CHAPTER XII
JULIA
It is certain that if Sir George Soane had borne any other name, thegirl, after the conversation which had taken place between them on thedingy staircase at Oxford, must have hated him. There is a kind ofcondescension from man to woman, in which the man says, 'My good girl,not for me--but do take care of yourself,' which a woman of the leastpride finds to be of all modes of treatment the most shameful and themost humiliating. The masterful overtures of such a lover as Dunborough,who would take all by storm, are still natural, though they lackrespect; a woman would be courted, and sometimes would be courted in theold rough fashion. But, for the other mode of treatment, she may be aGrizel, or as patient--a short course of that will sharpen not only hertongue, but her fingernails.
Yet this, or something like it, Julia, who was far from being the mostpatient woman in the world, had suffered at Sir George's hands;believing at the time that he was some one else, or, rather, beingignorant then and for just an hour afterwards that such a person as SirGeorge Soane existed. Enlightened on this point and on some othersconnected with it (which a sagacious reader may divine for himself) thegirl's first feeling in face of the astonishing future opening beforeher had been one of spiteful exultation. She hated him, and he wouldsuffer. She hated him with all her heart and strength, and he wouldsuffer. There were balm and sweet satisfaction in the thought.
But presently, dwelling on the matter, she began to relent. The verycompleteness of the revenge which she had in prospect robbed her of hersatisfaction. The man was so dependent on her, so deeply indebted toher, must suffer so much by reason of her, that the maternal instinct,which is said to be developed even in half-grown girls, took him underits protection; and when that scene occurred in the public room of theCastle Inn and he stood forward to shield her (albeit in an arrogant,careless, half-insolent way that must have wounded her in othercircumstances), she was not content to forgive him only--with a smile;but long after her companion had fallen asleep, Julia sat brooding overthe fire, her arms clasped about her knees; now reading the embers withparted lips and shining eyes, and now sighing gently--for 'la femmepropose, mais Dieu dispose.' And nothing is certain.
After this, it may not have been pure accident that cast her in SirGeorge's way when he strolled out of the house next morning. A coach hadcome in, and was changing horses before the porch. The passengers weremoving to and fro before the house, grooms and horse-boys were shoutingand hissing, the guard was throwing out parcels. Soane passed throughthe bustle, and, strolling to the end of the High Street, saw the girlseated on a low parapet of the bridge that, near the end of the inngardens, carries the Salisbury road over the Kennet. She wore a plainriding-coat, such as ladies then affected when they travelled and wouldavoid their hoops and patches. A little hood covered her hair, which,undressed and unpowdered, hung in a club behind; and she held up a plainfan between her complexion and the sun.
Her seat, though quiet and remote from the bustle--for the Salisburyroad is the less frequented of the two roads--was in view of the gatesleading to the Inn; and her extreme beauty, which was that of expressionas well as feature, made her a mark for a dozen furtive eyes, of whichshe affected to be unconscious. But as soon as Sir George's gaze fell onher, her look met his frankly and she smiled; and then again her eyesdropped and studied the road before her, and she blushed in a way Soanefound enchanting. He had been going into the town, but he turned andwent to her and sat down on the bridge beside her, almost with the airof an old acquaintance. He opened the conversation by saying that it wasa prodigious fine day; she agreed. That the Downs were uncommonlyhealthy; she said the same. And then there was silence.
'Well?' he said after a while; and he looked at her.
'Well?' she answered in the same tone. And she looked at him over theedge of her fan, her eyes laughing.
'How did you sleep, child?' he asked; while he thought, 'Lord! Howhandsome she is!'
'Perfectly, sir,' she answered, 'thanks to your excellency's kindness.'
Her voice as well as her eyes laughed. He stared at her, wondering atthe change in her. 'You are lively this morning,' he said.
'I cannot say the same of you, Sir George,' she answered. 'When you cameout, and before you saw me, your face was as long as a coach-horse's.'
Sir George winced. He knew where his thoughts had been. 'That was beforeI saw you, child,' he said. 'In your company--'
'You are scarcely more lively,' she answered saucily. 'Do you flatteryourself that you are?'
Sir George was astonished. He was aware that the girl lacked neither witnor quickness; but hitherto he had found her passionate at one time,difficult and _farouche_ at another, at no time playful or coquettish.Here, and this morning, she did not seem to be the same woman. She spokewith ease, laughed with the heart as well as the lips, met his eyes withfreedom and without embarrassment, countered his sallies withsportiveness--in a word, carried herself towards him as though she werean equal; precisely as Lady Betty and the Honourable Fanny carriedthemselves. He stared at her.
