The Smile of the Stranger (8 page)

“Nay, now
!
” said the voice reprovingly. “Niver waste yourself wi
’
grieving, but put your trust in Him above as has fetched ye here, and holds all in His hand.”

Juliana nodded weakly, as she felt herself laid back on the pillows.

In a dim way, at some distance, she noticed once more the plump ringleted lady, and two pairs of staring eyes behind her.

“How does she go on, Hurdle?”

“Eh, poor little thing, my lady, she
’
s fair wore to a raveling.
‘
Tis early yet to know whether it be but the journey weariness, or whether she
’
ve brought one o
’
they contiguous fevers from furrin parts.”

“Gracious me, Hurdle! A fever? Do you think it possible?”

“Who
’
s to say, my lady? Desperate mortial fevers they do have over yonder—mayhap
‘
twas one o
’
them as fetched poor Master Charles to his end.”

“Lud save me! If you really think that possible—! Girls, leave this room directly! Go and begin putting your things together—order Ringmer to pack your bags without delay. Hurdle, instruct Liphook to have my carriage in readiness to return to Weybridge; we shall leave at noon! I must go and inform Sir Horace immediately—we cannot stay here if my niece is suffering from a putrid fever!
...
Well, girls, what are you waiting for?”

Two complaining voices cried, “Oh, but, Mama, may we not just look at her?”

“And perhaps catch your death from her? Indeed you may not! Do as I bid you!”

Juliana heard the rattle of curtain rings, the soft click of a door closing. She slept.

The next few weeks passed, for Juliana, in a strange confused procession of dream-haunted nights and feverish, restless days. Sometimes she thought she was back in Florence, trying to run home to her father, who needed her badly. But the streets were full of angry strangers, standing in her way, preventing her from passing. Sometimes the tall thin English lady was there, hungry-eyed, calling out in her loud harsh voice, like a bird
’
s shriek, “Where is he? Where have you hidden him? I shall find him yet—and then he will be sorry!”

“No, you will not! You will never find him!” Juliana shouted, and woke herself.

“Now, dearie, you
’
re having the nightmare again,” Mrs. Hurdle
’
s voice would say, and Juliana would find herself sipping a spoonful of medicine, sweet and stupefying.

“Just like Herr Welckers cordial
...”
she murmured. “Oh, I owe him some money! Eight golden guineas, to be sent to Brighton. I promised, I promised
...”

“Never worrit, dearie, we
’
ll see that ye keep your promise. Just you be a good girl now, and go to sleep for old Hurdle.”

Sometimes they were in the coach crossing France and her father was dictating.

“Wait, Papa, wait! I cannot write so fast! I have not all Charles
’
s speech written down yet! Oh, why did he have to make such
long
speeches?”

In her dream, sometimes King Charles and her father were the same person. She would wake shrieking, “No—no! They are cutting Papa
’
s head off! Oh, stop them, stop them!”

“Now, that
’
s enough of that, child!” Hurdle
’
s voice, firm and comforting. “Tis naught but the nasty nightmare. Nobody
’
s head be a-going to be cut off in
these
parts.”

At last the fever receded, and Juliana lay weak, aching in every limb, but whole and calm once more, able to take stock of her situation. She saw for the first time that she occupied a four-post bed, in a large pleasant chamber, with a fireplace oddly set in an angle of the wall, a few pieces of old-fashioned furniture, and two windows looking out at the tops of trees. She was in her grandfather
’
s house, and her father was dead. All her old life lay behind her, and ahead of her was a blank, an empty frightening void. Limp and docile, she allowed herself to be washed, combed, fed, taken up and laid down, but daily gained a little in strength.

At last there came a day when she could pull herself up, to sit against her pillows.

“Ay, that
’
s more like it!” said Mrs. Hurdle encouragingly, giving her a basin of gruel.
“
Now ye
’
re able to feed yourself, we
’
ll soon have ye as plim as a pippin! Swallow that down, my dearie!”

Then, a week later, there came an evening when her grandfather climbed the stairs to visit her.

