Chapter XI: Part 11

There was a hot red spot in his cheeks as he spoke in a curiously excited way, and Gertrude felt a strange sense of shrinking as he hastily snatched away her jacket, threw it on a chair, and clasped her in his arms.

"John," she cried, struggling to free herself, "look! look!"

He loosed his grasp and turned suddenly upon a figure which stood right in the doorway, that of a tall handsome woman, looking ghastly pale, and her great eyes dilated with rage and surprise. She had evidently risen from a sick couch, and wore a long loose white dressing-gown, which, with her long dark hair flowing over her shoulders, gave her an almost supernatural look, heightened by the silence in which she gazed from one to another.

"What are you doing here?" cried Huish sharply. "I thought you were in bed--ill."

"I was," replied the woman slowly, "till I heard you return."

"Go back to it then," he said brutally; "why do you come here?"

Gertrude shrank back towards the couch, as the woman slowly entered, with her eyes fixed fiercely upon her, and the door swung to.

"Who is this?" she cried, in a low angry voice.

"Take no notice of her. I will get her away," whispered Huish, crossing to Gertrude's side. "She is mad!"

"No, girl, I am not mad," said the woman sternly; for her hearing seemed to have been sharpened by her illness, and she had heard every word. "John Huish," she said sternly, "answer me--who is this?"

Gertrude's eyes dilated with horror. She was confused and startled. She could not comprehend her position or why they were there; and as the recollection of the happy evening she had spent came to mingle with the chaos of fancies and surmises that bewildered her brain, it seemed to her like some strange nightmare, from which she felt that she would soon awake into peace and repose.

To make the scene more impressive, the heavy, deep booming of a clock striking midnight floated into the room with a strange jangle of other bells, some slow, some hurried, all bent on proclaiming the same fact-- that another day was dead, another being born.

As the woman repeated her question, Huish's eyes grew dark with rage, and he pointed to the door.

"Go down," he said, "at once, or--"

She shrank from him for a moment as she saw his look; but her jealous rage mastered her fear, and she stepped farther into the room.

Huish seemed undecided what to do; he glanced at Gertrude, then at the woman, and then back to see that the former was looking at him imploringly, as if asking him to end the scene.

"Go back to bed," he said firmly; "you are ill!" and he laid his hand upon the woman's arm.

"Worse in mind than in body!" she cried, starting away. "Girl," she continued passionately, "you look truthful and unspoiled; tell me who you are."

"Oh yes!" said Gertrude quickly, as she advanced with extended hand, and a look of pity in her face. "I am Mrs Huish."

The woman's lower jaw dropped, and a blank, stony look came into her eyes.

"Married!" she said hoarsely. "Are you his wife--to-day?"

"Oh no!" said Gertrude wonderingly; "for some time now. You are ill and delicate. Can I do anything for you?"

"No, no--no, no! Don't touch me; I could not bear it. Tell me once more."

"Here, enough of this!" cried Huish angrily. "Go down!"

"Don't touch her," said Gertrude excitedly; and she interposed. "She is ill--very ill. I am Mrs John Huish," she repeated.

"The woman he has wronged?"

"No, no!" said Gertrude, beginning to tremble, as she thought of the scene upon the stairs; "but you are--"

"That man's lawful wife, whom he now casts aside for some pretty baby face that takes his fancy."

"It is not true!" cried Gertrude with spirit; "my husband is a gentleman and the soul of honour."

"It is true! and that man is a liar--a cheat--a scoun--O God, I cannot bear it! Let me die!"

The woman threw up her hands and reeled. In another instant she would have fallen, but Huish stepped forward, caught her in his arms, and bore her out of the room, carrying her down to the next floor, while Gertrude, as she heard his receding steps, sank into a chair, and gazed blankly before her.

She started up though, as Huish returned with a smile upon his face, and closed and locked the door.

"Poor thing!" he said lightly; "I am sorry she came up. Ill, you know. Her baby. Reason temporarily gone. She accuses everybody like that."

"John," cried Gertrude, trembling, "cannot understand you to-night: you are so strange and unlike yourself. Is what that poor creature says true? Oh, I cannot bear to hear such words!"

"True? is it likely?" he said, approaching her. "Why, are you not my little wife?"

