An awkward pause followed, and, judging that his companion was self-angry at her slip of words, Glen was magnanimous enough to try and pass them over, changing the conversation, or rather trying, by a dexterous movement, to draw it into another channel.
“Where did you go?” he asked.
“When? During my wedding trip?” she asked, with a curious tone of bitterness in her voice.
It was a badly-planned question, Glen felt, but he must go on with it now.
“Yes. Paris, of course?”
“Oh yes, we went to Paris and Berlin, and then through Switzerland, I believe; but it was all one miserable dream.”
She had spoken almost loudly, and the blood mounted to the young officer’s cheeks as he again wondered whether her words had been heard. But he need not have been uneasy, for those nearest were intent upon their plates or upon each other.
“You are very angry with me,” said Clotilde suddenly; and for a moment he caught her eye, and asked himself directly after whether Marie had seen that glance, which she had, and suffered a raging pang.
“Angry? No,” said Glen lightly, “why should I be angry, Mrs Elbraham? Surely a lady has a right to make her own choice. I was a competitor; and an unfortunate one.”
“Do you think you were unfortunate?” asked Clotilde eagerly.
“As unfortunate as you were favoured; why, my dear Mrs Elbraham, you are here the mistress of a palace. Had I had my way, you would have been condemned to share some shabby barrack-lodging. Hence I congratulate you.”
“Ah!”
Glen’s face flushed more and more. It might have been from the long-drawn, half-despairing sigh on his left; or the champagne, of which he pretty freely partook in his excitement, might have been answerable for his heightened colour, but certainly he did not go the way to diminish it, for he drained the glass at his side again and again, dashing off into a hurried conversation and talking brightly and well, till he heard a fresh sigh upon his left, and encountered another glance from his hostess’s large dark eyes – a look full of reproach and appeal.
This time Glen smiled. The wine was working, and he saw matters from another point of view.
Throwing off, then, the consciousness that had troubled him, he laughed and chatted with her till his words or the wine brought a warm flush into her creamy skin, and again and again he received a languishing look from the large dark eyes – a look that would have made some men turn giddy, but which only made Glen smile.
The party at last arose and began to file back into the brilliantly-lit saloons, the band having now been stationed in the flower-filled hall, and an improvised dance commenced, a couple beginning to turn to the strains of one of Gungl’s waltzes, and a dozen more following suit, agitating the perfumed air, and filling it with the scintillations of jewels.
They passed from the great marquee into the hall, the strains of the waltz making Glen long to go to Marie and ask her to be his partner for that dance.
He was thinking this when he was brought back to himself by the low, sweet voice of Clotilde.
“You are distrait,” she said half reproachfully.
“Yes. I was thinking of the music,” he said. “I want a waltz.”
“No, no,” she said hurriedly; and she pressed his arm. “I must not dance to-night. Take me in this way.”
She pointed to a door and they passed through into the great conservatory, softly lit up by tinted globes placed amidst the flowers and foliage of the rich exotics that filled the place. There was a delicious calm there, and the air was fragrant with the cloying scents of flowers; musical with the tinkle of falling water as a jet flashed in many-tinted drops and sparkled back into a fern-hung basin; while as if from a distance came the softened strains of the voluptuous waltz.
It was a place and a time to stir the pulses of an anchorite, and yet Glen hardly seemed to heed the beautiful woman who hung heavily and more heavily upon his arm, till he said suddenly —
“Is not this the way?”
“No, along here; let us go through this door.”
“This door” was one at quite the end, leading into a kind of boudoir; but ere they reached it, and as they were nearly hidden by the rich leaves and flowers, Clotilde turned to her companion with a low, piteous sigh – gazing wildly in his eyes. “Oh, Marcus, why did I marry that man?”
Volume Three – Chapter Four.
Glen’s Defender
Marcus Glen could hardly recall exactly what happened upon that unlucky night; but Clotilde’s words rang still in his ears, and even as they seemed to throb in his brain, there was a burst of light that seemed to cut the semi-darkness where they stood – the boudoir doors being thrown open – and with the light came a burst of conversation and music from the inner rooms.
Those sounds seemed to be mingled with the furious oath uttered by Elbraham, who was upon the step with Lord Henry Moorpark, and Marie close behind.
It was like some situation in a comedy drama, and before he could recover from his surprise he felt a sharp blow across his face, and a tiny jet of blood spurting from the puncture made by the point of a brilliant where it had entered his temple.
“How dare you! Elbraham! Husband! Protect me from this man.”