He was wearing formal evening dress, and stood black as a pillar between Juliana and the fire. His face, she thought, was set in even more rigid lines of disapproval than when she had first laid eyes on him. He cleared his throat.

“Well, child—how do you find yourself going on now,
eh?”

“Much better, sir, I thank you,” Juliana said faintly. “I am sorry to be such a trouble on your household for so long.” She tried to smile. “I am used to look after myself, and after my f-f-f
...
” Her voice failed, and she had to take a breath, but added, “I shall soon be about again, on my feet, and hope to make myself useful in some way.”

“Useful? Humph! What could you do? Females cannot hope to be useful,” he said dryly, more to himself than to her, but then added, as if he meant to do his best to cheer her, “No, no, when you are better, and your cheeks have filled out a bit on Hurdle
’
s gruels—for at present you look like a little starved lapwing—you may post up to town, to your aunt Caroline, who will rig you out in fine feathers, and take you about to all the gaieties. She and those two noddlecocks of hers will soon cheer you up, I daresay.” He turned to the fire muttering to himself. It seemed to Juliana that he said, “And then doubtless you will catch a husband, and then you will be off
my
hands,” but she was not certain of this.

“Sir,” she said, “I thank you—and my aunt Caroline—for the thought, but I do not wish to go up to town.”

“Hey? What
’
s this? Not go up to town? You will do as you re told, miss, and no disputing!”

He wheeled round again, leaning on his cane, and Juliana saw the look that must often have struck dismay into the heart of her father as a boy—a blue, fierce flash of the pale eyes, a grim set of the jaw as he glared at her, thumping his stick on the boards for emphasis.

“Sir,” she protested feebly, “I am still in mourning for my father—who was the best and dearest parent a daughter could hope to have. It is too soon to think of—of fine clothes and gaieties.”

“
Well—well,” he conceded, with a little less severity in his tone, “true, it is early days yet, I acknowledge, to be thinking about town fripperies. Hurdle says you must get your strength back yet awhile. Country food and country air. But what will you do with yourself in this old house? There
’
s naught here to amuse a wench. Only the garden and the forest.
I’ve
no time to entertain ye.” “Or inclination, either,” he muttered to himself.

“Pray do not trouble yourself on that head, sir. I shall find plenty to occupy my days. Firstly, I must make myself some black clothes.”

“No need for that,” he said. “Your aunt Caroline will attend to it—Hurdle gave her your measurements before she went off. Totty-headed woman, with her silly notions about foreign fever—but at least it got rid of her and her two nincompoops five days before the end of their visit! And now Hurdle tells me she
’
s sent down a whole bale of furbelows from some warehouse.”

“That was very kind in my aunt,” Juliana said, somewhat surprised. Kindness had not been the chief impression she had carried away from her two brief glimpses of her aunt Caroline; she had not seemed the kind of person prepared to be so obliging. But most probably the General had given orders for her action. Vaguely wondering who had paid for the clothes, Juliana was reminded of something else.

“Oh, sir, there is a man to whom I owe money. He—he very kindly lent eight guineas to my father and myself when
—
when we were destitute on arrival in England. I have his name and his direction at Brighton, if—”

“Silence, child!” said her grandfather, very pale about the lips. “I do not, at any time, wish to hear
any
details about your father
’
s last months of life—or about your life in Italy
—
or that disastrously ill-considered journey. Any details whatsoever! I do not wish to hear! Had matters been managed otherwise
—h
ad he had the sense to come sooner—he—he might perhaps still be with us. It does not bear thinking of! You will oblige me by never again referring to it. You arrived here, sick, starving, indigent—he, dying—can you expect that I should wish to be reminded of
that
?”

“No, Grandfather,” said Juliana, trembling, “but it is not
—
we were not—”

“Silence, child! Such shame and wretchedness must be forgotten—thought no more of—utterly buried. Do not speak of it again!”

“No, sir—but the debt—”

“You may speak to Clegg, my steward, about it,” he said, turning on his heel. “I will see that he is instructed to present himself when you are able to rise from your bed. He will undertake to discharge the debt.”

