Lady Rose's Daughter Part 26

But the Duke merely expanded, as it seemed, still further--to his utmost height and bulk. "Oh, dear," thought the d.u.c.h.ess, in despair, "now he is going to be like his mother!" Her strictly Evangelical mother-in-law, with whom the Duke had made his bachelor home for many years, had been the scourge of her early married life; and though for Freddie's sake she had shed a few tears over her death, eighteen months before this date, the tears--as indeed the Duke had thought at the time--had been only too quickly dried.

There could be no question about it, the Duke was painfully like his mother as he replied:

"I fear that your education, Evelyn, has led you to take such things far more lightly than you ought. I am old-fas.h.i.+oned. Illegitimacy with me _does_ carry a stigma, and the sins of the fathers _are_ visited upon the children. At any rate, we who occupy a prominent social place have no right to do anything which may lead others to think lightly of G.o.d's law. I am sorry to speak plainly, Evelyn. I dare say you don't like these sentiments, but you know, at least, that I am quite honest in expressing them."

The Duke turned to her, not without dignity. He was and had been from his boyhood a person of irreproachable morals--earnest and religious according to his lights, a good son, husband, and father. His wife looked at him with mingled feelings.

"Well, all I know is," she said, pa.s.sionately beating her little foot on the carpet before her, "that, by all accounts, the only thing to do with Colonel Delaney was to run away from him."

The Duke shrugged his shoulders.

"You don't expect me to be much moved by a remark of that kind? As to this lady, your story does not affect me in her favor in the smallest degree. She has had her education; Lord Lackington gives her one hundred pounds a year; if she is a self-respecting woman she will look after herself. I _don't_ want to have her here, and I beg you won't invite her. A couple of nights, perhaps--I don't mind that--but not for longer."

"Oh, as to that, you may be very sure she won't stay here unless you're very particularly nice to her. There'll be plenty of people glad--enchanted--to have her! I don't care about that, but what I _do_ want is"--the d.u.c.h.ess looked up with calm audacity--"that you should find her a house."

The Duke paused in his walk and surveyed his wife with amazement.

"Evelyn, are you _quite_ mad?"

"Not in the least. You have more houses than you know what to do with, and a _great_ deal more money than anybody in the world ought to have.

If they ever do set up the guillotine at Hyde Park Corner, we shall be among the first--we ought to be!"

"What is the good of talking nonsense like this, Evelyn?" said the Duke, once more consulting his watch. "Let's go back to the subject of my letter to Lady Henry."

"It's most excellent sense!" cried the d.u.c.h.ess, springing up. "You _have_ more houses than you know what to do with; and you have one house in particular--that little place at the back of Cureton Street where Cousin Mary Leicester lived so long--which is in your hands still, I know, for you told me so last week--which is vacant and furnished--Cousin Mary left you the furniture, as if we hadn't got enough!--and it would be the _very_ thing for Julie, if only you'd lend it to her till she can turn round."

The d.u.c.h.ess was now standing up, confronting her lord, her hands grasping the chair behind her, her small form alive with eagerness and the feminine determination to get her own way, by fair means or foul.

"Cureton Street!" said the Duke, almost at the end of his tether. "And how do you propose that this young woman is to live--in Cureton Street, or anywhere else?"

"She means to write," said the d.u.c.h.ess, shortly. "Dr. Meredith has promised her work."

"Sheer lunacy! In six months time you'd have to step in and pay all her bills."

"I should like to see anybody dare to propose to Julie to pay her bills!" cried the d.u.c.h.ess, with scorn. "You see, the great pity is, Freddie, that you don't know anything at all about her. But that house--wasn't it made out of a stable? It has got six rooms, I know--three bedrooms up-stairs, and two sitting-rooms and a kitchen below. With one good maid and a boy Julie could be perfectly comfortable. She would earn four hundred pounds--Dr. Meredith has promised her--she has one hundred pounds a year of her own. She would pay no rent, of course. She would have just enough to live on, poor, dear thing! And she would be able to gather her old friends round her when she wanted them. A cup of tea and her delightful conversation--that's all they'd ever want."

"Oh, go on--go on!" said the Duke, throwing himself exasperated into an arm-chair; "the ease with which you dispose of my property on behalf of a young woman who has caused me most acute annoyance, who has embroiled us with a near relation for whom I have a very particular respect! _Her friends_, indeed! Lady Henry's friends, you mean. Poor Lady Henry tells me in this letter that her circle will be completely scattered. This mischievous woman in three years has destroyed what it has taken Lady Henry nearly thirty to build up. Now look here, Evelyn"--the Duke sat up and slapped his knee--"as to this Cureton Street plan, I will do nothing of the kind. You may have Miss Le Breton here for two or three nights if you like--I shall probably go down to the country--and, of course, I have no objection to make if you wish to help her find another situation--"

"Another situation!" cried the d.u.c.h.ess, beside herself. "Freddie, you really are impossible! Do you understand that I regard Julie Le Breton as _my relation_, whatever you may say--that I love her dearly--that there are fifty people with money and influence ready to help her if you won't, because she is one of the most charming and distinguished women in London--that you ought to be _proud_ to do her a service--that I want you to have the _honor_ of it--there! And if you won't do this little favor for me--when I ask and beg it of you--I'll make you remember it for a very long time to come--you may be sure of that!"

