“Julie—you need not insult him.”
“I will have no more of your Julie; and I will have no more of you.” As she said this she rose from her chair, and walked about the room. “You have betrayed me, and there shall be an end of it.”
“Betrayed you! what nonsense you talk. In what have I betrayed you?”
“You set him upon my track here, though you knew I desired to avoid him.”
“And is that all? I was coming here to this detestable island, and I told my brother. That is my offence—and then you talk of betraying! Julie, you sometimes are a goose.”
“Very often, no doubt; but, Madame Gordeloup, if you please we will be geese apart for the future.”
“Oh, certainly;—if you wish it.”
“I do wish it.”
“It cannot hurt me. I can choose my friends anywhere. The world is open to me to go where I please into society. I am not at a loss.”
All this Lady Ongar well understood, but she could bear it without injury to her temper. Such revenge was to be expected from such a woman. “I do not want you to be at a loss,” she said. “I only want you to understand that after what has this evening occurred between your brother and me, our acquaintance had better cease.”
“And I am to be punished for my brother?”
“You said just now that it would be no punishment, and I was glad to hear it. Society is, as you say, open to you, and you will lose nothing.”
“Of course society is open to me. Have I committed myself? I am not talked about for my lovers by all the town. Why should I be at a loss? No.”
“I shall return to London tomorrow by the earliest opportunity. I have already told them so, and have ordered a carriage to go to Yarmouth at eight.”
“And you leave me here, alone!”
“Your brother is here, Madame Gordeloup.”
“My brother is nothing to me. You know well that. He can come and he can go when he please. I come here to follow you—to be companion to you, to oblige you—and now you say you go and leave me in this detestable barrack. If I am here alone, I will be revenged.”
“You shall go back with me if you wish it.”
“At eight o’clock in the morning—and see, it is now eleven; while you have been wandering about alone with my brother in the dark! No; I will not go so early morning as that. Tomorrow is Saturday—you was to remain till Tuesday.”
“You may do as you please. I shall go at eight tomorrow.”
“Very well. You go at eight, very well. And who will pay for the ‘beels’ when you are gone, Lady Ongar?”
“I have already ordered the bill up tomorrow morning. If you will allow me to offer you twenty pounds, that will bring you to London when you please to follow.”
“Twenty pounds! What is twenty pounds? No; I will not have your twenty pounds.” And she pushed away from her the two notes which Lady Ongar had already put upon the table. “Who is to pay me for the loss of all my time? Tell me that. I have devoted myself to you. Who will pay me for that?”
“Not I, certainly, Madame Gordeloup.”
“Not you! You will not pay me for my time;—for a whole year I have been devoted to you! You will not pay me, and you send me away in this way? By Gar, you will be made to pay—through the nose.”
As the interview was becoming unpleasant, Lady Ongar took her candle and went away to bed, leaving the twenty pounds on the table. As she left the room she knew that the money was there, but she could not bring herself to pick it up and restore it to her pocket. It was improbable, she thought, that Madame Gordeloup would leave it to the mercy of the waiters; and the chances were that the notes would go into the pocket for which they were intended.
And such was the result. Sophie, when she was left alone, got up from her seat, and stood for some moments on the rug, making her calculations. That Lady Ongar should be very angry about Count Pateroff’s presence Sophie had expected; but she had not expected that her friend’s anger would be carried to such extremity that she would pronounce a sentence of banishment for life. But, perhaps, after all, it might be well for Sophie herself that such sentence should be carried out. This fool of a woman with her income, her park, and her rank, was going to give herself—so said Sophie to herself—to a young, handsome, proud pig of a fellow—so Sophie called him—who had already shown himself to be Sophie’s enemy, and who would certainly find no place for Sophie Gordeloup within his house. Might it not be well that the quarrel should be consummated now—such compensation being obtained as might possibly be extracted. Sophie certainly knew a good deal, which it might be for the convenience of the future husband to keep dark—or convenient for the future wife that the future husband should not know. Terms might be yet had, although Lady Ongar had refused to pay anything beyond that trumpery twenty pounds. Terms might be had; or, indeed, it might be that Lady Ongar herself, when her anger was over, might sue for a reconciliation. Or Sophie—and this idea occurred as Sophie herself became a little despondent after long calculation—Sophie herself might acknowledge herself to be wrong, begging pardon, and weeping on her friend’s neck. Perhaps it might be worth while to make some further calculation in bed. Then Sophie, softly drawing the notes towards her as a cat might have done, and hiding them somewhere about her person, also went to her
