Chapter XII: Part 12

"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.

THE REWARD OF PERSEVERANCE.

Paul Montaigne made Ruth shudder with a look, and told her aunts that they had only to wait, for Lord Henry would again propose.

He was right.

"If your aunts did not object, Marie, it is a delicious evening for a stroll round the Gardens," said Lord Henry Moorpark, as they stood in the drawing-room looking at the black shadow cast by the full moon across the little court where the jets of water gurgled and plashed, and the few gold-fish sailed round and round, gaping and staring with their protuberant eyes like so many Elbrahams running their mill-horse round in the search for wealth.

"I don't think I should object, sister, if Marie would like to go," said the Honourable Philippa.

"I do not think I should mind, sister," said the Honourable Isabella. "And besides, Joseph might walk behind them, as he does when we go for a walk."

"Joseph will be busy," said the Honourable Philippa tartly. "Ruth dear, would you like to accompany your cousin?"

"If you would excuse me, aunt, I should prefer to stay," said Ruth humbly, and with a lively recollection of the snubbing she had once received for eagerly embracing a similar offer.

"Would dear Lord Henry mind taking Marie unaccompanied by anyone else?" said the Honourable Philippa; and Lord Henry said he should only be too charmed to take her alone.

Marie had been sitting with a half-contemptuous smile upon her lip, but as Lord Henry turned to her she rose and left the room, to return shortly with a large scarf thrown over her head and round her neck.

The old man gazed wistfully at the beautiful figure, and uttered a low sigh. Then, rising, the couple left the room, Lord Henry saying that they would not be long; and, descending, they crossed the court and made their way into the gardens, confining themselves first to the broader walks, talking of the beauty of the night, the lovely effects of light and shadow in the formal old place, whose closely-clipped angularity was softened by the night.

Marie said but little, listening in a quiet, contented frame of mind while Lord Henry made comparisons between the gardens and park and those of Versailles, Fontainebleau, and other places he had visited abroad.

"You would like to travel, would you not?" he said, looking at her inquiringly.

"I used to think it would be one of the greatest joys of existence," she replied; "but somehow of late I have felt content to stay as I am."

"Always?" he said sadly.

"Yes. I don't know.--Lord Henry," she whispered, in a quick, agitated manner, "take me away from here. Let us go back."

He was startled by her energy, and for the first time saw that they were not alone, for there in the bright moonlight were a couple of officers sauntering along, evidently in ignorance of the proximity of Lord Henry and his companion.

"Do you wish Captain Glen to see you, Marie?" said Lord Henry, with a shade of bitterness in his voice.

"Why do you ask me that?" she retorted.

"You see," he replied coldly, "we are in the shadow, and if we remain here they will pass on without noticing us."

"Let us stay," she said; and they remained upon the velvet turf beneath a row of limes whose shadow was perfectly black; and as they rested silent and watchful there, they saw the two young men pass slowly in the silvery moonlight, talking carelessly till they were out of sight.

"Youth against age," mused Lord Henry, as he stood gazing after the young officers. "Why am I so weak as to cling to this silly sentiment? At my time of life I should be a wiser man. I visit, I talk, I bring her presents, I pour before her all that is rich in an old man's love, and she is kind and gentle, but unmoved. Then comes youth, and his presence even at a distance works a change in her such as I have never seen when I have tried my best to win her regard. Ah well! I should respect her the more for her honesty. Our hearts are not our own, and, poor child! she loves him still."

He started from his reverie to see that Marie was standing beside him, gazing along the broad path at whose end the officers had disappeared.

"Marie," he said softly; and he took her hand, but she did not move, and the hand was very cold.

"Marie," he said again; and she started back into the present.

"Lord Henry!" she faltered.

"We are alone here, my child, and I can speak to you plainly. You know how long and well I have loved you. Let me tell you now that the old man's love is stronger and truer than ever, but it is blended with something better, and is richer than it was before. Marie, my child, I would give all I possess--yes, even the last few years of my life--to see you happy. Shall I try to make your life a happy one?"

She looked at him calmly, and laid her other hand upon his as he clasped her right.

"Yes, Lord Henry," she said, "if you will."

"I will, my child," he said earnestly. "God giving me strength, I will do all I can to make you happy."

"Thank you," she said.

"The scene on that dreadful night, my child, has lever been cleared up. You have never fairly heard ill. You love Captain Glen still, and he may have a very good defence for what we unfortunately saw. Shall I fetch him back to you now? I will be as our father, as his judge; and if I say he can give a satisfactory explanation, you shall forgive him."

Marie had misunderstood him at first, but now his words were clear, and she started from him in passionate anger.

"See him--speak to him--listen to his perjuries gain--never!" she cried. "Take me home. No words of his could ever undo the past."

"Be calm, my child," he whispered, "and listen, his young heart beats for him still. Let me fetch him. There may be grounds for forgiveness even now."

"Lord Henry!"

"Appearances are deceitful," he said, interrupting her. "Let me try to make you happy. Believe me, I have your welfare so at heart that I would sacrifice myself for your sake."

