Directly after leaving the dinner-table Ruth set herself to watch her
cousin, asking herself the while what course she had better pursue.
At times she thought she would speak to Lord Henry, but she shrank from
such an exposure. Marie would perhaps be saved from the step she
evidently contemplated, but at what a cost! Her husband's confidence
would be for ever gone, and the old man's happiness at an end.
Marie was very pale, but there was a red spot burning in either cheek,
and as Ruth watched her she could see a deep frown upon her brow, while
from time to time she pressed her hand upon her breast as if to still
the beatings of her heart.
Then came those words she had heard Marie mutter perfectly distinctly in
her unquiet sleep--the room she was to ask for at the Channel Hotel; the
threat Marcus Glen had uttered respecting his action if she did not
come; and as Ruth sat there in the terrible silence of the large
drawing-room, she felt that if she did not do something at once the
strain upon her mind would be more than she could bear.
All at once Marie gave a start, and drew in her breath as if in sudden
pain. She seemed to forget the presence of Ruth, and, rising, walked
quickly to the mantelpiece, pressing her hair back from her forehead,
while, taking advantage of her back being turned, Ruth glided softly
into the smaller drawing-room, which was in comparative darkness.
The idea had come at last. It seemed reckless and wild, but she knew
that it was useless to appeal to Marie. She would go herself to Marcus
Glen. He was noble-hearted and true. There was a simple manliness in
his nature that made her hope, and she would kneel and appeal to him to
spare her cousin, to pause before he wrecked the happiness of the good,
chivalrous old man who trusted his wife in the pride and nobleness of
his heart.
"I shall be too late," thought Ruth; and, wound up now to a pitch of
excitement which seemed to urge her to act, she softly turned the handle
of the door, glided out, and without stopping to close it, ran up to her
room.
Money she had, and in a very few minutes she had dressed herself for her
task, and, closely veiled, she stepped softly to the door.
It opened silently, and she was about to glide downstairs, when she
heard a faint rustle, and, drawing back, she peered through the nearly
closed door, and saw Marie come up the stairs and enter her room.
Nerving herself for her task, she stepped out, and softly passed Marie's
room, hesitated for a moment as she heard a door close downstairs, and
the servants' voices ascending--all else was still in the great mansion;
and as quickly as she could she ran past the drawing-room door and down
into the hall, where she stopped and clung to the great coil of the
balustrade for support.
Her heart had failed her. There was that great dark door to pass, just
beyond which, at the foot of the table, she knew Lord Henry was seated
with his decanter and glass before him.
But just then a slight sound somewhere upstairs brought back the memory
of Marie's face, and, hesitating no longer, she stepped quickly to the
front door, her hand was upon the lock, and then she felt as if she were
turned to ice, for the voice of the old butler said respectfully:
"I will open it, ma'am."
He had been seated in the great hall-porter's chair waiting for his
lordship to leave the dining-room, and he now swung open the wide door
for her to pass out.
She went down the two or three steps, feeling like one in a dream,
wondering, though, whether the butler would go and tell Lord Henry that
she had gone out, and feeling each moment, as she hurried along the
pavement, that someone was about to place a hand upon her shoulder and
bid her stay.
Her mouth felt dry, her breath came fast, and the throb of her pulses
was painful; but she was on her way to the place of rendezvous, and it
was to save those she loved from ruin.
There were wheels behind, and she stopped instinctively and looked
round. It was an empty cab, and, taking this as a signal, the driver
drew rein. Ruth mechanically stepped in, and then started as the little
trap above her was opened, and the driver asked where to drive.
"Channel Hotel," came mechanically from her lips, and in her agitation
it only seemed a minute before she was in front of the great entrance.
"Take me to Number 99," she said as indifferently as she could, and a
waiter led the way.
She trembled so that she could hardly proceed, for the idea was
horrible. What did she hear Marie say? Was it Number 99, at this
hotel?
She was not sure now, and she felt faint and giddy as she followed the
man upstairs, and along a wide corridor. Should she ask him to stop?
She dare go no farther, and her lips moved to stay him, when he paused
by a door. Before she could find breath to speak or power of utterance,
he tapped lightly, and she heard him say:
"A lady to see you, sir."
There was the noise of a chair pushed quickly back, and a heavy tread
upon the carpet as she entered, moved, it seemed to be, by some power
that was not her own. Then as the door closed behind her she saw that
she was right, for, exclaiming loudly, "Marie! my darling!" Glen caught
her in his arms.
"Captain Glen!"
Ruth struggled indignantly from him, and snatched off her veil.
He staggered back.
"Ruth! you here?" he cried.
"Yes. I was compelled to come. Marie--my cousin--Lady Henry--Oh,
Captain Glen!"
"Is she ill? Has she sent you? Do you know?" he whispered hoarsely.
"She has not sent me," cried Ruth. "She does not know I have come. Oh,
Captain Glen!" she cried, sobbing violently as she threw herself upon
her knees and clasped his feet, "for heaven's sake, spare her! Do not
bring down such misery upon that home."