“Thank you, sir,” Juliana said, but her grandfather was already out of earshot. And, on the whole, as she lay in bed, turning over the strange, dreamlike details of that last journey in her mind—already they seemed to have receded into a past which lay separated from her by great misty gulfs of distance
—
she began to believe that it was just as well if her grandfather preferred not to know what had happened. So strict and straitlaced as he appeared to be, Juliana could not believe that he would approve of their wild mode of transport—of Herr Welcker, or his balloon—still less of his consignment of tapestries and
pots de chambre.
If Sir Horace chose to imagine that they had come over in a smugglers
’
vessel with a cargo of run brandy, let him continue to do so!

I will ask Clegg to send off the money to Herr Welcker, Juliana thought to herself. He need not put any address in, or say where it comes from; Herr Welcker will guess that soon enough. And, fortunately, he never learned our real name. In any case, it is in the highest degree improbable that I shall ever come across him again.

So thinking, she rolled over, and went peacefully to sleep.

V

About a week after this conversation with her grandfather, Juliana was pronounced well enough to get up in the afternoon for a short spell, and to leave the chamber that she had occupied for so long.

Abigail, one of the maids, a young, round-eyed country girl, helped her dress in some of the clothes that Lady Lambou
rn
had sent down. These, though they were, of course, all in the severest unrelieved black, were far superior in style and material to any that Juliana had ever possessed before: she tried on a silk dress, high-waisted, with a double ruffle running down the front of the skirt, a V-necked bodice with a fichu round the shoulders, and sleeves tight to the arm, ending in a frill round the wrist. It was, however, a very indifferent fit; either Mrs. Hurdle
’
s measurements had been inaccurate, or Lady
Lambourn
had paid very little heed to them; knowing Mrs. Hurdle by now, Juliana was inclined to the latter conclusion. However, calling for a needle and thread, she was able, in the course of an hour
’
s stitching, and much to Abigail
’
s astonishment, to remedy the worst of the deficiencies.

“You are so thin, miss,” said Abigail, hooking the dress over her petticoat at the end of this time. “Mrs. Hurdle says you must eat bread and honey at every meal. There! Now let me just curl your hair into ringlets, and you will look quite the thing.
‘
Tis too bad there
’
s no gentlemen to see ye.”

Juliana, however, had not the slightest wish for gentlemen. As soon as she had been well enough to sit up, she had called for the canvas bag with its oiled silk lining that contained her father
’
s precious manuscript, and, lying weakly in bed, she had beguiled the long hours with reading slowly
through it, marking with faint crosses in pencil at points where she knew that her father, on a second reading, would have been inclined to amend his text in order to avoid repetitions, or to make the style run more smoothly. Now she greatly wished to begin transcribing the book, making a fair copy for the publisher.

“Would you be so kind as to bring this manuscript downstairs, Abigail,” she said. “It is a little heavy for me, still. And I shall be wanting paper, ink, a pen, and a large table where I can do my writing undisturbed.”

“Massy me, missie
!
” gasped Abigail. “You baint niver going to write? Writing be men
’
s work
!
”

“Indeed I am going to write,” said Juliana. “My father wished me to copy out this book for him. It was one of his last requests.”

Large-eyed, Abigail helped her down the stairs and across a stone-paved hall.

“Mrs. Hurdle have had a fine big fire kindled for ye in the drawing room—for Sir Horace niver goes in there, so ye won
’
t fratchet him. But there beant no big table in the drawing room
...
I dunno what
’
s best to do, miss.”

Glancing through an open door as they passed it, Juliana inquired, “What is that room?”

“
’
Tis the library, miss.”

“Does Sir Horace spend much time in there?”

The library appeared just right for her purposes; it had tables, ink, pens, paper, and, no doubt, dictionaries and maps, all of which she would be needing.

“Now-an-now he does, miss, but niver for very long together. Mostly he talks to Mr. Clegg and sees the criminals in the Estate Room.”

“
Criminals
?”