She grew calmer as she listened to his words, and when he had ended, laid her hand again in his.

"You do not know me yet," she said softly. "I will speak out now without fear and shame. I did love him, Lord Henry. Heaven knows how dearly I loved him when he passed me over for my sister; and when she treated him so heartlessly, my love for him seemed to grow the stronger. When he turned to me at last, I thought that life would be one long day of joy."

She paused, and Lord Henry watched her with a growing reverence in his face.

"Then came that dreadful night," she continued, "and all was at an end. The old love is dead, Lord Henry, and what you have seen to-night was but the agitation such a meeting would produce. Take me home now--take me home."

"No," he said tenderly; "you are agitated, my child. Let us walk a little longer. Marie," he continued, as he held her hand in his, and made no attempt to move, "I once asked you to be an old man's wife. I told you to-night how your happiness is mine. Forgive me if I ask you again--ask you to give me the right to protect you against the world, and while I remain here to devote my life to making yours glide happily, restfully on. Am I mad in asking this of you once more?"

She did not answer for some moments, but when she did she laid her other hand in his, and suffered him to draw her nearer to him till her head rested upon his shoulder.

Marie went straight back to her room and sat down to think, with her face buried in her hands, till she felt them touched, when she started up, and found her cousin gazing at her questioningly. She told Ruth all, the communication almost resulting in a quarrel, for the girl had fired up and accused her of cruelty.

"You are condemning him and yourself to misery," she cried, "and I will speak. Oh, Marie, Marie! undo all this; I am sure that some day you will be sorry for it."

"You foolish child," said Marie, kissing her affectionately. "Oh, Ruthy, I wish we had known more of each other's hearts. You are so good in your disposition that you judge the world according to your own standard."

"Oh no, no, I do not!" cried Ruth. "I only speak because I am sure Captain Glen is too good and honest a gentleman to behave as you have said."

"Perhaps so," said Marie coldly, as she caressed and smoothed Ruth's beautiful hair. "But you must not let this advocacy of yours win you too much to Captain Glen's side."

"What do you mean?" cried Ruth, flushing.

"I mean that he is not to be trusted, and that it would be a severe blow to me if I found that you had been listening to him, as might be the case, when I am not near to take care of and protect you."

"Oh, pray. Marie!" cried Ruth, with her face like crimson, "don't talk like that. Oh no, no! I could never think of anyone like that if he had been your lover, Marie, which he is."

"Clotilde's lover--my lover--your lover--any handsome woman's lover. Oh! Ruthie!" said Marie scornfully, "let us be too womanly to give him even a second thought. There, it is all over. Dear Lord Henry was so tender and kind to me," she continued lightly. "He was as bad as you, though, at first."

"How as bad as I?" said Ruth.

"He wanted to fetch that man to give place to him. To make me happy, he said."

"There!" cried Ruth excitedly; "and he is right. Lord Henry is so wise and good, and he must know."

"He is one of the best and noblest of gentlemen," said Marie, throwing back her head and speaking proudly, "and I'll try to make him the truest and best of wives."

"But, oh, Marie! don't be angry with me, dear," cried Ruth, clinging to her; "think a moment. Suppose--suppose you should find out afterwards that you had misjudged Captain Glen."

"Hush!" cried Marie; and her face looked so fierce and stern that Ruth shrank from her. "Never speak to me again like that. I tell you, it is dead now--my love for him is dead. You insult me by mentioning his name to Lord Henry's affianced wife."

Ruth crept back to her to place her arms tenderly round her neck, and nestle in the proud woman's breast.

"I do love you, Marie," she said tenderly; "and I pray for your future. May you, dear, be very, very happy!"

"I shall be," said Marie proudly; "for I am to marry one whom I can esteem, and whom I shall try to love."

Ruth wept softly upon her cousin's breast for a few minutes, and then started from her and wiped away her tears, for there were footsteps on the stairs.

The reign of coldness was at an end, and the honourable sisters had their hearts set at rest by the announcement Lord Henry had been making to them below.

He had sat for some time in silence, and the subject was too delicate for the ladies to approach. They had been about to summon Marie to return, but he had smiled, and suggested that she should be left to herself.

Then the Honourable Philippa's heart had sunk, so had the heart of the Honourable Isabella, whose mind was in a paradoxical state, for she longed to see and hear that Captain Glen was happy; and to have added to his happiness she would have given him Marie's hand at any moment, but at the same time it made her tremble, and the tears rose to her dim eyes whenever she dwelt upon the possibility of another becoming his wife.

A pause had followed, during which Lord Henry had rested his elbow upon the table and his head upon his hand, and there, with the tears hanging on the lashes of his half-closed eyes, and as if in ignorance of the presence of the sisters, he sat thinking dreamily, and smiling softly at the vacancy before him in the gloomy room.

The Honourable Philippa felt that her hopes had been once more dashed, and that Lord Henry had that night proposed and been refused.

"May I send you some tea, Lord Henry?" she said faintly.

