He bent towards her, smiling, though in truth he was disgusted with himself, vexed with her, and out of tune with all the world.
The Duchess made a little face.
“All very well, but after such a lecture as you have indulged in, I think I prefer not to say any more about Julie.”
“Do. I’m ashamed of myself—except that I don’t retract one word, not one. Be kind, all the same, and tell me—if you know—has she spoken to Lord Lackington?”
The Duchess still frowned, but a few more apologetic expressions on his part restored a temper that had always a natural tendency to peace. Indeed, Jacob’s boutades never went long unpardoned. An only child herself, he, her first cousin, had played the part of brother in her life, since the days when she first tottered in long frocks, and he had never played it in any mincing fashion. His words were often blunt. She smarted and forgave—much more quickly than she forgave her husband. But then, with him, she was in love.
So she presently vouchsafed to give Jacob the news that Lord Lackington at last knew the secret—that he had behaved well—had shown much feeling, in fact—so that poor Julie—
But Jacob again cut short the sentimentalisms, the little touching phrases in which the woman delighted.
“What is he going to do for her?” he said, impatiently. “Will he make any provision for her? Is there anyway by which she can live in his house—take care of him?”
The Duchess shook her head.
“At seventy-five one can’t begin to explain a thing as big as that. Julie perfectly understands, and doesn’t wish it.”
“But as to money?” persisted Jacob.
“Julie says nothing about money. How odd you are, Jacob! I thought that was the last thing needful in your eyes.”
Jacob did not reply. If he had, he would probably have said that what was harmful or useless for men might be needful for women—for the weakness of women. But he kept silence, while the vague intensity of the eyes, the pursed and twisted mouth, showed that his mind was full of thoughts.
Suddenly he perceived that the carriage was nearing Victoria Gate. He called to the coachman to stop, and jumped out.
“Goodbye, Evelyn. Don’t bear me malice. You’re a good friend,” he said in her ear—“a real good friend. But don’t let people talk to you—not even elderly ladies with the best intentions. I tell you it will be a fight, and one of the best weapons is”—he touched his lips significantly, smiled at her, and was gone.
The Duchess passed out of the Park. Delafield turned as though in the direction of the Marble Arch, but as soon as the carriage was out of sight he paused and quickly retraced his steps towards Kensington Gardens. Here, in this third week of March, some of the thorns and lilacs were already in leaf. The grass was springing, and the chatter of many sparrows filled the air. Faint patches of sun flecked the ground between the trees, and blue hazes, already redeemed from the dreariness of winter, filled the dim planes of distance and mingled with the low, silvery clouds. He found a quiet spot, remote from nursery-maids and children, and there he wandered to and fro, indefinitely, his hands behind his back. All the anxieties for which he had scolded his cousin possessed him, only sharpened tenfold; he was in torture, and he was helpless.
However, when at last he emerged from his solitude, and took a hansom to the Chudleigh estate office in Spring Gardens, he resolutely shook off the thoughts which had been weighing upon him. He took his usual interest in his work, and did it with his usual capacity.
Towards five o’clock in the afternoon, Delafield found himself in Cureton Street. As he turned down Heribert Street he saw a cab in front of him. It stopped at Miss Le Breton’s door, and Warkworth jumped out. The door was quickly opened to him, and he went in without having turned his eyes towards the man at the far corner of the street.
Delafield paused irresolute. Finally he walked back to his club in Piccadilly, where he dawdled over the newspapers till nearly seven.
Then he once more betook himself to Heribert Street.
“Is Miss Le Breton at home?”
Thérèse looked at him with a sudden flickering of her clear eyes.
“I think so, sir,” she said, with soft hesitation, and she slowly led him across the hall.
The drawing-room door opened. Major Warkworth emerged.
“Ah, how do you do?” he said, shortly, staring in a kind of bewilderment as he saw Delafield. Then he hurriedly looked for his hat, ran down the stairs, and was gone.
“Announce me, please,” said Delafield, peremptorily, to the little girl. “Tell Miss Le Breton that I am here.” And he drew back from the open door of the drawing-room. Thérèse slipped in, and reappeared.
“Please to walk in, sir,” she said, in her shy, low voice, and Delafield entered. From the hall he had caught one involuntary glimpse of Julie, standing stiff and straight in the middle of the room, her hands clasped to her breast—a figure in pain. When he went in, she was in her usual seat by the fire, with her embroidery frame in front of her.
“May I come in? It is rather late.”
“Oh, by all means! Do you bring me any news of Evelyn? I haven’t seen her for three days.”
He seated himself beside her. It was hard, indeed, for him to hide all signs of the tumult within. But he held a firm grip upon himself.
“I saw Evelyn this afternoon. She complained that you had had no time for her lately.”
Julie bent over her work. He saw that her fingers were so unsteady that she could hardly make them obey her.
“There has been a great deal to
