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Updated: June 20, 2025
"How long has my husband been ill?" He walked on beside her, describing in as few words as possible the harrowing days preceding the death of the boy, Delafield's attempts to soothe and control the father, the stratagem by which the poor Duke had outwitted them all, and the weary hours of search through the night, under a drizzling rain, which had resulted, about dawn, in the discovery of the Duke's body in one of the deeper holes of the river.
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.
Blanche Moffatt detained Florence by daughter's illness. All circumstances most sad. Woman Heribert Street gave me Bruges address. Have wired Julie there." The message set vibrating in Delafield's mind the tender memory which already existed there of his last talk with Julie, of her strange dependence and gentleness, her haunting and pleading personality.
The obscure tumult within her represented, in fact, a collision between the pagan and Christian conceptions of life. In self-dependence, in personal pride, in her desire to refer all things to the arbitrament of reason, Julie, whatever her practice, was theoretically a stoic and a pagan. But Delafield's personality embodied another "must," another "ought," of a totally different kind.
However that be, his spirits were not much damped by Miss Ashleigh's disdain, nor his heart deeply smitten by her charms; for he is now very happy, very much attached to another young lady, to whom he proposed three days ago, at Lady Delafield's, and not to make a mystery of what all our little world will know before tomorrow, that young lady is my daughter Jane." "Were I acquainted with Mr.
"Go!" she said, under her breath, looking him in the eyes, and he turned and went without a word. So did the Duchess, whimpering, her hand in Delafield's arm. As she passed Julie, who stood as though turned to stone, she made a little swaying movement towards her. "Dear Julie!" she cried, imploringly. But Lady Henry turned. "You will have every opportunity to-morrow," she said.
Delafield's gaze was fixed upon her. He was very pale, and suddenly Julie's breath seemed to fail her. "I don't think I can bear it any longer," he said, as he came close to her. "Bear what?" "That you should look as you do now." Julie made no reply. Her eyes, very sad and bitter, searched the blue dimness of the lake in silence. Delafield sat down on the wall beside her. Not a soul was in sight.
She seemed to be supporting Warkworth in her arms; his dying head lay upon her breast, and she murmured courage and love into his ear. But not as Julie Le Breton. Through all the anguish of what was almost an illusion of the senses, she still felt herself Delafield's wife.
As she knelt beside him, her face bowed upon his hand, the ice within her was breaking up, that dumb and straitening anguish in which she had lived since that moment at the Nord Station in which she had grasped the meaning and the implications of Delafield's hurried words.
As he once more struck the village street, this familiar whirl of thoughts was buzzing in Delafield's mind, pierced, however, by one sharper and newer. Julie! Did he know had he ever dared to find out how she regarded this future which was overtaking them? She had tried to sound him; she had never revealed herself.
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