"I beg your pardon, dear Miss Philippa, dear Miss Isabella," he cried, starting up with a sweet smile upon his face and the weak tears in his eyes. "I was so overpowered by the enjoyment of my own selfish happiness that I could think of nothing else."

"Happiness?" faltered the Honourable Philippa; and her sister's hand trembled about her waist as if she were busily trying to unpick the gathers of her antique poplin gown.

"Yes, my dear ladies," he said, "happiness!" and he took and kissed in turn their trembling hands. "Our dear Marie has accepted me, and with your consent, as I am growing an old man fast, and time is short, we will be married quietly almost at once."

The Honourable Philippa sank back agitated _a la mode_. The Honourable Isabella sank back feeling really faint and with a strange fluttering at her heart, for, like some mad dream, the idea would come that, now his suit with Marie was perfectly hopeless, Captain Glen might yet say sweet words to her.

It was a mad dream, but it lasted for some hours. It lasted till after Lord Henry had bade them affectionately farewell, and they had gone up to the young girls' room, and Marie had been kissed and blessed with prayers for her happiness.

It lasted, too, until the honourable sisters had retired for the night; and somehow the joyous feeling of hope that had been deferred so long would keep rising brighter and brighter in the Honourable Isabella's breast. By the light of that hope she saw the manly, handsome face of Marcus Glen smiling upon her, as he came and told her that it was not too late even now, and that Ninon de l'Enclos was quite venerable when she loved.

It was very pleasant, and an unwonted flush burned in her face--just such a flush as appeared there when she tried some of that peculiar white paste belonging to Lady Anna Maria Morton, which, applied to the cheeks, turned them of a peachy red.

"It is very foolish of me," she murmured, in quite a cooing voice; "but I don't know: Lady Anna Maria is going to be married to a young and handsome husband, so why should not I?"

Poor little lady! She was finishing her night toilet as she thought all this, and then it was time to put out the lights.

There were two--an unwonted extravagance--burning, one on either side of the little old-fashioned toilet-glass, and with a smile of satisfaction she paused to look at herself before extinguishing the candles.

There was but little vanity in her composition, and it left room for a great deal of latent affection. As she gazed into the old glass the extinguisher dropped from her hand; she uttered a pitiful cry, and sank into a chair sobbing and bewailing her lost youth.

"No, no, no!" she sobbed; "he could never love such a dreadful thing as that!" And as she sat there the candles burned down, one to drop out at once, the other to flicker and dance in a ghostly way, but the Honourable Isabella heeded it not, for she was assisting at the interment of her love.

"He could never love such a one as I," she said to herself; and as she sat there in the cold and darkness, her thin hands pressed one upon the other, her heart seemed to ask her who there was for Captain Glen to love; and as she asked herself the question the soft, innocent face of Ruth rose before her, and seemed to be looking gently and kindly in her eyes as she dropped asleep.

Volume 3, Chapter VI.

THE DOUBLE KNOT.

As Gertrude Huish, wild with horror and half mad as she realised that there was something which she could not comprehend about the man who had clasped her in his arms, raised her voice in a loud appeal for help, steps were heard upon the stairs, and there was loud knocking.

"Go in there!" was whispered hoarsely, and trembling with the great dread which had come upon her she escaped from the hands which held her, rushed through an open door and shut it to and locked it before she stood alone in the darkness, ready to swoon away.

It was horrible! Those rumours about John Huish which she had proudly refused to believe--were they, then, all true? That woman had claimed him for her husband, and what, then, was she? And then his manner--the coming of the police--his conduct to her!

"God help me!" she half cried. "It is not he--it cannot be! What is to become of me? What shall I do?"

Yes; that was it. That explained the feeling of loathing she had felt when he clasped her in his arms. At other times her arms had stolen round his neck, her lips had clung to his; while now this man seemed half mad, his breath reeked of spirits, and he horrified her. Was it really, then, all true--that her husband had a double life, or was this some horror in his place?

Her position was maddening, and she felt at times that her reason must give way as, with hands extended, she felt her way in the intense darkness about the little bedroom till her hands rested upon the second door, which, like the first, was fast.

She remembered now that he had entered the room, locked the door, and removed the key, so that she was a prisoner in the utter darkness, where at last she threw herself upon her knees and prayed for help and guidance in her sore strait.

She rose up at last strengthened and calmer, feeling that she must escape and get back home at any cost. No, to Uncle Robert, who would help her; for she dared not, after leaving home as she did, face Lady Millet now.

Then, as she pressed her head with her hands, she felt confused and strange. Her brain swam, and she told herself that she must not go.

One o'clock--two o'clock had struck, and still she sat there in the darkness, with her brain growing more and more bewildered; and then she started to her feet and a cry rose to her lips, for there were footsteps without, and they passed the door and entered the next room.

Then as she stood listening to the heavy beating of her heart there was the harsh scratching noise made by a match, and a gleam of light shone beneath the door.

What should she do? He was coming again, and an insane desire came upon her to seek for the window and cast herself out--anything to avoid meeting him now.

