walls under a trellis-work, faintly gilt, the three fine pictures; then his eyes passed to the tall and slender lady who had addressed him in such perfect French, and to the little Duchess in her flutter of lace and satin, the turn of her small neck, and the blaze of her jewels. "These Englishwomen overdo their jewels," he thought, with distaste. "But they overdo everything. That is a handsome fellow, by-the-way, who was withla petite féewhen we arrived."
And his shrewd, small eyes travelled from Warkworth to the Duchess, his mind the while instinctively assuming some hidden relation between them.
Meanwhile, Montresor was elaborately informing himself as to Lady Henry.
"This is the first time for twenty years that I have not found her on a Wednesday evening," he said, with a sudden touch of feeling which became him. "At our age, the smallest break in the old habit--"
He sighed, and then quickly threw off his depression.
"Nonsense! Next week she will be scolding us all with double energy. Meanwhile, may we sit down, mademoiselle? Ten minutes? And, upon my word, the very thing my soul was longing for--a cup of coffee!"
For at the moment Hutton and two footmen entered with trays containing tea and coffee, lemonade and cakes.
"Shut the door, Hutton,please," Mademoiselle Le Breton implored, and the door was shut at once.
"We mustn't,mustn'tmake any noise!" she said, her finger on her lip, looking first at Montresor and then at Delafield. The group laughed, moved their spoons softly, and once more lowered their voices.
But the coffee brought a spirit of festivity. Chairs were drawn up. The blazing fire shone out upon a semicircle of people representing just those elements of mingled intimacy and novelty which go to make conversation. And in five minutes Mademoiselle Le Breton was leading it as usual. A brilliant French book had recently appeared dealing with certain points of the Egyptian question in a manner so interesting, supple, and apparently impartial that the attention of Europe had been won. Its author had been formerly a prominent official of the French Foreign Office, and was now somewhat out of favor with his countrymen. Julie put some questions about him to M. du Bartas.
The Frenchman feeling himself among comrades worthy of his steel, and secretly pricked by the presence of an English cabinet minister, relinquished the half-disdainful reserve with which he had entered, and took pains. He drew the man in question,en silhouette, with a hostile touch so sure, an irony so light, that his success was instant and great.
Lord Lackington woke up. Handsome, white-haired dreamer that he was, he had been looking into the fire, half--smiling, more occupied, in truth, with his own thoughts than with his companions. Delafield had brought him in; he did not exactly know why he was there, except that he liked Mademoiselle Le Breton, and often wondered how the deuce Lady Henry had ever discovered such an interesting and delightful person to fill such an uncomfortable position. But this Frenchman challenged and excited him. He, too, began to talk French, and soon the whole room was talking it, with an advantage to Julie Le Breton which quickly made itself apparent. In English she was a link, a social conjunction; she eased all difficulties, she pieced all threads. But in French her tongue was loosened, though never beyond the point of grace, the point of delicate adjustment to the talkers round her.
So that presently, and by insensible gradations, she was the queen of the room. The Duchess in ecstasy pinched Jacob Delafield's wrist, and forgetting all that she ought to have remembered, whispered, rapturously, in his ear, "Isn't she enchanting--Julie--to-night?" That gentleman made no answer. The Duchess, remembering, shrank back, and spoke no more, till Jacob looked round upon her with a friendly smile which set her tongue free again.
M. du Bartas, meanwhile, began to consider this lady in black with more and more attention. The talk glided into a general discussion of the Egyptian position. Those were the days before Arabi, when elements of danger and of doubt abounded, and none knew what a month might bring forth. With perfect tact Julie guided the conversation, so that all difficulties, whether for the French official or the English statesman, were avoided with a skill that no one realized till each separate rock was safely passed. Presently Montresor looked from her to Du Bartas with a grin. The Frenchman's eyes were round with astonishment. Julie had been saying the lightest but the wisest things; she had been touching incidents and personalities known only to the initiated with a restrained gayety which often broke down into a charming shyness, which was ready to be scared away in a moment by a tone--too serious or too polemical--which jarred with the general key of the conversation, which never imposed itself, and was like the ripple on a summer sea. But the summer sea has its depths, and this modest gayety was the mark of an intimate and first-hand knowledge.
"Ah, I see," thought Montresor, amused. "P---- has been writing to her, the little minx. He seems to have been telling her all the secrets. I think I'll stop it. Even she mayn't quite understand what should and shouldn't be said before this gentleman."
So he gave the conversation a turn, and Mademoiselle Le Breton took the hint at once. She called others to the front--it was like a change of dancers in the ballet--while she rested, no less charming as a listener than as a talker, her black eyes turning from one to another and radiant with the animation of success.
But one thing--at last--she had forgotten. She had forgotten to impose any curb upon the voices round her. The Duchess and Lord Lackington were sparring like a couple of children, and Montresor broke in from time to time with his loud laugh and gruff throat voice. Meredith, the Frenchman, Warkworth, and General Fergus were discussing a grand review which had been held the day before. Delafield had moved round to the back of Julie's chair, and she was talking to him, while all the time her eyes were on General Fergus and her brain was puzzling as to how she was to secure the five minutes' talk with him she wanted. He was one of the intimates of the Commander-in-Chief. She herself had suggested to Montresor, of course in Lady Henry's name, that he should be brought to Bruton Street some Wednesday evening.