"Yes, yes!" cried Gertrude, shrinking from him; "but tell--"

She stopped short, gazing at him wonderingly. Her hands went to her dilating eyes, and as the light of the lamp fell for the first time full upon him now, she uttered a cry of horror, her face became convulsed, and she ran to the door.

"It is not--" she paused wildly.

"Are you mad, too?" he cried, pursuing her and catching her wrists.

"Yes--no--I don't know," she cried excitedly. "Don't touch me. I cannot bear it."

"Silence!" he cried. "Do you want to alarm the house?"

"Oh no, no!" she panted; "but you frighten--you horrify me!"

"Hush! Be silent!"

"No, no!" cried Gertrude, struggling, as he again seized her in his arms. "Oh, help--help--help!"

Volume 3, Chapter II.

POLICE BUSINESS.

Dick Millet became quite the military officer as he reached the police-station with his father, and proved that, if he possessed a very small body, it contained plenty of soul. He was staggered at the charge brought against his brother-in-law, that of being a party to a serious attempt at burglary on the previous night, and soon found that there was nothing to be done till the next day. He listened to Huish's asseverations of innocence very quietly, but said nothing till he exclaimed:

"Why, Dick, you cannot believe me guilty of this monstrous charge!"

"I can only believe one thing just now, John Huish," he replied; "and that is that you are my dear sister's husband, and that for her sake everything possible must be done to help you out of this dreadful scrape."

"Yes," cried Sir Humphrey feebly, "of course--of course. And, John, my boy, I always liked you; it's a cursed impertinent lie, isn't it?"

"It is indeed," cried Huish earnestly; "unless--unless--"

He stopped, gazing from one to the other in a curiously bewildered fashion.

"Unless--unless what, my boy? Why don't you speak out?"

"Let it rest to-night, sir," said Huish, in an altered voice. "I am confused--shocked. Get me some good advice to-morrow, Dick, and when the examination comes off, you will, of course, find bail."

Dick nodded, but did not shake hands.

"I'll do everything I can," he said sternly.

"Won't you shake hands?"

"No," replied Dick, "not till you are cleared. Huish," he said in a whisper. "I shall work day and night to clear you, for Gerty's sake; but I've heard some blackguardly things about you lately. This, though, is worse than all."

Huish turned from him, looking dazed and strange, to shake hands with Sir Humphrey, who began protesting to and scolding the inspector on duty.

"I--I--don't believe a word of it," he cried angrily. "You--you--you police fellows are always--yes, damme, always making mistakes of this kind, and--and, confound me, if I don't have the matter brought before the House of Lords. Good-night, my dear boy; make them give you everything you want, and we'll be here first thing in the morning.-- It's--it's--it's about the most disgraceful thing I ever knew, my dear Dick," he said as soon as they were in the street; "but if you don't take me on to the club and give me some supper I shall faint."

"You must be sharp, then, father. Gertrude will be horribly anxious."

"Yes, yes, poor girl, she will; but it will be all right to-morrow. I'm not so strong as I was, and this has upset me terribly."

There was no doubt about it, for the old gentleman looked very haggard. A hearty supper, however, restored him, and he left the club in pretty good spirits to accompany Dick to Westbourne Road, where they were met by the announcement that "master came back a bit ago, and went away with missus."

"What does this mean?" said Dick sternly.

"Mean, my boy? Why, that he has got bail."

"I'm afraid not," said Dick to himself, and, with the full belief that his brother-in-law had contrived to escape, he accompanied his father home, keeping, however, his thoughts to himself.

In the morning, however, there was the news that a message had come for her ladyship to go to Wimpole Street, where Mrs Huish had arrived on the previous night.

"Was John Huish there, too?" asked Dick sharply.

"I did not hear," said her ladyship haughtily. "I know nothing of such a person, and I will not have my name sullied by mention in connection with his."

"But you'll go and see Gertrude?"

"No," exclaimed her ladyship. "It was Gertrude's duty to come to me if she were in trouble. If she prefers her uncle's help, let her enjoy it. I have no more to say, except that I shall not go; and, Humphrey, I forbid you to go there--for the present."

"And me, too," said Dick quietly.

"You have long ceased to obey me," said her ladyship austerely, "and must take your own course. _I_ will not, however, be dragged into this dreadful scandal."

"Humph!" said Dick. "Then you let it all out, father, after you'd gone to bed?"

"Yes, my son, yes. Your mamma was very anxious, and I told her all."

