"Can you not take me into your confidence, Marie?" said Lord Henry, on
meeting his wife at the breakfast-table the morning after her sister's
revelation.
She looked at him wildly for a few moments, her large eyes encircled
with dark rings, and the traces of terrible emotion in her blanched
face.
She had been in a state of mental agony the night through, refusing to
retire, and passing much of the time in pacing up and down the room.
But towards morning she had grown calmer. Her mental pain was somewhat
dulled, and as she perceived the terrible agitation into which she had
plunged her husband, she began to feel a kind of remorse and pity for
him as well as for herself.
At first she had been half maddened, for she did not for a moment doubt
Clotilde's words. Everything was only too suggestive, and as she felt
that she had hastily condemned Marcus Glen, who had been all that was
chivalrous and true, there were moments when she told herself that she
could not live.
It was so horrible. She had loved Marcus Glen with all the strong
passion of her nature. For his sake she would have borne poverty and
privation, and been truly happy, believing thoroughly in his love; but
when, in place of finding him the true, honest gentleman she had
trusted, she believed that he was base, her love had turned to hatred,
and she had fled, telling herself that she had nothing to hope for now,
and that if she could make others happy she need expect no more.
Awakening at last, after a night of bitter suffering, to the anguish of
her husband, she had made a brave effort over self, and turned to him as
her refuge from the suffering to which she was reduced.
She clung to him, praying for help and strength to cast out the image of
Marcus Glen from her heart and at last she felt that she had the
strength, and told herself that she would consider the past as dead.
But even as she lay there with her husband's hands pressed to her
forehead, the thought would come that she ought to tell Marcus Glen that
she knew the truth.
A paroxysm of agony followed this thought. What avail would it be now?
She felt that he would curse her for her want of faith in him, and,
think of it all as she would, she could only come to the conclusion
that, in her haste and want of trust in him she loved, she had blasted
her future, and must bear it to the end.
Daybreak at last; and with the sun came thoughts of her position, and
the necessity for making some effort--an effort which she was now too
weak to essay. But at last she rose, and as the time wore on begged
Lord Henry to leave her, meeting him again a couple of hours later at
breakfast, apparently calm, but with a tempest raging in her breast.
He uttered no word of reproach, but was tenderness itself, and the tears
stole more than once down his furrowed cheeks; and when at last he
appealed to her as her husband, she broke down, threw herself sobbing
upon his breast, and begged him to spare her.
"I will not say another word," he replied gently. "My wish is to make
you happy in my poor way, and I only pressed you for your confidence, so
that I might help you to be more at rest."
"I don't like to have secrets from you," she whispered; "dear husband!"
He held her more tightly to his breast as she called him this, and she
uttered a low sigh of relief, for it was as though he told her of his
trust. It gave her strength to proceed, and she went on:
"My sister quarrelled with me, and said such bitter things that I could
not bear them. She brought up the scene upon that terrible night of
which you were a witness."
"Let it be buried with the past," said Lord Henry gravely. "It should
never have been revived, and I see now but too plainly that I was to
blame in accepting the invitation."
"Never accept one again; I could not bear it. Clotilde's path and mine
must be separate through life. I could not meet her now."
"Are you not too hard upon your sister?"
"Hard?" cried Marie. "Oh no! You do not know all," she was about to
say, but she refrained, and went on: "Clotilde has altered since her
marriage. I think we should be happier apart. Help me in this, dear
husband. It would be better so."
He raised her face, and gazed tenderly into her wild eyes, as he said:
"Your happiness is my care, Marie, my child. I promised to try and make
your home one of rest and peace. Ask me what you will, and it shall be
done."
"Then you will keep our lives separate from my sister's," she cried
eagerly.
"If you asked me my wishes on the subject," he said quietly, and he
smiled as he spoke. "I should gladly cut myself off from all connection
with Mr Elbraham and his wife. But we have our social duties to
perform, Marie, even if they are against our taste."
"Duties!" cried Marie excitedly; "it is my duty to avoid my sister,
yours to keep us apart. Believe me, this is for the best."
"I gladly follow out your wishes, my child," said Lord Henry, "and I
will ask you no more questions if you will try to let this cloud go by."
"Yes, yes," she cried eagerly, "it is gone;" and she flung her arms
round his neck, and sobbed hysterically upon his breast.
"There," she cried with a piteous smile, for the face of Marcus Glen
seemed to haunt her still. "Now I am quite calm, and I have a petition
to make."
"What is it?" he said with a sigh of relief, and the lines in his face
grew less deep.
"I want you to let me ask my cousin Ruth to come and stay with me--to be
like a companion to me. Don't think," she hastened to add, "that I am
dull and want companions, but I have a double object to perform."
"Yes?" he said inquiringly.