Presently there was a little shifting of groups. Julie saw that Montresor and Captain Warkworth were together by the fireplace, that the young man with his hands held out to the blaze and his back to her was talking eagerly, while Montresor, looking outward into the room, his great black head bent a little towards his companion, was putting sharp little questions from time to time, with as few words as might be. Julie understood that an important conversation was going on--that Montresor, whose mind various friends of hers had been endeavoring to make up for him, was now perhaps engaged in making it up for himself.
With a quickened pulse she turned to find General Fergus beside her. What a frank and soldierly countenance!--a little roughly cut, with a strong mouth slightly underhung, and a dogged chin, the whole lit by eyes that were the chosen homes of truth, humanity, and will. Presently she discovered, as they drew their chairs a little back from the circle, that she, too, was to be encouraged to talk about Warkworth. The General was, of course, intimately 'acquainted with his professional record; but there were certain additional Indian opinions--a few incidents in the young man's earlier career, including, especially, a shooting expedition of much daring in the very district to which the important Mokembe mission was now to be addressed, together with some quotations from private letters of her own, or Lady Henry's, which Julie, with her usual skill, was able to slip into his ear, all on the assumption, delicately maintained, that she was merely talking of a friend of Lady Henry's, as Lady Henry herself would have talked, to much better effect, had she been present.
The General gave her a grave and friendly attention. Few men had done sterner or more daring feats in the field. Yet here he sat, relaxed, courteous, kind, trusting his companions simply, as it was his instinct to trust all women. Julie's heart beat fast. What an exciting, what an important evening!...
Suddenly there was a voice in her ear.
"Do you know, I think we ought to clear out. It must be close on midnight."
She looked up, startled, to see Jacob Delafield. His expression--of doubt or discomfort--recalled her at once to the realities of her own situation.
But before she could reply, a sound struck on her ear. She sprang to her feet.
"What was that?" she said.
A voice was heard in the hall.
Julie Le Breton caught the chair behind her, and Delafield saw her turn pale. But before she or he could speak again, the door of the library was thrown open.
"Good Heavens!" said Montresor, springing to his feet. "Lady Henry!"
M. du Bartas lifted astonished eyes. On the threshold of the room stood an old lady, leaning heavily on two sticks. She was deathly pale, and her fierce eyes blazed upon the scene before her. Within the bright, fire-lit room the social comedy was being played at its best; but here surely was Tragedy--or Fate. Who was she? What did it mean?
The Duchess rushed to her, and fell, of course, upon the one thing she should not have said.
"Oh, Aunt Flora, dear Aunt Flora! But we thought you were too ill to come down!"
"So I perceive," said Lady Henry, putting her aside. "So you, and this lady"--she pointed a shaking finger at Julie--"have held my reception for me. I am enormously obliged. You have also"--she looked at the coffee-cups--"provided my guests with refreshment. I thank you. I trust my servants have given you satisfaction.
"Gentlemen"--she turned to the rest of the company, who stood stupefied--"I fear I cannot ask you to remain with me longer. The hour is late, and I am--as you see--indisposed. But I trust, on some future occasion, I may have the honor--"
She looked round upon them, challenging and defying them all.
Montresor went up to her.
"My dear old friend, let me introduce to you M. du Bartas, of the French Foreign Office."
At this appeal to her English hospitality and her social chivalry, Lady Henry looked grimly at the Frenchman.
"M. du Bartas, I am charmed to make your acquaintance. With your leave, I will pursue it when I am better able to profit by it. To-morrow I will write to you to propose another meeting--should my health allow."
"Enchanté, madame," murmured the Frenchman, more embarrassed than he had ever been in his life. "Permettez--moi de vous faire mes plus sincères excuses."
"Not at all, monsieur, you owe me none."
Montresor again approached her.
"Let me tell you," he said, imploringly, "how this has happened--how innocent we all are--"
"Another time, if you please," she said, with a most cutting calm. "As I said before, it is late. If I had been equal to entertaining you"--she looked round upon them all--"I should not have told my butler to make my excuses. As it is, I must beg you to allow me to bid you good-night. Jacob, will you kindly get the Duchess her cloak? Good-night. Good-night. As you see"--she pointed to the sticks which supported her--"I have no hands to-night. My infirmities have need of them."
Montresor approached her again, in real and deep distress.
"Dear Lady Henry--"
"Go!" she said, under her breath, looking him in the eyes, and he turned and went without a word. So did the Duchess, whimpering, her hand in Delafield's arm. As she passed Julie, who stood as though turned to stone, she made a little swaying movement towards her.
"Dear Julie!" she cried, imploringly.
But Lady Henry turned.
"You will have every opportunity to-morrow," she said. "As far as I am concerned, Miss Le Breton will have no engagements."
Lord Lackington quietly said, "Good-night, Lady Henry," and, without offering to shake hands, walked past her. As he came to the spot where Julie Le Breton stood, that lady made a sudden, impetuous movement towards him. Strange words were on her lips, a strange expression in her eyes.
"Youmust help me," she said, brokenly. "It is my right!"
