“What do you mean?” said the Duchess, offended. “If it isn’t a Leonardo, pray what is it?”
“Why, a bad school copy, of course!” said Lord Lackington, hotly. “Look at the eyes”—he took out a pencil and pointed—“look at the neck, look at the fingers!”
The Duchess pouted.
“Oh!” she said. “Then there is something in fingers!”
Lord Lackington’s face suddenly relaxed. He broke into a shout of laughter, bon enfant that he was; and the Duchess laughed, too; but under cover of their merriment she, mindful of quite other things, drew him a little farther away from Julie.
“I thought you had asked her to Nonpareil for Easter?” she said, in his ear, with a motion of her pretty head towards Julie in the distance.
“Yes, but, my dear lady, Blanche won’t come home! She and Aileen put it off, and put it off. Now she says they mean to spend May in Switzerland—may perhaps be away the whole summer! I had counted on them for Easter. I am dependent on Blanche for hostess. It is really too bad of her. Everything has broken down, and William and I (he named his youngest son) are going to the Uredales’ for a fortnight.”
Lord Uredale, his eldest son, a sportsman and farmer, troubled by none of his father’s originalities, reigned over the second family “place,” in Herefordshire, beside the Wye.
“Has Aileen any love affairs yet?” said the Duchess, abruptly, raising her face to his.
Lord Lackington looked surprised.
“Not that I know of. However, I dare say they wouldn’t tell me. I’m a sieve, I know. Have you heard of any? Tell me.” He stooped to her with roguish eagerness. “I like to steal a march on Blanche.”
So he knew nothing—while half their world was talking! It was very characteristic, however. Except for his own hobbies, artistic, medical, or military, Lord Lackington had walked through life as a Johnny Head-in-Air, from his youth till now. His children had not trusted him with their secrets, and he had never discovered them for himself.
“Is there any likeness between Julie and Aileen?” whispered the Duchess.
Lord Lackington started. Both turned their eyes towards Julie, as she stood some ten yards away from them, in front of a refined and mysterious profile of the cinque-cento—some lady, perhaps, of the d’Este or Sforza families, attributed to Ambrogio da Predis. In her soft, black dress, delicately folded and draped to hide her excessive thinness, her small toque fitting closely over her wealth of hair, her only ornaments a long and slender chain set with uncut jewels which Lord Lackington had brought her the day before, and a bunch of violets which the Duchess had just slipped into her belt, she was as rare and delicate as the picture. But she turned her face towards them, and Lord Lackington made a sudden exclamation.
“No! Good Heavens, no! Aileen was a dancing-sprite when I saw her last, and this poor girl!—Duchess, why does she look like that? So sad, so bloodless!”
He turned upon her impetuously, his face frowning and disturbed.
The Duchess sighed.
“You and I have just got to do all we can for her,” she said, relieved to see that Julie had wandered farther away, as though it pleased her to be left to herself.
“But I would do anything—everything!” cried Lord Lackington. “Of course, none of us can undo the past. But I offered yesterday to make full provision for her. She has refused. She has the most quixotic notions, poor child!”
“No, let her earn her own living yet awhile. It will do her good. But—shall I tell you secrets?” The Duchess looked at him, knitting her small brows.
“Tell me what I ought to know—no more,” he said, gravely, with a dignity contrasting oddly with his schoolboy curiosity in the matter of little Aileen’s lover.
The Duchess hesitated. Just in front of her was a picture of the Venetian school representing St. George, Princess Saba, and the dragon. The princess, a long and slender victim, with bowed head and fettered hands, reminded her of Julie. The dragon—perfidious, encroaching wretch!—he was easy enough of interpretation. But from the blue distance, thank Heaven! spurs the champion. Oh, ye heavenly powers, give him wings and strength! “St. George—St. George to the rescue!”
“Well,” she said, slowly, “I can tell you of someone who is very devoted to Julie—someone worthy of her. Come with me.”
And she took him away into the next room, still talking in his ear.
When they returned, Lord Lackington was radiant. With a new eagerness he looked for Julie’s distant figure amid the groups scattered about the central room. The Duchess had sworn him to secrecy, indeed; and he meant to be discretion itself. But—Jacob Delafield! Yes, that, indeed, would be a solution. His pride was acutely pleased; his affection—of which he already began to feel no small store for this charming woman of his own blood, this poor granddaughter de la main gauche—was strengthened and stimulated. She was sad now and out of spirits, poor thing, because, no doubt, of this horrid business with Lady Henry, to whom, by-the-way, he had written his mind. But time would see to that—time—gently and discreetly assisted by himself and the Duchess. It was impossible that she should finally hold out against such a good fellow—impossible, and most unreasonable. No. Rose’s daughter would be brought back safely to her mother’s world and class, and poor Rose’s tragedy would at last work itself out for good. How strange, romantic, and providential!
In such a mood did he now devote himself to Julie. He chattered about the pictures; he gossiped about their owners; he excused himself for the absence of “that gadabout Blanche”; he made her promise him a Whitsuntide visit instead, and whispered in her ear, “You shall have her room”; he paid her the most handsome and gallant attentions, natural to the man of fashion par excellence, mingled with
