XXIX
How Damon Parted from Pythias
Lady Ongar, when she left Count Pateroff at the little fort on the cliff and entered by herself the gardens belonging to the hotel, had long since made up her mind that there should at last be a positive severance between herself and her devoted Sophie. For half-an-hour she had been walking in silence by the count’s side; and though, of course, she had heard all that he had spoken, she had been able in that time to consider much. It must have been through Sophie that the count had heard of her journey to the Isle of Wight; and, worse than that, Sophie must, as she thought, have instigated this pursuit. In that she wronged her poor friend. Sophie had been simply paid by her brother for giving such information as enabled him to arrange this meeting. She had not even counselled him to follow Lady Ongar. But now Lady Ongar, in blind wrath, determined that Sophie should be expelled from her bosom. Lady Ongar would find this task of expulsion the less difficult in that she had come to loathe her devoted friend, and to feel it to be incumbent on her to rid herself of such devotion. Now had arrived the moment in which it might be done.
And yet there were difficulties. Two ladies living together in an inn cannot, without much that is disagreeable, send down to the landlord saying that they want separate rooms, because they have taken it into their minds to hate each other. And there would, moreover, be something awkward in saying to Sophie that, though she was discarded, her bill should be paid—for this last and only time. No; Lady Ongar had already perceived that that would not do. She would not quarrel with Sophie after that fashion. She would leave the Isle of Wight on the following morning early, informing Sophie why she did so, and would offer money to the little Franco-Pole, presuming that it might not be agreeable to the Franco-Pole to be hurried away from her marine or rural happiness so quickly. But in doing this she would be careful to make Sophie understand that Bolton Street was to be closed against her forever afterwards. With neither Count Pateroff nor his sister would she ever again willingly place herself in contact.
It was dark as she entered the house—the walk out, her delay there, and her return having together occupied her three hours. She had hardly felt the dusk growing on her as she progressed steadily on her way, with that odious man beside her. She had been thinking of other things, and her eyes had accustomed themselves gradually to the fading twilight. But now, when she saw the glimmer of the lamps from the inn-windows, she knew that the night had come upon her, and she began to fear that she had been imprudent in allowing herself to be out so late—imprudent, even had she succeeded in being alone. She went direct to her own room, that, womanlike, she might consult her own face as to the effects of the insult she had received, and then having, as it were, steadied herself, and prepared herself for the scene that was to follow, she descended to the sitting-room and encountered her friend. The friend was the first to speak; and the reader will kindly remember that the friend had ample reason for knowing what companion Lady Ongar had been likely to meet upon the downs.
“Julie, dear, how late you are,” said Sophie, as though she were rather irritated in having been kept so long waiting for her tea.
“I am late,” said Lady Ongar.
“And don’t you think you are imprudent—all alone, you know, dear; just a leetle imprudent.”
“Very imprudent, indeed. I have been thinking of that now as I crossed the lawn, and found how dark it was. I have been very imprudent; but I have escaped without much injury.”
“Escaped! escaped what? Have you escaped a cold, or a drunken man?”
“Both, as I think.” Then she sat down, and, having rung the bell, she ordered tea.
“There seems to be something very odd with you,” said Sophie. “I do not quite understand you.”
“When did you see your brother last?” Lady Ongar asked.
“My brother?”
“Yes, Count Pateroff. When did you see him last?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Well, it does not signify, as of course you will not tell me. But will you say when you will see him next?”
“How can I tell?”
“Will it be tonight?”
“Julie, what do you mean?”
“Only this, that I wish you would make him understand that if he has anything to do concerning me, he might as well do it out of hand. For the last hour—”
“Then you have seen him?”
“Yes; is not that wonderful? I have seen him.”
“And why could you not tell him yourself what you had to say? He and I do not agree about certain things, and I do not like to carry messages to him. And you have seen him here on this sacré seacoast?”
“Exactly so; on this sacré seacoast. Is it not odd that he should have known that I was here—known the very inn we were at—and known, too, whither I was going tonight?”
“He would learn that from the servants, my dear.”
“No doubt. He has been good enough to amuse me with mysterious threats as to what he would do to punish me if I would not—”
“Become his wife?” suggested Sophie.
“Exactly. It was very flattering on his part. I certainly do not intend to become his wife.”
“Ah, you like better that young Clavering who has the other sweetheart. He is younger. That is true.”
“Upon my word, yes. I like my cousin, Harry Clavering, much better than I like your brother; but, as I take it, that has not much to do with it. I was speaking of your brother’s threats. I do not understand them; but I wish