And she, seeing the look, laughed in pure happiness, knowing what was inhis mind, and knowing her own mind very well. 'I puzzle you?' she said.
'You do,' he answered. 'What are you doing here? And why have you takenup with that lawyer? And why are you dressed, child--'
'Like this?' she said, rising, and sitting down again. 'You think it isabove my station?'
He shrugged his shoulders, declining to put his views into words;instead, 'What does it all mean?' he said.
'What do you suppose?' she asked, averting her eyes for the first time.
'Well, of course--you may be here to meet Dunborough,' he answeredbluntly. 'His mother seems to think that he is going to marry you.'
'And what do you think, sir?'
'I?' said Sir George, reverting to the easy, half-insolent tone shehated. And he tapped his Paris snuff-box and spoke with tantalisingslowness. 'Well, if that be the case, I should advise you to see thatMr. Dunborough's surplice--covers a parson.'
She sat still and silent for a full half-minute after he had spoken.Then she rose without a word, and without looking at him; and, walkingaway to the farther end of the bridge, sat down there with her shoulderturned to him.
Soane felt himself rebuffed, and for a moment let his anger get thebetter of him. 'D--n the girl, I only spoke for her own good!' hemuttered; then reflecting that if he followed her she might remove againand make him ridiculous, he rose to go into the house. But apparentlythat was not what she wished. He was scarcely on his legs before sheturned her head, saw that he was going, and imperiously beckoned to him.
He went to her, wondering as much at her audacity as her pettishness.When he reached her, 'Sir George,' she said, retaining her seat andlooking gravely at him, while he stood before her like a boy undergoingcorrection, 'you have twice insulted me--once in Oxford when, believingMr. Dunborough's hurt lay at my door, I was doing what I could to repairit; and again to-day. If you wish to see more of me, you must refrainfrom doing so a third time. You know, a third time--you know what athird time does. And more--one moment, if you please. I must ask you totreat me differently. I make no claim to be a gentlewoman, but mycondition is altered. A relation has left me a--a fortune, and when Imet you here last night I was on my way to Bath to claim it.'
Sir George passed from the surprise into which the first part of thisspeech had thrown him, to surprise still greater. At last, 'I am vastlyglad to hear it,' he said. 'For most of us it is easier to drop afortune than to find one.'
'Is it?' she said, and laughed musically, Then, moving her skirt to showhim that he might sit down, 'Well, I suppose it is. You have noexperience of that, I hope, sir?'
He nodded.
'The gaming-table?' she said.
'Not this time,' he answered, wondering why he told her. 'I had agrandfather, who made a will. He had a fancy to wrap up a bombshell inthe will. Now--the shell has burst.'
'I am sorry,' she said; and was silent a mo
ment. At length, 'Does itmake--any great difference to you?' she asked naively.
Sir George looked at her as if he were studying her appearance. Then,'Yes, child, it does,' he said.
She hesitated, but seemed to make up her mind. 'I have never asked youwhere you live,' she said softly; 'have you no house in the country?'
He suppressed something between an oath and a groan. 'Yes,' he said, 'Ihave a house.'
'What do you call it?'
'Estcombe Hall. It is in Wiltshire, not far from here.'
She looked at her fan, and idly flapped it open, and again closed it inthe air. 'Is it a fine place?' she said carelessly.
'I suppose so,' he answered, wincing.
'With trees, and gardens, and woods?'
'Yes.'
'And water?'
'Yes. There is a river.'
'You used to fish in it as a boy?'
'Yes.'
'Estcombe! it is a pretty name. And shall you lose it?'
But that was too much for Soane's equanimity. 'Oh, d--n the girl!' hecried, rising abruptly, but sitting down again. Then, as she recoiled,in anger real or affected, 'I beg your pardon,' he said formally.'But--it is not the custom to ask so many questions uponprivate matters.'
'Really, Sir George?' she said, receiving the information gravely, andraising her eyebrows. 'Then Estcombe is your Mr. Dunborough, is it?'
'If you will,' he said, almost sullenly.
'But you love it,' she answered, studying her fan, 'and I do notlove--Mr. Dunborough!'
Marvelling at her coolness and the nimbleness of her wit, he turned sothat he looked her full in the face. 'Miss Masterson,' he said, 'you aretoo clever for me. Will you tell me where you learned so much? 'ForeGad, you might have been at Mrs. Chapone's, the way you talk.'
'Mrs. Chapone's?' she said.
