Lady Henry, too, watched Julie’s exit from the room.

“So now she supposes herself in love with Jacob?” she thought, with amusement, as she resumed her seat.

“What if Delafield refuses to be made a duke?” said Sir Wilfrid, in her ear.

“It would be a situation new to the Constitution,” said Lady Henry, composedly.  “I advise you, however, to wait till it occurs.”

* * * * *

The northern express rushed onward through the night.  Rugby, Stafford, Crewe had been left behind.  The Yorkshire valleys and moors began to show themselves in pale ridges and folds under the moon.  Julie, wakeful in her corner opposite the little, sleeping Duchess, was conscious of an interminable rush of images through a brain that longed for a few unconscious and forgetful moments.  She thought of the deferential station-master at Euston; of the fuss attending their arrival on the platform; of the arrangements made for stopping the express at the Yorkshire Station, where they were to alight.

Faircourt?  Was it the great Early-Georgian house of which she had heard Jacob speak—­the vast pile, half barrack, half palace, in which, according to him, no human being could be either happy or at home?

And this was now his—­and hers?  Again the whirl of thoughts swept and danced round her.

A wild, hill country.  In the valleys, the blackness of thick trees, the gleam of rivers, the huge, lifeless factories; and beyond, the high, silver edges, the sharp shadows of the moors....  The train slackened, and the little Duchess woke at once.

“Ten minutes to three.  Oh, Julie, here we are!”

The dawn was just coldly showing as they alighted.  Carriages and servants were waiting, and various persons whose identity and function it was not easy to grasp.  One of them, however, at once approached Julie with a privileged air, and she perceived that he was a doctor.

“I am very glad that your grace has come,” he said, as he raised his hat.  “The trouble with the Duke is shock, and want of sleep.”

Julie looked at him, still bewildered.

“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.

“When the procession returned to the house, your husband”—­the speaker framed the words uncertainly—­“had a long fainting-fit.  It was probably caused by the exhaustion of the search—­many hours without food—­and many sleepless nights.  We kept him in his room all day.  But towards evening he insisted on getting up.  The restlessness he shows is itself a sign of shock.  I trust, now you are here, you may be able to persuade him to spare himself.  Otherwise the consequences might be grave.”