Much as Ruth was in Marie's confidence, and sisterly as their
intercourse had become, there were points now upon which each feared to
touch.
Of late Glen's name had ceased to be mentioned, and Ruth's feelings
towards Marie were a strange intermingling of love, jealousy, and fear.
Ruth was alone one day in the drawing-room, having stayed at home on
account of a slight headache, while Marie had gone to make a few calls
after setting down Lord Henry at his club.
Ruth had taken up a book, but though she went through page after page,
she had not the slightest recollection of what she had been reading, her
thoughts having wandered away to Marcus Glen and Marie.
"I ought to have gone with her," she thought; and then she began to
tremble as she felt a kind of dread overcoming her.
"It is terrible," she thought; "I cannot bear it. He does not care for
me, and I cannot save him; but," she cried, setting her teeth, "I will
not leave her again, and I will speak to her at once."
She hesitated for a moment, as if in alarm at the determination she had
made, and then moved towards the door.
"I will go on there at once; she may be there. If she is not, Marcus
Glen will be, and I will appeal to him, for I cannot bear this agony."
It was a good resolve, one which she would have carried out; but just
then she recoiled, and her heart began to beat painfully, while the
blood forsook her cheeks.
Mr Montaigne had softly closed the door behind him, and was advancing
towards her, with a smile upon his lip, and a peculiar look in his eyes,
which made her tremble.
"What!" he said, "alone? This is an unexpected pleasure."
"He knew I was alone," thought Ruth, "and that is why he has come."
He advanced towards her, and in spite of her determination to be firm,
she took a step or two backwards before she held out her hand, and said
with tolerable firmness:
"Lady Henry has gone out in the carriage."
"And will not be back just yet," he said with a smile. "Ah, well, it
does not matter."
He had taken her hand and pressed it firmly, retaining it in his, and
before Ruth could realise it he had drawn her to him, and pressed his
lips to hers.
"Mr Montaigne!" she cried, struggling to free herself. "This is an
insult!"
"What! from me?" he whispered, his face flushing, and his arms clasping
her more tightly. "Why, what nonsense, Ruth! You know how I have loved
you from the time you were a child, and have always meant that you
should some day be my little wife."
"Oh no! It is impossible! Mr Montaigne, are you mad?"
She cast a despairing glance at the bell, but it was beyond her reach,
and he smiled as he kissed her passionately again and again.
"Why are you left alone?" he said in a hoarse whisper; "because fate has
arranged it expressly for us. See how I have patiently waited for an
opportunity, ever since that night when we were surprised in each
other's arms by that wretched servant. Why, Ruth, Ruth, my little one,
what is the use of this struggling? It is absurd. You are a woman
now--the woman I have always loved. It is our secret, darling, and--"
"Help! help!" cried Ruth loudly as the door opened and Marie walked in,
Mr Paul Montaigne, carried away by his passion, having failed to hear
the carriage stop, quite a couple of hours sooner than he had expected.
"What is the meaning of this?" cried Marie fiercely, as Ruth ran to her
arms, panting and sobbing with shame.
"Marie--why did you leave me? He--insulted--this man--"
"Is a villain who hides his true nature beneath a mask," cried Marie
indignantly. "I always doubted him. How comes he to be alone here with
you? Leave the house, sir! Lord Henry shall be made acquainted with
the conduct of his guest."
Marie placed Ruth in a chair, and was crossing towards the bell, when
Montaigne said quietly:
"Ah, yes; poor Lord Henry! He does not know us all by heart."
Marie stopped as if she had been stung, and faced round, darting an
indignant glance at Montaigne, who, in place of leaving the room, coolly
walked to one of the mirrors, and readjusted his white tie.
Marie recovered herself, and had her hand upon the bell, when Montaigne
said quietly:
"Don't be foolish, my dear; exposures are such awkward things."
"For you, sir," cried Marie. "Then leave the house, and never enter it
again. But for the fact of your being so old a friend, I would have you
turned out."
"Words, words, words, my dear Marie," he said, taking a chair and
crossing his legs. "Let me see. It is Hamlet says that, I think. Now
look here, my dear child--but sit down, I want to talk to you."
"Will you leave this room, sir?" cried Marie angrily.
"No, my child, I shall not," he said, smiling. "You say you are ready
to expose me for this playful little interview which you interrupted
between Ruth here and myself--Ruth, the lady who is to be my wife."
"Your wife!" cried Marie indignantly.
"Yes: my wife; and don't raise your voice like that, my dear child. By
the way, you are back soon. Was not our dear Marcus at Bryanston
Square?"
"Marcus? Captain Glen?" cried Marie, whose lips turned white.
"There, my dear little girl. You are not little now, but you seem
little to me. You forget, in this wondrous fit of virtuous anger, that
I have stood for so many years towards you in the light of a father. In
my way I have helped you to position and a rich husband, and when I
found that, womanlike--fashionable womanlike, I should say--your
ladyship was beginning to show taste for pleasure, and even taking to
your handsome self a lover, I did not interfere. While because I, in
due course, and after a long and patient courtship, take the girl I love
in my arms, you talk of turning me out, call me scoundrel and villain,
and threaten me with Lord Henry's displeasure."
"It is disgraceful, sir," said Marie; "you are old enough to be her
father."
"Humph! Yes. Perhaps so, but nothing like so much older as Lord Henry
is than you. Now look here, my dear Marie, I am obliged to speak
plainly. I don't ask for a truce; but I demand your help and
countenance. I mean to marry Ruth."
Marie stood pointing to the door, but Montaigne did not stir.
"Pshaw!" he exclaimed--"a stage trick. Are you aware of what it means
to make me your enemy, my dear child? You are angry and excited now.
You did not quite realise my words. Do you think I am blind about
Captain Glen? As to dropping the mask, well, there, it is down. I am a
man even as you are a woman, and why should I not love?"
Marie's arm dropped to her side, and she stood gazing at him with her
cheeks and lips now ashy of hue.
"There," he continued, laughing, "the storm is over, and we understand
each other. I will go now, and mind this, dear Marie, I will
religiously keep your ladyship's secrets so long as you keep mine."
He rose, and, taking her hand, mockingly kissed it. Then, crossing to
Ruth, he would have caught her in his arms, but she started from him,
and stood at bay on the other side of a table.
"You foolish child!" he said, laughing; "you must be a little wiser when
I come again."
As the door closed upon him Marie stood with her eyes closed, listening,
and then with a cry of despair she threw herself into her cousin's arms.
"Oh, Ruth, Ruth, Ruth, what have I done! what have I done! I swear to
you I am innocent, indeed--indeed."
"I believe it, I know it," cried Ruth, holding her to her heart; "but
oh, Marie, you must never see him again! Pray, pray keep away."
"Yes, yes," she cried; "I will. I am innocent, I am indeed. But, oh,
it is horrible! I will stay away. I will see him no more. But you--
that man--he has us in his power."
"I beg your pardon," said a soft voice; "I think I must have left my
gloves in here. Yes, there they are!" and Paul Montaigne quietly
crossed the room, took a pair of gloves from a chair, and then smiled
and went softly out.
The cousins gazed in each other's eyes, motionless, till they heard the
closing of the front door.
"Oh, Marie," whispered Ruth, in an awe-stricken way, "he must have heard
every word you said!"