Mr Paul Montaigne was one of those quiet, bland gentlemen who,
apparently without an effort, seemed to know everything that went on in
his immediate neighbourhood. He never asked questions, but waited
patiently, and the result was that, drawn, perhaps, by his quiet,
persuasive way, people told him all he wanted to know.
Somehow, he had the knack of winning the confidence of women, and if he
had been a confessor his would have been an easy task.
There were those who said that he was a Jesuit, but when it came to his
ears he merely smiled pityingly, and made a point of attending church at
all the week-day services, and repeating the responses in a quiet,
reverent way that, combined with his closed eyes, gave him the aspect of
true devoutness.
How he lived none knew, but it was supposed that he had an income from a
vineyard in Central France, one which he had inherited from his father,
an English gentleman who had had a taste for wine-growing.
Mr Paul Montaigne never contradicted the rumour, and he never entered
into particulars about his past. He had been the friend of the mother
of Clotilde and Marie. He had brought the children over to England when
quite a young man, with a very French look and a suggestion of his being
a student at a French religious seminary. He had brought letters of
introduction with him, and he had been in England ever since.
Time seemed to have stood still with Paul Montaigne. Certainly, he was
just a shade stouter, and there were a few bright, silvery-looking hairs
about his temples; in other respects he looked quite a young man, for
his smoothly-shaven face showed scarcely a line, his dark eyes were
bright, and his black brows were as smoothly arched as if drawn with a
pair of compasses.
Upon that smooth face there was always a pensive, half-sad smile, one
which he seemed to be constantly trying to wipe off with his soft,
plump, well-shaped, and very white hand, but without success, for the
smile was always there--the quiet, beseeching smile, that won so many
women's confidence, but sometimes had the contrary effect upon the
sterner sex.
Those who said that he was a student were to some extent right, for his
modest lodgings at Teddington were well furnished with books, and he was
a familiar object to many, as with his white hands clasped behind him he
walked in his semi-clerical habit to and from the Palace at Hampton
Court--through Bushey Park, and always on the same side of the road,
making a point of pausing at the inlet of the Diana Pool to throw crumbs
of bread to the eager fish, before continuing his walk in by the Lion
Gate into the Palace gardens to the large fountain basin, where the
great gold and silver fish also had their portion.
He never spoke to anyone; apparently nobody ever spoke to him, and he
went his way to and fro, generally known as "the priest," making his
journeys two or three times a week to call at the apartments of the
Honourable Misses Dymcox to see his young pupils, as he called them, and
to converse with them to keep up their French.
Upon these occasions he partook of the weak tea handed round by Joseph,
and broke a portion off one of the thin biscuits that accompanied the
cups. In fact, he was an institution with the Dymcox family, and had
been duly taken into the ladies' confidence respecting the movement
proposed by Lady Littletown.
"My dear ladies," he had responded, "you know my position here--my trust
to the dead; I watch over the welfare of their children, and you tell me
this is for their well-being. What else can I say but may your plans
prosper?"
"But I would not mention it to the children, Mr Montaigne," said Miss
Philippa.
"I mention it! My dear madam, all these years that you have known me,
and is my character a sealed book to you still?"
"For my part, I don't like him," said Joseph once to Markes, and he was
politely told not to be a fool. Cook, however, who had a yearning after
the mysterious, proved to be of a more sympathetic mind, and when Joseph
told her his opinion, that this Mr Montaigne was only a Jesuit and a
priest in disguise, cook said she shouldn't a bit wonder, for "them sort
often was."
Now, cook had not seen Mr Montaigne, so her judgment should be taken
_cum grano_, as also in the case where Joseph declared Mr Montaigne to
be "a deep 'un," when she declared that was sure to be the case.
On the night of the dinner-party at Hampton, the carriage--to wit, Mr
Buddy's fly--had no sooner departed than Markes announced her intention
of going next door to see Lady Anna Maria Morton's maid; at which cook
grunted, and, being left alone, proceeded to take out a basket from the
dresser drawer, and seated herself to have what she called a couple of
hours' good darn.
One of those hours had nearly passed, and several black worsted
stockings had been ornamented with patches of rectangular embroidery,
when the outer door-bell rang.
"If that's one of them dratted soldiers calling with his impudence,
he'll get sent off with a flea in his ear," cried cook.
She bounced up angrily, and made her way to the door. It was no gallant
Lancer in undress uniform and a cane under his arm, but Mr Paul
Montaigne, whom cook at once knew by his description.
"The ladies in?" he said quietly.
"No, sir; which, please, they've gone to dine at Lady Littletown's."
"To be sure, yes, I had forgotten," he said, smiling nicely--so cook put
it--at the plump domestic. "But never mind, I will have a few minutes'
chat with Miss Clotilde and Miss Marie."
"Which they've gone as well, sir."
"To be sure, yes, I ought to have known," said the visitor absently, "I
ought to have remembered; and is Miss Ruth gone as well?"
"Oh no, sir; she's in the schoolroom all alone!"
"Indeed!" said Mr Montaigne, raising his eyebrows. "Ah, well, I will
not disturb--and yet, I don't know; I am rather tired, and I will have a
few minutes' chat with her before I walk back."