"I wish--I want to withdraw her from Clotilde's influence."
"A good and worthy desire, my child," he said, bowing his approval. "I
like Ruth very, very much. She is sweet, and natural, and true."
"She is," cried Marie eagerly.
"And your other object?"
"I wish to watch over her, and to try and influence her future. She
would be happier with me, and if she is to marry I should like hers to
be a worthy choice."
"Of course, yes, you are quite right; and what do you say--shall we
fetch her here?"
"Yes," cried Marie eagerly.
"When? To-day?"
"Yes--no," replied Marie. "I am not strong enough; I am not calm enough
to-day. I will write and ask her to be ready to-morrow, and, if you
will do it, let us drive down and fetch her."
Lord Henry Moorpark sighed with relief and pleasure, and soon after,
fighting bravely to crush down her own agony of heart, Marie wrote a
note to ask her aunts' permission for Ruth to come, and another to
request her to be ready--and all the time with an intensity of sorrow
striving with her wild and passionate love. She seemed to see in Ruth
one who was to save her from the commission of a crime from which she
shrank in horror. Ruth would be her protector. Ruth should be always
with her, and she would learn from her sweet, innocent young heart how
to school her own.
The visit of Ruth to her cousin in Saint James's Square commenced during
a temporary absence of Mr Paul Montaigne from his apartments at
Teddington.
Business had taken him to London, where he stayed a week, at the end of
which time he walked through the chestnut avenue quietly, as of old,
paused by the Diana pool to cast a few crumbs to the fishes, and then
continued his walk, with his hands behind him, to the Palace, where he
was met by Joseph, at whom he smiled benignantly, and was shown in to
where the honourable sisters were seated at their embroidery. The hands
of the fair Isabella were a little more tremulous than was their wont,
consequent upon an encounter during a walk, when she and her sister had
met Glen.
The visitor was received most warmly, and heard glowing accounts of the
happiness and brilliant establishments of the dear children.
"Yes," he said blandly, "they must be happy. I had some thought of
calling upon them when in town, but I bethought me that they must be
fully occupied with their friends and the management of their homes, and
that my visit, at present, might seem out of place."
"I think it would have been a duty properly fulfilled--what do you say,
sister?" exclaimed the Honourable Philippa.
"I think it would have been a duty and a kindness," said the Honourable
Isabella, making a couple of false stitches before she found out her
mistake.
"I have been remiss," said Montaigne, with a bland smile, as he bent his
head. "How day by day one awakens more and more to the fact that human
nature is far from perfect!"
"Ah, indeed!" said the Honourable Philippa.
"Yes, indeed!" said the Honourable Isabella, with a lively recollection
of her thoughts regarding Marcus Glen.
"I must try and remedy my failing, ladies, at my next visit to town.
But how is the last lamb in this peaceful fold--Ruth?"
He uttered this inquiry with his eyes half-closed, and a calm, sweet
smile played the while about his lips till he heard the Honourable
Philippa's reply:
"Oh, she is in town! Lord and Lady Henry came down in the barouche the
day before yesterday, and fetched her up to stay with them for some
time."
The warm, pleasant look in Paul Montaigne's face changed to one of a
grim cold grey; the smile disappeared, his lips tightened, and he seemed
for the moment to have grown old and careworn. Even his voice changed,
and sounded hard and harsh as he said quickly:
"Indeed? I did not know."
"Marie thought it would be a pleasant change for her, and companionable
as well, and dear Lady Littletown, who was calling at the time, said it
was the best thing we could do. So she is gone."
"It would be a most pleasant change."
"And, of course, you know, dear Mr Montaigne, Ruth is no longer a
child, and--er--you understand."
"Yes, of course," said Montaigne; who, however, recalled to mind that
Ruth was quite a child until her cousins were married.
At that idea of seeing company and the following suggestion of marriage
the strange pallor became more evident in Montaigne's countenance, and
in spite of his forced smile and self-control, he kept passing his dry
tongue over his parched lips, and unconsciously drew in his breath as if
he were suffering from thirst.
He grew worse as the conversation continued to take the ugly turn, to
him, of marriage. For, said the Honourable Philippa:
"Lady Littletown informs us that a marriage is on the _tapis_ between
Mr Arthur Litton, a friend of Mr Elbraham, and our dear Lady Anna
Maria Morton."
"I congratulate Lady Anna Maria, I am sure," said Montaigne huskily; and
as he glanced at the Honourable Isabella that lady trembled more than
usual, and believed that Montaigne was reading her heart, and mentally
asking her whether she would ever be married to Marcus Glen.
Mr Montaigne refused to stay to lunch. He had so many little things to
attend to consequent upon the business that had called him to London; in
fact, even now he was only down for a few hours, having come to seek
some papers. These he had found, and he was going back to town at once.