At last, when the mental agony of suspense was more than she could bear longer, the door was suddenly opened, the light shone in, and a low hoarse cry of horror subsided into a wail of relief, for there stood the same woman, pale, even ghastly, holding a candle above her head, and with a dull, angry look upon her countenance as she entered the room.

"Well," she said harshly, "are you satisfied?"

"I don't understand you," said Gertrude eagerly, as she crept towards her; "but you are a woman. Pray, pray help me to get away from this dreadful place. For indeed it is dreadful to me," continued Gertrude, catching at the woman's hand, but only for her to snatch it angrily away.

"You don't know it as I do," she said, "or you would call it a dreadful place. Don't touch me: I hate you!"

"No, no, I never injured you!" cried Gertrude piteously. "Oh, as you are a woman, help me! Here, look, I will reward you. Take this."

She hastily detached her watch and chain, and held them out.

"Pah!" exclaimed the woman, "what are they to me? I've seen him and them bring scores of them, and rich jewels, diamonds and pearls--I'm sick of them; and do you think I would take that from you?"

"Why not?" cried Gertrude. "Oh, have you no pity for me?"

"Pity? Pity for you! Why, are you not his wife?"

"Yes, yes, yes, but you cannot understand. I cannot explain. Help me to get away from here. I must go--to my friends."

"Go? To your friends?" said the woman, looking perplexed. "What, have you quarrelled already?"

"Oh, do not ask me--I cannot tell you," cried Gertrude piteously; "only help me to escape from here, and I will pray for you to my dying day."

"What good's that?" said the woman mockingly. "I'm so bad that no one could pray me good. I'm a curse and a misery, and everything that's bad. Pray, indeed! I've prayed hundreds of times that I might die, but it's no good."

"Have you no heart--no feeling?" cried Gertrude, going down upon her knees.

"Not a bit," said the woman bitterly. "They crushed one and hardened the other till it all died."

"Let me pass you then!" cried Gertrude angrily. "I will not stay."

"If I let you pass, you could not get away. The doors are locked below, and you could not find the keys. You don't want to go."

"What can I say--how am I to tell you that I would give the world to get away from here?" cried Gertrude. "Oh, for Heaven's sake save me before he comes again!"

"He will not come again. He is downstairs drunk. He is always either drunk or mad. And so you are the new Mrs John Huish?"

"Yes, yes!" cried Gertrude; and then wildly, "Tell me, it is not true? You--you--cannot be his wife!"

"The parson said I was when we were married--Mrs Frank Riversley."

"Ah!" cried Gertrude joyously. "Sometimes," continued the woman, as if she enjoyed torturing her rival; "lately he has called himself John Huish--since he has neglected me so much to go to clubs and chambers."

"Oh!" sighed Gertrude.

"But I never complained."

"I cannot bear this," moaned Gertrude to herself; and then, fighting down the emotion, she crept upon her knees to the woman and clasped her hand.

"Let me go," she moaned. "Let me get away from here, and I will bless you. Ask anything of me you like, and it shall be yours, only get me away."

"You don't want to go," said the woman mockingly. "It's all a sham."

"How can I prove to you that I mean it?" cried Gertrude.

"I don't know; I only know that if I did he would kill me."

"Oh no, no; he dare not touch you. Come with me, then, and I'll see that you are not hurt."

"Are you in earnest? Better not. I ought to be in bed now--sick almost to death. Better stay," she said mockingly. "This may kill me. I hope it will, and then you can be happy--with him!"

"No! no! no!" cried Gertrude wildly. "Never again. I did not know. It is too dreadful! Woman, if you hope for mercy at the last, help me to get away before I see that man again."

"That man? that man?"

"No, no," cried Gertrude wildly. "I cannot explain. It is too dreadful! He is not my husband. He is like him, but he is not him. I don't know what I am saying. I cannot explain it. Only for God's sake get me away from here, or I shall go mad!"

The woman stood gazing at her piercingly as Gertrude cast herself at her feet.

"You do mean it, then?" she said at last.

"Mean it? Yes. I have been deceived--cheated. This man is--Oh! I don't know--I don't know," she cried wildly; "but pray help me, and let me go!"

The woman gazed down at her for a few moments longer, and then said huskily, "Come!"

Gertrude caught at the hand held forth to her, and suffered herself to be led out on to the landing, and then slowly down the dark stairs of the old City mansion in which they were, till they stood in the narrow hall, where, reaching up, the woman thrust her hand into a niche and drew out a key, and then set down and blew out the light.

Gertrude stood trembling, and she clung to the hand which touched her.

"Afraid of the dark?"

"No, no! But pray make haste; he may hear."

"No. He hears nothing after he has taken so much brandy. He was wild with the other lodgers for interfering; and when he is wild he drinks till he goes to sleep, and when he wakes--"

She did not finish her sentence, but led her companion to the door, unlocked it, and the next moment the cool dank air of the night was blowing upon Gertrude's cheek, as she dashed out into the narrow street, flying like some hunted beast, in the full belief that the steps she heard were those of the man who could not be the husband whom she loved.