Sir Horace, it appeared, was a justice of the peace, who, since the nearest court was many miles off, mostly interrogated accused persons in his own house. He also spent many hours a day riding over his estate, talking to tenants, inspecting crops, hedges, watercourses, bridges, barns, and livestock; he was a careful and vigilant landlord, and had not exaggerated when he said that he would have no time to spend on his granddaughter. During the hours of daylight he was rarely to be seen within the house, and, when Juliana
’
s request was put to him, he fortunately raised no particular objection to her sitting quie
tl
y writing away at a large table in a
corner
of his library. He, like Abigail, deemed writing no sort of work for women, but, as he said to Clegg, “So as it keeps her out of mischief, she may as well continue. I see no great harm in it; soon enough, when she has her strength back, she will be wishing for livelier employment.”

He displayed not the slightest interest in the work that Juliana was transcribing, and, when she mentioned that it was a book by her father, said impatiently, “Spare me, spare me, child! I had no time for your fathers scribbling—I told him so often enough! Let me hear no more on this subject, pray!”

Juliana, accordingly, said no more, but held her peace, and continued to write undisturbed. Nor did she again attempt to allude to the circumstances of their escape from France.

December, January, and February of a bitter winter passed by. Snow fell, and more snow; sometimes no sound could be heard for hours together, from the big house, but the sigh of wind in branches, or the soft thud as a lump of snow fell from an overweighted bough. Flintwood Manor, though cut off, sometimes for days, was well provisioned, and warmed by massive logs burning in every hearth. Juliana wrote on.

At last in March the cold broke; warm winds melted the last drifts, and snowdrops began to shine where the drifts of snow had lately rested. Sir Horace said to Juliana, “It is time you went to London, child.”

“Why, sir? I have not been plaguing you, have I?”

“No,” he said stiffly, and not with complete truth—he wished very much to have his library to himself again—
“
but you should be with young company. Your aunt Caroline writes that she is hiring a house in Berkeley Square until July; you may as well visit her and go to the Assemblies and ridottos with her gals.”

“But I am in mourning, sir.”

“Time you came out,” he said impatiently. “Three months is enough, at your age. I shall write and tell Caroline to buy you some half-mourning—lavender, gray, such stuff—it
’
s enough to give one a fit of the dismals to see you creeping about all the time like a little black crow.”

Encouraged by what seemed almost a conciliating mood in the General, Juliana wondered if she had courage enough for a question that had been on the tip of her tongue many times in the past months, as they shared awkward, silent repasts, or sat together for the reluctant few minutes that Sir Horace considered it proper to spend with his granddaughter in the evening, until he felt able to excuse himself and go off to take snuff in his Estate Room.

“Sir?”

“Hey? Well? What now? You are wondering who
’
s going to pay for the new clothes? Well, I will send you up with fifty pounds to give to your aunt—that should see you fitted out respectably.”

“No—no, sir, I was not wondering that—though indeed I am not unmindful of your bounty, and most grateful for it.”

“Fustian
!
” he muttered. “What d
’
you expect? Let you go about in rags, hey? Can
’
t depend on much of a bride portion, from me, though, I might as well warn you here and now. So you may tell
that
to any pretendants who come dangling around. You can tell them that your face is your fortune
—
nothing is to be expected from me! D
’
you understand?”

“I would not dream of assuming otherwise,” Juliana said firmly. “In Italy I had expected to be under the necessity of earning my own bread, and I should be happy to do so here likewise.”

“Oh, indeed?” He shot her a sharp look from the cold blue eyes. “And how, pray?”

“I could teach French or Italian; I could do translation work.”

“A fine thing for my granddaughter!”

Juliana did not trouble to point out that his attitude was somewhat inconsistent; she sat calmly with her hands folded in her lap while he pished and pshawed, and finally grumbled,
‘
Well, well! We shall have to see! It is by far the more likely that—but time will show!”

Juliana said, “It was not about money that I was going to ask you, sir—”

“Eh? Well? What
was
it, then?”

“Sir, is my mother still alive, can you tell me?”

