Marcus Glen could hardly recall exactly what happened upon that unlucky
night; but Clotilde's words rang still in his ears, and even as they
seemed to throb in his brain, there was a burst of light that seemed to
cut the semi-darkness where they stood--the boudoir doors being thrown
open--and with the light came a burst of conversation and music from the
inner rooms.
Those sounds seemed to be mingled with the furious oath uttered by
Elbraham, who was upon the step with Lord Henry Moorpark, and Marie
close behind.
It was like some situation in a comedy drama, and before he could
recover from his surprise he felt a sharp blow across his face, and a
tiny jet of blood spurting from the puncture made by the point of a
brilliant where it had entered his temple.
"How dare you! Elbraham! Husband! Protect me from this man."
"Protect you? By Gad I will," roared the financier, throwing his arm
round his wife's waist, whilst, flushed and angry, she began to sob.
"That man--that wicked man! Oh, it is shameful!"
"Look here, Moorpark," cried Elbraham savagely, as Clotilde, after
gazing furiously at Glen, hid her face upon her husband's shoulder, "you
are a witness. By Gad I'll have an action against him--I'll have him in
the Divorce Court. I'll--"
"Hush, hush, my good sir!" whispered Lord Henry, who looked for the
moment horror-stricken, but recovered directly sufficiently to close the
door leading into the great conservatory.
"But I'll--but I'll--" cried Elbraham, foaming at the mouth with rage
and jealousy.
"Hush, sir, pray: for your wife and her sister's sake," said Lord Henry,
with dignity.
"But," panted Elbraham, struggling to speak, and shaking his fist at
Glen, who stood there biting his lip, and frowning.
"Silence, sir!" cried Lord Henry with authority; "recollect you are a
gentleman. Captain Glen, I beg and desire that you leave this house at
once."
"Gentlemen!" exclaimed Glen, flushing with excitement; and the words of
explanation were upon his lips, but he stopped short and took a step as
if to go, but turned back. "Look here, Lord Henry," he said.
Then he stopped short, choking, sickened with disgust. He could not--he
would not speak.
"You had better leave at once, Captain Glen," said Lord Henry haughtily.
"There must be no scandal here. You have insulted--"
"Insulted!" panted Elbraham; "by Gad, sir--"
"Mr Elbraham, for your own and your lady's sake be silent and calm
yourself, or the guests will learn what has occurred. If you demand
satisfaction afterwards, sir, you can do so, though duels are out of
fashion."
"Satisfaction!" cried Elbraham. "By Gad I'll have heavy damages--heavy
damages!" he reiterated, with the foggy notion still in his brain that
this was a case in which he could proceed against Glen in the Divorce
Court.
"We will discuss that afterwards, sir," said Lord Henry coldly. "Mrs
Elbraham, there are some of your guests approaching. Marie, my child,
lead your sister into the next room; she has been a little faint.
Elbraham, recollect yourself."
"All right, my lord; I'm calm enough. But let this blackguard go at
once."
Glen started, and he was turning furiously upon the financier, when he
saw Marie slowly approaching her sister with a look almost of loathing
in her countenance, and he took a couple of steps towards her.
"Marie, for heaven's sake hear me!" he whispered; but even as he spoke
he saw Clotilde turn and glare at him with so fierce a look that he was
again silenced.
Then Lord Henry threw open the door, the strains of music and the
brilliant light flashed into the conservatory, and Clotilde seemed to
recover herself, and laid her hand upon her husband's arm.
"Take me away," she said hoarsely; but, seeing that Marie did not move,
she restrained her lord, whose face was just turning back from purple to
red, and seemed to be waiting for her sister to leave.
"Will you take me back into the drawing-room, Lord Henry?" said a voice
then that sounded quite strange to all present, and mastering her
emotion, but looking deadly pale, Marie suffered Lord Henry to lead her
away without one glance at Glen, who stood there feeling as if a hand
were constricting his throat.
The next moment Elbraham favoured him with a melodramatic scowl, and
marched out with Clotilde's white arm resting, laden with glittering
bracelets, upon his black coat-sleeve, and her face fixed, as if of
marble, as she gazed straight before her.