"As you like. I'm off now to secure counsel. We'll have him out before night."

Lady Millet sighed and wiped her eyes, but no one paid any heed to her, so she consoled her injured feelings with a good breakfast.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Meantime, John Huish sat through the night, thinking, and calling up from the past all the strange things that had been laid to his charge.

"What does it mean?" he said aloud. "Am I a madman or a somnambulist, or do I lead a double life?"

It was terrible, that being shut up in such a place; for when the other prisoners were silent, there was a dreadful clock close by, which seemed in its cold, harsh, brazen way to goad him to distraction. It was a hurried clock, that always seemed manifesting itself and warning people of the flight of time, so that every quarter of an hour it fired off a vicious "ting-tang" in the two discordant notes that made a bad descending third, repeating itself at the half-hours, tripling at the third quarter, and at the hour snapping as it were at the world four times before allowing the hammer on another bell to rapidly go off _slam--slam--slam_! till its duty was done. "Clocks are bad enough," he thought, "from the warnings they give of how short our lives are growing; but when a man is in trouble and bells are added, the effect is maddening indeed."

He sat trying to think till he was bewildered, and at last, in a complete maze, he sat listening to the noisy singing of a woman in the next cell, and the drunken howlings of a man on the other side.

"My poor darling!" he cried at last; "it will almost break her heart. A burglary! and if they should prove that I was guilty--oh, it is monstrous!"

He tried to pace his cell, but it was too narrow, and he sat down again with his hands pressed to his forehead, with the mental darkness coming down upon him thicker than that of his cell.

"It's like some nightmare," he said at last, "and as if in some way my brain were unhinged. Absence--absence of mind! My God! will a judge believe me if I say for defence that I committed a robbery in a fit of absence of mind? One has read of strange things in people's lives," he thought after a time--"how they have been totally unconscious of what took place in one half of their existence. Is it possible that my life is divided into two parts, in each of which I am ignorant of what passes in the other? But who would believe it! I'll have Stonor here first thing to-morrow."

He sat with his mind growing darker and darker, and vainly struggling against the black oppression; and at last, with a weary wail; he exclaimed unconsciously:

"My poor darling, what a night for you! Last night happy and admired-- to-night--oh, thank God--thank God!"

For the light had come.

The police declared that the burglary had taken place the previous night about nine o'clock at a City house, and that he was seen and nearly captured. Why, a dozen people could prove that he was at Dr Stonor's the whole evening.

He rose and tapped sharply at his cell door.

"Now then," said a rough voice. "What is it?"

"Kindly ask the inspector to come here for a moment," said Huish.

The officer on night duty came from his desk where he had been entering the last charge. "Well, sir?" he said, with official brevity.

"Sorry to trouble you," said Huish, "but that burglary--when was it?"

"Nine o'clock last night--that is, the night before last, for it is now four o'clock."

"Thank God," said Huish, and he lay down upon that peculiarly soft bed provided by a humane Government at police-stations for arrested people, and slept soundly for hours.

"Precious eager to know when, the crack was done," said the officer, as he looked in at the cell. "Clever dodge--going to try an _alibi_?"

What was intended for a preliminary examination took place in the course of the afternoon, and the officer in charge of the case brought forward two or three witnesses to give a sufficiency of evidence to justify a remand, informing the magistrate that he believed that he should be able to produce a long catalogue of crime against the prisoner, who had succeeded in eluding the vigilance of the police for some time past.

On the other side, however, the services of the rising young counsel, Mr Douglas, had been secured. He made a brief and indignant address to the magistrate on the way in which the sanctity of Mr Huish's home had been invaded, and a gentleman dragged off to answer this disgraceful trumped-up charge. In conclusion, Mr Douglas said he should bring forward witnesses whose social position was such that their testimony must be taken as unimpeachable, and they would prove on oath that at the time when this gentleman--the defendant; he would not insult him by calling him the prisoner--was stated to have been seen by the police in company with some notorious scoundrels engaged in a burglary--his worship would excuse him for smiling, the charge was so absurd--Mr Huish was partaking of the hospitality of a well-known physician at his house at Highgate.

"Call Dr Stonor."

Dr Stonor stepped into the witness-box, was sworn, and stated that Mr John Huish often dined with him at Highgate, and was there on the night in question, that he arrived there about seven, and did not leave till twelve, and was never out of his sight the whole time.