The moment these words had left her lips, she was sorry she had uttered them. For one frightful instant she really believed that the General was going to have a seizure. His face turned the most alarming shade of blue-purple, his eyes bulged, his veins knotted, he almost frothed at the mouth.

“Never mention that woman
’
s name in this house!” he spluttered at last. “D
’
ye hear me? D
’
ye hear me?” he roared again, as she stared at him, frozen with astonishment.

“Y-yes, sir!”

“When I think of the harm she did—the trouble she brought—of her utter depravity and rapacity—I can only hope that the harpy has gone to her just deserts—or is starving in a stew!” he declared, and, in much agitation, strode from the room, leaving Juliana to deduce that her mother
was
probably still alive, if the General had no information to the contrary—though how somebody could starve in a stew, she did not perfectly comprehend. However, it seemed plain that further application to the General for news on this subject would be worse than useless, so Juliana put that idea aside.

Another four weeks elapsed before circumstances rendered it convenient for Juliana to be transported to London, and by that time she had her own reasons for wishing to go. In April her aunt
’
s husband, Lord
Lambourn
, who owned a borough nearby, came down to canvass on behalf of a candi
date he was putting up for a parliamentary seat that had fallen vacant, and spent a night at Flintwood on the way back.

Lord Lambourn had two daughters of his own, and was heartily bored by schoolroom chits; he inquired as to how Juliana did, at the outset of his visit, and after that paid no more heed to her, until it was time to ask if she had her box packed and was ready to go.

The General
’
s farewell to his granddaughter was brief and curt.

“Be a good girl, now, miss! Mind what your aunt says, and don
’
t get up to mischief.”

“Goodbye, sir. Th-thank you for all your kindness to me.” She would have liked the courage to embrace him, to say, “Won’t you miss me in the slightest, Grandpapa?” but his aspect was so very repellent, and it was so plain he only wished her to be gone, that the courage failed her. She climbed submissively into the chaise of her uncle, who at once immersed himself in business papers and ignored her. Juliana was not disposed to be resentful at this treatment, for she found Lord Lambourn a very uninteresting man; he was inclined to paunchiness, had a florid complexion and bulbous gray eyes, receding hair, and a loud, self-satisfied voice. He appeared to disapprove of almost everything in the country excepting Mr. Pitt. Juliana remembered some of her father
’
s strictures on the subject of his sister
’
s husband, and agreed with them. She very much preferred to look out of the window at the forest scenery, which gradually changed, as they drove along, first to bare grassy hills, and then to well-watered farmland. They halted briefly at Winchester to change horses, and Juliana would have liked to get out, stretch her legs, and inspect this handsome lively town, with a little river running busily beside its great wide street, but Lord Lambourn said there was no time to be idling about if they were to reach London by evening. They did pause at Fa
rn
ham for a brief nuncheon of cold meat, fruit, and cake, and here Lord Lambourn unbent so
much as to ask Juliana what she thought of England, hey? She replied politely that it seemed very pretty. Indeed, her chief impression was of trimness, prosperity, and extensive cultivation, compared with the ragged poverty of the French countryside through which she had traveled with her father. But how much a more pleasant journey that had been!

Dusk had fallen by the time they reached London, and Juliana, who, for the last hour and a half had been huddled in her corner listening to Lord Lambourn
’
s snores, was heartily glad when at last the horses stood still, and a footman came to open the door and let down the step. Juliana climbed out stiffly, and followed Lord Lambourn up a flight of steps and into a hall that seemed ablaze with candles reflecting lights from a myriad polished surfaces. She glanced around her, blinking in the dazzle. The place seemed to be packed with people and she could hear a babble of voices exclaiming and chattering.

“My dear husband, how do you come to be so late? We have been expecting you this age—remember we go to Almack’s this evening! How did you leave my father? Did he send any messages?”

“Papa, Papa, have you brought us anything, Papa?”

“No, what should I be bringing you from Hampshire?” said Lord Lambourn impatiently. “I have brought your cousin, that is all. Why do you not take her upstairs and make her welcome?”