“Protect you? By Gad I will,” roared the financier, throwing his arm round his wife’s waist, whilst, flushed and angry, she began to sob.
“That man – that wicked man! Oh, it is shameful!”
“Look here, Moorpark,” cried Elbraham savagely, as Clotilde, after gazing furiously at Glen, hid her face upon her husband’s shoulder, “you are a witness. By Gad I’ll have an action against him – I’ll have him in the Divorce Court. I’ll – ”
“Hush, hush, my good sir!” whispered Lord Henry, who looked for the moment horror-stricken, but recovered directly sufficiently to close the door leading into the great conservatory.
“But I’ll – but I’ll – ” cried Elbraham, foaming at the mouth with rage and jealousy.
“Hush, sir, pray: for your wife and her sister’s sake,” said Lord Henry, with dignity.
“But,” panted Elbraham, struggling to speak, and shaking his fist at Glen, who stood there biting his lip, and frowning.
“Silence, sir!” cried Lord Henry with authority; “recollect you are a gentleman. Captain Glen, I beg and desire that you leave this house at once.”
“Gentlemen!” exclaimed Glen, flushing with excitement; and the words of explanation were upon his lips, but he stopped short and took a step as if to go, but turned back. “Look here, Lord Henry,” he said.
Then he stopped short, choking, sickened with disgust. He could not – he would not speak.
“You had better leave at once, Captain Glen,” said Lord Henry haughtily. “There must be no scandal here. You have insulted – ”
“Insulted!” panted Elbraham; “by Gad, sir – ”
“Mr Elbraham, for your own and your lady’s sake be silent and calm yourself, or the guests will learn what has occurred. If you demand satisfaction afterwards, sir, you can do so, though duels are out of fashion.”
“Satisfaction!” cried Elbraham. “By Gad I’ll have heavy damages – heavy damages!” he reiterated, with the foggy notion still in his brain that this was a case in which he could proceed against Glen in the Divorce Court.
“We will discuss that afterwards, sir,” said Lord Henry coldly. “Mrs Elbraham, there are some of your guests approaching. Marie, my child, lead your sister into the next room; she has been a little faint. Elbraham, recollect yourself.”
“All right, my lord; I’m calm enough. But let this blackguard go at once.”
Glen started, and he was turning furiously upon the financier, when he saw Marie slowly approaching her sister with a look almost of loathing in her countenance, and he took a couple of steps towards her.
“Marie, for heaven’s sake hear me!” he whispered; but even as he spoke he saw Clotilde turn and glare at him with so fierce a look that he was again silenced.
Then Lord Henry threw open the door, the strains of music and the brilliant light flashed into the conservatory, and Clotilde seemed to recover herself, and laid her hand upon her husband’s arm.
“Take me away,” she said hoarsely; but, seeing that Marie did not move, she restrained her lord, whose face was just turning back from purple to red, and seemed to be waiting for her sister to leave.
“Will you take me back into the drawing-room, Lord Henry?” said a voice then that sounded quite strange to all present, and mastering her emotion, but looking deadly pale, Marie suffered Lord Henry to lead her away without one glance at Glen, who stood there feeling as if a hand were constricting his throat.
The next moment Elbraham favoured him with a melodramatic scowl, and marched out with Clotilde’s white arm resting, laden with glittering bracelets, upon his black coat-sleeve, and her face fixed, as if of marble, as she gazed straight before her.
“He will not betray me,” she thought to herself, “and he will forgive me the next time we meet.”
She might have altered her opinion if she had heard his words, though perhaps they would have made her feel more satisfied as regarded her own position.
“Curse the woman for a Jezebel!” cried Glen between his teeth, as he clutched a handful of the rich leafage of a palm and crushed it in his fingers.
“Was ever poor wretch meshed before in such a net? If ever I forgive her this – Well, what is it?”
“Alone!” cried Dick. “I thought I saw Marie come in here while I was dancing.”
“Yes,” said Glen, trying to crush down his emotion; “she did come here, and she is gone.”
“For a tête-à-tête. Curse it all, Glen! you are too bad. Have some honesty in you!”
“Hold your tongue!” said Glen, bringing his hand down fiercely upon the boy’s shoulder, which he clutched with so tremendous a grip that the lad winced and uttered a cry of pain. “Don’t speak to me. Take me back.”
“Are you ill? What is the matter? There’s blood on your face. Hang it all! you hurt me. What has been wrong? Has Marie refused you?”
