As he was replacing some of the books he had been using in the shelves, the club began to fill up with men coming in to lunch. A great many congratulated him; and a certain number who of old had hardly professed to know him greeted him with cordiality. He found himself caught in a series of short but flattering conversations, in which he bore himself well—neither over-discreet nor too elate. “I declare that fellow’s improved,” said one man, who might certainly have counted as Warkworth’s enemy the week before, to his companion at table. “The government’s been beastly remiss so far. Hope he’ll pull it off. Ripping chance, anyway. Though what they gave it to him for, goodness knows! There were a dozen fellows, at least, did as well as he in the Mahsud business. And the Staff-College man had a thousand times more claim.”
Nevertheless, Warkworth felt the general opinion friendly, a little surprised, no doubt, but showing that readiness to believe in the man coming to the front, which belongs much more to the generous than to the calculating side of the English character. Insensibly his mental and moral stature rose. He exchanged a few words on his way out with one of the most distinguished members of the club, a man of European reputation, whom he had seen the week before in the Commander-in-Chief’s room at the War Office. The great man spoke to him with marked friendliness, and Warkworth walked on air as he went his way. Potentially he felt himself the great man’s equal; the gates of life seemed to be opening before him.
And with the rise of fortune came a rush of magnanimous resolution. No more shady episodes; no more mean devices; no more gambling, and no more debt. Major Warkworth’s sheet was clean, and it should remain so. A man of his prospects must run straight.
He felt himself at peace with all the world. By-the-way, just time to jump into a cab and get to Park Crescent in time for his sister’s luncheon. His last interview with his brother-in-law had not been agreeable. But now—he felt for the checkbook in his pocket—he was in a position to repay at least half the last sum of money which Bella had lent him. He would go and give it her now, and report news of the mother. And if the two chicks were there—why, he had a free hour and he would take them to the Zoo—he vowed he would!—give them something pleasant to remember their uncle by.
And a couple of hours later a handsome, soldierly man might have been seen in the lion-house at the Zoo, leading a plump little girl by either hand. Rose and Katie Mullins enjoyed a golden time, and started a wholly new adoration for the uncle who had so far taken small notice of them, and was associated in their shrewd, childish minds rather with tempests at home than buns abroad. But this time buns, biscuits, hansom-drives and elephant-rides were showered upon them by an uncle who seemed to make no account of money, while his gracious and captivating airs set their little hearts beating in a common devotion.
“Now go home—go home, little beggars!” said that golden gentleman, as he packed them into a hansom and stood on the step to accept a wet kiss on his mustache from each pink mouth. “Tell your mother all about it, and don’t forget your uncle Harry. There’s a shilling for each of you. Don’t you spend it on sweets. You’re quite fat enough already. Goodbye!”
“That’s the hardest work I’ve done for many a long day,” he said to himself, with a sigh of relief, as the hansom drove away. “I shan’t turn nursemaid when other trades fail. But they’re nice little kids all the same.
“Now, then, Cox’s—and the City”—he ran over the list of his engagements for the afternoon—“and by five o’clock shall I find my fair lady—at home—and established? Where on earth is Heribert Street?”
He solved the question, for a few minutes after five he was on Miss Le Breton’s doorstep. A quaint little house—and a strange parlormaid! For the door was opened to him by a large-eyed, sickly child, who looked at him with the bewilderment of one trying to follow out instructions still strange to her.
“Yes, sir, Miss Le Breton is in the drawing-room,” she said, in a sweet, deliberate voice with a foreign accent, and she led the way through the hall.
Poor little soul—what a twisted back, and what a limp! She looked about fourteen, but was probably older. Where had Julie discovered her?
Warkworth looked round him at the little hall with its relics of country-house sports and amusements; his eye travelled through an open door to the little dining-room and the Russell pastels of Lady Mary’s parents, as children, hanging on the wall. The character of the little dwelling impressed itself at once. Smiling; he acknowledged its congruity with Julie. Here was a lady who fell on her feet!
The child, leading him, opened the door to the left.
“Please walk in, sir,” she said, shyly, and stood aside.
As the door opened, Warkworth was conscious of a noise of tongues.
So Julie was not alone? He prepared his manner accordingly.
He entered upon a merry scene. Jacob Delafield was standing on a chair, hanging a picture, while Dr. Meredith and Julie, on either side, directed or criticised the operation. Meredith carried picture-cord and scissors; Julie the hammer and nails. Meredith was expressing the profoundest disbelief in Jacob’s practical capacities; Jacob was defending himself hotly; and Julie laughed at both.
Towards the other end of the room stood the tea-table, between the fire and an open window. Lord Lackington sat beside it, smiling to himself, and stroking a