Juliana, her eyes becoming accustomed to the bright light, now recognized her plump aunt Caroline, who gave her a scented, inattentive kiss, and said, “Dear me, child, I daresay you will be quite fagged out from the journey. I trust you are quite recovered from your indisposition and that there are no contagious aftereffects? Girls, why do you not take your cousin Juliana upstairs and see her bestowed. You had best tell Partridge to help her with her dressing, and remind her not to loiter. We dine at seven, Juliana.”

This late hour somewhat startled Juliana, accustomed to her grandfather
’
s country habit of dining at four, but she was hungry, and glad of the prospect of a meal.

Her cousins accompanied her upstairs, talking volubly.

“La
!
So you are taller than us. Who would have guessed it? When you was laid down in a faint you looked so much smaller! Partridge will be surprised, she said she dared say you would be small, being as you grew up in Italy, where they eat nothing but grapes and fish and macaroni.”

“Well, that is hardly true,” said Juliana, laughing. “They do have other things to eat—”

“Partridge said you very likely would not speak English correctly—”

“Or have any accomplishments—”

“Can you play any instrument?”

“Do you know how to dance the gavotte, cousin Juliana?”

Both talking together, the two girls led her into a smallish room on the third floor, which was to be hers, it seemed. There Juliana was able to take stock of her cousins, and now she understood the strangely nightmarish impression she had received of them when she was barely conscious. For they were as alike as two peas—freckled, stocky, bony girls, with light-brown hair, sandy eyelashes, their father
’
s protuberant gray eyes, and also, alas, extremely prominent, irregular teeth, which seemed to show from ear to ear when they laughed, which they did a great deal. They were dressed very fine, in embroidered gowns of Spitalfields silk, which did nothing to ameliorate their plain looks.

“You are twins!” said Juliana. “How shall I ever tell you apart?”

“Nobody can—only our maid, Partridge. I am Fanny,” said one of them.

“And I am Kitty,” said the other.

“I shall be able to tell you” said Juliana, whose quick eyes had detected a difference. “Your little finger is slightly crooked.”

“Very few people notice that,” said Kitty, not pleased.

“Does your hair curl naturally?” said Fanny.

“How tall are you?” said Kitty.

“Did you have any beaux in Italy, cousin Juliana?”

“Were you not bored to death, all alone at my grandfather
’
s? La, he’s a sad old stick! I was never so pleased as when Ma said we was to pack up and go, for fear of catching your contagion. He does nothing but bawl at us and scowl at us.”

“Lord, cousin, how thin your wrists are!” cried Kitty.

At this moment a tall, thin, sour-visaged female came into the room, who said, “You’d best leave Miss, now, young ladies, while I help her to dress, or you ma will be displeased. You know how much your pa dislikes unpunctuality. Come, miss, make haste,” she added, and bestowed a somewhat frowning glance upon Juliana, who immediately said, “Thank you, but I am very well accustomed to dress myself.”

However, Pa
r
tridge the maid insisted on helping her into an extremely ugly, overtrimmed, and ill-fitting dress of white muslin with lavender ribbons that lay ready waiting for her. Juliana could think of half a dozen things that could be done to improve the dress, but there was no time to do anything but scramble into it.

She felt herself at a loss to account for Partridge’s manner of scowling disapproval, unless it was that she felt herself put upon at having a third young lady to look after.

As soon as Juliana’s hair was arranged, and her sleeves buttoned, she thanked Partridge, and ran down the stairs to the saloon on the first floor, where she had been told the family assembled.

She found them all there waiting—her cousins, her aunt, Lord Lambourn, who had changed into evening dress with knee breeches, and an elderly lady with a hooked nose, a very high-colored complexion, hair dressed with feathers, and a somewhat old-fashioned gown with panniers and a sacque, who at once inspected Juliana through a quizzing glass and remarked, “So that’s the gal, Caroline? Lord, I thought you said she was a plain-looking starved little piece. Why, she’s as pretty as a picture—she’ll mighty soon cast your two into the shade
!
If she were better dressed, there’d be no holding a candle to her!”