Was that what she said? Lord Lackington looked at her in astonishment. He did not see that Lady Henry was watching them with eagerness, leaning heavily on her sticks, her lips parted in a keen expectancy.
Then Julie withdrew.
"I beg your pardon," she said, hurriedly. "I beg your pardon. Good-night."
Lord Lackington hesitated. His face took a puzzled expression. Then he held out his hand, and she placed hers in it mechanically.
"It will be all right," he whispered, kindly. "Lady Henry will soon be herself again. Shall I tell the butler to call for some one--her maid?"
Julie shook her head, and in another moment he, too, was gone. Dr. Meredith and General Fergus stood beside her. The General had a keen sense of humor, and as he said good-night to this unlawful hostess, whose plight he understood no more than his own, his mouth twitched with repressed laughter. But Dr. Meredith did not laugh. He pressed Julie's hand in both of his. Looking behind him, he saw that Jacob Delafield, who had just returned from the hall, was endeavoring to appease Lady Henry. He bent towards Julie.
"Don't deceive yourself," he said, quickly, in a low voice; "this is the end. Remember my letter. Let me hear to-morrow."
As Dr. Meredith left the room, Julie lifted her eyes. Only Jacob Delafield and Lady Henry were left.
Harry Warkworth, too, was gone--without a word? She looked round her piteously. She could not remember that he had spoken--that he had bade her farewell. A strange pang convulsed her. She scarcely heard what Lady Henry was saying to Jacob Delafield. Yet the words were emphatic enough.
"Much obliged to you, Jacob. But when I want your advice in my household affairs, I will ask it. You and Evelyn Crowborough have meddled a good deal too much in them already. Good-night. Hutton will get you a cab."
And with a slight but imperious gesture, Lady Henry motioned towards the door. Jacob hesitated, then quietly took his departure. He threw Julie a look of anxious appeal as he went out. But she did not see it; her troubled gaze was fixed on Lady Henry.
That lady eyed her companion with composure, though by now even the old lips were wholly blanched.
"There is really no need for any conversation between us, Miss Le Breton," said the familiar voice. "But if there were, I am not to-night, as you see, in a condition to say it. So--when you came up to say good-night to me--you had determined on this adventure? You had been good enough, I see, to rearrange my room--to give my servants your orders."
Julie stood stonily erect. She made her dry lips answer as best they could.
"We meant no harm," she said, coldly. "It all came about very simply. A few people came in to inquire after you. I regret they should have stayed talking so long."
Lady Henry smiled in contempt.
"You hardly show your usual ability by these remarks. The room you stand in"--she glanced significantly at the lights and the chairs--"gives you the lie. You had planned it all with Hutton, who has become your tool, before you came to me. Don't contradict. It distresses me to hear you. Well, now we part."
"Of course. Perhaps to-morrow you will allow me a few last words?"
"I think not. This will cost me dear," said Lady Henry, her white lips twitching. "Say them now, mademoiselle."
"You are suffering." Julie made an uncertain step forward. "You ought to be in bed."
"That has nothing to do with it. What was your object to-night?"
"I wished to see the Duchess--"
"It is not worth while to prevaricate. The Duchess was not your first visitor."
Julie flushed.
"Captain Warkworth arrived first; that was a mere chance."
"It was to see him that you risked the whole affair. You have used my house for your own intrigues."
Julie felt herself physically wavering under the lash of these sentences. But with a great effort she walked towards the fireplace, recovered her gloves and handkerchief, which were on the mantel-piece, and then turned slowly to Lady Henry.
"I have done nothing in your service that I am ashamed of. On the contrary, I have borne what no one else would have borne. I have devoted myself to you and your interests, and you have trampled upon and tortured me. For you I have been merely a servant, and an inferior--"
Lady Henry nodded grimly.
"It is true," she said, interrupting, "I was not able to take your romantic view of the office of companion."
"You need only have taken a human view," said Julie, in a voice that pierced; "I was alone, poor--worse than motherless. You might have done what you would with me. A little indulgence, and I should have been your devoted slave. But you chose to humiliate and crush me; and in return, to protect myself, I, in defending myself, have been led, I admit it, into taking liberties. There is no way out of it. I shall, of course, leave you to-morrow morning."
"Then at last we understand each other," said Lady Henry, with a laugh. "Good-night, Miss Le Breton."
She moved heavily on her sticks. Julie stood aside to let her pass. One of the sticks slipped a little on the polished floor. Julie, with a cry, ran forward, but Lady Henry fiercely motioned her aside.
"Don't touch me! Don't come near me!"
She paused a moment to recover breath and balance. Then she resumed her difficult walk. Julie followed her.
"Kindly put out the electric lights," said Lady Henry, and Julie obeyed.
They entered the hall in which one little light was burning. Lady Henry, with great difficulty, and panting, began to pull herself up the stairs.
"Oh,dolet me help you!" said Julie, in an agony. "You will kill yourself. Let me at least call Dixon."
"You will do nothing of the kind," said Lady Henry, indomitable, though tortured by weakness and rheumatism. "Dixon is in my room, where I bade her remain. You should have thought of the consequences of this before you embarked upon it. If I were to die in mounting these stairs, I would not let you help me."