"He will not betray me," she thought to herself, "and he will forgive me
the next time we meet."
She might have altered her opinion if she had heard his words, though
perhaps they would have made her feel more satisfied as regarded her own
position.
"Curse the woman for a Jezebel!" cried Glen between his teeth, as he
clutched a handful of the rich leafage of a palm and crushed it in his
fingers.
"Was ever poor wretch meshed before in such a net? If ever I forgive
her this--Well, what is it?"
"Alone!" cried Dick. "I thought I saw Marie come in here while I was
dancing."
"Yes," said Glen, trying to crush down his emotion; "she did come here,
and she is gone."
"For a _tete-a-tete_. Curse it all, Glen! you are too bad. Have some
honesty in you!"
"Hold your tongue!" said Glen, bringing his hand down fiercely upon the
boy's shoulder, which he clutched with so tremendous a grip that the lad
winced and uttered a cry of pain. "Don't speak to me. Take me back."
"Are you ill? What is the matter? There's blood on your face. Hang it
all! you hurt me. What has been wrong? Has Marie refused you?"
"Will you be silent?"
"No," said the boy with spirit; "I will know. I saw Marie come in here.
What has happened? Have you been playing some--"
"Rehearsing only!" cried Glen, with a forced laugh.
"Rehearsing! Are they going to have amateur theatricals?"
"No, no: real--a social comedy," cried Glen.
"A social comedy! I say, old man, haven't you had too much champagne?
But are they going to act something? I should like to be in it. What
is the piece?"
"The scapegoat!" cried Glen, with a laugh; "and I play the goat."
"Look here, old man, I'll see you into a cab. Let's get out this way.
I've a couple more dances I must have before I go. I wouldn't go back
into the drawing-room if I were you. Come along."
With his senses seeming to reel, Glen took the arm offered to him, and
allowed himself to be led out into the hall, Dick helping him on with
his coat and seeing him in a hansom before returning to the
drawing-room, where the band was playing another waltz.
He intended to find Marie and secure her for a partner; but the dance
was nearly ended before he found her, looking, as he thought, more
beautiful than ever, but very strange, standing in a doorway with Lord
Henry, who was holding her hand.
Something seemed to check the boy, as a pang of jealousy shot through
his fervent young heart. He could not hear what was said, but stood
still in mute rage as Lord Henry said:
"Indeed, yes, my dear child; everything. There shall be no hostility.
Fighting is a thing of the past. Take my word for it, and be at rest."
"Thank you, Lord Henry, thank you," she said, almost passionately.
"Good-night. I will go to my room now; I can bear no more."
"God bless you, my child. It must be hard to bear, but you are noble
and good and true enough to master this bitterness. I would I could
bear it for your sake. Good-night."
"Good-night," she said warmly.
"And you will try to forget it all?"
"I have forgotten it," she said, flushing and drawing herself up
proudly. "It was one of my mistakes."
She looked full in his eyes as she spoke, and then drew her hand from
his, and he stood watching her cross the hall and ascend the staircase
till she reached the first landing, where she turned and looked down at
him for a moment before passing out of his sight.
Lord Henry Moorpark stood with his eyes half closed, thinking of the
bright vision that had just glided from his sight; and his thoughts must
have been pleasant, for he smiled once, and stood opening and shutting
his crush hat till, becoming aware that someone was near, he raised his
eyes, and saw Dick pointing his tiny moustache.
"Ah," he said, smiling; "there is music yonder, and pretty feet and
bright eyes are asking for partners. Why tarryeth the little son of
Mars?"
"Look here!" cried the boy fiercely; "if you were a man of my years--oh,
this is unbearable?" he cried, and he hurried away.
"Poor boy!" said Lord Henry softly; "and I am spoiling his happy dream.
Ah, well, it was one from which he was bound to be rudely awakened, and
Marie--" He paused, and his eyes half-closed. Then he said the name
softly to himself: "Marie, Marie! Poor child! she looked heartbroken.
Am I a doting old fool to ask myself this question--shall I win her
yet?"
It would be hard to say who suffered most in the sleepless night which
followed, during which Glen paced his bedroom till day, the same
daybreak that found Marie, wakeful and feverish, turning upon her weary
couch.