Looking extremely irritated, Lady Lambourn made haste to cut short his comment by saying, “Cousin Honoria, let me introduce my niece Juliana. Juliana, this is your uncle’s cousin, Miss Ardingly.”

“I am happy to make your acquaintance, ma’am,” Juliana said, curtsying.

“Well, well?” exclaimed Lord Lambourn impatiently. “Why does not that fool Fitton announce dinner? I am so hungry that I could eat an ox.”

During dinner two things became perfectly apparent to Juliana. One was that her aunt had received her only with the greatest reluctance, almost certainly due to pressure from Sir Horace; it was very plain that, left to herself, she would never have bestirred herself in the matter. And it was also evident that Miss Kitty and Miss Fanny were not in the least gratified to have their cousin’s company inflicted on them; as they sat eating their dinner they cast looks at Juliana that were full of ill-concealed hostility. She felt very forlorn, and heartily wished herself at Flintwood again, where, if not exactly welcome, she was at least left in peace, and was not the target of direct animosity.

After dinner the ladies prepared themselves to go to Almack’s Assembly Rooms.

Juliana begged to be excused, pleading the fatigue of the journey.

“Lord!” cried Kitty, staring. “Why don’t you want to go? There’s beaux and dancing, and Ma has procured you a voucher from Lady Jersey—you’ll never catch yourself a husband if you stay at home and mope!”

“La, sister, if our cousin don’t choose to come along, do not tease her to do so!” cried Fanny.

“Quiet, girls!” cried their mother, giving them a quelling look. “Catherine, I do not like to hear you speak in that vulgar ma
nn
er
... Well, Juliana, if you do not wish to go I suppose you must stay at home, though it does not show a very becoming spirit of gratitude in you.”

“Another night, ma’am—” faltered Juliana. “Another night I shall be most happy to accompany you.”

“Oh, very well
!
Come, girls—come, cousin Honoria”—and the ladies departed with Lord Lambourn, who, Juliana gathered, would do no more than escort them to Almack’s and would then repair to his club, White’s, where he proposed to spend the rest of the evening. Juliana was therefore left to her own devices. She discovered a harpsichord in the saloon and spent some time playing it with pleasure, for she had taken lessons from a music professor in Florence; then she went up to her room and put in two hours’ work on the lavender-and-white dress; then, feeling more homesick for Italy than she had for several months past, she retired to bed.

Next morning she found herself alone in the breakfast parlor with Miss Ardingly; the other ladies were still sleeping after a late night, it seemed.

Miss Ardingly, after again thoroughly scrutinizing Juliana through her glass, at once opened fire: “So, miss, you have come to London to catch yourself a husband, hey?”

“I do not know if that was my grandfather
’
s intention for me, ma’am,” replied Juliana, helping herself to chocolate, “but it certainly was not mine.
”

“What was your intention, then, child, in heaven’s name?” The old lady’s tones, though brisk, seemed not unfriendly, and Juliana replied, “My purpose was twofold, ma’am. I wished to deposit my father’s last work at his publishers’—and I was in hopes of finding myself some congenial remunerative occupation, since I do not at all wish to be a charge upon my relatives.”

“Hey-dey
!
What kind of remunerative occupation could a gel like yourself find to do, pray? No—no—take my word for it, that is not to be thought of. In any case, now that I see you I am certain that Caroline will not have the slightest difficulty in making a good match for you—despite all that old tale about your mother! Nobody will give a rush for that. I daresay it will be best for Caroline to marry you off directly, so as to get you off her hands—for sure she won
’
t wish to take you about for longer than she can help it alongside those two plain wenches of hers, showing up all their imperfections
!
”

And the old lady let out a malicious cackle.

Startled and dismayed at this sharp estimate of her situation, Juliana nevertheless felt her curiosity aroused by one part of Miss Ardingly’s remark.

“Pray, ma’am, what was the tale about my mother? What did she do? And—and where is she now? My grandfather will tell me nothing on the subject—and nor would my father. He promised to do so before he died—but then—but then—” Juliana was obliged to come to a stop.