Lady Rose’s Daughter

departed this life she became a very silent, shrivelled thing⁠—except for her religion⁠—and very few people saw her. She took a fancy to me⁠—which was odd, wasn’t it, when I’m such a worldling?⁠—and she let me come in and out. Every morning she read the Psalms and Lessons, with her old maid, who was just her own age⁠—in this very chair. And two or three times a month Freddie would slip round and read them with her⁠—you know Freddie’s very religious. And then she’d work at flannel petticoats for the poor, or something of that kind, till lunch. Afterwards she’d go and read the Bible to people in the workhouse or in hospital. When she came home, the butler brought her the Times; and sometimes you’d find her by the fire, straining her old eyes over ‘a little Dante.’ And she always dressed for dinner⁠—everything was quite smart⁠—and her old butler served her. Afterwards her maid played dominoes or spillikins with her⁠—all her life she never touched a card⁠—and they read a chapter, and Cousin Mary played a hymn on that funny little old piano there in the corner, and at ten they all went to bed. Then, one morning, the maid went in to wake her, and she saw her dear sharp nose and chin against the light, and her hands like that, in front of her⁠—and⁠—well, I suppose, she’d gone to play hymns in heaven⁠—dear Cousin Mary! Julie, isn’t it strange the kind of lives so many of us have to lead? Julie”⁠—the little Duchess laid her cheek against her friend’s⁠—“do you believe in another life?”

“You forget I’m a Catholic,” said Julie, smiling rather doubtfully.

“Are you, Julie? I’d forgotten.”

“The good nuns at Bruges took care of that.”

“Do you ever go to mass?”

“Sometimes.”

“Then you’re not a good Catholic, Julie?”

“No,” said Julie, after a pause, “not at all. But it sometimes catches hold of me.”

The old clock in the hall struck. The Duchess sprang up.

“Oh, Julie, I have got to be at Clarisse’s by four. I promised her I’d go and settle about my drawing-room dress today. Let’s see the rest of the house.”

And they went rapidly through it. All of it was stamped with the same character, representing, as it were, the meeting-point between an inherited luxury and a personal asceticism. Beautiful chairs, or cabinets transported sixty years before from one of the old Crowborough houses in the country to this little abode, side by side with things the cheapest and the commonest⁠—all that Cousin Mary Leicester could ever persuade herself to buy with her own money. For all the latter part of her life she had been half a mystic and half a great lady, secretly hating the luxury from which she had not the strength to free herself, dressing ceremoniously, as the Duchess had said, for a solitary dinner, and all the while going in sore remembrance of a Master who “had not where to lay his head.”

At any rate, there was an ample supply of household stuff for a single woman and her maids. In the china cupboard there were still the old-fashioned Crown Derby services, the costly cut glass, the Leeds and Wedgewood dessert dishes that Cousin Mary Leicester had used for half a century. The caretaker produced the keys of the iron-lined plate cupboard, and showed its old-world contents, clean and in order.

“Why, Julie! If we’d only ordered the dinner I might have come to dine with you tonight!” cried the Duchess, enjoying and peering into everything like a child with its doll’s house. “And the linen⁠—gracious!” as the doors of another cupboard were opened to her. “But now I remember, Freddie said nothing was to be touched till he made up his mind what to do with the little place. Why, there’s everything!”

And they both looked in astonishment at the white, fragrant rows, at the worn monogram in the corners of the sheets, at the little bags of lavender and potpourri ranged along the shelves.

Suddenly Julie turned away and sat down by an open window, carrying her eyes far from the house and its stores.

“It is too much, Evelyn,” she said, sombrely. “It oppresses me. I don’t think I can live up to it.”

“Julie!” and again the little Duchess came to stand caressingly beside her. “Why, you must have sheets⁠—and knives and forks! Why should you get ugly new ones, when you can use Cousin Mary’s? She would have loved you to have them.”

“She would have hated me with all her strength,” said Miss Le Breton, probably with much truth.

The two were silent a little. Through Julie’s stormy heart there swept longings and bitternesses inexpressible. What did she care for the little house and all its luxuries! She was sorry that she had fettered herself with it.⁠ ⁠… Nearly four o’clock in the afternoon, and no letter⁠—not a word!

“Julie,” said the Duchess, softly, in her ear, “you know you can’t live here alone. I’m afraid Freddie would make a fuss.”

“I’ve thought of that,” said Julie, wearily. “But, shall we really go on with it, Evelyn?”

The Duchess looked entreaty. Julie repented, and, drawing her friend towards her, rested her head against the chinchilla cloak.

“I’m tired, I suppose,” she said, in a low voice. “Don’t think me an ungrateful wretch. Well, there’s my foster-sister and her child.”

“Madame Bornier and the little cripple girl?” cried the Duchess. “Excellent! Where are they?”

“Léonie is in the French Governesses’ Home, as it happens, looking out for a situation, and the child is in the Orthopaedic Hospital. They’ve been straightening her foot. It’s wonderfully better, and she’s nearly ready to come out.”

“Are they nice, Julie?”

“Thérèse is an angel⁠—you must be the one thing or the other, apparently, if you’re a cripple. And as for Léonie⁠—well, if she comes here, nobody need be anxious about my finances. She’d count every crust and cinder. We couldn’t keep any English servant; but we could get a Belgian one.”

“But is she nice?” repeated the Duchess.

“I’m used to her,” said Julie, in the same inanimate