"Oh!" cried Julie, as though she had been struck, and hid her eyes with her hand.
Slowly, laboriously, Lady Henry dragged herself from step to step. As she turned the corner of the staircase, and could therefore be no longer seen from below, some one softly opened the door of the dining-room and entered the hall.
Julie looked round her, startled. She saw Jacob Delafield, who put his finger to his lip.
Moved by a sudden impulse, she bowed her head on the banister of the stairs against which she was leaning and broke into stifled sobs.
Jacob Delafield came up to her and took her hand. She felt his own tremble, and yet its grasp was firm and supporting.
"Courage!" he said, bending over her. "Try not to give way. You will want all your fortitude."
"Listen!" She gasped, trying vainly to control herself, and they both listened to the sounds above them in the dark house--the labored breath, the slow, painful step.
"Oh, she wouldn't let me help her. She said she would rather die. Perhaps I have killed her. And I could--I could--yes, Icouldhave loved her."
She was in an anguish of feeling--of sharp and penetrating remorse.
Jacob Delafield held her hand close in his, and when at last the sounds had died in the distance he lifted it to his lips.
"You know that I am your friend and servant," he said, in a queer, muffled voice. "You promised I should be."
She tried to withdraw her hand, but only feebly. Neither physically nor mentally had she the strength to repulse him. If he had taken her in his arms, she could hardly have resisted. But he did not attempt to conquer more than her hand. He stood beside her, letting her feel the whole mute, impetuous offer of his manhood--thrown at her feet to do what she would with.
Presently, when once more she moved away, he said to her, in a whisper:
"Go to the Duchess to-morrow morning, as soon as you can get away. She told me to say that--Hutton gave me a little note from her. Your home must be with her till we can all settle what is best. You know very well you have devoted friends. But now good-night. Try to sleep. Evelyn and I will do all we can with Lady Henry."
Julie drew herself out of his hold. "Tell Evelyn I will come to see her, at any rate, as soon as I can put my things together. Good-night."
And she, too, dragged herself up-stairs sobbing, starting at every shadow. All her nerve and daring were gone. The thought that she must spend yet another night under the roof of this old woman who hated her filled her with terror. When she reached her room she locked her door and wept for hours in a forlorn and aching misery.
The Duchess was in her morning-room. On the rug, in marked and, as it seemed to her plaintive eyes, brutal contrast with the endless photographs of her babies and women friends which crowded her mantel-piece, stood the Duke, much out of temper. He was a powerfully built man, some twenty years older than his wife, with a dark complexion, enlivened by ruddy cheeks and prominent, red lips. His eyes were of a cold, clear gray; his hair very black, thick, and wiry. An extremely vigorous person, more than adequately aware of his own importance, tanned and seasoned by the life of his class, by the yachting, hunting, and shooting in which his own existence was largely spent, slow in perception, and of a sulky temper--so one might have read him at first sight. But these impressions only took you a certain way in judging the character of the Duchess's husband.
As to the sulkiness, there could be no question on this particular morning--though, indeed, his ill-humor deserved a more positive and energetic name.
"You have got yourself and me," he was declaring, "into a most disagreeable and unnecessary scrape. This letter of Lady Henry's"--he held it up--"is one of the most annoying that I have received for many a day. Lady Henry seems to me perfectly justified. Youhavebeen behaving in a quite unwarrantable way. And now you tell me that this woman, who is the cause of it all, of whose conduct I thoroughly and entirely disapprove, is coming to stay here, in my house, whether I like it or not, and you expect me to be civil to her. If you persist, I shall go down to Brackmoor till she is pleased to depart. I won't countenance the thing at all, and, whatever you may do,Ishall apologize to Lady Henry."
"There's nothing to apologize for," cried the drooping Duchess, plucking up a little spirit. "Nobody meant any harm. Why shouldn't the old friends go in to ask after her? Hutton--that old butler that has been with Aunt Flora for twenty years--askedus to come in."
"Then he did what he had no business to do, and he deserves to be dismissed at a day's notice. Why, Lady Henry tells me that it was a regular party--that the room was all arranged for it by that most audacious young woman--that the servants were ordered about--that it lasted till nearly midnight, and that the noise you all made positively woke Lady Henry out of her sleep. Really, Evelyn, that you should have been mixed up in such an affair is more unpalatable to me than I can find words to describe." And he paced, fuming, up and down before her.
"Anybody else than Aunt Flora would have laughed," said the Duchess, defiantly. "And I declare, Freddie, I won't be scolded in such a tone. Besides, if you only knew--"
She threw back her head and looked at him, her cheeks flushed, her lips quivering with a secret that, once out, would perhaps silence him at once--would, at any rate, as children do when they give a shake to their spillikins, open up a number of new chances in the game.
"If I only knew what?"
The Duchess pulled at the hair of the little spitz on her lap without replying.
"What is there to know that I don't know?" insisted the Duke. "Something that makes the matter still worse, I suppose?"
"Well, that depends," said the Duchess, reflectively. A gleam of mischief had slipped into her face, though for a moment the tears had not been far off.
The Duke looked at his watch.
"Don't keep me here guessing riddles longer than you can help," he said, impatiently. "I have an appointment in the City at twelve, and I want to discuss with you the letter that must be written to Lady Henry."