'A learned lady,' he explained.
'I was at a school,' she answered simply, 'until I was fifteen. Agodfather, whom I never knew, left money to my father to be spent on myschooling.'
'Lord!' he said. 'And where were you at school?'
'At Worcester.'
'And what have you done since?--if I may ask.'
'I have been at home. I should have taught children, or gone intoservice as a waiting-woman; but my father would keep me with him. Now Iam glad of it, as this money has come to me.'
'Lord! it is a perfect romance!' he exclaimed. And on the instant hefancied that he had the key to the mystery, and her beauty. She wasillegitimate--a rich man's child! 'Gad, Mr. Richardson should hear ofit,' he continued with more than his usual energy. 'Pamela--why youmight be Pamela!'
'That if you please,' she said quickly, 'for certainly I shall never beClarissa.'
Sir George laughed. 'With such charms it is better not to be too sure!'he answered. And he looked at her furtively and looked away again. Acoach bound eastwards came out of the gates; but it had little of hisattention, though he seemed to be watching the bustle. He was thinkingthat if he sat much longer with this strange girl, he was a lost man.And then again he thought--what did it matter? If the best he had toexpect was exile on a pittance, a consulship at Genoa, a governorship atGuadeloupe, where would he find a more beautiful, a wittier, a gayercompanion? And for her birth--a fico! His great-grandfather had mademoney in stays; and the money was gone! No doubt there would be gibingat White's, and shrugging at Almack's; but a fico, too, for that--itwould not hurt him at Guadeloupe, and little at Genoa. And then on asudden the fortune of which she had talked came into his head, and hesmiled. It might be a thousand; or two, three, four, at most fivethousand. A fortune! He smiled and looked at her.
He found her gazing steadily at him, her chin on her hand. Being caught,she reddened and looked, away. He took the man's privilege, andcontinued to gaze, and she to flush; and presently, 'What are youlooking at?' she said, moving uneasily.
'A most beautiful face,' he answered, with the note of sincerity in hisvoice which a woman's ear never fails to appreciate.
She rose and curtsied low, perhaps to hide the tell-tale pleasure in hereyes. 'Thank you, sir,' she said. And she drew back as if she intendedto leave him.
'But you are not--you are not offended, Julia?'
'Julia?' she answered, smiling. 'No, but I think it is time I relievedyour Highness from attendance. For one thing, I am not quite surewhether that pretty flattery was addressed to Clarissa--or to Pamela.And for another,' she continued more coldly, seeing Sir George winceunder this first stroke--he was far from having his mind made up--'I seeLady Dunborough watching us from the windows at the corner of the house.And I would not for worlds relieve her ladyship's anxiety by seemingunfaithful to her son.'
'You can be spiteful, then?' Soane said, laughing.
'I can--and grateful,' she answered. 'In proof of which I am going tomake a strange request, Sir George. Do not misunderstand it. And yet--itis only that before you leave here--whatever be the circumstances underwhich you leave--you will see me for five minutes.'
Sir George stared, bowed, and muttered 'Too happy.' Then observing, orfancying he observed, that she was anxious to be rid of him, he took hisleave and went into the house.
For a man who had descended the stairs an hour before, hipped to thelast degree, with his mind on a pistol, it must be confessed that hewent up with a light step; albeit, in a mighty obfuscation, as Dr.Johnson might have put it. A kinder smile, more honest eyes he swore hehad never seen, even in a plain face. Her very blushes, of which thememory set his _blase_ blood dancing to a faster time, were a characterin themselves. But--he wondered. She had made such advances, been sofriendly, dropped such hints--he wondered. He was fresh from themasquerades, from Mrs. Cornely's assemblies, Lord March's converse, theChudleigh's fantasies; the girl had made an appointment--he wondered.
For all that, one thing was unmistakable. Life, as he went up thestairs, had taken on another and a brighter colour; was fuller, brisker,more generous. From a spare garret with one poor casement it had grownin an hour into a palace, vague indeed, but full of rich vistas and rosydistances and quivering delights. The corridor upstairs, which at hisgoing out had filled him with distaste--there were boots in it, andwater-cans--was now the Passage Beautiful; for he might meet her there.The day which, when he rose, had lain before him dull andmonotonous--since Lord Chatham was too ill to see him, and he had no onewith whom to game--was now full-furnished with interest, and hung withrecollections--recollections of conscious eyes and the sweetest lips inthe world. In a word, Julia had succeeded in that which she had setherself to do. Sir George might wonder. He was none the less in love.
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