Volume 3, Chapter VII.

BETWEEN SISTERS.

"I wished to do everything for the best, my child," said Lord Henry Moorpark. "I did not like the idea, but Elbraham pressed me to come, and for your sake, as Mrs Elbraham is your sister, I gave way. I wish you had spoken sooner. We have not dined with them since we have been married."

It was too late then, for they were in the carriage on the way to Palace Gardens. But the dinner-party was not to pass off without trouble, for after the ladies had left, and while Lord Henry was fighting hard with a bad cigar, sipping his coffee and listening to his brother-in-law's boastings about the way in which the money market was rigged, the butler entered softly, and whispered something to Lord Henry, who rose on the instant.

"Anything wrong, Moorpark?" said Elbraham, in his coarse, rough way.

"Only a call for me," cried Lord Henry hastily. "Pray sit still, and do not let my absence interfere with your enjoyment."

"All right; come back as soon as you can," cried Elbraham; but by that time Lord Henry was in the hall, for the butler had whispered to him that her ladyship had been suddenly taken ill.

To Lord Henry's astonishment, he found Marie in the hall, hastily drawing a long scarf round her neck and over her head.

"Take me home," she whispered hoarsely, as he hurried to her side.

"My darling! are you ill?" he cried.

"Yes. Very ill, take me home."

"Had I not better send for medical help at once?"

"No, no. Home! home!" she whispered, as she clung to his arm.

"But the carriage, my darling? It will not be here till after ten."

"Let me walk. Take a cab. Anything; only get me away from this house," she whispered imploringly; and there was that in her face which made Lord Henry send at once for a cab; and it was not until they were in it, and on their way to their house in Saint James's, that Marie seemed as if she could breathe.

She had thrown herself into his arms as soon as they were in the cab, excitedly bidding him tell her that he trusted her, that she was his own wife, and ended by such a hysterical burst that he grew alarmed, and was about to bid the driver stop at the first doctors, when she seemed to divine that which he intended to do, and gradually grew calmer.

Hereupon he was about to question her, but at his first words the symptoms from which she suffered seemed ready to recur, so he contented himself with holding her hands in his, while she lay back with her head upon his shoulder, every now and then uttering a piteous moan.

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The ladies had ascended to the drawing-room that evening, and as soon as they were seated alone there, Marie felt that she had made a mistake in coming.

The memory of the evening of the "at home" came back very vividly, try how she would to drive it away, and whenever she glanced furtively at Clotilde, she seemed to be gazing not at her sister, but at the woman who had done her a deadly injury.

She fought against this feeling, but it seemed to strengthen, especially as Clotilde kept smiling in a triumphant way--so it seemed to her; and Marie shivered as she felt that she was beginning to hate this sister of hers.

It only wanted Clotilde's confession to seal the growing feud, and make Marie's dislike grow into hate indeed.

"How little we see of each other now, love!" began Clotilde. "I thought, dear, that when we were married we should be inseparable. Is it my fault?"

"My husband is very fond of quiet," said Marie. "We go out but seldom."

"Poor old gentleman!" said Clotilde mockingly. "I hope you nurse him well."

Marie started, but she said nothing, and Clotilde went on:

"Isn't it nice, dear, to be one's own mistress, with plenty of money at one's command, and as much jewellery as one likes? Do you remember how we used to long for it all?"

"Yes, I remember," replied Marie, sighing in spite of herself.

"You remember? Yes, and you sigh about it. Why, Rie, you ought to be as merry as the day is long. Lord Henry is a dear old fellow. How much older, though, he seems than Elbraham! I say, Rie, wouldn't you like to change?"

"The conversation?" said Marie. "Yes; certainly."

"No, my dear, not the conversation, but husbands. Poor old Rie! I rather pity you, for Lord Henry is decidedly slow."

"Clotilde," said Marie, with dignity. "Lord Henry Moorpark is my dear husband and your guest. The way in which you are speaking of him gives me pain."

"Pain? Why, Rie, what stuff you are talking--and to me! Heigho! it seems very hard upon us that we should have had to marry these wretched old men, instead of such fellows as--say Captain Glen."

"How can you speak like that, Clo!" cried her sister, flushing. "I beg you will be silent."

"Beg, then," retorted Clotilde, with a resumption of her old schoolroom ways. "Who cares? I shall talk as I like."

"Do you think it is respectful to your husband or your duty as a woman to speak of--of--that man as you do."

"Oh yes," replied Clotilde carelessly. "Why not? I liked Marcus Glen ever so."

"Clotilde! for heaven's sake be silent. Think of your position--of what you are. Your words are terrible."

"Terrible? What, because I said I liked Marcus Glen? Why, so I do. He's a splendid fellow."

Marie's eyes sought the door, but they were quite alone, and she glanced back at her sister with a look of disgust and annoyance painted upon her face in vivid colours.

"Oh, there's no one to hear us, and I don't mind what I say before you, Rie. You won't go and tell tales. You dare not. I say dare," she continued, with a malignantly spiteful look in her countenance. "You were fond of Marcus Glen, weren't you?"