"That's your affair," said the Duchess. "I haven't made up my mind yet whether I mean to write at all. And as for the riddle, Freddie, you've seen Miss Le Breton?"
"Once. I thought her a very pretentious person," said the Duke, stiffly.
"I know--you didn't get on. But, Freddie, didn't she remind you of somebody?"
The Duchess was growing excited. Suddenly she jumped up; the little spitz rolled off her lap; she ran to her husband and took him by the fronts of his coat.
"Freddie, you'll be very much astonished." And suddenly releasing him, she began to search among the photographs on the mantel-piece. "Freddie, you know who that is?" She held up a picture.
"Of course I know. What on earth has that got to do with the subject we have been discussing?"
"Well, it has a good deal to do with it," said the Duchess, slowly. "That's my uncle, George Chantrey, isn't it, Lord Lackington's second son, who married mamma's sister? Well--oh, you won't like it, Freddie, but you've got to know--that's--Julie's uncle, too!"
"What in the name of fortune do you mean?" said the Duke, staring at her.
His wife again caught him by the coat, and, so imprisoning him, she poured out her story very fast, very incoherently, and with a very evident uncertainty as to what its effect might be.
And indeed the effect was by no means easy to determine. The Duke was first incredulous, then bewildered by the very mixed facts which she poured out upon him. He tried to cross-examine heren route, but he gained little by that; she only shook him a little, insisting the more vehemently on telling the story her own way. At last their two impatiences had nearly come to a dead-lock. But the Duke managed to free himself physically, and so regained a little freedom of mind.
"Well, upon my word," he said, as he resumed his march up and down--"upon my word!" Then, as he stood still before her, "You say she is Marriott Dalrymple's daughter?"
"And Lord Lackington's granddaughter." said the Duchess, panting a little from her exertions. "And, oh, what a blind bat you were not to see it at once--from the likeness!"
"As if one had any right to infer such a thing from a likeness!" said the Duke, angrily. "Really, Evelyn, your talk is most--most unbecoming. It seems to me that Mademoiselle Le Breton has already done you harm. All that you have told me, supposing it to be true--oh, of course, I know you believe it to be true--only makes me"--he stiffened his back--"the more determined to break off the connection between her and you. A woman of such antecedents is not a fit companion for my wife, independently of the fact that she seems to be, in herself, an intriguing and dangerous character."
"How could she help her antecedents?" cried the Duchess.
"I didn't say she could help them. But if they are what you say, she ought--well, she ought to be all the more careful to live in a modest and retired way, instead of, as I understand, making herself the rival of Lady Henry. I never heard anything so preposterous--so--so indecent! She shows no proper sense, and, as for you, I deeply regret you should have been brought into any contact with such a disgraceful story."
"Freddie!" The Duchess went into a helpless, half-hysterical fit of laughter.
But the Duke merely expanded, as it seemed, still further--to his utmost height and bulk. "Oh, dear," thought the Duchess, in despair, "now he is going to be like his mother!" Her strictly Evangelical mother-in-law, with whom the Duke had made his bachelor home for many years, had been the scourge of her early married life; and though for Freddie's sake she had shed a few tears over her death, eighteen months before this date, the tears--as indeed the Duke had thought at the time--had been only too quickly dried.
There could be no question about it, the Duke was painfully like his mother as he replied:
"I fear that your education, Evelyn, has led you to take such things far more lightly than you ought. I am old-fashioned. Illegitimacy with medoescarry a stigma, and the sins of the fathersarevisited upon the children. At any rate, we who occupy a prominent social place have no right to do anything which may lead others to think lightly of God's law. I am sorry to speak plainly, Evelyn. I dare say you don't like these sentiments, but you know, at least, that I am quite honest in expressing them."
The Duke turned to her, not without dignity. He was and had been from his boyhood a person of irreproachable morals--earnest and religious according to his lights, a good son, husband, and father. His wife looked at him with mingled feelings.
"Well, all I know is," she said, passionately beating her little foot on the carpet before her, "that, by all accounts, the only thing to do with Colonel Delaney was to run away from him."
The Duke shrugged his shoulders.
"You don't expect me to be much moved by a remark of that kind? As to this lady, your story does not affect me in her favor in the smallest degree. She has had her education; Lord Lackington gives her one hundred pounds a year; if she is a self-respecting woman she will look after herself. Idon'twant to have her here, and I beg you won't invite her. A couple of nights, perhaps--I don't mind that--but not for longer."
"Oh, as to that, you may be very sure she won't stay here unless you're very particularly nice to her. There'll be plenty of people glad--enchanted--to have her! I don't care about that, but what Idowant is"--the Duchess looked up with calm audacity--"that you should find her a house."
The Duke paused in his walk and surveyed his wife with amazement.
"Evelyn, are youquitemad?"
"Not in the least. You have more houses than you know what to do with, and agreatdeal more money than anybody in the world ought to have. If they ever do set up the guillotine at Hyde Park Corner, we shall be among the first--we ought to be!"
"What is the good of talking nonsense like this, Evelyn?" said the Duke, once more consulting his watch. "Let's go back to the subject of my letter to Lady Henry."