And his wife turned upon him as an image of war, her fair hair ruffling about her ears, her cheeks and eyes brilliant with anger--and something more.

The Duke rose in silent ferocity and sought for some letters which he had left on the mantel-piece.

"I had better leave you to come to your senses by yourself, and as quickly as possible," he said, as he put them into his pockets. "No good can come of any more discussion of this sort."

The d.u.c.h.ess said nothing. She looked out of the window busily, and bit her lip. Her silence served her better than her speech, for suddenly the Duke looked round, hesitated, threw down a book he carried, walked up to her, and took her in his arms.

"You are a very foolish child," he declared, as he held her by main force and kissed away her tears. "You make me lose my temper--and waste my time--for nothing."

"Not at all," said the sobbing d.u.c.h.ess, trying to push herself away, and denying him, as best she could, her soft, flushed face. "You don't, or you won't, understand! I was--I was very fond of Uncle George Chantrey.

_He_ would have helped Julie if he were alive. And as for you, you're Lord Lackington's G.o.dson, and you're always preaching what he's done for the army, and what the nation owes him--and--and--"

"Does he know?" said the Duke, abruptly, marvelling at the irrelevance of these remarks.

"No, not a word. Only six people in London know--Aunt Flora, Sir Wilfrid Bury"--the Duke made an exclamation--"Mr. Montresor, Jacob, you, and I."

"Jacob!" said the Duke. "What's he got to do with it?"

The d.u.c.h.ess suddenly saw her opportunity, and rushed upon it.

"Only that he's madly in love with her, that's all. And, to my knowledge, she has refused him both last year and this. Of course, naturally, if you won't do anything to help her, she'll probably marry him--simply as a way out."

"Well, of all the extraordinary affairs!"

The Duke released her, and stood bewildered. The d.u.c.h.ess watched him in some excitement. He was about to speak, when there was a sound in the anteroom. They moved hastily apart. The door was thrown open, and the footman announced, "Miss Le Breton."

Julie Le Breton entered, and stood a moment on the threshold, looking, not in embarra.s.sment, but with a certain hesitation, at the two persons whose conversation she had disturbed. She was pale with sleeplessness; her look was sad and weary. But never had she been more composed, more elegant. Her closely fitting black cloth dress; her strangely expressive face, framed by a large hat, very simple, but worn as only the woman of fas.h.i.+on knows how; her miraculous yet most graceful slenderness; the delicacy of her hands; the natural dignity of her movements--these things produced an immediate, though, no doubt, conflicting impression upon the gentleman who had just been denouncing her. He bowed, with an involuntary deference which he had not at all meant to show to Lady Henry's insubordinate companion, and then stood frowning.

But the d.u.c.h.ess ran forward, and, quite heedless of her husband, threw herself into her friend's arms.

"Oh, Julie, is there anything left of you? I hardly slept a wink for thinking of you. What did that old--oh, I forgot--do you know my husband? Freddie, this is my _great_ friend, Miss Le Breton."

The Duke bowed again, silently. Julie looked at him, and then, still holding the d.u.c.h.ess by the hand, she approached him, a pair of very fine and pleading eyes fixed upon his face.

"You have probably heard from Lady Henry, have you not?" she said, addressing him. "In a note I had from her this morning she told me she had written to you. I could not help coming to-day, because Evelyn has been so kind. But--is it your wish that I should come here?"

The Christian name slipped out unawares, and the Duke winced at it. The likeness to Lord Lackington--it was certainly astonis.h.i.+ng. There ran through his mind the memory of a visit paid long ago to his early home by Lord Lackington and two daughters, Rose and Blanche. He, the Duke, had then been a boy home from school. The two girls, one five or six years older than the other, had been the life and charm of the party. He remembered hunting with Lady Rose.

But the confusion in his mind had somehow to be mastered, and he made an effort.

"I shall be glad if my wife is able to be of any a.s.sistance to you, Miss Le Breton," he said, coldly; "but it would not be honest if I were to conceal my opinion--so far as I have been able to form it--that Lady Henry has great and just cause of complaint."

"You are quite right--quite right," said Julie, almost with eagerness.

"She has, indeed."

The Duke was taken by surprise. Imperious as he was, and stiffened by a good many of those petty prides which the spoiled children of the world escape so hardly, he found himself hesitating--groping for his words.

The d.u.c.h.ess meanwhile drew Julie impulsively towards a chair.

"Do sit down. You look so tired."

But Julie's gaze was still bent upon the Duke. She restrained her friend's eager hand, and the Duke collected himself. _He_ brought a chair, and Julie seated herself.

"I am deeply, deeply distressed about Lady Henry," she said, in a low voice, by which the Duke felt himself most unwillingly penetrated. "I don't--oh no, indeed, I don't defend last night. Only--my position has been very difficult lately. I wanted very much to see the d.u.c.h.ess--and--it was natural--wasn't it?--that the old friends should like to be personally informed about Lady Henry's illness? But, of course, they stayed too long; it was my fault--I ought to have prevented it."