Marie did not reply, but sat there with an outraged look upon her face, and Clotilde smiled to herself, and her eyes glittered with malicious delight as she went on:

"Do you know, Rie, I have a good mind to quarrel with you to-night, as I have got you here."

"Quarrel with me? Why should you do that?" said Marie quietly.

"Oh, for a hundred reasons, my sweet sister. For one, because it is so long since you and I had a good scold. For another, because it was so underhanded of you to hold back when dear aunties wanted us to marry well."

"Don't be foolish, Clo!" said Marie. "Let us talk of something else."

"Yes, we will by-and-by, my sweet sissy; but it was shabby of you to let me marry my old man, and then take advantage of my being fast to make up to my former beau."

"Can such talk as this benefit either of us?" said Marie, flushing. "Surely it is beneath your dignity as a wife to speak as you do."

"Dignity? Pooh! Women who marry as we have done, for money, have no dignity--they have sold it."

"Clotilde!"

"Well, it's quite true, and you know it. Trash! As if we either of us ever had any. It was nipped in the bud by our dear aunts. No, my dear Rie, we have no dignity, either of us. Slaves have no such commodity. We are only white slaves, the property of the dreadful old men who took a fancy to us and bought us!"

"For heaven's sake, Clo, be silent," cried Marie, who had to fight hard to keep down her agitation. "This is cruel?"

"Well, what if it is? Why should you not feel it as well as I? You hate and despise your husband as much as I do mine, and though you are so quiet and so shy, Rie, you mean to take your revenge; and why not?"

"I do not understand you," exclaimed Marie.

"Bah! That you do, and I know it. I am not so mad as to believe in your smooth ways and sham fondness for that old man."

"Clotilde, I will not sit and listen to you," cried Marie. "Your words are disgraceful."

"Better speak plain than be smug and smooth and secretive, you handsome hypocrite! There, it won't do, Rie. You may as well drop the veil before me. All this wonderful show of modesty and mock devotion is thrown away."

"Are you going out of your senses?" said Marie hoarsely.

"Half-way," was the reply. "It is enough to madden any woman, to be sold as I was."

"You accepted Mr Elbraham of your own free will," said Marie indignantly, "and it is your duty to remember that you are his wife."

"Is it?" cried Clotilde angrily, and speaking as if she were fanning her temper to raging point. "I know what my duty is to my slave-owner better than you can tell me, madam; but, clever as you are, you did not keep out of the marriage mess."

"What do you mean?"

"What do I mean?" cried Clotilde, who was excited with the wine she had drunk, and her desire to sting her sister to the quick. "Why, you did not suppose I was going to sell myself for a position and let you hang back and marry the man I loved."

"The man you loved?" said Marie, turning very pale.

"Yes, the man I loved--Marcus Glen. He loved me, and you knew it, and hung back always, with your soft, cat-like ways, trying to win him from me."

"It is not true," cried Marie.

"Yes, it is, and you know it is true. That's why you refused Lord Henry at first, so that you might win Marcus, as you thought. Do you think I was blind?"

"Clotilde," said Marie, "this is terrible to me! Did you ask me here to-night to insult me?"

"Not I, my dear, only to congratulate you on being such a good, dutiful girl, and obeying our sweetly-affectionate, care-taking, washed-out old aunts. It is so pleasant to see you like I am, and well out in society. I meant that you should be, and so you are. Why, you are ever so much better off than I am--Lady Henry Moorpark. I ought to rise and make obeisance to you, but I am too lazy. But to set aside joking, you ought to be highly grateful, and kiss me for what I have done."

"I do not understand you," said Marie, unconsciously playing with her wedding-ring.

"Why, I brought you to your senses, silly child!"

"Brought me to my senses!" exclaimed Marie, fighting down an intense desire to rise and leave the room.

"To be sure, my dear; I have quite taken to dear aunts' worldly ideas of what is right for girls to do. You know I did my duty, as they laid it out for me; and then, when I saw my silly sister hang back and spend her time in making eyes at the penniless officer I could not afford to marry, I said. `This will not do. I love dear Marie too well to let her make a fool of herself. She shall marry Lord Henry Moorpark, or I'll know the reason why.'"

"You are talking folly," said Marie huskily.

"Perhaps so, Rie; but you did not marry my Marcus, and you did marry Lord Henry. Yes, that's the golden link of your slavery, sweet sister," she said as she saw Marie touch her wedding-ring; "but how dutiful you must feel! Haven't seen Marcus lately, have you?"

Marie made no reply.

"You don't believe me," continued Clotilde maliciously. "It was very funny how it all turned out. Do you remember the night of our party?"

Did she remember it! The recollection was burned into her brain.

"Poor Marcus!" continued Clotilde, "he is a great goose of a fellow. How astonished he looked!"

Marie was white and red by turns, and the place seemed to swim round before her; but she fought hard to hide her feelings from her sister's malicious eyes.

"I must do him the justice to say that he behaved very well on the whole."

