They were standing inside the door of Julie’s little drawing-room. The Duchess, in a dazzling frock of white and silver, which placed Clarisse among the divinities of her craft, looked round her with a look of worry.
“What’s the matter with the tiresome creatures? Why is everybody going so early? And there are not half the people here who ought to be here.”
Meredith shrugged his shoulders.
“I saw you at Chatton House the other night,” he said, in the same tone.
“Well?” said the Duchess, sharply.
“It seemed to me there was something of a demonstration.”
“Against Julie? Let them try it!” said the little lady, with evasive defiance. “We shall be too strong for them.”
“Lady Henry is putting her back into it. I confess I never thought she would be either so venomous or so successful.”
“Julie will come out all right.”
“She would—triumphantly—if—”
The Duchess glanced at him uneasily.
“I believe you are overworking her. She looks skin and bone.”
Dr. Meredith shook his head.
“On the contrary, I have been holding her back. But it seems she wants to earn a good deal of money.”
“That’s so absurd,” cried the Duchess, “when there are people only pining to give her some of theirs.”
“No, no,” said the journalist, brusquely. “She is quite right there. Oh, it would be all right if she were herself. She would make short work of Lady Henry. But, Mademoiselle Julie”—for she glided past them, and he raised his voice—“sit down and rest yourself. Don’t take so much trouble.”
She flung them a smile.
“Lord Lackington is going,” and she hurried on.
Lord Lackington was standing in a group which contained Sir Wilfrid Bury and Mr. Montresor.
“Well, goodbye, goodbye,” he said, as she came up to him. “I must go. I’m nearly asleep.”
“Tired with abusing me?” said Montresor, nonchalantly, turning round upon him.
“No, only with trying to make head or tail of you,” said Lackington, gayly. Then he stooped over Julie.
“Take care of yourself. Come back rosier—and fatter.”
“I’m perfectly well. Let me come with you.”
“No, don’t trouble yourself.” For she had followed him into the hall and found his coat for him. All the arrangements for her little “evening” had been of the simplest. That had been a point of pride with her. Madame Bornier and Thérèse dispensing tea and coffee in the dining-room, one hired parlormaid, and she herself active and busy everywhere. Certain French models were in her head, and memories of her mother’s bare little salon in Bruges, with its good talk, and its thinnest of thin refreshments—a few cups of weak tea, or glasses of eau sucrée, with a plate of patisserie.
The hired parlormaid was whistling for a cab in the service of some other departing guest; so Julie herself put Lord Lackington into his coat, much to his discomfort.
“I don’t think you ought to have come,” she said to him, with soft reproach. “Why did you have that fainting fit before dinner?”
“I say! Who’s been telling tales?”
“Sir Wilfrid Bury met your son, Mr. Chantrey, at dinner.”
“Bill can never hold his tongue. Oh, it was nothing; not with the proper treatment, mind you. Of course, if the allopaths were to get their knives into me—but, thank God! I’m out of that galère. Well, in a fortnight, isn’t it? We shall both be in town again. I don’t like saying goodbye.”
And he took both her hands in his.
“It all seems so strange to me still—so strange!” he murmured.
“Next week I shall see mamma’s grave,” said Julie, under her breath. “Shall I put some flowers there for you?”
The fine blue eyes above her wavered. He bent to her.
“Yes. And write to me. Come back soon. Oh, you’ll see. Things will all come right, perfectly right, in spite of Lady Henry.”
Confidence, encouragement, a charming raillery, an enthusiastic tenderness—all these beamed upon her from the old man’s tone and gesture. She was puzzled. But with another pressure of the hand he was gone. She stood looking after him. And as the carriage drove away, the sound of the wheels hurt her. It was the withdrawal of something protecting—something more her own, when all was said, than anything else which remained to her.
As she returned to the drawing-room, Dr. Meredith intercepted her.
“You want me to send you some work to take abroad?” he said, in a low voice. “I shall do nothing of the kind.”
“Why?”
“Because you ought to have a complete holiday.”
“Very well. Then I shan’t be able to pay my way,” she said, with a tired smile.
“Remember the doctor’s bills if you fall ill.”
“Ill! I am never ill,” she said, with scorn. Then she looked round the room deliberately, and her gaze returned to her companion. “I am not likely to be fatigued with society, am I?” she added, in a voice that did not attempt to disguise the bitterness within.
“My dear lady, you are hardly installed.”
“I have been here a month—the critical month. Now was the moment to stand by me, or throw me over—n’est-ce pas? This is my first party, my housewarming. I gave a fortnight’s notice; I asked about sixty people, whom I knew well. Some did not answer at all. Of the rest, half declined—rather curtly, in many instances. And of those who accepted, not all are here. And, oh, how it dragged!”
Meredith looked at her rather guiltily, not knowing what to say. It was true the evening had dragged. In both their minds there rose the memory of Lady Henry’s “Wednesdays,” the beautiful rooms, the varied and brilliant company, the power and consideration which had attended Lady Henry’s companion.
“I suppose,” said Julie, shrugging her shoulders, “I had been thinking of the French maîtresses de salon, like a fool; of Mademoiselle de l’Espinasse—or Madame Mohl—imagining that people would come to me for a cup of tea and an agreeable hour. But in England, it seems, people must be paid to talk. Talk is a business affair—you give it for a consideration.”
“No, no! You’ll build it up,” said Meredith. In