"Such a nice, mild-spoken kind of gentleman, though he had rather a
papish look," said cook; and she ushered the visitor into the empty
drawing-room, going directly after to tell Ruth.
It was growing dark, and Ruth, who was in bad spirits at having been
left alone, felt a kind of shrinking, she could not have told why, from
meeting Mr Montaigne.
He had always been quiet and paternal in his treatment, and she had, as
a rule, shared the lessons of Clotilde and Marie; but, somehow, Ruth was
one of the women whose confidence he had never won.
"Ah, Ruth, my child," he said, advancing with quiet, cat-like step as
she entered, and his voice sounded soft and velvety in the silence of
the gloomy place, "and so you are all alone?"
"Yes; I will ring for candles," she said hastily.
"No, my child, it is not necessary," he replied, taking her hand, and
leading her to the stiff, formal old sofa at the side of the room. "I
had forgotten that the dinner-party was this evening, or I should not
have walked over. As it is, dear child, I will sit down and rest for
ten minutes, and then stroll back."
"Would you like a cup of tea made for you? cook would soon have it
ready," asked Ruth.
"Oh no, no, my child," he said softly, as he sat there, evidently
forgetting that he still retained the little white hand, which, after an
effort to withdraw, Ruth felt obliged to let rest where it was, prisoned
now between both of Mr Montaigne's soft sets of well-cared-for fingers,
as he spoke.
"What a calm, delicious repose there always seems to be here, Ruth,
within these Palace walls! The gay, noisy throng of pleasure-seekers
come from the busy hive of industry, and flit and flutter about the park
and gardens; their footsteps echo through the state chambers, as they
gaze at the relics of a bygone time, and their voices ring with merry,
thoughtless jest; but, somehow, their presence never seems to penetrate
to these private apartments, where all is calmness, purity, and peace."
"Yes; I often wonder at the way in which we seem to escape hearing them
as we do," replied Ruth, making an effort to respond; for her heart was
beating painfully, and she was afraid that the visitor might note the
tremor in her voice.
"Peace and repose," he said softly, as he played with the hand he held.
"The world seems far away from you here, and I often envy you the calm,
unruffled existence that you enjoy. But tell me, child, did you feel
disappointed at not forming one of the party this evening?"
"I--I must confess that I should have liked to go," faltered Ruth.
"Well, yes, it was very natural," he replied; and as Ruth glanced
quickly at him, she felt that there was a grave smile upon his face.
She could barely see it, for the room was growing darker, and now, for a
few moments, her tremor began to increase.
"But Clotilde and Marie are older than I, and it was only natural that
they should be preferred. And then, Mr Montaigne, they are so
beautiful."
"Not more beautiful than you are, Ruth."
"Mr Montaigne!"
She made an effort to withdraw her hand, but it was tightly retained.
"Not more beautiful in person, less beautiful in mind and temperament,
my child," continued Montaigne. "Don't try to withdraw your hand; I
wish to talk seriously to you."
Ruth felt that to struggle would be unseemly, and though she felt an
undefined dread of her position, her reason seemed to combat what she
was ready to condemn as fancy, and Mr Montaigne had known her from, and
still addressed her as, a "child."
"I should feel deeply disappointed if it were not so, Ruth; for I look
upon you as one whose mind I have helped to train, whose growing
intellect I have tried to form, and bias towards a love of the beautiful
and pure and good."
Ruth felt more at her ease, and less troubled that the visitor should
retain her hand.
"I have, I think--nay, I boldly say--led your mind in its studies, and
guided your reading," continued Montaigne in the same low, bland voice,
every tone of which was musical, deep, and sweet. It had not a harsh,
jarring tone, but all was carefully modulated, and lent a charm to what
he spoke.
Ruth murmured something about feeling very grateful, and wished that he
would go.
"Tell me, child," he said gently, and now one soft hand glided to Ruth's
wrist, and a finger rested upon her pulse, probably that the mental
physician might test the regularity of the beats produced by his
long-administered moral medicine, "what are you reading now?"
"`Froissart's Chronicle,'" replied Ruth.
"An excellent work--one which leads the mind to an appreciation of
chivalry and the noble deeds of the past. Any work of fiction?"
"Ye-es," faltered Ruth; "I have read part of a novel."
"That the Misses Dymcox placed in your hands?"
"No," faltered Ruth, speaking like a found-out child. "Ought I to tell
you, Mr Montaigne?"
"Assuredly, my child. What should you keep from me?"
"It was a work by George Eliot that Clotilde had obtained from the
library."
"Unknown to her aunts?"
"Yes, Mr Montaigne; but please don't be angry with her."
"No, my child, I will not."
"Clotilde did not like it, and threw it aside, and I happened to see it;
but I have not read much."
"They get novels, then?" said Mr Montaigne.
"They will be very angry with me for telling you, Mr Montaigne."
"I shall not tell them, dear child; perhaps it is natural. What is
Clotilde reading now?"
"A French story, `Annette'."
"In-deed!" said Montaigne softly; and he drew his breath between his
teeth. "And have you read it, child?"