Business was very tiresome, he said.
The honourable sisters agreed that it was, and Mr Montaigne took his
leave with reverent, affectionate grace, and passed out into the
gardens, along whose broad gravel paths he walked slowly in his
customary way--bland, sweet, and introspective with his half-closed
eyes. But though he did not increase his pace in obedience to his
rapidly-beating pulse, a close observer would have noticed that he did
not stop to feed the fishes on his way back to Teddington, while his
landlady was surprised at the hurried way in which he again took his
departure.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The change from Hampton Court to Saint James's was delightful to Ruth,
who only felt one drawback to the pleasure of her visit--that she could
not expect to see Marcus Glen and Richard Millet during her walks.
"I wonder whether she thinks him so guilty as she did," mused Ruth; and
these musings were continued one evening after dinner, when she was
seated at work in Lord Henry's drawing-room, with Marie, who was very
pale, close at hand; Lord Henry being, according to custom, seated over
his wine--a pleasant, old-fashioned fiction, wherein a decanter of
excellent old port was placed before him every evening, of which he
drank one glass only, and then went to sleep till the butler announced
tea.
Just in the midst of her thoughts respecting Marcus Glen, and as if some
electric mental chord of sympathy existed between them, Marie said, in a
quiet, rather forced voice:
"Have you seen Captain Glen lately, Ruthy?"
It cost Marie a tremendous effort to say those words calmly. And then
that terrible pang of jealousy shot through her breast once more as she
saw the crimson blood flush into Ruth's cheeks and rise above her brows.
Poor Ruth faltered, and looked as guilty as if she had been discovered
in some offence, as she replied:
"Yes, only a few days ago. He spoke to us in the Gardens. I was
walking with my aunts."
Marie felt relieved. He could not have said much to Ruth if her aunts
were by, and she sighed with content, but only to take herself angrily
to task once more, and strive to spur herself onward to her duty. It
was in this disposition, then, that she said quietly:
"I thought it right to say to you, Ruthy, that I think you were correct
about--about Captain Glen."
"That he was not guilty, as you imagined?" cried Ruth eagerly.
Marie bowed her head, and she felt a strange constriction of the heart
on seeing the bright animation in Ruth's countenance--a suggestion of
the pain that she was in future to feel; but she mastered her emotion,
and Ruth went on:
"I am so glad, you cannot think!" she said.
"Why?" said Marie, in a cold, hard voice, which made Ruth colour highly;
but she spoke out.
"Because it seemed so cruel to one who always was kind and chivalrous
and--"
She stopped short with a curiously puzzled look gathering upon her brow,
for it now occurred to her that Marie must be angry with herself for
casting off Marcus Glen, but she could not read it in her eyes, while
the puzzled look deepened as Marie said quietly:
"I am very glad, Ruthy--very glad to feel that I was not mistaken in
him, and that he is indeed the true gentleman we believed."
Ruth took a stool and placed it at Marie's feet, seating herself there
and clinging to her hand, while her cousin softly stroked her hair,
vowing to herself the while that if Ruth cared for Marcus Glen, no
jealous pang should hinder her from aiding in bringing them together,
and no act of hers should be such as would be traitorous to Lord Henry,
her confiding husband.
"Why do you look at me so strangely, Ruthy?" said Marie at last.
"I was thinking."
"Thinking what?"
"Don't ask me, Marie," said Ruth in a troubled tone.
"Why not? Shall I tell you? You were thinking that I repent of having
married Lord Henry, now that I know I was deceived. Tell me!" she
cried, lifting up Ruth's burning face, and gazing at her searchingly:
"you were thinking that, were you not?"
"Yes," faltered Ruth, "I was."
"Then you were wrong, Ruthy," said Marie gravely. "Perhaps I did feel
something like compunction when I found this out, but that is all past
now, and I am married to one of the best and kindest of men."
"And you are happy, Marie?"
There was a pause, for it cost Marie a bitter struggle to utter that one
word with a smile, but she spoke it bravely at last, and there was a
sense of relief after it was said:
"Quite," Then, after another pause: "Lord Henry is all that is tender
and good to me; and now, Ruthy, about yourself?"
"Oh, I am only too glad to come and see you sometimes!"
"Yes; but about this little heart. Ruthy, will you confide in me?"
Marie drew the trembling girl closer to her side, and tried to gaze in
her face, but it was averted.
"Yes," she whispered; "of course I will."
"Then tell me this--frankly: you love Marcus Glen?"
The pained aspect came back into Marie's face, and her brow was rugged,
as she waited for Ruth's answer.
"I don't know," said Ruth at last.
"You don't know? Is this your confidence?"
"Oh, don't speak angrily to me!" cried Ruth passionately. "I will keep
nothing from you, Marie. Indeed, indeed I do not know, only that I have
prayed, so hard, so very hard, that I might not love him."
