Chapter XIII: Part 13

She handed the little hollow bubble of cindery coal-tar to her husband, and he laid it down, took off and wiped his perfectly clean spectacles, and replaced them before carefully examining the portent by the light.

"It's a coffin for somebody," he said solemnly; and then, as he carefully cremated the cinder in the most glowing portion of the fire, the couple sighed, resumed their places, and sat listening as the voice of Renee singing to Captain Millet once more came down to where they sat.

It was "Ye banks and braes" this time, and when the pathetic old air was ended Salome sighed.

"Ah, poor dear, yes--`My false lu-huv has plu-ucked the ro-az, and le-heft the the--horn be-hi-hind with me,'" said and sang Salome, in a little piping plaintive voice. "I hope it isn't for her!"

"It may mean only trouble," said Vidler, with his head on one side. "I have known coffins pop out of the fire and no one die."

"Oh dear no," said Salome. "There's not a minute passes but someone dies."

"No," said Vidler slowly, as if the great problem propounded required much consideration; "but so long as it isn't anyone here, why, it don't matter."

"Quite so much," said Salome correctively. "Let me see; it was three for a run. I shall beat you this time. You want fourteen."

"Yes," said Vidler, chuckling; "but it's my first show. You want sixteen."

"Yes," said Salome, pegging one for a "go," "but I've got hand and crib. Now then."

"Sixteen," said Vidler triumphantly, as he threw down his cards and stuck a peg in the winning hole.

"Think of that now," said Salome, as she gathered up the cards for what she called a good shuffle, which was performed by dividing the pack in two equal portions and holding them as if about to build a card house, allowing them to fall alternately one over the other. Then they were knocked together hard and square, and handed to Vidler, who gave them what he termed "a Canterbury poke," which consisted in rapidly thrusting his forefinger right to the centre of the pack and driving out a large portion of the cards, which were afterwards placed upon the top. Then the pack was cut once more, and game after game followed till suddenly there was a loud ring at the bell.

"What was that?" cried Salome.

"The coffin," said Vidler solemnly.

"Bless us and save us, man, don't look like that!" cried Salome; "it turns me cold all down my back;" and then, with a shiver, and very wide-open eyes, she followed her little lord up to the front door, where Huish's maid was waiting with a note and a cab to take Renee away.

This caused a little flutter upstairs, and a greater one down, where Jane, with a few additions of her own, related the arrest of her master.

"It was trouble, then, and not death," said Vidler sagely to his wife, who then had to answer the bell, and assist Renee, who, after a short conference with Captain Millet, dressed and hurried off to join her sister.

"Good-bye, my dear," said the Captain, sighing. "I shall not go to bed. You may return."

Renee was seen into the cab, and the Vidlers, upon receiving an intimation from their master, made up the kitchen fire and sat before it, as if cooking, to see if Mrs Morrison came back, which she did in about an hour, on finding from the cook that Huish had been and taken her sister away, the same personage informing her that Sir Humphrey and Mr Millet had not returned.

Renee hesitated for a time as to whether she should stay or go to Grosvenor Square to make inquiries; but this last she was averse to doing; and, with a full conviction upon her that Huish and Gertrude would be sure to call at Wimpole Street, even if she had not already missed them, she hurried back.

"They may come yet," said Captain Millet quietly. "We will wait and see."

Fresh candles were brought, and tea was made, of which no one partook, and then the occupants of the gloomy house waited hour after hour in full faith of some news coming during the night, with the consequence that everyone was on the alert when the bell rang about four o'clock.

Vidler hastened up to open the door, and uttered a cry of dismay which brought down Renee, for Gertrude Huish fell forward fainting into his arms, to lie where she was carried hour after hour, now awakening to a wild hysterical fit, now sinking back into semi-unconsciousness, and always unable to respond to the eager queries, till at last she started up wildly, and on recognising her sister, flung her arms round her neck, exclaiming:

"Oh, Ren, Ren! is there no more happiness on earth? My poor heart's broken: I shall die?"

Volume 3, Chapter IX.

LADY HENRY GROWS CALM.

"Can you not take me into your confidence, Marie?" said Lord Henry, on meeting his wife at the breakfast-table the morning after her sister's revelation.

She looked at him wildly for a few moments, her large eyes encircled with dark rings, and the traces of terrible emotion in her blanched face.

She had been in a state of mental agony the night through, refusing to retire, and passing much of the time in pacing up and down the room. But towards morning she had grown calmer. Her mental pain was somewhat dulled, and as she perceived the terrible agitation into which she had plunged her husband, she began to feel a kind of remorse and pity for him as well as for herself.

At first she had been half maddened, for she did not for a moment doubt Clotilde's words. Everything was only too suggestive, and as she felt that she had hastily condemned Marcus Glen, who had been all that was chivalrous and true, there were moments when she told herself that she could not live.

It was so horrible. She had loved Marcus Glen with all the strong passion of her nature. For his sake she would have borne poverty and privation, and been truly happy, believing thoroughly in his love; but when, in place of finding him the true, honest gentleman she had trusted, she believed that he was base, her love had turned to hatred, and she had fled, telling herself that she had nothing to hope for now, and that if she could make others happy she need expect no more.

Awakening at last, after a night of bitter suffering, to the anguish of her husband, she had made a brave effort over self, and turned to him as her refuge from the suffering to which she was reduced.