"Clotilde, you must be mad," said Marie hoarsely. "If you were in your right senses, you would not speak like this."

"Oh yes, I would, my dear," laughed Clotilde. "I am no more mad than you are; but I was determined that you should never marry Marcus Glen, and I kept you apart."

"It is false," cried Marie excitedly. "I threw him over for his reckless conduct with you."

"You threw him over because I made you, my dear," said Clotilde contemptuously. "Do you think, Rie, I was going to sit still here as Elbraham's wife, and see you marry Marcus! No, my dear, that I would not do."

Marie was like stone now, and she remained motionless, while Clotilde lay back in her lounge and continued her shameless avowals.

"I wanted to spite you a little, darling, in a kindly sort of way, and I could not have behaved better to you than to help you do your duty to our dear aunts and win a rich husband and a title."

"Is this talk for some purpose?" said Marie at last, angrily.

"Yes, my dear, of course it is; but you must be very smooth-faced and quiet now, and not let the gentlemen see that we have been talking about our old beaux. But seriously, Rie, you never thought I should sit down quietly and let you carry off Marcus Glen?"

Marie began to tremble, for a horrible suspicion had assailed her, one which moment by moment grew more strong; while, seeing the effect of her words, Clotilde went on with malicious glee:

"It would not do at any cost, my dear, so I carried off poor stupid Marcus that night."

"This was your doing, Clotilde," said Marie at last, panting as if for breath.

"To be sure it was. Poor old fellow! He behaved very nicely by holding his tongue and taking all the blame, when he was as innocent as a lamb."

"Innocent!" exclaimed Marie involuntarily.

"To be sure he was, my dear. Why, he was as fond of you as could be, only I led him into that scrape so that he would not be able--"

Clotilde got no farther, for even she was startled at the effect of her words upon her sister, who sprang from her seat and caught her by the hands.

"Clotilde!" she exclaimed hoarsely, "this is all a lie! Tell me it is all a lie, and I will forgive you."

"Do as you like, only don't squeeze diamond rings into my fingers. All true enough: Marcus held his tongue, as I tell you, like a lamb, to save my credit. What fools men are!"

"Then--then," wailed Marie, "he was true?"

"Why, my sentimental sister! You ought to bless me instead of looking like that."

For a moment, though, in spite of her forced mirth, Clotilde shrank from her sister's wild gaze, but only to put on an air of bravado as she exclaimed:

"There, Rie, I made up my mind to serve you out, and I did."

Marie drew away from her, gazing in her false, handsome face the while, and sank back in the nearest chair, holding her hands pressed against her side as if she were in terrible pain, while her face worked as a convulsive sob escaped from her breast.

"What does it matter now? You are looking as if--as if--Rie! Here, take my salts."

"Keep back, woman--don't touch me!" cried Marie, in a low voice. "Sister? No, you must be a demon, and--oh! God help me! God help me!" she wailed; "what have I done?"

Clotilde rushed at her with an imperious "Hush!" but her sister avoided her grasp, and fled to the bell, rang it furiously, and startled Clotilde into silence, as a servant hurried up.

"Quick! I am ill. Fetch Lord Henry," gasped Marie; and as the butler hurried out, she followed him downstairs, leaving her sister too much startled by the effects of her revelation to do more than listen at the half-opened door.

"What do I care!" she said at last. "She is ill, and she is gone. She will not dare to say a word, and I can live down any nonsense on the part of Rie."

The front door closed as she uttered these words, after which she turned back into the room, and threw herself upon a couch.

"I wish someone would come, if it was only stupid little Dick," she said pettishly. "Poor old Rie! But she did not marry Marcus Glen."

Clotilde's white teeth closed with a snap, and she lay perfectly still, gazing at her handsome face in the nearest glass.

Volume 3, Chapter VIII.

GERTRUDE TAKES SANCTUARY.

Valentine Vidler and Salome his wife chirped about the gloomy house in Wimpole Street like a pair of exceedingly happy crickets. Vidler used to kiss Mrs V. and say she was a "dear little woman," and Mrs V. would always, when they were downstairs amongst the shining coppers and tins, call Vidler "love." They were quaint to look at, but their blood circulated just as did that of other specimens of humanity; their nerves grew tense or slack in the same way; and in their fashion they thoroughly enjoyed life.

Certainly no children were born unto them, a fact due, perhaps, to the absence of light; but somehow the little couple were very happy without, and so their life glided on as they placidly thought of other people's troubles, talked of how the Captain took this or that, wondered when Sir Humphrey would come and see him again; if Lady Millet would ever get over the snubbing she had had, for wanting to interfere during a visit, and let in light, which she declared she could not exist without, and Captain Millet had told her she could get plenty out of doors.

Dull as the house seemed, it was never dull to Salome, with her dusting, cleaning, cooking, and cutting-up little squares and diamonds of cotton print for her master's needle, and afterwards lining and quilting the counterpanes, which were in great request for charitable affairs and fancy bazaars.

