She looked up, smiling. He made no reply, and the smile died from her face, suddenly, as though someone had blown out a light. She returned to her work, or pretended to. But her aspect had left him inwardly shaken. The eyes, disproportionately large and brilliant, were of an emphasis almost ghastly, the usually clear complexion was flecked and cloudy, the mouth dry-lipped. She looked much older than she had done a fortnight before. And the fact was the more noticeable because in her dress she had now wholly discarded the touch of stateliness—almost old-maidishness—which had once seemed appropriate to the position of Lady Henry’s companion. She was wearing a little gown of her youth, a blue cotton, which two years before had been put aside as too slight and juvenile. Never had the form within it seemed so girlish, so appealing. But the face was heartrending.
After a pause he moved a little closer to her.
“Do you know that you are looking quite ill?”
“Then my looks are misleading. I am very well.”
“I am afraid I don’t put much faith in that remark. When do you mean to take a holiday?”
“Oh, very soon. Léonie, my little housekeeper, talks of going to Bruges to wind up all her affairs there and bring back some furniture that she has warehoused. I may go with her. I, too, have some property stored there. I should go and see some old friends—the sœurs, for instance, with whom I went to school. In the old days I was a torment to them, and they were tyrants to me. But they are quite nice to me now—they give me patisserie, and stroke my hands and spoil me.”
And she rattled on about the friends she might revisit, in a hollow, perfunctory way, which set him on edge.
“I don’t see that anything of that kind will do you any good. You want rest of mind and body. I expect those last scenes with Lady Henry cost you more than you knew. There are wounds one does not notice at the time—”
“Which afterwards bleed inwardly?” She laughed. “No, no, I am not bleeding for Lady Henry. By-the-way, what news of her?”
“Sir Wilfrid told me today that he had had a letter. She is at Torquay, and she thinks there are too many curates at Torquay. She is not at all in a good temper.”
Julie looked up.
“You know that she is trying to punish me. A great many people seem to have been written to.”
“That will blow over.”
“I don’t know. How confident I was at one time that, if there was a breach, it would be Lady Henry that would suffer! It makes me hot to remember some things I said—to Sir Wilfrid, in particular. I see now that I shall not be troubled with society in this little house.”
“It is too early for you to guess anything of that kind.”
“Not at all! London is pretty full. The affair has made a noise. Those who meant to stand by me would have called, don’t you think?”
The quivering bitterness of her face was most pitiful in Jacob’s eyes.
“Oh, people take their time,” he said, trying to speak lightly.
She shook her head.
“It’s ridiculous that I should care. One’s self-love, I suppose—that bleeds! Evelyn has made me send out cards for a little housewarming. She said I must. She made me go to that smart party at Chatton House the other night. It was a great mistake. People turned their backs on me. And this, too, will be a mistake—and a failure.”
“You were kind enough to send me a card.”
“Yes—and you must come?”
She looked at him with a sudden nervous appeal, which made another tug on his self-control.
“Of course I shall come.”
“Do you remember your own saying—that awful evening—that I had devoted friends? Well, we shall soon see.”
“That depends only on yourself,” he replied, with gentle deliberation.
She started—threw him a doubtful look.
“If you mean that I must take a great deal of trouble, I am afraid I can’t. I am too tired.”
And she sank back in her chair.
The sigh that accompanied the words seemed to him involuntary, unconscious.
“I didn’t mean that—altogether,” he said, after a moment.
She moved restlessly.
“Then, really, I don’t know what you meant. I suppose all friendship depends on one’s self.”
She drew her embroidery frame towards her again, and he was left to wonder at his own audacity. “Do you know,” she said, presently, her eyes apparently busy with her silks, “that I have told Lord Lackington?”
“Yes. Evelyn gave me that news. How has the old man behaved?”
“Oh, very well—most kindly. He has already formed a habit, almost, of ‘dropping in’ upon me at all hours. I have had to appoint him times and seasons, or there would be no work done. He sits here and raves about young Mrs. Delaray—you know he is painting her portrait, for the famous series?—and draws her profile on the backs of my letters. He recites his speeches to me; he asks my advice as to his fights with his tenants or his miners. In short, I’m adopted—I’m almost the real thing.”
She smiled, and then again, as she turned over her silks, he heard her sigh—a long breath of weariness. It was strange and terrible in his ear—the contrast between this unconscious sound, drawn as it were from the oppressed heart of pain, and her languidly, smiling words.
“Has he spoken to you of the Moffatts?” he asked her, presently, not looking at her.
A sharp crimson color rushed over her face.
“Not much. He and Lady Blanche are not great friends. And I have made him promise to keep my secret from her till I give him leave to tell it.”
“It will have to be known to her some time, will it not?”
“Perhaps,” she said, impatiently. “Perhaps, when I can make up my mind.”
Then she pushed aside her frame and would talk no
