“Julie,” cried the Duchess, “as if Jacob—”
Julie frowned and released herself; then she laughed.
“Nothing that one ever says about ordinary mortals applies to Mr. Delafield. He is, of course, hors concours.”
“Julie!”
“It is you, Evelyn, who make me méchante. I could be grateful—and excellent friends with that young man—in my own way.”
The Duchess sighed, and held her tongue with difficulty.
When the successful hero arrived that night for dinner he found a solitary lady in the drawing-room.
Was this, indeed, Julie Le Breton—this soft, smiling vision in white?
He expected to have found a martyr, pale and wan from the shock of the catastrophe which had befallen her, and, even amid the intoxication of his own great day, he was not easy as to how she might have taken his behavior on the fatal night. But here was someone, all joy, animation, and indulgence—a glorified Julie who trod on air. Why? Because good-fortune had befallen her friend? His heart smote him. He had never seen her so touching, so charming. Since the incubus of Lady Henry’s house and presence had been removed she seemed to have grown years younger. A white muslin dress of her youth, touched here and there by the Duchess’s maid, replaced the familiar black satin. When Warkworth first saw her he paused unconsciously in surprise.
Then he advanced to meet her, broadly smiling, his blue eyes dancing.
“You got my note this morning?”
“Yes,” she said, demurely. “You were much too kind, and much—much too absurd. I have done nothing.”
“Oh, nothing, of course.” Then, after a moment: “Are you going to tie me to that fiction, or am I to be allowed a little decent sincerity? You know perfectly well that you have done it all. There, there; give me your hand.”
She gave it, shrinking, and he kissed it joyously.
“Isn’t it jolly!” he said, with a schoolboy’s delight as he released her hand. “I saw Lord M⸺ this morning.” He named the Prime Minister. “Very civil, indeed. Then the Commander-in-Chief—and Montresor gave me half an hour. It is all right. They are giving me a capital staff. Excellent fellows, all of them. Oh, you’ll see, I shall pull it through—I shall pull it through. By George! it is a chance!”
And he stood radiant, rubbing his hands over the blaze.
The Duchess came in accompanied by an elderly cousin of the Duke’s, a white-haired, black-gowned spinster, Miss Emily Lawrence—one of those single women, travelled, cultivated, and good, that England produces in such abundance.
“Well, so you’re going,” said the Duchess, to Warkworth. “And I hear that we ought to think you a lucky man.”
“Indeed you ought, and you must,” he said, gayly. “If only the climate will behave itself. The blackwater fever has a way of killing you in twenty-four hours if it gets hold of you; but short of that—”
“Oh, you will be quite safe,” said the Duchess. “Let me introduce you to Miss Lawrence. Emily, this is Captain Warkworth.”
The elderly lady gave a sudden start. Then she quietly put on her spectacles and studied the young soldier with a pair of intelligent gray eyes.
Nothing could have been more agreeable than Warkworth at dinner. Even the Duchess admitted as much. He talked easily, but not too much, of the task before him; told amusing tales of his sporting experience of years back in the same regions which were now to be the scene of his mission; discussed the preparations he would have to make at Denga, the coast town, before starting on his five weeks’ journey to the interior; drew the native porter and the native soldier, not to their advantage, and let fall, by the way, not a few wise or vivacious remarks as to the races, resources, and future of this illimitable and mysterious Africa—this cavern of the unknown, into which the waves of white invasion, one upon another, were now pressing fast and ceaselessly, towards what goal, only the gods knew.
A few other men were dining; among them two officers from the staff of the Commander-in-Chief. Warkworth, much their junior, treated them with a skilful deference; but through the talk that prevailed his military competence and prestige appeared plainly enough, even to the women. His good opinion of himself was indeed sufficiently evident; but there was no crude vainglory. At any rate, it was a vainglory of youth, ability, and good looks, ratified by these budding honors thus fresh upon him, and no one took it amiss.
When the gentlemen returned to the drawing-room, Warkworth and Julie once more found themselves together, this time in the Duchess’s little sitting-room at the end of the long suite of rooms.
“When do you go?” she asked him, abruptly.
“Not for about a month.” He mentioned the causes of delay.
“That will bring you very late—into the worst of the heat?” Her voice had a note of anxiety.
“Oh, we shall all be seasoned men. And after the first few days we shall get into the uplands.”
“What do your home people say?” she asked him, rather shyly. She knew, in truth, little about them.
“My mother? Oh, she will be greatly pleased. I go down to the Isle of Wight for a day or two to see her tomorrow. But now, dear lady, that is enough of my wretched self. You—do you stay on here with the Duchess?”
She told him of the house in Heribert Street. He listened with attention.
“Nothing could be better. You will have a most distinguished little setting of your own, and Lady Henry will repent at leisure. You won’t be lonely?”
“Oh no!” But her smile was linked with a sigh.
He came nearer to her.
“You should never be lonely if I could help it,” he said, in a low voice.
“When people are nameless and kinless,” was her passionate reply, in the same undertone as his, “they must be lonely.”
He looked at her with eagerness. She lay back in the firelight, her beautiful brow and eyes softly illuminated. He felt within him a