"It's most excellent sense!" cried the Duchess, springing up. "Youhavemore houses than you know what to do with; and you have one house in particular--that little place at the back of Cureton Street where Cousin Mary Leicester lived so long--which is in your hands still, I know, for you told me so last week--which is vacant and furnished--Cousin Mary left you the furniture, as if we hadn't got enough!--and it would be theverything for Julie, if only you'd lend it to her till she can turn round."
The Duchess was now standing up, confronting her lord, her hands grasping the chair behind her, her small form alive with eagerness and the feminine determination to get her own way, by fair means or foul.
"Cureton Street!" said the Duke, almost at the end of his tether. "And how do you propose that this young woman is to live--in Cureton Street, or anywhere else?"
"She means to write," said the Duchess, shortly. "Dr. Meredith has promised her work."
"Sheer lunacy! In six months time you'd have to step in and pay all her bills."
"I should like to see anybody dare to propose to Julie to pay her bills!" cried the Duchess, with scorn. "You see, the great pity is, Freddie, that you don't know anything at all about her. But that house--wasn't it made out of a stable? It has got six rooms, I know--three bedrooms up-stairs, and two sitting-rooms and a kitchen below. With one good maid and a boy Julie could be perfectly comfortable. She would earn four hundred pounds--Dr. Meredith has promised her--she has one hundred pounds a year of her own. She would pay no rent, of course. She would have just enough to live on, poor, dear thing! And she would be able to gather her old friends round her when she wanted them. A cup of tea and her delightful conversation--that's all they'd ever want."
"Oh, go on--go on!" said the Duke, throwing himself exasperated into an arm-chair; "the ease with which you dispose of my property on behalf of a young woman who has caused me most acute annoyance, who has embroiled us with a near relation for whom I have a very particular respect!Her friends, indeed! Lady Henry's friends, you mean. Poor Lady Henry tells me in this letter that her circle will be completely scattered. This mischievous woman in three years has destroyed what it has taken Lady Henry nearly thirty to build up. Now look here, Evelyn"--the Duke sat up and slapped his knee--"as to this Cureton Street plan, I will do nothing of the kind. You may have Miss Le Breton here for two or three nights if you like--I shall probably go down to the country--and, of course, I have no objection to make if you wish to help her find another situation--"
"Another situation!" cried the Duchess, beside herself. "Freddie, you really are impossible! Do you understand that I regard Julie Le Breton asmy relation, whatever you may say--that I love her dearly--that there are fifty people with money and influence ready to help her if you won't, because she is one of the most charming and distinguished women in London--that you ought to beproudto do her a service--that I want you to have thehonorof it--there! And if you won't do this little favor for me--when I ask and beg it of you--I'll make you remember it for a very long time to come--you may be sure of that!"
And his wife turned upon him as an image of war, her fair hair ruffling about her ears, her cheeks and eyes brilliant with anger--and something more.
The Duke rose in silent ferocity and sought for some letters which he had left on the mantel-piece.
"I had better leave you to come to your senses by yourself, and as quickly as possible," he said, as he put them into his pockets. "No good can come of any more discussion of this sort."
The Duchess said nothing. She looked out of the window busily, and bit her lip. Her silence served her better than her speech, for suddenly the Duke looked round, hesitated, threw down a book he carried, walked up to her, and took her in his arms.
"You are a very foolish child," he declared, as he held her by main force and kissed away her tears. "You make me lose my temper--and waste my time--for nothing."
"Not at all," said the sobbing Duchess, trying to push herself away, and denying him, as best she could, her soft, flushed face. "You don't, or you won't, understand! I was--I was very fond of Uncle George Chantrey.Hewould have helped Julie if he were alive. And as for you, you're Lord Lackington's godson, and you're always preaching what he's done for the army, and what the nation owes him--and--and--"
"Does he know?" said the Duke, abruptly, marvelling at the irrelevance of these remarks.
"No, not a word. Only six people in London know--Aunt Flora, Sir Wilfrid Bury"--the Duke made an exclamation--"Mr. Montresor, Jacob, you, and I."
"Jacob!" said the Duke. "What's he got to do with it?"
The Duchess suddenly saw her opportunity, and rushed upon it.
"Only that he's madly in love with her, that's all. And, to my knowledge, she has refused him both last year and this. Of course, naturally, if you won't do anything to help her, she'll probably marry him--simply as a way out."
"Well, of all the extraordinary affairs!"
The Duke released her, and stood bewildered. The Duchess watched him in some excitement. He was about to speak, when there was a sound in the anteroom. They moved hastily apart. The door was thrown open, and the footman announced, "Miss Le Breton."
Julie Le Breton entered, and stood a moment on the threshold, looking, not in embarrassment, but with a certain hesitation, at the two persons whose conversation she had disturbed. She was pale with sleeplessness; her look was sad and weary. But never had she been more composed, more elegant. Her closely fitting black cloth dress; her strangely expressive face, framed by a large hat, very simple, but worn as only the woman of fashion knows how; her miraculous yet most graceful slenderness; the delicacy of her hands; the natural dignity of her movements--these things produced an immediate, though, no doubt, conflicting impression upon the gentleman who had just been denouncing her. He bowed, with an involuntary deference which he had not at all meant to show to Lady Henry's insubordinate companion, and then stood frowning.