Daniel Repson, Dr Stonor's confidential servant, testified to the same effect.

Then Sir Humphrey Millet was sworn, and stated that he called at his son-in-law's at six o'clock, and went up with him in the carriage to Highgate, and was set down at Grosvenor Square on the return. He certainly did have a nap after dinner, for about half an hour, but not for more.

Mr Richard Millet gave similar testimony, and lastly Miss Stonor was sworn, and stated that, saving the interval between leaving the table and tea-time, she saw Mr Huish the whole evening.

Mr Douglas was of opinion that after the evidence of these witnesses his worship would dismiss the contemptible charge, and tell his client that he left the court without a stain upon his character. At the same time, he hoped the police would be more careful, for he was informed that Mrs Huish had been most terribly alarmed, and that the consequences might be serious.

The police-sergeant was checkmated, and the prisoner was discharged at once, leaving the police court in the company of his friends.

"Yes," said the sergeant grimly, "he has done us this time; but if we don't put salt on his tail yet, I'll leave the force."

John Huish shook hands heartily with the doctor, who eyed him rather curiously, and then turned to Dick, who was, however, very distant.

"You'll come home with me," he said; but Dick shook his head.

"Not now," he said coldly; "another time. Come, father."

The old man shook hands heartily with his son-in-law, and whispered:

"Dick's a bit put out, my dear John; but it's all right. I'll put it all straight. I'll bring him on to-night."

Huish nodded, and shook hands then with the doctor and Miss Stonor.

"Good-bye, doctor; a thousand thanks! Miss Stonor, you'll excuse me. I am most anxious to get home."

Miss Stonor nodded and smiled, and Huish was turning away, when the doctor said:

"Run up and see me again soon."

Huish nodded assent and turned away, hailed the first hansom, and jumped in, the man smiling at him in a friendly way.

"Home, sir?" he said.

"Yes, quick. West--"

"All right, sir--I know," cried the man, and away went the cab.

"Driven me before," thought Huish, as he sank back in the cab. "Poor little darling! how she has been upset!"

He lit a cigar and smoked it, to settle his nerves as he termed it, and then his thoughts turned to the affairs of the past night.

"And suppose I had not been able to bring all those witnesses to prove my innocence," he thought. "How horrible!"

He moved about uneasily in his seat, for he was not satisfied. This was, after all, but another link in the strange chain of circumstances that had troubled him, and he shuddered and threw away his cigar, for his nerves refused to be settled. Somehow, a strange uneasy feeling kept increasing upon him, and at last he raised the little trap and shouted to the man to go faster.

"Suppose she is ill!" he muttered. "Poor darling! what she must have suffered!"

At last the cab was pulled up at the door, and Huish leaped out and ran up the steps without paying the man, who waited, while, not finding his latch-key, he rang sharply, and the cook answered the door.

"Where is your mistress?" he said sharply.

"Missus, sir? I haven't seen her since last night."

"What, has she gone home?"

"Home, sir? I don't know, sir--I mean, since you fetched her, sir."

"Since I fetched her, woman! Are you mad?"

"Not as I knows on, sir," said the woman, with the asperity of one in her profession. "You ast me where missus was, and I says as I ain't seen her since you fetched her last night."

"Since I fetched her last night! You mean the night before, to go out to dinner--Dr Stonor's."

"No, sir, I don't; I mean the very last night as is, 'bout half an hour after you was took."

"Yes, yes; go on," said Huish, turning ghastly pale.

"You come back and told missus quite sharp like to put on her things, and took her away in a cab."

"Are you--dreaming?" faltered Huish, staggering back against the wall.

"Dreaming! no, sir, of course not. And the poor dear got ready in a minute, and you both went off in a cab."

"This is horrible!" groaned Huish. "I never returned till now; I did not come and fetch her."

"Begging your pardon, sir, which you've forgot," said a voice behind him; and Huish turned round to find himself face to face with the cabman.

"Like me to wait, sir? Didn't pay me my fare. It was me as drove you and the lady last night."

"You!--what?--me?--the lady?"

"Of course, sir," said the man, smiling. "You hailed me in Praed Street, outside the station, and come on here, and you told me to wait. Five minutes arter you comes out with the lady, and I took you down to Cannon Street."

"This is horrible!" groaned Huish again; and he clutched at the umbrella-stand to save himself from falling.

"The gent's ill," said the cabman hoarsely.

