From his knowledge of Juliet’s character the last supposition seemed the most feasible.
He carefully watched her face as he waited for his answer.
But the piquant, girlish countenance was as unreadable as the massive, stone-cut features of the great Sphinx itself.
She only slightly curled her lip.
“From what I have told you of the footing on which Ida and Sefton stood to each other, you can form your own opinion on the matter,” she answered, calmly.
Lord Culvers laid his hand upon her shoulder.
“Juliet,” he said, “you are driving me to the verge of distraction with your hints and prevarications.”
Clive’s temper gave way utterly.
“It is simply your duty,” he said, hotly. “You are bound to speak out—to tell everything, small or great, that you know of Ida’s possible intentions.”
Juliet kept her coolness still.
“If I don’t know anything of her intentions I can’t speak out, as you call it,” she answered, in perfectly level tones. “And supposing I did know more than I have said, and Ida had not given me permission to speak, not you, not my father—no, not wild horses, even, should drag it out of me!”
VI
Clive obtained a reluctant permission from Lord Culvers, and set off for Florence, to interrogate, under a seal of secrecy, Madame Verdi as to her possible knowledge of Ida’s movements.
It must be admitted that his hopes did not rise very high as to the results of his journey. Nothing better, however, at the moment presented itself, so it seemed a thing to be done.
Lord Culvers multiplied injunctions to the young man as to caution and secrecy.
“You’ll bear in mind,” finally he said, by way of summing up his hundred-and-one instructions, “that Ida may write at any moment. If not this week, next week, perhaps, or the week after. And I don’t want tongues set going in Florence, any more than in London, over my daughter’s eccentricities, and so increase difficulties in the way of her return to her husband. Heaven knows, it’s bad enough to endure such wild whims, without having all the world talking about them.”
His powers of endurance were, however, to be still farther taxed. Clive was no sooner out of sight, so to speak, than another “wild whim,” as Lord Culvers phrased it, was started—this time by Juliet.
With the season at its height, with her card-rack literally stuffed with engagements, and with Goodwood as yet in the far distance, the young lady suddenly made the announcement that London was stifling, simply unendurable, and that she thought it would be heavenly to throw over all engagements and get back to Dering at once.
Exclamations from father and stepmother greeted her announcement. The former immediately rose and quitted the room, knowing that “battle-royal” between his wife and Juliet was bound to ensue.
He was right. The “battle-royal” in this instance lasted about twenty minutes. Lady Culvers retired from the contest with a very red face and vibrating with excitement; while Juliet, calm and cool as ever, went up to her room, rang the bell for her maid, and in a tranquil tone gave many and minute directions as to the packing of her wardrobe, and the “things” to be supplied to it before she left town.
“We shall leave in a day or two, without doubt,” she added; “for whenever I set my mind upon a thing it invariably comes to pass.”
Assuredly the maid knew that well enough, as also did every member of Lord Culvers’s household.
It must be admitted that Fortune, in her dealings with Lord Culvers, had justified her reputation of never coming with both hands full. With one hand she had bestowed upon him health, wealth, and a placid temper; with the other she had filled his life with worries and anxieties from year’s end to year’s end.
Perhaps, however, if in addition to his easy, placid temperament, he had been endowed with an average amount of common sense and an eye for character, one-half of his worries might have been spared him. His first wife had captivated him with her beauty and grace of manner, and he had married her without so much as a thought whether her disposition was likely to harmonise with his own; his second wife captivated him with a smooth tongue and a sympathetic manner, and he married her without a thought as to her capability of doing that of which he felt himself incapable—controlling his wayward, wilful young daughters.
It was true that Miss Pigott had remained longer than any other of the governesses who, in a quick succession, had tried and failed to “govern” the young ladies; but he did not set his mind to account for the circumstance, and so failed to discover that the secret of Miss Pigott’s success with them lay in the fact that she never openly opposed any piece of folly they might plan, although privately, to their father, she might condemn it vigorously.
Miss Pigott was a wise woman in her generation; she had come into Lord Culvers’s house with the intention of remaining in it, and had steered her course accordingly. She had easily read the characters of her pupils, and had found out that, although they were quick-tempered and self-willed, they were goodhearted and generous; that, though they might nearly worry the life out of her one day with their vagaries, they would do their best to make atonement the next by loading her with presents and kindnesses—provided always they were allowed full license to carry out every whim that came into
