Meanwhile there began to be talk of her wedding, some time in the autumn. It was to take place from her father’s house in Grosvenor Square. Every time she went over to Mulholland Park Mrs. Mulholland reconsulted her about her headgear for that occasion, and Juliana and her betrothed, in the new communion which seemed to have sprung up between them, smiled together over her anxiety.
* * * * *
The pear blossom fell; the apple blossom was at its zenith. In a certain wood not far from Wanfield were reported to be great quantities of bluebells; and there, on the twenty-eighth of April, the young people proposed to partake of a cold collation. Sir Francis Mulholland (on horseback) and Mr. Bentley were also to be of the party. But early on the morning of this expedition Juliana, who was without her maid, discovered that the dress which she designed to wear on this occasion was in need of a new tucker, and since there was plenty of time to supply this want, she and Laetitia ordered the barouche early and drove into Wanfield.
Just before they alighted from the carriage in the High Street Juliana observed a French naval officer salute Miss Bentley, and enquired who it was.
“It was Lieutenant Lamotte,” replied her friend. “I have met him at the Curtises. He lodges with Miss Hitchings—where poor M. des Sablières used to lodge.”
At the mention of that name Juliana’s face had clouded, but she said nothing, and in another moment they were descending at the door of the linen-draper’s shop. But, as they were on the point of entering, they heard hasty steps, and turning, saw the young Frenchman hurrying towards them.
“Miss Bentley,” said he in his own language, “I have a commission—that is, if this lady is Miss Forrest, as I think, and if you will be so obliging as to present me? The commission was entrusted to me by my comrade, Captain des Sablières, before his departure.”
Juliana coloured. Lieutenant Lamotte was presented, and thereupon addressed her directly.
“Captain des Sablières entrusted me, Mademoiselle, with an English book to return to you. If it is not improper, would you allow me to discharge the commission now . . . provided it would not be burdening you . . . for Mulholland Park is out of bounds for me.”
“But Miss Forrest is not——” began Laetitia, and was too much arrested by the expression on her friend’s face to finish.
“I lent M. des Sablières no book, Monsieur,” said Juliana slowly.
“But yes, Mademoiselle! You have forgotten your kindness. Rasselas, by the Doctor Johnson. If you will allow me—as I see that you are on the point of entering this shop—I will run meanwhile to my lodgings and get it and wait for you here.”
“Do, pray,” said Juliana. She was looking oddly grave and discomposed, and in the shop paid but small attention to the choice of a tucker.
When they emerged there was the young man awaiting them.
“This is the book, Mademoiselle. When Captain des Sablières came out of gaol he was allowed a short time in his room to get together his effects, and he charged me with it. I was to give it to you in person with the expression of his regrets that in so short a time he had not been able to finish reading it.”
Juliana, now colouring deeply, took the book. Why had Mr. Rowl returned it? She had given it to him to keep—he knew that. It surely was not possible that he felt himself unworthy?
“I suppose,” she said falteringly, “that M. des Sablières was not allowed to take his possessions with him to Norman Cross?”
“Oh, yes, Mademoiselle; he took what he had—it is true it was not much. I think this book, being your property, was the only thing he left behind . . . and he charged me most particularly to return it to you in person at the first opportunity.”
Juliana looked down at the little calf-bound volume, and was back nearly six weeks in time, and heard the stream ripple again and the thrush call, which he who had been with her then could hear no longer.
“And that was all the message?”
“Yes, Mademoiselle, that he regretted he could not finish the book in the time. In effect,” said M. Lamotte as if to excuse his compatriot, “he had only that one evening before he was sent to the gaol here.”
“Which evening was that?” asked Juliana quickly.
“The evening when, coming to sup with him, I found him deep in that book; and he told me that he had only just received it that afternoon. I remember observing the title—a strange one. And when I saw him again three days afterwards, under guard, he gave me the book for you, as I say.”
“He—he did not say then why he was being sent to Norman Cross?” asked Juliana with a beating heart.
“No, Mademoiselle. But I suppose it was for the same cause which had led Mr. Bannister to put him practically under arrest on the evening to which I was referring. Mr. Bannister had been to see him, and bade him not to leave the house; Captain des Sablières did not tell me why, only that it was on account of some misunderstanding which would be put right in the morning. Certainly it did not trouble him much that evening,” said Lieutenant Lamotte reminiscently. “But yet in the morning it was not put right.”
Fawley Copse . . . her rescue . . . Rasselas had been there, too . . . oh, was it Fawley Copse which had ruined him? “Oh, Monsieur, if you could but tell me which evening that was! Forgive me—but the exact date is so important! I—I know something which might help M. des Sablières to clear himself, for I have never believed that he broke his parole.”
“Nor I, Mademoiselle,” said the sailor simply. “And I do not need any effort to remember the date, as it happens. It was on the evening before the birthday of the King of Rome that des Sablières was confined to the house—Friday, the nineteenth of March. The birthday itself, which is on the twentieth, the poor des Sablières spent in gaol, but for a certain reason we had celebrated it the evening before, the nineteenth. I am quite certain of that, Mademoiselle.”
“The nineteenth of March—the Friday—the same day!” said Juliana, apparently speaking to herself. “So it had to do with that—it was not something which was discovered later! Thank you, Monsieur,” she added, “and forgive my questions. Your friend has had a great injustice done him; it must be put right at once!”
Her voice was firm, but she was very pale. Lieutenant Lamotte bowed and took himself off. Laetitia put her arm through her friend’s.
“What is the matter, dearest Juliana?” she asked anxiously. “You are unwell! Let us go back into the shop.”
But Juliana shook her head. Clutching Rasselas to her she said solemnly: “Letty, I shall never, never play with fire again! It is other people who get burnt. I am sure it is all my fault that he was sent to prison—but if it is I am going to repair it. Please desire your coachman to set us down at Mr. Bannister’s office without delay.”
Three quarters of an hour later the barouche was bearing back to Northover two very different damsels, not only from those who had set out upon that brief shopping expedition, but even from those who had entered the office of the astonished Agent to set right an injustice . . . and had discovered and fired a mine. Laetitia was frankly crying; Juliana, shivering with a strange inner cold, sat staring straight before her. It had needed only her initial remark to Mr. Bannister—“I fear it is on account of the service he rendered me that day in Fawley Copse that M. des Sablières got into difficulties