"Prayed that you might not love him?" said Marie, smiling.
"Yes; for I felt that it would be so treacherous, and that it would
cause pain to all--to you--to me. Oh, why do you ask me this?"
"Hush! you are growing agitated, and I want to talk to you quietly, and
for your good. Suppose it had ceased to be treacherous to think of
Captain Glen--suppose he could be brought to love you, and were to ask
you to be his wife: what would you say then?"
A servant entered and announced Mr Paul Montaigne; and, blandly calm
and smiling, that gentleman entered the room.
It was a surprise for both, and Ruth's heart began to beat strangely
fast as, in his customary paternal way, Montaigne greeted each in turn.
She recalled that evening when their visitor had talked with her in the
drawing-room, but her dread had increased each time they met, and it was
all she could do to keep from shrinking from him and showing her
aversion.
But little was said more than that Montaigne told them he was in town on
business, and that he had thought he would call, before Lord Henry
joined them, greeting Montaigne very warmly, and ending, to Ruth's
horror, by asking him to dine with them next day, and to spend an hour
with them whenever he could spare the time.
The rest of that particular evening was passed in quite a political
discussion between Lord Henry and his guest, Montaigne taking so little
notice of Ruth that her heart grew more at rest; but there was a
something in his look as he said good-night, something in the pressure
of his hand, that made her think this man loved her, and as she felt for
the moment that it might be possible for him to ask her aunts to give
her to him as his wife, the poor girl turned cold, and gladly went off
shivering to her sleep-forsaken bed.
Ruth had not been with her long when Marie received the old-fashioned
communication of wedding cards; the notice in the paper of the marriage
of Arthur Litton, Esq., of Duke Street, Saint James's, to Lady Anna
Maria Morton, of the private apartments, Hampton Court Palace, having
escaped her eye.
The young couple took a house in Bryanston Square, which Lady Littletown
said was charmingly furnished; visits followed, at one of which an
unexpected encounter took place.
Lady Anna Maria was at home, the servant said in answer to the queries,
and Marie and Ruth descended from the carriage, and were shown up to the
drawing-room, where, seated with his back to the light, talking to the
bride, was Glen, in company with Dick Millet.
Marie felt as if all the blood in her body had rushed to her head, and
the room seemed to swim round, but she mastered her emotion, and after
receiving Lady Anna Maria's greeting, she turned with quiet
self-possession to where Glen stood, cold and stern, waiting to take
leave, and calmly offered him her hand.
"I am glad to see you again, Captain Glen," she said gravely; and Marcus
started with astonishment, eagerly catching the extended hand, and
hardly able to stammer out some words of greeting.
Then a bitter look crossed his face, and he turned from Marie coldly,
and began, with a vivid recollection of the past, to talk to Ruth, while
Marie made Dick colour with pleasure as she shook hands, and then sat
and chatted with him with all the warmth of an old friend.
But the ice was broken, and that one meeting led to others, Lady Anna
Maria, with all the eagerness of a young bride, lending herself to what
was evidently in her eyes the making up of a match between Ruth, who was
so charming and fresh and sweet, and Captain Glen.
The visits to Bryanston Square were not frequent, but, to her horror,
Ruth noted that Glen was always there as if he expected to meet Marie;
and though he was kindness itself and full of attention, his quiet
deference and low-spoken words were for Marie alone.
Mr Arthur Litton was very rarely there, so that Lady Anna Maria was
their sole entertainer, and this little lady had, after so many years of
maidenhood, developed in her married life quite a girlish skittishness
which resulted in a very silly flirtation with little Dick, who was most
constant in his attentions, and seemed to ignore her ladyship's
excessively thin figure.
"I believe, Dick, you'd flirt with a mop if it was stuck in a
petticoat," said Glen to him one day on their way to Bryanston Square.
"What's it all for--practice?"
"I don't ask you why you flirt with married ladies," said Dick sharply.
Glen started, and looked grave. And at that time a little friendly
counsel might have turned him aside, for he thought a good deal of
quiet, grave Lord Henry. But he frowned, and said angrily, "He is no
friend of mine. He came between us. Why should I study him?"
He closed his eyes then fast to the risk and danger, giving himself up
to his revived passion, and went on gliding slowly down the slope
towards the precipice that threatened both.
On the other side, Ruth was passing through a strange course of
education. At first, in her innocency, she could hardly believe it
possible, but more and more the fact dawned upon her that a kind of
self-deception was going on with Marie, who apparently believed that she
was furthering Ruth's happiness, while she was yielding to the delight
of being once more in company with Glen, listening to his voice, living
a delicious, dreamy existence, of whose danger she seemed to be unaware.
Volume 3, Chapter X.