"Ruth, my child, hush! for heaven's sake!"
"No, no, no, no!" sobbed Ruth, and she went on incoherently as she clung
to his feet: "You are not thinking of the horror of your crime. You do
not love her--you cannot care for her, or you would not drive her to
this terrible sin."
"Not love her--Marie? Is she coming?"
"I pray heaven, no," said Ruth simply. "I would sooner see her dead."
"Then I will go and fetch her," cried Glen, furious with disappointment.
"I will not bear it; I cannot bear it. I'll tear her away from him--
but no," he said bitterly, "I promised something else, and I know she
will come."
"Is this Marcus Glen?" said Ruth simply, as she remained there upon her
knees; "is this the man who I told Marie was the soul of truth and
honour?"
"No; it is the poor deluded, wretched man who has been twice tricked and
cozened of his love. It is useless; I cannot, I will not listen to
you!"
"You shall!" she cried, springing to her feet. "You shall go away from
here, for she shall not leave her home for you. I would die sooner than
see this shame brought upon her. Coward, to force me, a mere girl, to
speak to you as I do! Oh, it is cruel, it is shameful, and yet you talk
of love!"
"Hush!" he cried, as she stood before him flushed with her indignation;
"what do you know of love?"
"That there is no such thing, if it is to bring shame and disgrace on a
weak woman, and death and dishonour upon a good, confiding man. Oh,
where is God, that He does not strike you dead for even thinking such a
cruel wrong!--Marie, Marie, you shall not go!"
For as she spoke in the anger and bitterness of her heart, the door
opened, and, veiled and in a large black cloak, Marie glided in, to
shrink cowering away in horror and shame, holding up her hands to keep
Ruth off, but in vain, for the girl flung her arms round her, and then
turned her head, so as to face Glen.
"You here, Ruth!"
"Yes, to save you from this shame. Oh, Marie, think of dear Lord
Henry!" she cried passionately; "think of the disgrace, the horror and
remorse to come!"
"I have thought till I can think no more," moaned Marie. "Oh, Ruth,
Ruth, why did you come?"
"In heaven's name, yes! Why did you come?" cried Glen fiercely, as he
tried to tear the couple apart.
"No; keep off!" cried Ruth. "I have told you why: because I would not
stand by and be a witness of this shame."
"But, Ruth, you do not know; you cannot tell. It is too late now."
"I tell you it is not too late!"
"Yes, my child, it is," said a low, soft voice; and there stood Paul
Montaigne, with his calm aspect and bland smile. "It is too late; the
step is taken by you, Ruth, as well as by Marie here. Captain Glen, I
will see that Miss Allerton comes to no harm."
"By what right do you intrude?" cried Glen hotly.
"The right of an old protector of these ladies," said Montaigne,
smiling. "There, do not be angry, my dear sir. I come as a friend.
Their interests have been mine for so many years that I, knowing
something of the tender passion myself, can sympathise with all. Mind,
I do not counsel flight, and if I had been consulted I should not have
hesitated to stop you; but as you have taken the irrevocable step, all I
can say is--go, get the divorce over as soon as possible, and then I
insist upon your marrying my darling ward."
"Of course, of course!" cried Glen angrily. "Marie, my love," he
whispered, "come."
"No, no!" cried Ruth, interposing, and clinging to her cousin's arm.
"Marie dear, you will come back?"
Marie looked at her in a piteously helpless fashion, and shook her head.
"My dearest Ruth," said Montaigne, "your interference is ill-timed. You
are fighting against fate. Come, come! I know it seems very dreadful
to you, but you must let matters have their course."
He advanced to take her hand, but she shrank from him with horror.
"No, no!" she cried. "Why do not you interfere?"
"Captain Glen, your train must be nearly due."
"And Ruth?" said Glen, hesitating. "Will you see her back?"
"Hardly," said Montaigne, smiling. "She cannot return there; but you
can rest content if she is under my charge. Recollect, sir, I have
known her almost from a child."
"Mr Montaigne is right; you are fighting against the irrevocable. The
step is taken, and Marie cannot return. Now, for all our sakes, pray
go!"
"With Mr Montaigne?" cried Ruth excitedly. "No; I will not go; and I
will not leave Marie!"
"Then, in heaven's name, go with us!"
"No!" said Montaigne fiercely; "Ruth goes with me!"
"Marcus Glen--Marie--I claim your protection from this man!" cried Ruth
excitedly.
"Then you shall come!" cried Glen. "Marie, be firm," he whispered.
"Now, Mr Montaigne--you hear Miss Allerton's decision; stand aside!"
"Miss Allerton stays with me!" said Montaigne firmly; and, in place of
giving way, he stepped forward, and an angry collision seemed imminent,
when the door was once more thrown open, and Lord Henry Moorpark,
looking blanched and old, came into the room.
Ruth had gained her end.
Volume 3, Chapter XV.