She clung to him, praying for help and strength to cast out the image of Marcus Glen from her heart and at last she felt that she had the strength, and told herself that she would consider the past as dead.

But even as she lay there with her husband's hands pressed to her forehead, the thought would come that she ought to tell Marcus Glen that she knew the truth.

A paroxysm of agony followed this thought. What avail would it be now? She felt that he would curse her for her want of faith in him, and, think of it all as she would, she could only come to the conclusion that, in her haste and want of trust in him she loved, she had blasted her future, and must bear it to the end.

Daybreak at last; and with the sun came thoughts of her position, and the necessity for making some effort--an effort which she was now too weak to essay. But at last she rose, and as the time wore on begged Lord Henry to leave her, meeting him again a couple of hours later at breakfast, apparently calm, but with a tempest raging in her breast.

He uttered no word of reproach, but was tenderness itself, and the tears stole more than once down his furrowed cheeks; and when at last he appealed to her as her husband, she broke down, threw herself sobbing upon his breast, and begged him to spare her.

"I will not say another word," he replied gently. "My wish is to make you happy in my poor way, and I only pressed you for your confidence, so that I might help you to be more at rest."

"I don't like to have secrets from you," she whispered; "dear husband!"

He held her more tightly to his breast as she called him this, and she uttered a low sigh of relief, for it was as though he told her of his trust. It gave her strength to proceed, and she went on:

"My sister quarrelled with me, and said such bitter things that I could not bear them. She brought up the scene upon that terrible night of which you were a witness."

"Let it be buried with the past," said Lord Henry gravely. "It should never have been revived, and I see now but too plainly that I was to blame in accepting the invitation."

"Never accept one again; I could not bear it. Clotilde's path and mine must be separate through life. I could not meet her now."

"Are you not too hard upon your sister?"

"Hard?" cried Marie. "Oh no! You do not know all," she was about to say, but she refrained, and went on: "Clotilde has altered since her marriage. I think we should be happier apart. Help me in this, dear husband. It would be better so."

He raised her face, and gazed tenderly into her wild eyes, as he said:

"Your happiness is my care, Marie, my child. I promised to try and make your home one of rest and peace. Ask me what you will, and it shall be done."

"Then you will keep our lives separate from my sister's," she cried eagerly.

"If you asked me my wishes on the subject," he said quietly, and he smiled as he spoke. "I should gladly cut myself off from all connection with Mr Elbraham and his wife. But we have our social duties to perform, Marie, even if they are against our taste."

"Duties!" cried Marie excitedly; "it is my duty to avoid my sister, yours to keep us apart. Believe me, this is for the best."

"I gladly follow out your wishes, my child," said Lord Henry, "and I will ask you no more questions if you will try to let this cloud go by."

"Yes, yes," she cried eagerly, "it is gone;" and she flung her arms round his neck, and sobbed hysterically upon his breast.

"There," she cried with a piteous smile, for the face of Marcus Glen seemed to haunt her still. "Now I am quite calm, and I have a petition to make."

"What is it?" he said with a sigh of relief, and the lines in his face grew less deep.

"I want you to let me ask my cousin Ruth to come and stay with me--to be like a companion to me. Don't think," she hastened to add, "that I am dull and want companions, but I have a double object to perform."

"Yes?" he said inquiringly.

"I wish--I want to withdraw her from Clotilde's influence."

"A good and worthy desire, my child," he said, bowing his approval. "I like Ruth very, very much. She is sweet, and natural, and true."

"She is," cried Marie eagerly.

"And your other object?"

"I wish to watch over her, and to try and influence her future. She would be happier with me, and if she is to marry I should like hers to be a worthy choice."

"Of course, yes, you are quite right; and what do you say--shall we fetch her here?"

"Yes," cried Marie eagerly.

"When? To-day?"

"Yes--no," replied Marie. "I am not strong enough; I am not calm enough to-day. I will write and ask her to be ready to-morrow, and, if you will do it, let us drive down and fetch her."

Lord Henry Moorpark sighed with relief and pleasure, and soon after, fighting bravely to crush down her own agony of heart, Marie wrote a note to ask her aunts' permission for Ruth to come, and another to request her to be ready--and all the time with an intensity of sorrow striving with her wild and passionate love. She seemed to see in Ruth one who was to save her from the commission of a crime from which she shrank in horror. Ruth would be her protector. Ruth should be always with her, and she would learn from her sweet, innocent young heart how to school her own.

The visit of Ruth to her cousin in Saint James's Square commenced during a temporary absence of Mr Paul Montaigne from his apartments at Teddington.

Business had taken him to London, where he stayed a week, at the end of which time he walked through the chestnut avenue quietly, as of old, paused by the Diana pool to cast a few crumbs to the fishes, and then continued his walk, with his hands behind him, to the Palace, where he was met by Joseph, at whom he smiled benignantly, and was shown in to where the honourable sisters were seated at their embroidery. The hands of the fair Isabella were a little more tremulous than was their wont, consequent upon an encounter during a walk, when she and her sister had met Glen.

The visitor was received most warmly, and heard glowing accounts of the happiness and brilliant establishments of the dear children.