"Yes, ill--ill," cried Huish; "no--better now. Tell me, both of you, did I come last night and fetch my wife?"

"Course you did, sir," said the cook in an injured tone, as if insulted at her veracity being impeached.

"If I might make so bold, sir," said the cabman. "I'd have a drop o' short; it's nerves--that's what it is. I get a bit touched so sometimes, after being on. Shall I drive you to--"

"A doctor's?--yes," groaned Huish. "Quick!--to Dr Stonor's, Highgate."

"Highgate, sir? Hadn't you better go to one close by?"

"Quick, man!--to Highgate," cried Huish. "Here."

He thrust a sovereign into the man's hand, and ran down the steps to the cab.

"Right, sir," cried the cabman, running after him and climbing to his perch. "Lor'!" he muttered as he started the horse, "how willing a suv. do make a man, toe be sure!"

It seemed an age before the cab had climbed the long hill, and all the time John Huish sat back hat-less, and holding his head with both his hands, for it throbbed as though it would burst. Two or three times over he thrust up the trap to urge the man to hasten; but during the latter part of the journey he sat back, fighting hard to restrain himself, for he felt that if he moved or spoke more he would begin to shriek and utter wild drivel. He was going mad--he was sure of it--and his mind would no longer bear the horrible strain of the bewildering thought. There was something wrong, and he could not master it. One sole thought now filled his mind, but in a hazy, strange way, and that was that he, in some other state, had fetched away his wife and destroyed her.

At last, just as they neared the top of the hill, he became aware for the first time that the cabman was watching him, and he started angrily as the trap was shut down.

"Poor gent! he have got it hot," muttered the cabman; and he gave his horse a touch with the whip, which made the weary beast exert itself a little more, and a few minutes later they were at the doctor's iron gates.

"Shall I wait, sir?" said the man.

Huish shook his head and jumped out, to ring furiously at the bell.

Daniel came down the path to meet him.

"I thought so," he muttered, as he saw the excited looks of the visitor; and he offered Huish his arm, for the young man staggered as the gate swung to.

"The doctor--quick!" said Huish, with his eyes looking staring and wild.

"In his study, sir--only just back from town," said Daniel; and he helped the tottering visitor quickly into the house, across the hall, and at once into the doctor's room.

"Why, John--Huish, my dear boy, what is this?"

"Possessed--of a devil--doctor," cried Huish thickly. "For Heaven's sake--help me--I'm going mad!"

He sank back into an easy-chair gasping, and his face turned blue with the congestion of his veins; then he babbled hoarsely a few unintelligible words, and became insensible.

"Basin--quick!" said the doctor; and as his ready _aide_ ran to a little mahogany stand, the doctor's pocket-book was opened, a tiny steel blade glittered for a moment, and directly after the dark stream of John Huish's life-blood was trickling from a vein.

Volume 3, Chapter III.

POTIPHAR'S WIFE.

Clotilde seemed to find little difficulty after her return from the Continental trip in settling down into her new position in life. She made plenty of mistakes, no doubt, but Elbraham's notions of management were so far from perfect that he proved to be no fair judge. His ideas were that his young wife should keep plenty of company, dress well, and do the honours of his house in excellent style.

As far as display was concerned, this she did; and, Elbraham being nowise opposed to the plan, she frequently had Marie to stay with her. In fact, her sister would have quite taken up her abode at Palace Gardens had Clotilde carried the day; but though she pressed her constantly, talked of her own dulness in town, and made various excuses for keeping Marie at her side, the latter refused to remain there long.

Still, Marie was frequently at Palace Gardens, and whenever she was staying in town Lord Henry Moorpark made frequent calls, and was always pressed by Clotilde to return to dinner.

The old gentleman smiled his thanks, and accepted the invitations with no little sign of pleasure; but he made no farther advance in his suit, and seemed to resign himself calmly to his fate, and to be content to bask, so it appeared, in Marie's presence; she, for her part, always being kindly affected towards her elderly friend. The officers from Hampton Court, too, were frequent guests at Palace Gardens, dining there in state, but never when Marie was staying with her sister.

"I wonder," said Clotilde, rather archly to Glen, "that you do not try and exchange troops, so as to be stationed at Kensington instead of Hampton Court. I see some of your regiment is here."

"Yes," said Glen carelessly; "but really, Mrs Elbraham, I think I like Hampton Court better than Kensington."