“Will you be silent?”
“No,” said the boy with spirit; “I will know. I saw Marie come in here. What has happened? Have you been playing some – ”
“Rehearsing only!” cried Glen, with a forced laugh.
“Rehearsing! Are they going to have amateur theatricals?”
“No, no: real – a social comedy,” cried Glen.
“A social comedy! I say, old man, haven’t you had too much champagne? But are they going to act something? I should like to be in it. What is the piece?”
“The scapegoat!” cried Glen, with a laugh; “and I play the goat.”
“Look here, old man, I’ll see you into a cab. Let’s get out this way. I’ve a couple more dances I must have before I go. I wouldn’t go back into the drawing-room if I were you. Come along.”
With his senses seeming to reel, Glen took the arm offered to him, and allowed himself to be led out into the hall, Dick helping him on with his coat and seeing him in a hansom before returning to the drawing-room, where the band was playing another waltz.
He intended to find Marie and secure her for a partner; but the dance was nearly ended before he found her, looking, as he thought, more beautiful than ever, but very strange, standing in a doorway with Lord Henry, who was holding her hand.
Something seemed to check the boy, as a pang of jealousy shot through his fervent young heart. He could not hear what was said, but stood still in mute rage as Lord Henry said:
“Indeed, yes, my dear child; everything. There shall be no hostility. Fighting is a thing of the past. Take my word for it, and be at rest.”
“Thank you, Lord Henry, thank you,” she said, almost passionately. “Good-night. I will go to my room now; I can bear no more.”
“God bless you, my child. It must be hard to bear, but you are noble and good and true enough to master this bitterness. I would I could bear it for your sake. Good-night.”
“Good-night,” she said warmly.
“And you will try to forget it all?”
“I have forgotten it,” she said, flushing and drawing herself up proudly. “It was one of my mistakes.”
She looked full in his eyes as she spoke, and then drew her hand from his, and he stood watching her cross the hall and ascend the staircase till she reached the first landing, where she turned and looked down at him for a moment before passing out of his sight.
Lord Henry Moorpark stood with his eyes half closed, thinking of the bright vision that had just glided from his sight; and his thoughts must have been pleasant, for he smiled once, and stood opening and shutting his crush hat till, becoming aware that someone was near, he raised his eyes, and saw Dick pointing his tiny moustache.
“Ah,” he said, smiling; “there is music yonder, and pretty feet and bright eyes are asking for partners. Why tarryeth the little son of Mars?”
“Look here!” cried the boy fiercely; “if you were a man of my years – oh, this is unbearable?” he cried, and he hurried away.
“Poor boy!” said Lord Henry softly; “and I am spoiling his happy dream. Ah, well, it was one from which he was bound to be rudely awakened, and Marie – ” He paused, and his eyes half-closed. Then he said the name softly to himself: “Marie, Marie! Poor child! she looked heartbroken. Am I a doting old fool to ask myself this question – shall I win her yet?”
It would be hard to say who suffered most in the sleepless night which followed, during which Glen paced his bedroom till day, the same daybreak that found Marie, wakeful and feverish, turning upon her weary couch.
That morning a note came for her. Elbraham received it and took it to Clotilde.
“It is from that wretch,” she cried hotly; “burn it.”
Elbraham did so without a moment’s hesitation, and the ashes were still sparkling on the hearth when Marie entered the drawing-room dressed as if for a journey.
“Why, Rie!” exclaimed her sister, as Elbraham recalled the past night’s scene and felt uncomfortable.
“I am going back to Hampton,” said Marie quietly and without heeding her sister’s extended hands; and on reaching home the honourable sisters were loud in their questions, and full of surprise to see her back, but Marie was reticent. She was not quite well; she was tired with the effects of the party; and she did not think Clotilde wished her to stay longer.
“But Clotilde must give way in such cases. It is her duty to study her sister now that she is well married.”
For the first time in her life Marie saw herself as she was, and at night, when the cousins were alone, and Ruth had been helping her to undress, the latter was startled into a belief that Marie was ill and delirious, for soon after she had dropped into her usual calm and peaceful sleep she was awakened by her cousin, looking strange and pale in her long white robe and with her black dishevelled hair about her shoulders.
“Are you ill, dear?” cried Ruth, starting up.
“Yes, so ill – so ill!” moaned Marie; and Ruth clasped her affectionately in her arms, to find her eyes wet with tears, and her hands like ice.
“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 Three – Chapter Five.
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 à 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.