"No, Mr Montaigne. Miss Philippa expressly forbade our ever reading
French novels; she said they were bad."
"Well--yes--perhaps, my child; but your pure, sweet young mind would
eliminate the evil, and retain only the true and good. I should not
debar you from such works. So you young ladies obtain novels from the
library?"
"I do not," said Ruth simply. "But pray do not ask me such things, Mr
Montaigne; it makes me seem to be tale-bearing about my cousins."
"Don't be afraid, my child," continued Montaigne; "let there be more
confidence between us. Believe me, Ruth, you may trust me always as
your best friend, and one to whom your welfare is very, very dear."
"Thank you, Mr Montaigne," faltered Ruth; "I will try to think of you
as you wish. Will you let me ring for candles now?"
"Oh no, it is not necessary, my dear; I am going directly. Come, Ruth,
my child, why do you shrink away? Am I so very dreadful, my little
girl? There, sit still," he said in a whisper. "I shall have to make
you a prisoner, while I read you a lesson on obedience and duty to those
who have your welfare at heart."
Ruth was growing alarmed, for he had softly passed one arm round her
little waist, and in spite of her feeble struggles drawn her to his
side.
"There, my child, now I feel as if you were my own loving, dutiful
little girl whom I had adopted; and I am going to cross-examine you like
a father confessor," he continued playfully. "Ruth dear, I hope this
little heart is in safe-keeping."
"I--I do not understand you, Mr Montaigne," cried Ruth, whose womanly
instincts were now alarmed.
"Will you loose me, please, and let me ring for the candles? It is
quite dark."
"But you are not afraid of being in the dark, my child," he whispered;
"and--hush! not a word."
He laid his hand upon her lips, for just then Markes' voice was heard
outside.
"Ruth! Miss Ruth!"
"Sit still, foolish child!" he whispered, holding her more tightly;
"that woman would perhaps chatter if she knew you were here like this
with me."
A chill of horror came over Ruth, and she sat like one paralysed, as the
handle turned, the door opened, and Markes looked into the darkened
room.
"Why, where has the girl gone?" she muttered angrily.
She went away directly, and a moment or two later her voice was heard
crying:
"She isn't in the drawing-room, cook."
"You had better go up to your own room, child," said Montaigne softly.
"I will go now. Do not trouble about this; for I think it weak to trust
servants, whose ignorance and prejudice often lead them to wrong ideas.
Good-night, my child. You have neither father nor mother, but remember
that while Paul Montaigne lives you have one who is striving to fill the
place of both, as he tries to watch over you for your good."
He had allowed her to rise now, but he still retained her hand as he
stood beside her, his words for the moment disarming the resentment in
her breast.
"Good-night, my dear child. I shall let myself out after you have
reached your room. Good-night--good-night. Nay, your lips, Ruth, to
me."
Before she had well realised the fact, he had folded her in his arms,
and pressed his lips to hers. Then, loosening her from his embrace, he
let her go, and, trembling and agitated as she had never been before,
she ran quickly to her room.
Innocent at heart, and unskilled in the ways of the world as girl could
be, as she seated herself upon the edge of the bed she ran rapidly over
what had taken place.
She did not like Mr Montaigne, and his acts towards her that night made
her tremble with indignation; but these thoughts were met by another
current, which seemed to tell her that she was misjudging him. He had
spoken to her as to one who was very dear to him. His words had been
those of a father to his child; and why should she resent it? Mr
Montaigne was not a young man, and it might seem to him that their
positions had in no wise changed since she, a trembling, heart-broken
little girl, fresh from a wretched home, had sat and listened to his
soft, bland voice, followed his instructions, and had her curls smoothed
by his soft white hand.
"But I am a woman grown now, and it is dreadful," she cried, bursting
into a passion of indignant tears. "I don't like it. I will speak to
Miss Philippa. I don't think it is right."
"Are you there, Miss Ruth?"
"Yes, Markes."
"Oh, that's right. I thought you was lost. Cook told me you were in
the drawing-room when I came in. There, child, don't sit and mope in
the dark because you did not get asked to the party. You'll be a woman
soon, my dear, and maybe they'll find you a husband like the rest."
"Child!" Yes, it was always "child"; but the girl's heart rebelled
against the appellation. These elderly maidens could not think of her
as one whose mind was ripening fast, in spite of the sunless seclusion
in which she lived.
"I'll tell Markes," she thought, as her heart throbbed with the
recollection of that which had passed. But no; she could not. There
was something repellent in this woman's ways, and at last, with her
brain in a tumult with conflicting ideas, Ruth sought her pillow, while
Paul Montaigne, with a curious smile upon his face, was still pacing his
room after his dark walk back to Teddington, one hand clasping the
other, as if he still held Ruth's.
"No," he said, "she will not say a word. It is not likely. There is a
bond of sympathy between us now."
He walked up and down a little longer, and then stood still, talking
softly--half aloud.
"Woman is our master, they say; but let her be led to compromise
herself, however slightly, and she becomes the slave. Poor little Ruth,
she is very innocent and sweet."
Volume 2, Chapter II.