"Yes," he said blandly, "they must be happy. I had some thought of calling upon them when in town, but I bethought me that they must be fully occupied with their friends and the management of their homes, and that my visit, at present, might seem out of place."

"I think it would have been a duty properly fulfilled--what do you say, sister?" exclaimed the Honourable Philippa.

"I think it would have been a duty and a kindness," said the Honourable Isabella, making a couple of false stitches before she found out her mistake.

"I have been remiss," said Montaigne, with a bland smile, as he bent his head. "How day by day one awakens more and more to the fact that human nature is far from perfect!"

"Ah, indeed!" said the Honourable Philippa.

"Yes, indeed!" said the Honourable Isabella, with a lively recollection of her thoughts regarding Marcus Glen.

"I must try and remedy my failing, ladies, at my next visit to town. But how is the last lamb in this peaceful fold--Ruth?"

He uttered this inquiry with his eyes half-closed, and a calm, sweet smile played the while about his lips till he heard the Honourable Philippa's reply:

"Oh, she is in town! Lord and Lady Henry came down in the barouche the day before yesterday, and fetched her up to stay with them for some time."

The warm, pleasant look in Paul Montaigne's face changed to one of a grim cold grey; the smile disappeared, his lips tightened, and he seemed for the moment to have grown old and careworn. Even his voice changed, and sounded hard and harsh as he said quickly:

"Indeed? I did not know."

"Marie thought it would be a pleasant change for her, and companionable as well, and dear Lady Littletown, who was calling at the time, said it was the best thing we could do. So she is gone."

"It would be a most pleasant change."

"And, of course, you know, dear Mr Montaigne, Ruth is no longer a child, and--er--you understand."

"Yes, of course," said Montaigne; who, however, recalled to mind that Ruth was quite a child until her cousins were married.

At that idea of seeing company and the following suggestion of marriage the strange pallor became more evident in Montaigne's countenance, and in spite of his forced smile and self-control, he kept passing his dry tongue over his parched lips, and unconsciously drew in his breath as if he were suffering from thirst.

He grew worse as the conversation continued to take the ugly turn, to him, of marriage. For, said the Honourable Philippa:

"Lady Littletown informs us that a marriage is on the _tapis_ between Mr Arthur Litton, a friend of Mr Elbraham, and our dear Lady Anna Maria Morton."

"I congratulate Lady Anna Maria, I am sure," said Montaigne huskily; and as he glanced at the Honourable Isabella that lady trembled more than usual, and believed that Montaigne was reading her heart, and mentally asking her whether she would ever be married to Marcus Glen.

Mr Montaigne refused to stay to lunch. He had so many little things to attend to consequent upon the business that had called him to London; in fact, even now he was only down for a few hours, having come to seek some papers. These he had found, and he was going back to town at once. Business was very tiresome, he said.

The honourable sisters agreed that it was, and Mr Montaigne took his leave with reverent, affectionate grace, and passed out into the gardens, along whose broad gravel paths he walked slowly in his customary way--bland, sweet, and introspective with his half-closed eyes. But though he did not increase his pace in obedience to his rapidly-beating pulse, a close observer would have noticed that he did not stop to feed the fishes on his way back to Teddington, while his landlady was surprised at the hurried way in which he again took his departure.

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The change from Hampton Court to Saint James's was delightful to Ruth, who only felt one drawback to the pleasure of her visit--that she could not expect to see Marcus Glen and Richard Millet during her walks.

"I wonder whether she thinks him so guilty as she did," mused Ruth; and these musings were continued one evening after dinner, when she was seated at work in Lord Henry's drawing-room, with Marie, who was very pale, close at hand; Lord Henry being, according to custom, seated over his wine--a pleasant, old-fashioned fiction, wherein a decanter of excellent old port was placed before him every evening, of which he drank one glass only, and then went to sleep till the butler announced tea.

Just in the midst of her thoughts respecting Marcus Glen, and as if some electric mental chord of sympathy existed between them, Marie said, in a quiet, rather forced voice:

"Have you seen Captain Glen lately, Ruthy?"

It cost Marie a tremendous effort to say those words calmly. And then that terrible pang of jealousy shot through her breast once more as she saw the crimson blood flush into Ruth's cheeks and rise above her brows.

Poor Ruth faltered, and looked as guilty as if she had been discovered in some offence, as she replied:

"Yes, only a few days ago. He spoke to us in the Gardens. I was walking with my aunts."

Marie felt relieved. He could not have said much to Ruth if her aunts were by, and she sighed with content, but only to take herself angrily to task once more, and strive to spur herself onward to her duty. It was in this disposition, then, that she said quietly:

"I thought it right to say to you, Ruthy, that I think you were correct about--about Captain Glen."

"That he was not guilty, as you imagined?" cried Ruth eagerly.

Marie bowed her head, and she felt a strange constriction of the heart on seeing the bright animation in Ruth's countenance--a suggestion of the pain that she was in future to feel; but she mastered her emotion, and Ruth went on:

"I am so glad, you cannot think!" she said.

"Why?" said Marie, in a cold, hard voice, which made Ruth colour highly; but she spoke out.

"Because it seemed so cruel to one who always was kind and chivalrous and--"

She stopped short with a curiously puzzled look gathering upon her brow, for it now occurred to her that Marie must be angry with herself for casting off Marcus Glen, but she could not read it in her eyes, while the puzzled look deepened as Marie said quietly:

"I am very glad, Ruthy--very glad to feel that I was not mistaken in him, and that he is indeed the true gentleman we believed."