Clotilde bit her lip, but she showed no further sign of annoyance, and the conversation changed.

Had Glen been a vain man, he would have been delighted at the evident desire Clotilde now displayed for his company; but there was little vanity in his composition. He told himself that he would treat her as if she had never made the slightest impression upon him; and as, he could hardly tell why, he felt a kind of awakening interest in Marie, who he knew had refused Lord Henry Moorpark, he gladly accepted all invitations, in the hope of seeing more of Marie at her sister's house, but only to be disappointed.

Still, he encountered her occasionally at Hampton, sometimes at Lady Littletown's--now and then in the gardens, for their intercourse to be of the most distant kind if the Honourable Philippa was present; but friendly--almost affectionate--if it were in the presence of the Honourable Isabella alone.

For the poor lady, failing to make any impression upon Glen, felt a kind of gentle satisfaction in administering to his pleasure. She saw how eager the young officer and her niece were to meet, and this, like a pale beam of reflected light, tended to brighten her own sad life, so that she smiled and sighed and palpitated gently, telling herself, as her trembling hand wandered about the plaits of her old-fashioned dress, that it was very sweet to see others happy.

So great was her enjoyment that often and often, as Glen and Marie, with Ruth for companion, strolled up and down, poor Isabella Dymcox would take her place upon one of the seats, saying that she was rather tired, and shed a few sad tears, which trickled down her withered cheeks, almost unknown to the dreaming author of their being.

It came upon Glen like a surprise on the night of Mrs Elbraham's grandest "at home" to find that Marie was there; and after being welcomed by his host and hostess, the first very warmly, and the second with a searching look in her eyes, a strange sense of pleasure came over him on seeing Marie standing near, looking, it seemed to him, more handsome than he had ever seen her look before.

There was a dreamy, anxious look in her eyes as they encountered his, and her gloved hand certainly conveyed a trembling, tender pressure when he first shook hands, so that when at last he left her side, he began asking himself whether it was possible that he had been making a mistake, and casting away a living substance for a false deluding shadow.

"Nonsense," he said impatiently, as the hot blood seemed to rush through his veins. "I can't be so frivolous." Then, with a half-laugh, "Broken hearts are not so easily mended, and Marie can only feel a sort of pity and contempt for a fellow who preferred her sister."

But somehow in the course of the evening his eyes encountered Marie's from time to time, and, as far as he could judge, there was neither pity nor contempt in them, but a genuine look of tender regard which took him again and again to her side.

Yes; he felt before he came that he liked Marie, and that it was quite possible for a nearer tie than liking to grow up between them in the course of time, but this evening a veil of denseness seemed to have fallen from his eyes, and he read a score of looks and ways in quite a new light.

He hesitated for a while when once or twice he found himself near Clotilde, who seemed to affect his society a good deal that evening, and almost imperiously summoned him with a look to her side.

He went almost gladly, for there was a new sense of joy in his breast. He felt that he was triumphing over the young wife, and yet it was the pitying triumph of a great conqueror who could afford to be merciful; and this feeling grew as he glanced at the splendidly-attired, handsome woman ablaze with diamonds, and then at her coarse, common-looking elderly husband, who, with his round head down between his shoulders, kept bustling about among his guests, like a society showman displaying the beauty of the bejewelled woman he had placed in a gilded cage.

"I can afford to be merciful now," thought Glen. "Good heavens! what a blind fool I have been! Why, she is worth a thousand Clotildes, and I was a fool not to see her superiority before!"

He paused just then to ask himself whether he were not still blind and foolish with conceit, for why should Marie care for him? But just then his eyes caught hers, and an electric glance made his pulse throb and hopes run high, as he told himself that it was no conceit upon his part, but the truth, and that after all he had not really loved Clotilde.

"No, my dear madame," he said to himself; "it was a fancy such as a weak man like your humble servant is prone to indulge in. Yes," he continued, and there was a faint smile on his lip as he caught sight of Clotilde just then watching him; "I thank my stars that I escaped your wiles. You are as handsome a woman as I ever met, and I certainly thought I loved you, but, by Jove, what an escape I have had!"

Glen's thoughts were in his eyes, upon which Clotilde's were fixed, but she did not interpret them aright; not even when he gazed at her almost mockingly, as if asking her if she were satisfied with her choice, to which he bade her welcome.

