Lady Rose's Daughter Part 72

On the way down she saw another figure emerge from the dark.

"Lady Blanche!"

Lady Blanche stood still.

"The hotel was stifling," she said, in a voice that vainly tried for steadiness.

Julie perceived that she had been weeping.

"Aileen is asleep?"

"Perhaps. They have given her something to make her sleep."

They walked on towards the hotel.

Julie hesitated.

"She was not disappointed?" she said, at last, in a low voice.

"No!" said the mother, sharply. "But one knew, of course, there must be letters for her. Thank G.o.d, she can feel that his very last thought was for her! The letters which have reached her are dated the day before the fatal attack began--giving a complete account of his march--most interesting--showing how he trusted her already--though she is such a child. It will tranquillize her to feel how completely she possessed his heart--poor fellow!"

Julie said nothing, and Lady Blanche, with bitter satisfaction, felt rather than saw what seemed to her the just humiliation expressed in the drooping and black-veiled figure beside her.

Next day there was once more a tinge of color on Aileen's cheeks. Her beautiful hair fell round her once more in a soft life and confusion, and the roses which her mother had placed beside her on the bed were not in too pitiful contrast with her frail loveliness.

"Read it, please," she said, as soon as she found herself alone with Julie, pus.h.i.+ng her letter tenderly towards her. "He tells me everything--everything! All he was doing and hoping--consults me in everything. Isn't it an honor--when I'm so ignorant and childish? I'll try to be brave--try to be worthy--"

And while her whole frame was shaken with deep, silent sobs, she greedily watched Julie read the letter.

"Oughtn't I to try and live," she said, das.h.i.+ng away her tears, as Julie returned it, "when he loved me so?"

Julie kissed her with a pa.s.sionate and guilty pity. The letter might have been written to any friend, to any charming child for whom a much older man had a kindness. It gave a business-like account of their march, dilated on one or two points of policy, drew some humorous sketches of his companions, and concluded with a few affectionate and playful sentences.

But when the wrestle with death began, Warkworth wrote but one last letter, uttered but one cry of the heart, and it lay now in Julie's bosom.

A few days pa.s.sed. Delafield's letters were short and full of sadness.

Elmira still lived; but any day or hour might see the end. As for the father--But the subject was too tragic to be written of, even to her.

Not to feel, not to realize; there lay the only chance of keeping one's own courage, and so of being any help whatever to two of the most miserable of human beings.

At last, rather more than a week after Delafield's departure, came two telegrams. One was from Delafield--"Mervyn died this morning.

Duke's condition causes great anxiety." The other from Evelyn Crowborough--"Elmira died this morning. Going down to Shrops.h.i.+re to help Jacob."

Julie threw down the telegrams. A rush of proud tears came to her eyes.

She swept to the door of her room, opened it, and called her maid.

The maid came, and when she saw the sparkling looks and strained bearing of her mistress, wondered what crime she was to be rebuked for. Julie merely bade her pack at once, as it was her intention to catch the eight o'clock through train at Lausanne that night for England.

Twenty hours later the train carrying Julie to London entered Victoria Station. On the platform stood the little d.u.c.h.ess, impatiently expectant. Julie was clasped in her arms, and had no time to wonder at the pallor and distraction of her friend before she was hurried into the brougham waiting beyond the train.

"Oh, Julie!" cried the d.u.c.h.ess, catching the traveller's hands, as they drove away. "Julie, darling!"

Julie turned to her in amazement. The blue eyes fixed upon her had no tears, but in them, and in the d.u.c.h.ess's whole aspect, was expressed a vivid horror and agitation which struck at Julie's heart.

"What is it?" she said, catching her breath. "What is it?"

"Julie, I was going to Faircourt this morning. First your telegram stopped me. I thought I'd wait and go with you. Then came another, from Delafield. The Duke! The poor Duke!"

Julie's att.i.tude changed unconsciously--instantly.

"Yes; tell me!"

"It's in all the papers to-night--on the placards--don't look out!" And the d.u.c.h.ess lifted her hand and drew down the blinds of the brougham.

"He was in a most anxious state yesterday, but they thought him calmer at night, and he insisted on being left alone. The doctors still kept a watch, but he managed in some mysterious way to evade them all, and this morning he was missed. After two hours they found him--in the river that runs below the house!"

There was a silence.

"And Jacob?" said Julie, hoa.r.s.ely.

"That's what I'm so anxious about," exclaimed the d.u.c.h.ess. "Oh, I am thankful you've come! You know how Jacob's always felt about the Duke and Mervyn--how he's hated the notion of succeeding. And Susan, who went down yesterday, telegraphed to me last night--before this horror--that he was 'terribly strained and overwrought.'"

"Succeeding?" said Julie, vaguely. Mechanically she had drawn up the blind again, and her eyes followed the dingy lines of the Vauxhall Bridge Road, till suddenly they turned away from the placards outside a small stationer's shop which announced: "Tragic death of the Duke of Chudleigh and his son."

The d.u.c.h.ess looked at her curiously without replying. Julie seemed to be grappling with some idea which escaped her, or, rather, was presently expelled by one more urgent.

"Is Jacob ill?" she said, abruptly, looking her companion full in the face.

"I only know what I've told you. Susan says 'strained and overwrought.'

Oh, it'll be all right when he gets you!"

Julie made no reply. She sat motionless, and the d.u.c.h.ess, stealing another glance at her, must needs, even in this tragic turmoil, allow herself the reflection that she was a more delicate study in black-and-white, a more refined and accented personality than ever.

"You won't mind," said Evelyn, timidly, after a pause; "but Lady Henry is staying with me, and also Sir Wilfrid Bury, who had such a bad cold in his lodgings that I went down there a week ago, got the doctor's leave, and carried him off there and then. And Mr. Montresor's coming in. He particularly wanted, he said, just to press your hand. But they sha'n't bother you if you're tired. Our train goes at 10.10, and Freddie has got the express stopped for us at Westonport--about three in the morning."

The carriage rolled into Grosvenor Square, and presently stopped before Crowborough House. Julie alighted, looked round her at the July green of the square, at the brightness of the window-boxes, and then at the groom of the chambers who was taking her wraps from her--the same man who, in the old days, used to feed Lady Henry's dogs with sweet biscuit. It struck her that he was showing her a very particular and eager attention.

Meanwhile in the d.u.c.h.ess's drawing--room a little knot of people was gathered--Lady Henry, Sir Wilfrid Bury, and Dr. Meredith. Their demeanor ill.u.s.trated both the subduing and the exciting influence of great events. Lady Henry was more talkative than usual. Sir Wilfrid more silent.

Lady Henry seemed to have profited by her stay at Torquay. As she sat upright in a stiff chair, her hands resting on her stick, she presented her characteristic aspect of English solidity, crossed by a certain free and foreign animation. She had been already wrangling with Sir Wilfrid, and giving her opinion freely on the "socialistic" views on rank and property attributed to Jacob Delafield. "If _he_ can't digest the cake, that doesn't mean it isn't good," had been her last impatient remark, when Sir Wilfrid interrupted her.

"Only a few minutes more," he said, looking at his watch. "Now, then, what line do we take? How much is our friend likely to know?"