Ruth took a stool and placed it at Marie's feet, seating herself there and clinging to her hand, while her cousin softly stroked her hair, vowing to herself the while that if Ruth cared for Marcus Glen, no jealous pang should hinder her from aiding in bringing them together, and no act of hers should be such as would be traitorous to Lord Henry, her confiding husband.

"Why do you look at me so strangely, Ruthy?" said Marie at last.

"I was thinking."

"Thinking what?"

"Don't ask me, Marie," said Ruth in a troubled tone.

"Why not? Shall I tell you? You were thinking that I repent of having married Lord Henry, now that I know I was deceived. Tell me!" she cried, lifting up Ruth's burning face, and gazing at her searchingly: "you were thinking that, were you not?"

"Yes," faltered Ruth, "I was."

"Then you were wrong, Ruthy," said Marie gravely. "Perhaps I did feel something like compunction when I found this out, but that is all past now, and I am married to one of the best and kindest of men."

"And you are happy, Marie?"

There was a pause, for it cost Marie a bitter struggle to utter that one word with a smile, but she spoke it bravely at last, and there was a sense of relief after it was said:

"Quite," Then, after another pause: "Lord Henry is all that is tender and good to me; and now, Ruthy, about yourself?"

"Oh, I am only too glad to come and see you sometimes!"

"Yes; but about this little heart. Ruthy, will you confide in me?"

Marie drew the trembling girl closer to her side, and tried to gaze in her face, but it was averted.

"Yes," she whispered; "of course I will."

"Then tell me this--frankly: you love Marcus Glen?"

The pained aspect came back into Marie's face, and her brow was rugged, as she waited for Ruth's answer.

"I don't know," said Ruth at last.

"You don't know? Is this your confidence?"

"Oh, don't speak angrily to me!" cried Ruth passionately. "I will keep nothing from you, Marie. Indeed, indeed I do not know, only that I have prayed, so hard, so very hard, that I might not love him."

"Prayed that you might not love him?" said Marie, smiling.

"Yes; for I felt that it would be so treacherous, and that it would cause pain to all--to you--to me. Oh, why do you ask me this?"

"Hush! you are growing agitated, and I want to talk to you quietly, and for your good. Suppose it had ceased to be treacherous to think of Captain Glen--suppose he could be brought to love you, and were to ask you to be his wife: what would you say then?"

A servant entered and announced Mr Paul Montaigne; and, blandly calm and smiling, that gentleman entered the room.

It was a surprise for both, and Ruth's heart began to beat strangely fast as, in his customary paternal way, Montaigne greeted each in turn. She recalled that evening when their visitor had talked with her in the drawing-room, but her dread had increased each time they met, and it was all she could do to keep from shrinking from him and showing her aversion.

But little was said more than that Montaigne told them he was in town on business, and that he had thought he would call, before Lord Henry joined them, greeting Montaigne very warmly, and ending, to Ruth's horror, by asking him to dine with them next day, and to spend an hour with them whenever he could spare the time.

The rest of that particular evening was passed in quite a political discussion between Lord Henry and his guest, Montaigne taking so little notice of Ruth that her heart grew more at rest; but there was a something in his look as he said good-night, something in the pressure of his hand, that made her think this man loved her, and as she felt for the moment that it might be possible for him to ask her aunts to give her to him as his wife, the poor girl turned cold, and gladly went off shivering to her sleep-forsaken bed.

Ruth had not been with her long when Marie received the old-fashioned communication of wedding cards; the notice in the paper of the marriage of Arthur Litton, Esq., of Duke Street, Saint James's, to Lady Anna Maria Morton, of the private apartments, Hampton Court Palace, having escaped her eye.

The young couple took a house in Bryanston Square, which Lady Littletown said was charmingly furnished; visits followed, at one of which an unexpected encounter took place.

Lady Anna Maria was at home, the servant said in answer to the queries, and Marie and Ruth descended from the carriage, and were shown up to the drawing-room, where, seated with his back to the light, talking to the bride, was Glen, in company with Dick Millet.

Marie felt as if all the blood in her body had rushed to her head, and the room seemed to swim round, but she mastered her emotion, and after receiving Lady Anna Maria's greeting, she turned with quiet self-possession to where Glen stood, cold and stern, waiting to take leave, and calmly offered him her hand.

"I am glad to see you again, Captain Glen," she said gravely; and Marcus started with astonishment, eagerly catching the extended hand, and hardly able to stammer out some words of greeting.

Then a bitter look crossed his face, and he turned from Marie coldly, and began, with a vivid recollection of the past, to talk to Ruth, while Marie made Dick colour with pleasure as she shook hands, and then sat and chatted with him with all the warmth of an old friend.

But the ice was broken, and that one meeting led to others, Lady Anna Maria, with all the eagerness of a young bride, lending herself to what was evidently in her eyes the making up of a match between Ruth, who was so charming and fresh and sweet, and Captain Glen.

The visits to Bryanston Square were not frequent, but, to her horror, Ruth noted that Glen was always there as if he expected to meet Marie; and though he was kindness itself and full of attention, his quiet deference and low-spoken words were for Marie alone.