That morning a note came for her. Elbraham received it and took it to
Clotilde.
"It is from that wretch," she cried hotly; "burn it."
Elbraham did so without a moment's hesitation, and the ashes were still
sparkling on the hearth when Marie entered the drawing-room dressed as
if for a journey.
"Why, Rie!" exclaimed her sister, as Elbraham recalled the past night's
scene and felt uncomfortable.
"I am going back to Hampton," said Marie quietly and without heeding her
sister's extended hands; and on reaching home the honourable sisters
were loud in their questions, and full of surprise to see her back, but
Marie was reticent. She was not quite well; she was tired with the
effects of the party; and she did not think Clotilde wished her to stay
longer.
"But Clotilde must give way in such cases. It is her duty to study her
sister now that she is well married."
For the first time in her life Marie saw herself as she was, and at
night, when the cousins were alone, and Ruth had been helping her to
undress, the latter was startled into a belief that Marie was ill and
delirious, for soon after she had dropped into her usual calm and
peaceful sleep she was awakened by her cousin, looking strange and pale
in her long white robe and with her black dishevelled hair about her
shoulders.
"Are you ill, dear?" cried Ruth, starting up.
"Yes, so ill--so ill!" moaned Marie; and Ruth clasped her affectionately
in her arms, to find her eyes wet with tears, and her hands like ice.
"What is it?" whispered Ruth; "let me call aunts."
"No, no, let me stay here; lie down again, Ruthy: I want to talk to
you."
"But you are ill, dear!" cried Ruth.
"Only in mind, Ruthy. There, lie still, hold my hands and let me lay my
head by yours; I want to talk."
To Ruth's surprise, Marie sank upon her knees by the bedside, clasped
her in her arms, and laid her cheek upon the pillow.
"There," continued Marie, "I can talk to you now," and to the wondering
girl's astonishment she sobbed hysterically, asking for her sympathy and
love. "For I have grown to hate myself, Ruth--to be ashamed of what I
am. I'd give the world to be like you."
"Oh, Marie, Marie," sobbed Ruth, "pray, pray don't speak of yourself
like that! I have tried so hard to love Clotilde, but she has been
cruel to me, I never could; but you--you have always been kind, and I do
love you. You always took my part."
"So that I might be a tyrant to you myself, you foolish child," said
Marie bitterly. "Oh, Ruth, Ruth, Ruth! if we had had a mother by our
side I should have been a different woman."
"There is something wrong, Marie; I can see it in your face." And she
hurriedly began to dress.
Then, and then only, did Marie give way to her feelings, sobbing with
hysterical rage till Ruth was alarmed, and clung to her, begging her to
be calm.
By degrees the whole bitter story came out, Marie keeping nothing back,
but pouring forth the tale of her wrong with all an injured woman's
passionate jealousy and despair.
She did not notice how by degrees, as she went on, Ruth had grown white
as ashes, and had gradually loosened her arms from round her, edging
slowly away till she stood there with her arms hanging listlessly at her
side, and in this attitude she listened to the bitter, passionate
declarations of her cousin.
"I wish I was dead!" cried Marie. "I thought him so true, and manly,
and honest, and yet he could be guilty of so cruel, so foul a wrong; and
oh, Ruth, Ruth! I loved with all my heart--loved him as I hate and
despise him now."
She started and looked wonderingly at her cousin, and asked herself
whether this was the gentle, yielding girl who had been her and her
sister's butt and victim these many years, for as she finished Ruth's
ashy face became suffused with anger.
"It is false! It is a cruel lie!"
"It is true, you foolish child!" retorted Marie angrily.
"I tell you it is false!" cried Ruth. "Captain Glen is too true and
noble to be so wicked as you say. I will not believe it. I do not
care; I would not believe it unless he stood here and owned to it
himself. I know it is cruel and wicked to say so, but it is Clotilde
who is to blame. Marcus Glen loves you, and he would not do you such a
wrong."
"You are too young and innocent, Ruth," said Marie coldly. "Good-night.
It is only the wakening from another dream."
Volume 3, Chapter V.