"By Jove, what will Dick say?" thought Glen, as he saw the little fellow cross to Marie. "Poor boy! Well, he will have to get over it, just as he has got over a score of other tender passions. And I thought he said he was in too much trouble about his sisters to think of matrimony for himself."

The rooms grew more crowded, and Glen longed to cross to Marie's side, but somehow he was always prevented, save for one five minutes, when Clotilde was by the entrance receiving some new arrivals. Those five minutes, though, were five intervals of joy during which very little was said, but that little was enough to endorse most fully without a positive declaration the ideas that had so lately begun to unfold.

The evening wore rapidly on. Marie was standing by the piano talking to little Dick Millet, and her eyes met those of Glen gazing at her across the room.

He was about to answer the summons they seemed to convey, when Lord Henry Moorpark, looking exceedingly old and yellow by the light of the chandeliers, but gentlemanly and courtly as ever, rose from his seat and crossed to where Marie stood, entering into conversation, as in his sad and deferential way he seemed to have set himself to hover about in the presence of the woman he loved.

"A very, very bright and pleasant party, my child," he said tenderly. "I hope you are enjoying it."

"Oh, so much!" cried Marie, darting a grateful look in his eyes. For it was so noble and good of him, she told herself, and she felt that she quite loved the tender-hearted old nobleman for the generous way in which he had seemed to sink his lover's love in that of a guardian for a child.

"Yes, it is bright and pleasant," continued Lord Henry; "but I feel very much out of place here, and as if I ought to be quietly sipping my glass of port at my club. How noble your sister looks, and how happy!"

"Noble, indeed!" said Marie eagerly. "She is very handsome, and I hope she is happy."

"Indeed, I hope so too, my child; but here comes some one else to take my place."

For as he was speaking, Glen, who felt that if he did not make an effort he would have no further speech with Marie that night, was coming to her side, but only to be captured and carried off in another direction.

"Then I need not go yet," said Lord Henry, who was watching the little comedy through his half-closed eyes, "unless I go and relieve guard, and set Captain Glen at liberty."

"Oh, no, no!" whispered Marie, whose face betrayed her mortification. "It would look so particular.--Clotilde saw him coming to me," she added to herself, "and it was done in spite."

"Perhaps it would," said Lord Henry quietly. "I like Captain Glen. He is very manly and handsome. The _beau ideal_, to me, of a soldier. I must know more of him, and of his amusing little friend yonder, who is pointing his moustaches and looking daggers in my direction. He is another admirer of yours, is he not, Marie?"

"Oh, poor boy: it is ridiculous!" exclaimed Marie, half scornfully. "There is something very likeable about him, too, except when he is in his foolish fit."

"His foolish fit?" said Lord Henry inquiringly.

"Yes, and tries to talk nonsense. I was compelled to dismiss him, and forbid his coming near me unless he could talk sensibly."

Fresh announcements were made from time to time, and then a servant approached Clotilde, who immediately began to pair off her guests for the supper.

"Take in Marie, dear Lord Henry," she said as she came to where they were standing; and soon after, in passing, she said softly to Glen. "I shall reserve myself for you."

Glen bowed, and waited patiently as the guests went down to the banquet spread in a large marquee set up in the garden, where beneath the red and white striped awnings the brilliant swinging gasaliers turned the glass and lustrous plate upon the long tables into a blaze of scintillations, which illumined with fresh tints the abundant flowers.

Elbraham had given Edgington and Gunter orders to "do the thing handsome," and they had unmistakably carried out his wishes, even to his own satisfaction; while, to give an additional charm to the supper, the strains of an excellent band, concealed behind a great bank of flowers and plants of the gayest foliage, suddenly began to float through the great marquee.

"It is like a scene in fairyland," said Clotilde, as Glen took his seat beside her, and after she had glanced down the table to see that the little squat figure of Elbraham was hidden from her gaze by a line of epergnes and jardinieres.

"Yes, it is magnificent," replied Glen gravely and with his eyes fixed upon Marie, seated some little distance below them in company with Lord Henry Moorpark, the former gazing at him in a half-reproachful way.

"I made Elbraham invite you," whispered Clotilde, sipping the champagne that had just been poured into her glass.

"Indeed!"

"Yes; of course, I shall have all my old friends here as much as I please."

"I suppose so," said Glen rather dreamily. "Of course, you are very happy?"

