Lady Rose's Daughter Part 27

She paused. This stern-looking man, who stood with his back to the mantel-piece regarding her, Philistine though he was, had yet a straight, disinterested air, from which she shrank a little. Honestly, she would have liked to tell him the truth. But how could she? She did her best, and her account certainly was no more untrue than scores of narratives of social incident which issue every day from lips the most respected and the most veracious. As for the d.u.c.h.ess, she thought it the height of candor and generosity. The only thing she could have wished, perhaps, in her inmost heart, was that she had _not_ found Julie alone with Harry Warkworth. But her loyal lips would have suffered torments rather than accuse or betray her friend.

The Duke meanwhile went through various phases of opinion as Julie laid her story before him. Perhaps he was chiefly affected by the tone of quiet independence--as from equal to equal--in which she addressed him.

His wife's cousin by marriage; the granddaughter of an old and intimate friend of his own family; the daughter of a man known at one time throughout Europe, and himself amply well born--all these facts, warm, living, and still efficacious, stood, as it were, behind this manner of hers, prompting and endorsing it. But, good Heavens! was illegitimacy to be as legitimacy?--to carry with it no stains and penalties? Was vice to be virtue, or as good? The Duke rebelled.

"It is a most unfortunate affair, of that there can be no doubt," he said, after a moment's silence, when Julie had brought her story to an end; and then, more sternly, "I shall certainly apologize for my wife's share in it."

"Lady Henry won't be angry with the d.u.c.h.ess long," said Julie Le Breton.

"As for me"--her voice sank--"my letter this morning was returned to me unopened."

There was an uncomfortable pause; then Julie resumed, in another tone:

"But what I am now chiefly anxious to discuss is, how can we save Lady Henry from any further pain or annoyance? She once said to me in a fit of anger that if I left her in consequence of a quarrel, and any of her old friends sided with me, she would never see them again."

"I know," said the Duke, sharply. "Her salon will break up. She already foresees it."

"But why?--why?" cried Julie, in a most becoming distress. "Somehow, we must prevent it. Unfortunately I must live in London. I have the offer of work here--journalist's work which cannot be done in the country or abroad. But I would do all I could to s.h.i.+eld Lady Henry."

"What about Mr. Montresor?" said the Duke, abruptly. Montresor had been the well-known Chateaubriand to Lady Henry's Madame Recamier for more than a generation.

Julie turned to him with eagerness.

"Mr. Montresor wrote to me early this morning. The letter reached me at breakfast. In Mrs. Montresor's name and his own, he asked me to stay with them till my plans developed. He--he was kind enough to say he felt himself partly responsible for last night."

"And you replied?" The Duke eyed her keenly.

Julie sighed and looked down.

"I begged him not to think any more of me in the matter, but to write at once to Lady Henry. I hope he has done so."

"And so you refused--excuse these questions--Mrs. Montresor's invitation?"

The working of the Duke's mind was revealed in his drawn and puzzled brows.

"Certainly." The speaker looked at him with surprise. "Lady Henry would never have forgiven that. It could not be thought of. Lord Lackington also"--but her voice wavered.

"Yes?" said the d.u.c.h.ess, eagerly, throwing herself on a stool at Julie's feet and looking up into her face.

"He, too, has written to me. He wants to help me. But--I can't let him."

The words ended in a whisper. She leaned back in her chair, and put her handkerchief to her eyes. It was very quietly done, and very touching.

The d.u.c.h.ess threw a lightning glance at her husband; and then, possessing herself of one of Julie's hands, she kissed it and murmured over it.

"Was there ever such a situation?" thought the Duke, much shaken. "And she has already, if Evelyn is to be believed, refused the chance--the practical certainty--of being d.u.c.h.ess of Chudleigh!"

He was a man with whom a _gran rifiuto_ of this kind weighed heavily.

His moral sense exacted such things rather of other people than himself.

But, when made, he could appreciate them.

After a few turns up and down the room, he walked up to the two women.

"Miss Le Breton," he said, in a far more hurried tone than was usual to him, "I cannot approve--and Evelyn ought not to approve--of much that has taken place during your residence with Lady Henry. But I understand that your post was not an easy one, and I recognize the forbearance of your present att.i.tude. Evelyn is much distressed about it all. On the understanding that you will do what you can to soften this breach for Lady Henry, I shall be, glad if you will allow me to come partially to your a.s.sistance."

Julie looked up gravely, her eyebrows lifting. The Duke found himself reddening as he went on.

"I have a little house near here--a little furnished house--Evelyn will explain to you. It happens to be vacant. If you will accept a loan of it, say for six months"--the d.u.c.h.ess frowned--"you will give me pleasure. I will explain my action to Lady Henry, and endeavor to soften her feelings."

He paused. Miss Le Breton's face was grateful, touched with emotion, but more than hesitating.

"You are very good. But I have no claim upon you at all. And I can support myself."

A touch of haughtiness slipped into her manner as she gently rose to her feet. "Thank G.o.d, I did not offer her money!" thought the Duke, strangely perturbed.

"Julie, dear Julie," implored the d.u.c.h.ess. "It's such a tiny little place, and it is quite musty for want of living in. n.o.body has set foot in it but the caretaker for two years, and it would be really a kindness to us to go and live there--wouldn't it, Freddie? And there's all the furniture just as it was, down to the bellows and the snuffers. If you'd only use it and take care of it; Freddie hasn't liked to sell it, because it's all old family stuff, and he was very fond of Cousin Mary Leicester. Oh, do say yes, Julie! They shall light the fires, and I'll send in a few sheets and things, and you'll feel as though you'd been there for years. Do, Julie!"

Julie shook her head.

"I came here," she said, in a voice that was still unsteady, "to ask for advice, not favors. But it's very good of you."

And with trembling fingers she began to refasten her veil.

"Julie!--where are you going?" cried the d.u.c.h.ess "You're staying here."

"Staying here?" said Julie, turning round upon her. "Do you think I should be a burden upon you, or any one?"

"But, Julie, you told Jacob you would come."

"I have come. I wanted your sympathy, and your counsel. I wished also to confess myself to the Duke, and to point out to him how matters could be made easier for Lady Henry."

The penitent, yet dignified, sadness of her manner and voice completed the discomfiture--the temporary discomfiture--of the Duke.

"Miss Le Breton," he said, abruptly, coming to stand beside her, "I remember your mother."

Julie's eyes filled. Her hand still held her veil, but it paused in its task.

"I was a small school-boy when she stayed with us," resumed the Duke.

"She was a beautiful girl. She let me go out hunting with her. She was very kind to me, and I thought her a kind of G.o.ddess. When I first heard her story, years afterwards, it shocked me awfully. For her sake, accept my offer. I don't think lightly of such actions as your mother's--not at all. But I can't bear to think of her daughter alone and friendless in London."

Yet even as he spoke he seemed to be listening to another person. He did not himself understand the feelings which animated him, nor the strength with which his recollections of Lady Rose had suddenly invaded him.

Julie leaned her arms on the mantel-piece, and hid her face. She had turned her back to them, and they saw that she was crying softly.

The d.u.c.h.ess crept up to her and wound her arms round her.

"You will, Julie!--you will! Lady Henry has turned you out-of-doors at a moment's notice. And it was a great deal my fault. You _must_ let us help you!"

Julie did not answer, but, partially disengaging herself, and without looking at him, she held out her hand to the Duke.

He pressed it with a cordiality that amazed him.