“His sister,” said Delafield’s informant, “married one of the big London tailors, whom she met first on the Ryde pier. I happen to know the facts, for my father and I have been customers of his for years, and one day, hearing that I was in Warkworth’s regiment, he told me some stories of his brother-in-law in a pretty hostile tone. His sister, it appears, has often financed him of late. She must have done. How else could he have got through? Warkworth may be a fine, showy fellow when there’s fighting about. In private life he’s one of the most self-indulgent dogs alive. And yet he’s ashamed of the sister and her husband, and turns his back on them whenever he can. Oh, he’s not a person of nice feeling, is Warkworth—but, mark my words, he’ll be one of the most successful men in the army.”
There was one side. On the other was to be set the man’s brilliant professional record; his fine service in this recent campaign; the bulldog defence of an isolated fort, which insured the safety of most important communications; contempt of danger, thirst, exposure; the rescue of a wounded comrade from the glacis of the fort, under a murderous fire; facts, all of them, which had fired the public imagination and brought his name to the front. No such acts as these could have been done by any mere self-indulgent pretender.
Delafield reserved his judgment. He set himself to watch. In his inmost heart there was a strange assumption of the right to watch, and, if need be, to act. Julie’s instinct had told her truly. Delafield, the individualist, the fanatic for freedom—he, also, had his instinct of tyranny. She should not destroy herself, the dear, weak, beloved woman! He would prevent it.
Thus, during these hours of transition, Delafield thought much of Julie. Julie, on the other hand, had no sooner said good night to him after the conversation described in the last chapter than she drove him from her thoughts—one might have said, with vehemence.
The Times of the following morning duly contained the announcement of the appointment of Captain Warkworth, D.S.O., of the Queen’s Grays, to the command of the military mission to Mokembe recently determined on by her Majesty’s government. The mission would proceed to Mokembe as soon as possible, but of two officers who on the ground of especial knowledge would form part of it, under Captain Warkworth’s command, one was at present in Canada and the other at the Cape. It would, therefore, hardly be possible for the mission to start from the coast for the interior before the beginning of May. In the same paper certain promotions and distinctions on account of the recent Mahsud campaign were reprinted from the Gazette. Captain Henry Warkworth’s brevet majority was among them.
The Times leader on the announcement pointed out that the mission would be concerned with important frontier questions, still more with the revival of the prestige of England in regions where a supine government had allowed it to wither unaccountably. Other powers had been playing a filching and encroaching game at the expense of the British lion in these parts, and it was more than time that he should open his sleepy eyes upon what was going on. As to the young officer who was to command the mission, the great journal made a few civil though guarded remarks. His record in the recent campaign was indeed highly distinguished; still it could hardly be said that, take it as a whole, his history so far gave him a claim to promotion so important as that which he had now obtained.
Well, now he had his chance. English soldiers had a way of profiting by such chances. The Times courteously gave him the benefit of the doubt, prophesying that he would rise to the occasion and justify the choice of his superiors.
The Duchess looked over Julie’s shoulder as she read.
“Schemer,” she said, as she dropped a kiss on the back of Julie’s neck, “I hope you’re satisfied. The Times doesn’t know what to make of it.”
Julie put down the paper with a glowing cheek.
“They’ll soon know,” she said, quietly.
“Julie, do you believe in him so much?”
“What does it matter what I think? It is not I who have appointed him.”
“Not so sure,” laughed the Duchess. “As if he would have had a chance without you. Whom did he know last November when you took him up?”
Julie moved to and fro, her hands behind her. The tremor on her lip, the light in her eye showed her sense of triumph.
“What have I done,” she said, laughing, “but push a few stones out of the way of merit?”
“Some of them were heavy,” said the Duchess, making a little face. “Need I invite Lady Froswick any more?”
Julie threw her arms about her.
“Evelyn, what a darling you’ve been! Now I’ll never worry you again.”
“Oh, for some people I would do ten times as much!” cried the Duchess. “But, Julie, I wish I knew why you think so well of this man. I—I don’t always hear very nice things about him.”
“I dare say not,” said Julie, flushing. “It is easy to hate success.”
“No, come, we’re not as mean as that!” cried the Duchess. “I vow that all the heroes I’ve ever known had a ripping time. Julie”—she kissed her friend impulsively—“Julie, don’t like him too much. I don’t think he’s good enough.”
“Good enough for what?” said Julie’s bitter voice. “Make yourself easy about Captain Warkworth, Evelyn; but please understand—anything is good enough for me. Don’t let your dear head be troubled about my affairs. They are never serious, and nothing