Mr Arthur Litton was very rarely there, so that Lady Anna Maria was their sole entertainer, and this little lady had, after so many years of maidenhood, developed in her married life quite a girlish skittishness which resulted in a very silly flirtation with little Dick, who was most constant in his attentions, and seemed to ignore her ladyship's excessively thin figure.

"I believe, Dick, you'd flirt with a mop if it was stuck in a petticoat," said Glen to him one day on their way to Bryanston Square. "What's it all for--practice?"

"I don't ask you why you flirt with married ladies," said Dick sharply.

Glen started, and looked grave. And at that time a little friendly counsel might have turned him aside, for he thought a good deal of quiet, grave Lord Henry. But he frowned, and said angrily, "He is no friend of mine. He came between us. Why should I study him?"

He closed his eyes then fast to the risk and danger, giving himself up to his revived passion, and went on gliding slowly down the slope towards the precipice that threatened both.

On the other side, Ruth was passing through a strange course of education. At first, in her innocency, she could hardly believe it possible, but more and more the fact dawned upon her that a kind of self-deception was going on with Marie, who apparently believed that she was furthering Ruth's happiness, while she was yielding to the delight of being once more in company with Glen, listening to his voice, living a delicious, dreamy existence, of whose danger she seemed to be unaware.

Volume 3, Chapter X.

A DANGEROUS ENEMY.

Much as Ruth was in Marie's confidence, and sisterly as their intercourse had become, there were points now upon which each feared to touch.

Of late Glen's name had ceased to be mentioned, and Ruth's feelings towards Marie were a strange intermingling of love, jealousy, and fear.

Ruth was alone one day in the drawing-room, having stayed at home on account of a slight headache, while Marie had gone to make a few calls after setting down Lord Henry at his club.

Ruth had taken up a book, but though she went through page after page, she had not the slightest recollection of what she had been reading, her thoughts having wandered away to Marcus Glen and Marie.

"I ought to have gone with her," she thought; and then she began to tremble as she felt a kind of dread overcoming her.

"It is terrible," she thought; "I cannot bear it. He does not care for me, and I cannot save him; but," she cried, setting her teeth, "I will not leave her again, and I will speak to her at once."

She hesitated for a moment, as if in alarm at the determination she had made, and then moved towards the door.

"I will go on there at once; she may be there. If she is not, Marcus Glen will be, and I will appeal to him, for I cannot bear this agony."

It was a good resolve, one which she would have carried out; but just then she recoiled, and her heart began to beat painfully, while the blood forsook her cheeks.

Mr Montaigne had softly closed the door behind him, and was advancing towards her, with a smile upon his lip, and a peculiar look in his eyes, which made her tremble.

"What!" he said, "alone? This is an unexpected pleasure."

"He knew I was alone," thought Ruth, "and that is why he has come."

He advanced towards her, and in spite of her determination to be firm, she took a step or two backwards before she held out her hand, and said with tolerable firmness:

"Lady Henry has gone out in the carriage."

"And will not be back just yet," he said with a smile. "Ah, well, it does not matter."

He had taken her hand and pressed it firmly, retaining it in his, and before Ruth could realise it he had drawn her to him, and pressed his lips to hers.

"Mr Montaigne!" she cried, struggling to free herself. "This is an insult!"

"What! from me?" he whispered, his face flushing, and his arms clasping her more tightly. "Why, what nonsense, Ruth! You know how I have loved you from the time you were a child, and have always meant that you should some day be my little wife."

"Oh no! It is impossible! Mr Montaigne, are you mad?"

She cast a despairing glance at the bell, but it was beyond her reach, and he smiled as he kissed her passionately again and again.

"Why are you left alone?" he said in a hoarse whisper; "because fate has arranged it expressly for us. See how I have patiently waited for an opportunity, ever since that night when we were surprised in each other's arms by that wretched servant. Why, Ruth, Ruth, my little one, what is the use of this struggling? It is absurd. You are a woman now--the woman I have always loved. It is our secret, darling, and--"

"Help! help!" cried Ruth loudly as the door opened and Marie walked in, Mr Paul Montaigne, carried away by his passion, having failed to hear the carriage stop, quite a couple of hours sooner than he had expected.

"What is the meaning of this?" cried Marie fiercely, as Ruth ran to her arms, panting and sobbing with shame.

"Marie--why did you leave me? He--insulted--this man--"

"Is a villain who hides his true nature beneath a mask," cried Marie indignantly. "I always doubted him. How comes he to be alone here with you? Leave the house, sir! Lord Henry shall be made acquainted with the conduct of his guest."

Marie placed Ruth in a chair, and was crossing towards the bell, when Montaigne said quietly:

"Ah, yes; poor Lord Henry! He does not know us all by heart."

Marie stopped as if she had been stung, and faced round, darting an indignant glance at Montaigne, who, in place of leaving the room, coolly walked to one of the mirrors, and readjusted his white tie.

Marie recovered herself, and had her hand upon the bell, when Montaigne said quietly:

"Don't be foolish, my dear; exposures are such awkward things."

"For you, sir," cried Marie. "Then leave the house, and never enter it again. But for the fact of your being so old a friend, I would have you turned out."

