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. Tomorrow 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 tonight. 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 tomorrow,” 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.
“You must 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 someone—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 tomorrow.”
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 tonight, as you see, in a condition to say