But the Duchess ran forward, and, quite heedless of her husband, threw herself into her friend's arms.
"Oh, Julie, is there anything left of you? I hardly slept a wink for thinking of you. What did that old--oh, I forgot--do you know my husband? Freddie, this is mygreatfriend, Miss Le Breton."
The Duke bowed again, silently. Julie looked at him, and then, still holding the Duchess by the hand, she approached him, a pair of very fine and pleading eyes fixed upon his face.
"You have probably heard from Lady Henry, have you not?" she said, addressing him. "In a note I had from her this morning she told me she had written to you. I could not help coming to-day, because Evelyn has been so kind. But--is it your wish that I should come here?"
The Christian name slipped out unawares, and the Duke winced at it. The likeness to Lord Lackington--it was certainly astonishing. There ran through his mind the memory of a visit paid long ago to his early home by Lord Lackington and two daughters, Rose and Blanche. He, the Duke, had then been a boy home from school. The two girls, one five or six years older than the other, had been the life and charm of the party. He remembered hunting with Lady Rose.
But the confusion in his mind had somehow to be mastered, and he made an effort.
"I shall be glad if my wife is able to be of any assistance to you, Miss Le Breton," he said, coldly; "but it would not be honest if I were to conceal my opinion--so far as I have been able to form it--that Lady Henry has great and just cause of complaint."
"You are quite right--quite right," said Julie, almost with eagerness. "She has, indeed."
The Duke was taken by surprise. Imperious as he was, and stiffened by a good many of those petty prides which the spoiled children of the world escape so hardly, he found himself hesitating--groping for his words.
The Duchess meanwhile drew Julie impulsively towards a chair.
"Do sit down. You look so tired."
But Julie's gaze was still bent upon the Duke. She restrained her friend's eager hand, and the Duke collected himself.Hebrought a chair, and Julie seated herself.
"I am deeply, deeply distressed about Lady Henry," she said, in a low voice, by which the Duke felt himself most unwillingly penetrated. "I don't--oh no, indeed, I don't defend last night. Only--my position has been very difficult lately. I wanted very much to see the Duchess--and--it was natural--wasn't it?--that the old friends should like to be personally informed about Lady Henry's illness? But, of course, they stayed too long; it was my fault--I ought to have prevented it."
She paused. This stern-looking man, who stood with his back to the mantel-piece regarding her, Philistine though he was, had yet a straight, disinterested air, from which she shrank a little. Honestly, she would have liked to tell him the truth. But how could she? She did her best, and her account certainly was no more untrue than scores of narratives of social incident which issue every day from lips the most respected and the most veracious. As for the Duchess, she thought it the height of candor and generosity. The only thing she could have wished, perhaps, in her inmost heart, was that she hadnotfound Julie alone with Harry Warkworth. But her loyal lips would have suffered torments rather than accuse or betray her friend.
The Duke meanwhile went through various phases of opinion as Julie laid her story before him. Perhaps he was chiefly affected by the tone of quiet independence--as from equal to equal--in which she addressed him. His wife's cousin by marriage; the granddaughter of an old and intimate friend of his own family; the daughter of a man known at one time throughout Europe, and himself amply well born--all these facts, warm, living, and still efficacious, stood, as it were, behind this manner of hers, prompting and endorsing it. But, good Heavens! was illegitimacy to be as legitimacy?--to carry with it no stains and penalties? Was vice to be virtue, or as good? The Duke rebelled.
"It is a most unfortunate affair, of that there can be no doubt," he said, after a moment's silence, when Julie had brought her story to an end; and then, more sternly, "I shall certainly apologize for my wife's share in it."
"Lady Henry won't be angry with the Duchess long," said Julie Le Breton. "As for me"--her voice sank--"my letter this morning was returned to me unopened."
There was an uncomfortable pause; then Julie resumed, in another tone:
"But what I am now chiefly anxious to discuss is, how can we save Lady Henry from any further pain or annoyance? She once said to me in a fit of anger that if I left her in consequence of a quarrel, and any of her old friends sided with me, she would never see them again."
"I know," said the Duke, sharply. "Her salon will break up. She already foresees it."
"But why?--why?" cried Julie, in a most becoming distress. "Somehow, we must prevent it. Unfortunately I must live in London. I have the offer of work here--journalist's work which cannot be done in the country or abroad. But I would do all I could to shield Lady Henry."
"What about Mr. Montresor?" said the Duke, abruptly. Montresor had been the well-known Châteaubriand to Lady Henry's Madame Récamier for more than a generation.
Julie turned to him with eagerness.
"Mr. Montresor wrote to me early this morning. The letter reached me at breakfast. In Mrs. Montresor's name and his own, he asked me to stay with them till my plans developed. He--he was kind enough to say he felt himself partly responsible for last night."
"And you replied?" The Duke eyed her keenly.
Julie sighed and looked down.
"I begged him not to think any more of me in the matter, but to write at once to Lady Henry. I hope he has done so."
"And so you refused--excuse these questions--Mrs. Montresor's invitation?"
The working of the Duke's mind was revealed in his drawn and puzzled brows.