"Words, words, words, my dear Marie," he said, taking a chair and crossing his legs. "Let me see. It is Hamlet says that, I think. Now look here, my dear child--but sit down, I want to talk to you."

"Will you leave this room, sir?" cried Marie angrily.

"No, my child, I shall not," he said, smiling. "You say you are ready to expose me for this playful little interview which you interrupted between Ruth here and myself--Ruth, the lady who is to be my wife."

"Your wife!" cried Marie indignantly.

"Yes: my wife; and don't raise your voice like that, my dear child. By the way, you are back soon. Was not our dear Marcus at Bryanston Square?"

"Marcus? Captain Glen?" cried Marie, whose lips turned white.

"There, my dear little girl. You are not little now, but you seem little to me. You forget, in this wondrous fit of virtuous anger, that I have stood for so many years towards you in the light of a father. In my way I have helped you to position and a rich husband, and when I found that, womanlike--fashionable womanlike, I should say--your ladyship was beginning to show taste for pleasure, and even taking to your handsome self a lover, I did not interfere. While because I, in due course, and after a long and patient courtship, take the girl I love in my arms, you talk of turning me out, call me scoundrel and villain, and threaten me with Lord Henry's displeasure."

"It is disgraceful, sir," said Marie; "you are old enough to be her father."

"Humph! Yes. Perhaps so, but nothing like so much older as Lord Henry is than you. Now look here, my dear Marie, I am obliged to speak plainly. I don't ask for a truce; but I demand your help and countenance. I mean to marry Ruth."

Marie stood pointing to the door, but Montaigne did not stir.

"Pshaw!" he exclaimed--"a stage trick. Are you aware of what it means to make me your enemy, my dear child? You are angry and excited now. You did not quite realise my words. Do you think I am blind about Captain Glen? As to dropping the mask, well, there, it is down. I am a man even as you are a woman, and why should I not love?"

Marie's arm dropped to her side, and she stood gazing at him with her cheeks and lips now ashy of hue.

"There," he continued, laughing, "the storm is over, and we understand each other. I will go now, and mind this, dear Marie, I will religiously keep your ladyship's secrets so long as you keep mine."

He rose, and, taking her hand, mockingly kissed it. Then, crossing to Ruth, he would have caught her in his arms, but she started from him, and stood at bay on the other side of a table.

"You foolish child!" he said, laughing; "you must be a little wiser when I come again."

As the door closed upon him Marie stood with her eyes closed, listening, and then with a cry of despair she threw herself into her cousin's arms.

"Oh, Ruth, Ruth, Ruth, what have I done! what have I done! I swear to you I am innocent, indeed--indeed."

"I believe it, I know it," cried Ruth, holding her to her heart; "but oh, Marie, you must never see him again! Pray, pray keep away."

"Yes, yes," she cried; "I will. I am innocent, I am indeed. But, oh, it is horrible! I will stay away. I will see him no more. But you-- that man--he has us in his power."

"I beg your pardon," said a soft voice; "I think I must have left my gloves in here. Yes, there they are!" and Paul Montaigne quietly crossed the room, took a pair of gloves from a chair, and then smiled and went softly out.

The cousins gazed in each other's eyes, motionless, till they heard the closing of the front door.

"Oh, Marie," whispered Ruth, in an awe-stricken way, "he must have heard every word you said!"

And Marie echoed hoarsely, "Every word!"

Mr Montaigne allowed a couple of days to elapse before he called again in Saint James's, and then, serious man as he was, he swore, for the shutters were closed: the family was out of town.

It was no unusual time for anyone to go, for, as he stood there hesitating on the step, a slatternly-looking girl was making the streets ring with her minor-pitched cry of "Sixteen branches a penny--new lavender; sixteen branches a penny." It was well on in August, and fashionable London was taking wing.

"Clever woman!" thought Montaigne: "this is her move; but I can mate her when I please."

He rang, and a woman-servant answered the bell.

"His lordship is out of town," the woman said.

"At his country seat?" said Montaigne at haphazard.

"Oh dear no, sir! his lordship has taken my lady and Miss Allerton on the Continong, and they are not coming back for some time. Mr Harvey, his lordship's agent, will send on all letters."

"Thank you. I am very much obliged," said Montaigne with his blandest smile; and he raised his hat and went away smiling, cursing Marie in his heart.

"`All comes to the man who waits,'" he thought.

Volume 3, Chapter XI.

RUTH'S WORK UNDONE.

The Continental trip extended to months, after which there were a few visits, so that it was well into the next season before they were back at the house in Saint James's, and after their return Marie devoted herself to Ruth, hoping that Montaigne would not show himself again, though they both trembled at the thought of his coming.

Still, he did not show himself, and matters went on so happily and well that Ruth began to hope that Marie's love for Glen was dead, when, in an evil hour, and, as Marie said, to fulfil a social duty, they called upon Lady Anna Maria Morton, meeting Lady Littletown there; when that lady insisted upon their dining with her at her town house, and it was next to impossible to refuse.

Lady Littletown was a match-maker at heart, and she always looked upon her conservatory, with its brilliant flowers, as her greatest aid in such matters. Hence it was that her ladyship took care to have a conservatory wherever she lived.

She had taken a handsome house in South Kensington for a short season, one that was admirably furnished in this respect, though far from being equal to Mr Elbraham's glass palace. Still, it was enough.