She darted a quick look at him, one that he did not meet, for he bent over his plate and appeared to be busy with his supper.

"How dare you say that to me!" she said in a low voice. "Oh, it is too cruel--and from you!"

Glen shuddered, for he half expected that his hostess's words would be heard.

"I beg pardon," he said hastily. "I will take more care."

"No, no," she said, in the same deep, earnest tones: "scold me, say cutting, contemptuous things to me. I am a wretched creature, and deserve all."

Glen seized and emptied his champagne-glass at a draught, and as he set it down he glanced towards the opening in the marquee, as if seeking a way to escape.

An awkward pause followed, and, judging that his companion was self-angry at her slip of words, Glen was magnanimous enough to try and pass them over, changing the conversation, or rather trying, by a dexterous movement, to draw it into another channel.

"Where did you go?" he asked.

"When? During my wedding trip?" she asked, with a curious tone of bitterness in her voice.

It was a badly-planned question, Glen felt, but he must go on with it now.

"Yes. Paris, of course?"

"Oh yes, we went to Paris and Berlin, and then through Switzerland, I believe; but it was all one miserable dream."

She had spoken almost loudly, and the blood mounted to the young officer's cheeks as he again wondered whether her words had been heard. But he need not have been uneasy, for those nearest were intent upon their plates or upon each other.

"You are very angry with me," said Clotilde suddenly; and for a moment he caught her eye, and asked himself directly after whether Marie had seen that glance, which she had, and suffered a raging pang.

"Angry? No," said Glen lightly, "why should I be angry, Mrs Elbraham? Surely a lady has a right to make her own choice. I was a competitor; and an unfortunate one."

"Do you think you were unfortunate?" asked Clotilde eagerly.

"As unfortunate as you were favoured; why, my dear Mrs Elbraham, you are here the mistress of a palace. Had I had my way, you would have been condemned to share some shabby barrack-lodging. Hence I congratulate you."

"Ah!"

Glen's face flushed more and more. It might have been from the long-drawn, half-despairing sigh on his left; or the champagne, of which he pretty freely partook in his excitement, might have been answerable for his heightened colour, but certainly he did not go the way to diminish it, for he drained the glass at his side again and again, dashing off into a hurried conversation and talking brightly and well, till he heard a fresh sigh upon his left, and encountered another glance from his hostess's large dark eyes--a look full of reproach and appeal.

This time Glen smiled. The wine was working, and he saw matters from another point of view.

Throwing off, then, the consciousness that had troubled him, he laughed and chatted with her till his words or the wine brought a warm flush into her creamy skin, and again and again he received a languishing look from the large dark eyes--a look that would have made some men turn giddy, but which only made Glen smile.

The party at last arose and began to file back into the brilliantly-lit saloons, the band having now been stationed in the flower-filled hall, and an improvised dance commenced, a couple beginning to turn to the strains of one of Gungl's waltzes, and a dozen more following suit, agitating the perfumed air, and filling it with the scintillations of jewels.

They passed from the great marquee into the hall, the strains of the waltz making Glen long to go to Marie and ask her to be his partner for that dance.

He was thinking this when he was brought back to himself by the low, sweet voice of Clotilde.

"You are _distrait_," she said half reproachfully.

"Yes. I was thinking of the music," he said. "I want a waltz."

"No, no," she said hurriedly; and she pressed his arm. "I must not dance to-night. Take me in this way."

She pointed to a door and they passed through into the great conservatory, softly lit up by tinted globes placed amidst the flowers and foliage of the rich exotics that filled the place. There was a delicious calm there, and the air was fragrant with the cloying scents of flowers; musical with the tinkle of falling water as a jet flashed in many-tinted drops and sparkled back into a fern-hung basin; while as if from a distance came the softened strains of the voluptuous waltz.

It was a place and a time to stir the pulses of an anchorite, and yet Glen hardly seemed to heed the beautiful woman who hung heavily and more heavily upon his arm, till he said suddenly--

"Is not this the way?"

"No, along here; let us go through this door."

"This door" was one at quite the end, leading into a kind of boudoir; but ere they reached it, and as they were nearly hidden by the rich leaves and flowers, Clotilde turned to her companion with a low, piteous sigh--gazing wildly in his eyes. "Oh, Marcus, why did I marry that man?"

Volume 3, Chapter IV.

GLEN'S DEFENDER.

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.