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 tomorrow 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 tonight?”
“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 mantelpiece, 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 tomorrow 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, do let 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, someone 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, I could have 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 tomorrow 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