"Certainly." The speaker looked at him with surprise. "Lady Henry would never have forgiven that. It could not be thought of. Lord Lackington also"--but her voice wavered.
"Yes?" said the Duchess, eagerly, throwing herself on a stool at Julie's feet and looking up into her face.
"He, too, has written to me. He wants to help me. But--I can't let him."
The words ended in a whisper. She leaned back in her chair, and put her handkerchief to her eyes. It was very quietly done, and very touching. The Duchess threw a lightning glance at her husband; and then, possessing herself of one of Julie's hands, she kissed it and murmured over it.
"Was there ever such a situation?" thought the Duke, much shaken. "And she has already, if Evelyn is to be believed, refused the chance--the practical certainty--of being Duchess of Chudleigh!"
He was a man with whom agran rifiutoof this kind weighed heavily. His moral sense exacted such things rather of other people than himself. But, when made, he could appreciate them.
After a few turns up and down the room, he walked up to the two women.
"Miss Le Breton," he said, in a far more hurried tone than was usual to him, "I cannot approve--and Evelyn ought not to approve--of much that has taken place during your residence with Lady Henry. But I understand that your post was not an easy one, and I recognize the forbearance of your present attitude. Evelyn is much distressed about it all. On the understanding that you will do what you can to soften this breach for Lady Henry, I shall be, glad if you will allow me to come partially to your assistance."
Julie looked up gravely, her eyebrows lifting. The Duke found himself reddening as he went on.
"I have a little house near here--a little furnished house--Evelyn will explain to you. It happens to be vacant. If you will accept a loan of it, say for six months"--the Duchess frowned--"you will give me pleasure. I will explain my action to Lady Henry, and endeavor to soften her feelings."
He paused. Miss Le Breton's face was grateful, touched with emotion, but more than hesitating.
"You are very good. But I have no claim upon you at all. And I can support myself."
A touch of haughtiness slipped into her manner as she gently rose to her feet. "Thank God, I did not offer her money!" thought the Duke, strangely perturbed.
"Julie, dear Julie," implored the Duchess. "It's such a tiny little place, and it is quite musty for want of living in. Nobody has set foot in it but the caretaker for two years, and it would be really a kindness to us to go and live there--wouldn't it, Freddie? And there's all the furniture just as it was, down to the bellows and the snuffers. If you'd only use it and take care of it; Freddie hasn't liked to sell it, because it's all old family stuff, and he was very fond of Cousin Mary Leicester. Oh, do say yes, Julie! They shall light the fires, and I'll send in a few sheets and things, and you'll feel as though you'd been there for years. Do, Julie!"
Julie shook her head.
"I came here," she said, in a voice that was still unsteady, "to ask for advice, not favors. But it's very good of you."
And with trembling fingers she began to refasten her veil.
"Julie!--where are you going?" cried the Duchess "You're staying here."
"Staying here?" said Julie, turning round upon her. "Do you think I should be a burden upon you, or any one?"
"But, Julie, you told Jacob you would come."
"I have come. I wanted your sympathy, and your counsel. I wished also to confess myself to the Duke, and to point out to him how matters could be made easier for Lady Henry."
The penitent, yet dignified, sadness of her manner and voice completed the discomfiture--the temporary discomfiture--of the Duke.
"Miss Le Breton," he said, abruptly, coming to stand beside her, "I remember your mother."
Julie's eyes filled. Her hand still held her veil, but it paused in its task.
"I was a small school-boy when she stayed with us," resumed the Duke. "She was a beautiful girl. She let me go out hunting with her. She was very kind to me, and I thought her a kind of goddess. When I first heard her story, years afterwards, it shocked me awfully. For her sake, accept my offer. I don't think lightly of such actions as your mother's--not at all. But I can't bear to think of her daughter alone and friendless in London."
Yet even as he spoke he seemed to be listening to another person. He did not himself understand the feelings which animated him, nor the strength with which his recollections of Lady Rose had suddenly invaded him.
Julie leaned her arms on the mantel-piece, and hid her face. She had turned her back to them, and they saw that she was crying softly.
The Duchess crept up to her and wound her arms round her.
"You will, Julie!--you will! Lady Henry has turned you out-of-doors at a moment's notice. And it was a great deal my fault. Youmustlet us help you!"
Julie did not answer, but, partially disengaging herself, and without looking at him, she held out her hand to the Duke.
He pressed it with a cordiality that amazed him.
"That's right--that's right. Now, Evelyn, I leave you to make the arrangements. The keys shall be here this afternoon. Miss Le Breton, of course, stays here till things are settled. As for me, I must really be off to my meeting. One thing, Miss Le Breton--"
"Yes."
"I think," he said, gravely, "you ought to reveal yourself to Lord Lackington."
She shrank.
"You'll let me take my own time for that?" was her appealing reply.
"Very well--very well. We'll speak of it again."
And he hurried away. As he descended his own stairs astonishment at what he had done rushed upon him and overwhelmed him.
"How on earth am I ever to explain the thing to Lady Henry?"
And as he went citywards in his cab, he felt much more guilty than his wife had ever done. Whatcouldhave made him behave in this extraordinary, this preposterous way? A touch of foolish romance--immoral romance--of which he was already ashamed? Or the one bare fact that this woman had refused Jacob Delafield?