“My dear Francis,” returned the girl with a shade of impatience, “you surely do not desire to see me craning my neck in all directions to observe your whereabouts every moment that I have not the pleasure of your society! I would not wish to make either of us ridiculous. And, as you are now happily arrived, pray sit down and listen to the new French song which M. des Sablières is about to sing to us.”
Sir Francis did not sit down. The word “ridiculous” had brought a slight colour to his cheek. “I have no desire to hear French songs. I came to ask you to give me a few minutes’ private conversation—in the Chinese room over there, for instance.”
“Willingly,” replied Miss Forrest, “when the song is over. Hush—it is just going to begin. Pray, Francis . . .”
“Partant pour la Syri....e,”
sang Mr. Rowl, seated at the pianoforte,
“Le jeune et beau Dunois
Venait prier Mari....e
De bénir ses exploits.
Faites, reine immortell....e,
Lui dit-il en partant,
Qu’aimé de la plus bell....e
Je sois le plus vaillant!”
And, fidget and scowl though Miss Forrest’s future lord did throughout the following three verses, he had to remain beside her. The moment, however, that the last note was drowned in applause, he gave her a significant glance, and going to a neighbouring door, held it open for her. Unhurriedly, the Honourable Juliana rose and passed through it into a little room containing an old spinet, one or two fine Queen Anne chairs, and much Chinese porcelain, mostly imprisoned in cabinets.
She turned on the young man as he shut the door behind them. “So this is to be an interview en règle! We had another in here once!” And she smiled, a delightful roguish smile calculated, one would have thought, to dissipate the most obstinate male sulks. “But what is it that needs such solemn precautions, and that cannot be said when we go home presently in your curricle?”
“You forget the groom,” replied Sir Francis rather shortly. He took a turn down the room and then began to study a famille verte vase on its shelf, while Miss Forrest, sinking into a chair, watched him half mischievously. “Juliana,” he said at length, not looking at her, “you may not like what I am about to say to you, but I beg you to believe that I must say it.”
“If it is a duty, then I certainly would not keep you from its performance,” said Miss Forrest equably. “Pray proceed, or we may be interrupted before your task is accomplished.”
Thus adjured, the gentleman turned from the porcelain and faced her.
“I desire, I request you, when you return to Wanfield next month, to have nothing more to do with Captain des Sablières.”
The colour sprang up in Juliana’s cheeks, and her hands went to the short walnut-wood arms of her chair.
“And the reason, pray?”
“Because I do not like him,” said Sir Francis with brevity.
“But if I do?”
“I must still ask you to oblige me in the matter.”
Juliana returned her hands to her lap. “I find him intelligent, amusing, and well-bred,” she announced calmly. “What have you against him?”
“He is a French prisoner—and what does one know of a French prisoner’s antecedents?”
“Captain des Sablières is a gentleman—his name alone shows it,” observed Miss Forrest.
“His name may not be his own.”
“Then his bearing, his manners show it.”
“Even that fact does not make him a suitable companion for a girl of your station, Juliana.”
“A girl of my station, Francis, is accustomed to judge of that for herself.”
“Pardon me, not in the case of a man to whom her future husband objects.”
“No, perhaps not—if the man in question were really a ‘companion,’ ” admitted Miss Forrest somewhat coldly. “But look at the facts, Francis. I have seen very little more of Monsieur des Sablières than of any other prisoner at Wanfield—for indeed it is Laetitia Bentley, and not I, who has had most of his society. I meet him occasionally at other houses, rather more often here, but always in company. As it happens, I have never spoken with him actually alone.”
“I should think not, indeed!” commented Sir Francis between his teeth.
Miss Forrest stopped in her discourse and looked at him.
“And of what, pray, would you be afraid if I were to find myself alone with a young man for a quarter of an hour or so? Do you realize, Francis, that you are making very strange and unflattering reflections on my character and upbringing?”
Her betrothed came nearer. “Do not try to misinterpret me so, Juliana,” he protested, in a voice of mingled injury and indignation. “You know that I am doing nothing of the kind. But the idea of your being alone with that fellow for any length of time is outrageous. Do you not know what Frenchman are?”
“No,” said Miss Forrest. A sprite appeared in her eyes. “But now that you have excited my curiosity I think I should like to find out.”
“Juliana!”
She swept on, unheeding the explosion. “But how a young man—even one of these terrible Frenchmen—conducts himself with a lady depends chiefly, I imagine, upon the lady. Do you think that I”—she drew up her long neck and looked like Diana—“that I am likely to allow any man to take liberties with me?”
“Not for a moment, Juliana—not for a moment!” asseverated the jealous lover. “But it is impossible to believe that a man exists who would not try to make love to you if he had the chance.”
“Which,” completed Juliana with a little smile, “you do not intend that any man living but yourself shall have?”
He stooped over her and possessed himself of a hand. “Can you blame me? No, I do not intend it, and you, you beautiful creature, when you accepted this,” he kissed the gleaming ruby on her finger, “you assented to that compact, did you not?”
“Yes,” said the girl. “And I have kept my share of it. But in this matter of Monsieur des Sablières——”
“You will do what I ask, will you not, my darling?” he broke in, and made a movement as though to kiss her. Juliana slipped instantly out of the chair. Then she turned to him, and her look was grave.
“No, Francis, it is as useless trying to cajole me as it is to dragoon me. Day by day this ridiculous and quite causeless jealousy of yours is growing more insupportable. Now it is this man, now another; soon I shall be able to speak to none under the age of a grandfather without incurring your frowns. I have tried to be patient, but now I see that it is culpable in me to give way to you, that by doing so I am preparing a sort of slavery for myself. For I am an Englishwoman, and you are not living in Turkey, as you sometimes appear to think.”
An attack so direct plainly staggered Sir Francis Mulholland. He seemed to be about to make a fiery retort, then he lost his balance and countered lamely, “So my wishes—my wishes—have no weight with you?”
“Yes, certainly they have, when they are reasonable. But to forbid a perfectly innocent acquaintance with a well-behaved and rather lonely young man whom chance has thrown in my way——”
“Lonely!” ejaculated her affianced, recovering himself. “That foreign nightingale in there lonely! And chance, indeed! Was the part he took with you in those theatricals last month