Lord Henry frowned slightly on finding that Captain Glen was among the guests, and deputed by Lady Littletown to take Marie in to dinner; but his brow cleared directly, and he smiled at his wife as she went by him and gave him an appealing look that seemed to say, "Don't blame me."

Hardly had they passed on to the staircase before Glen said in a quick, agitated voice: "I thought I was never to see you again. I must have a few words with you before you go."

Five minutes before, Marie had told herself that she was brave and strong, and that the past fancy was dead; but on hearing these words her hand trembled, her heart beat fast, and she knew that she was as weak as ever, and that she could only falter: "It is impossible!"

"It is not impossible!" he said angrily. "I must--I will see you."

They entered the dining-room, and for the next two hours everything seemed to Marie like a dream. Lord Henry was at the bottom of the table, taking his old place of host, and the flower-filled vases completely shaded his wife from sight: still, Ruth was exactly opposite, apparently listening to the conversation of Glen; but Marie knew that she was watching them narrowly.

She went upstairs in a dream, just as she had come down, and answered questions, talked and entered into the various themes of conversation as if she were quite collected; but all the time there had been a restless throbbing of her pulses, and she trembled, and felt that she would have given the world to be away!

At last!

Marie heard the dining-room door open, and the sound of ascending voices. Lord Henry would be there directly, and she would ask him to take her back.

That was Marcus Glen's voice speaking loudly, and every fibre of her body seemed to thrill as she listened to its tones.

Marie's back was to the door as he entered, and she could not see him; but she seemed to feel his approach, and all was a dream once more, as he seated himself on the ottoman by her, and began to talk about some current topic.

She answered him, took the opposite side, talking freely and well, and Lord Henry chided himself for his uneasy feeling, and felt that he ought to be proud of such a wife. She was devoted to him, and he trusted her with all his heart.

The conversation was very animated for the time that Glen stood by her; but all the while Marie's pulses kept up that quick, feverish throb, and there was the hidden sense of danger still within her heart.

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May had come round again, the Academy pictures were once more drawing their crowds, and directly after an early breakfast one morning Marie and Ruth walked up into Piccadilly to spend a couple of hours while the rooms were empty and cool.

How it happened Marie afterwards hardly realised, but she had become separated from her cousin, who had wandered on into the next room, leaving her gazing listlessly about, when suddenly her heart seemed to stand still, for close beside her there was a low sigh, and she felt more than saw that Glen was at her elbow.

Mastering her emotion, she turned quickly to reproach him for following her there, when she saw that he had his back to her, and was gazing intently at a portrait. She did not speak. It was a kind of gasp or catching of the breath; but he heard it, and turned sharply round to face her.

"Marie!" he exclaimed.

"Hush! Don't speak to me, for God's sake!"

She said no more, but reeled, and would have fallen had he not caught her arm, and led her through the next opening and downstairs to the refreshment-room, quite empty at that early hour, the waiters not being ready for visitors.

There were a couple of the attendants at hand, ready to bring water and ice, and at the end of a few minutes Marie gazed wildly about her-- starting violently, though, as she heard the deep voice at her side.

"That will do," he said quietly. "A few minutes' rest and she will be quite recovered." Then they were alone, with Glen whispering to her eagerly, and she listening with her eyes half-closed and a strange dazed look in her pallid face.

"No, no!" she said at last feebly.

"You shall," he cried, and his strong will prevailed over her more and more. "You must leave him, Marie. I do not ask it: I know you love me. You always have loved me. Come to me, my darling, or I must die."

"Die!" she moaned. "No, no; not you. O God, forgive me! Would that I were dead!"

"Dead, when there is a life of happiness before us?" he whispered. "Marie dearest, at last! You understand?" he said, after whispering for some time.

"Yes, yes," she said slowly; and he spoke again very quickly, but in low, distinct tones.

"Yes," she repeated heavily, "I understand."

"Marie!"

"Lady Henry was taken suddenly ill in one of the rooms, Miss Allerton," said Glen hurriedly. "Fortunately I was there."

"Ill," said Ruth slowly, as she ran to Marie's side. "Fortunately you were there. Captain Glen, I will see to my cousin now. Will you have the goodness to go?"

He raised his hat and slowly walked away.

"Marie, Marie!" cried Ruth piteously. "How could you deceive me so?"

"No, no!" cried Marie excitedly. "I did not know he was here. It was an unexpected meeting. Take me--"

She was about to say "home," but she could not utter the word, and as they walked back Ruth thought of this, and a hand seemed to compress her heart as she said to herself:

"The work of months undone!"

Volume 3, Chapter XII.

JOHN HUISH GETS BACK PART OF HIS BRAINS.

More than once during the severe attack of brain-fever from which John Huish lay prostrate at Highgate, Dr Stonor compressed his lips and asked himself whether he would save his young friend's life. At such times, as he sat by the bedside and gazed in his patient's face, the lineaments brought back the scene by the pit and his father's agony, as Captain Millet lay apparently dying.

"How time has gone!" the doctor would mutter, "and how like he looks to his father now!"

But a change for the better came at last, and after a long and weary convalescence he was once more about, month after month gliding by, and the brain refusing to accompany the body on its way to health.