The kitchen at Wimpole Street was very cosy in its way--a good fire always burned in the glistening grate, a cricket or two chirped in warm corners; there was a very white hearthstone, a very bright steel fender, and a very thick warm hearthrug, composed of cloth shreds, in front of the little round table drawn up pretty close; for absence of light meant apparently absence of heat.

The tea-things were out, it being eight o'clock; the Captain's dinner over, Renee seated by the panel reading to him in a low voice, and the Vidlers' duties done for the day. Hence, then, they had their tea punctually at eight o'clock, making it their supper as well.

Vidler was busy, with a white napkin spread over his knees, making toast, which Mrs V. buttered liberally, and then placed round after round upon the plate, which just fitted the steel disc in the fender.

The kettle was sending out its column of steam, the hot toast looked buttery and brown, and a fragrant scent arose from the teapot, the infusion being strong and good, consequent upon the Captain's having one cup directly after his dinner, and the pot being kept afterwards to draw.

The meal over and the tea-things washed up--Salome doing the washing, finishing off with that special rinse round of the tray with hot water and the pouring out of the rinsings at one corner, just as a photographer used to cover his plate with collodion--the table was cleared, aprons folded and put away by Vidler in the dresser drawer, while his wife brushed up the hearth, and then came the event of the day--that is to say, the work being done, came the play.

It was the Vidlers' sole amusement, and it was entered into with a kind of solemn unction in accordance with the gloom of the place. Some learned people would have been of opinion that a light gymnastic kind of sport would have been that most suited for such a life as the Vidlers led, and would have liked to see hooks in the ceiling, and Valentine and his little wife swinging by ropes and turning head over heels on bars for the bringing into play of unused muscles. They might have introduced, too, that pleasing occupation of turning one's self into a human quintain, with a couple of clubs swung round and round over the head to the great endangerment of the rows of plates and tureens upon the dresser, but they would have been wrong: the stairs gave both an abundance of gymnastic exercise, and their ordinary work brought their other muscles into play. Hence, then, they disported themselves over a pleasant pastime which combined skill, the elements of chance, and mental and arithmetical calculation--the Vidlers' pastime was cribbage.

The cards taken from the box which opened out into a board were tolerably clean, though faded, it being Salome's custom to rub them once a week with bread-crumbs, and upon the couple taking their places, with a vast amount of solemnity, spectacles were mounted, and the game began.

Old-fashioned six-card cribbage was their favourite, because, as Vidler said, he didn't care twopence for a game where there wasn't plenty of pegging; so the cards were cut. Salome won the deal; they were cut again, and she began.

It was a sight to see Salome deal the cards. Had they been hundred-pound notes she could not have been more particular; wetting her thumb, and taking the greatest care she could to deliver only one at a time, while Vidler looked calmly on, then took up his, smiled at them, selected two for the crib, frowned over them, counted how many he should hold, tried another way, seemed satisfied, and then as he threw out, having thoroughly instructed his partner--now his opponent--in all the technicalities and time-honoured sayings of the game, he informed Salome that he had contrived a "regular bilk."

"Have you?" said Salome, nodding and throwing out her own couple. "Cut up."

Vidler "cut up," and Salome took the card upon the top, exclaimed "Two for his heels," scored them, and Vidler frowned, for his "bilk" accorded wonderfully well with the turned-up card. "Master didn't seem to relish that cutlet," said Vidler, playing first--"six."

"No," said Salome, "he has been too much bothered lately--fifteen," and she scored a second "two."

"More trouble coming," said Vidler--"twenty-two."

"And nine's a screw," said Salome seriously, taking another couple for thirty-one.

Then the played cards were solemnly turned down and the game went on.

"Eight," said Vidler. "How ill Miss Renee looks!"

"Fourteen," said Salome, playing a six. "Yes, poor girl! she's brought her pigs to a bad market."

"Got you this time," said Vidler, smiling, as he played an ace--"fifteen"--and scored his two.

"Twenty," said Salome; and so the game went on, the little woman playing with all the serious precision of an old stager, calling thirty-one "eleven," informing Vidler when she was well ahead that it was "all Leadenhall Street to a China orange," and proving herself such an adept that the little man was thoroughly beaten.

"Better luck next time," said Vidler, giving the Cards a good shuffle; and then the pair stopped to listen, for faint and low, like a melody from another land, came the sad sweet voice of Renee, singing that wonderful old Irish air, "Grammachree," putting an end to the play, for the couple sat and listened, Vidler nodding his head gently, and waving a card to the melancholy cadence till it ended, when the game once more began.

_Pop_!

"Bless us and save us?" cried Salome, dropping her Cribbage-peg as she was in the act of scoring three for a run; "is it a purse or a coffin?"

Vidler rose, and, taking the tongs, carefully picked up the cinder which had flown from the fire, and was now making an unpleasant savour of burning woollen fabric to arise from the hearthrug. He laid it solemnly upon the table to cool, and then it was shaken by Salome, but gave forth no answering tinkle.

"It isn't a purse," she said, holding it to the light. "It's a coffin!"