He was very quiet and gentle, but he seemed to have no recollection of what had gone by, neither did he evince any desire, but passed his time mostly in the doctor's study, where an unrolled mummy had apparently so great an attraction for him that he would sit near and watch it hour after hour when no one was by.

"Must get him better first," the doctor would say. "I can't run the risk of bringing on a relapse."

So John Huish remained in utter ignorance of the fact that his young wife had been confined to her bed at the gloomy house in Wimpole Street, so prostrated by all she had had to pass through, that the doctors called in advised total rest and quiet, combined with careful nursing. Nothing calculated to excite her was to reach her ears. Hence, when in his turn Dr Stonor called, his lips were sealed respecting John Huish's state; and poor Gertrude never mentioned his name.

After leaving Renee by her sister's side, the doctor had a long chat with his old friend, whose white hand trembled as he thrust it forth to be taken by the visitor.

"How is she?" said the latter. "Ah, poor girl, she is very ill!"

"But she will get better? Oh, Stonor, don't flatter me: tell me the truth!"

"Tell you the truth?--of course I shall! Well, she'll be better when she gets back to her husband."

"And how is John Huish?" and the white hand trembled inside the panel, like some leaf agitated by the wind.

"He is bad--very bad," said the doctor. "I've had a hard fight with him, for his brain has had some serious shock. Poor fellow! he has been a little queer in the head for some time past, and consulted me at intervals, but I could make nothing of it. It's a very obscure case, and I would not--I could not believe that there was anything more than fancy in his symptoms. But he was right, and it seems like a lesson to me not to be too conceited. His mind has been very impressionable, and from what I can gather he has not been carrying on as he should."

"No, no, I'm afraid not!"

"There was some sad scene with his young wife, I suppose."

[Text on pages 164 and 165 missing.]

"Well, I always think that it was a very insane, morbid proceeding, tinged with vanity, to shut yourself up as you have done these thirty years."

"I took an oath, when I found to what I was reduced, that I would never look upon the face of man again, and I have kept it."

"I should think that you were more likely to be forgiven for breaking such an oath than for keeping it," said the doctor drily.

"But I have kept it!" said Robert Millet sternly. "In a few short hours I found that I had lost all worth living for, and I retired here to die."

"Yes," said the doctor, in his bluff, dry way; "but when you found that you were so long dying, I think you might have done something useful."

There was no reply to this, and the doctor loosed the thin white hand, and began to tap the little ledge by the panel.

"I wrote down to Huish about his son's illness," he said at last.

"Yes: well?" said the recluse eagerly.

"He begged me to do all I could. He never leaves his room now. Gout or rheumatism has crippled him. Strange how things come about with the young people."

"Yes: I'm getting old now, and I wanted to feel full of forgiveness towards Huish, and that is why I took to his boy. It is hard that matters have turned out as they have."

"Very," said the doctor. "Well, I'm not going to advise, but I should like to know that you had broken your oath at last, and let light into your brain as well as into your house. Good-bye; I'll let you know how John Huish gets on."

Dr Stonor went straight to Highgate and found what seemed an improvement in his patient, for Huish was sitting up; but he seemed strangely reticent and thoughtful, and never asked any questions as to his wife or his relatives, but seemed to be dreaming over something with which his mind was filled.

Time passed, and with closely cut hair, and a strange sallowness in his complexion, John Huish was up, and had been out times enough in the extensive garden, but there was a something in his manner that troubled the doctor a great deal, and was looked upon by him as a bad symptom. He was always dreaming over something, and what that was he never said.

Miss Stonor conversed with him, and he was gentle and talked rationally. He answered the doctor's questions reasonably enough, and yet, as soon as his attention was released, he was back again, dreaming over the one thing that seemed to trouble his mind.

"Will he get well?" said Miss Selina to the doctor one morning.

"I'd give something to be able to say," was the reply. "At times I think not, for I fear the impression upon his mind is that he is insane, and if a man believes that of himself, how can we get him to act like one who is sane?"

This was at breakfast-time, and the doctor soon after went out, leaving an assistant in charge.

It was a glorious afternoon, and Huish and the three patients were out in the garden, where Captain Lawdor was practising throwing biscuit, as he called it, at a stone balanced on the end of a stick. Mr Rawlinson had a table out and was writing a series of minutes on railway mismanagement; and Mr Roberts was following John Huish about as he walked up and down beneath the old red-brick wall which separated the garden from the road.

This went on for a time, and then Mr Roberts crept softly up to Huish, to whom he had not spoken since the night of the dinner, and said:

"I told you not to look at that Egyptian sorcerer. I knew it would send you mad."

"Mad!" exclaimed Huish, smiling. "I am not mad."

"Oh yes," said Mr Roberts. "You came here and asked the doctor to cure you. No man could do that if he were not mad."

"Oh, nonsense!" said Huish, looking at him strangely. "I am quite well."

Mr Roberts shook his head.

"No, you are not; I know how you feel, just like a man I knew used to feel. He always felt as if he were two; and sometimes he was one, sometimes the other. The other was the one the lawyer said was dead. It was so sad, too, for her. What have you done with your wife?"

At last!

John Huish started as if he had been stung. That was the something he had, in a strange secretive way, tried to think of for days past--his wife; and now the mention of her sent a shock like that of electricity through his brain.