Volume Three – Chapter Thirteen.
Lord Henry Receives a Telegram
“I shall be waiting for you this evening at the Channel Hotel. It is an easy walk from the square. Ask to be shown to Number 99. If you are not there by ten o’clock, good-bye! There will be the report of a pistol heard. Without you I can bear my life no longer.”
Every word burned into her mind, and she seemed to be mentally repeating it constantly, even as some familiar tune will keep on humming in the brain.
“If you are not there by ten o’clock there will be the report of a pistol heard.”
Marie felt that he would keep his word.
Over and over and over again, with dreary reiteration, those words kept recurring, and then, as the day wore on and she went to her room, she found herself repeating them aloud.
She bathed her burning temples, but found no relief. She threw herself upon a couch, and tried to obtain rest, but those words kept on, and she repeated them as if they were a lesson, till everything seemed dreamlike and strange, and she wondered whether she had really met Glen that morning.
At last she dropped into a feverish, uneasy sleep, the result of her weariness, but the words kept on, and she felt that she was repeating them as she went straight on towards a thick darkness, whose meaning she could not penetrate. All she knew was that she was irresistibly impelled towards that darkness, and it made her shudder as she drew nearer and nearer, till she felt that her next step would be into this strange mystery, when she found herself confronted by Ruth.
“Are you ill, dear?”
“No, not ill; only weary in spirit, dear. There, I am better now. But tell me about yourself. Have you seen Montaigne lately?”
“Yes,” said Ruth with a shiver. “He seems to watch and follow us. He was in Piccadilly this morning as we came back from the Academy.”
“The insolent!” said Marie calmly. “Is it time to dress?”
“Oh no,” cried Ruth, looking curiously at her cousins ashy face. “You have been to sleep, and forgotten how time goes.”
“Have I? Yes, I suppose I have. Let me see, there is no one coming to dinner to-night?”
“No, not to-night,” said Ruth, gazing with wondering eyes at her cousin.
“No, no, of course not! My brain feels hot and confused to-day. I shall be better soon!”
She rose, and then descended with Ruth to the drawing-room, chatting calmly with her over the five o’clock tea, and seemed as if she had forgotten the morning’s incident. This went on till the dressing-bell rang, when, placing her arm round her cousin, she went with her upstairs to their several rooms, kissing her affectionately, and bidding her not be late.
Marie looked perfectly calm when they met again in the drawing-room, where Lord Henry was awaiting their descent, and as Ruth entered she saw her cousin half seated upon one of the arms of a lounge, resting her soft white arm upon her husband’s shoulder as she bent down and kissed him tenderly upon the forehead.
She did not start away, but rose gravely, and directly after, dinner was announced, and Lord Henry took Ruth down.
The dinner passed off much as usual. The conversation was carried on in the quiet, calm way customary at that house, and Lord Henry smiled gravely and pleasantly first at one, then at the other, as he retailed to them, in his simple, placid manner, some piece of news that he had heard at the club, to which Marie listened with her quiet deference to her husband, whose slightest word seemed always to rouse her to listen.
When they rose Lord Henry left his chair in the most courtly way to open the door for them, Marie drawing back for Ruth to pass out first, while she hesitated, before placing her arms round her husband’s neck. She kissed him on his forehead, holding him tightly to her for a moment or two, and then she passed into the hall and began to ascend the stairs, looking handsomer than she had ever looked to him before, as she went up with the soft glow of the lamp shining down upon her pale face.
As she reached the first landing she smiled back at him in a strange way, hesitating for a moment or two before passing out of his sight.
“God bless her,” said the old man, with tears in his eyes. “I wish I was years younger – for her sake.”
He returned to his chair, poured out his customary glass of port-wine, and sat sipping it in a calm, satisfied spirit. So happy and at rest did he feel, that, for a wonder, he finished that glass and poured out another, which he held up to the light and examined with all the air of a connoisseur.
Then sip after sip followed, with the dark ancestral paintings seeming to look down warningly at him from the wall, till he finished that second glass and began to doze. Then the doze came to an abrupt conclusion, and his lordship started up, for he thought he heard the closing of a door, but his eyelids dropped lower and lower till they were shut, and this time he slept deeply – so deeply that he did not hear the butler enter with his cup of coffee, which the old servitor placed softly upon the table, and then went out.
“Eh? What?” exclaimed Lord Henry, starting up.
“Beg pardon for waking your lordship,” said the butler, holding out a silver salver, upon which was a reddish – brown envelope; “but here is a telegram.”
“Telegram? Bless me!” exclaimed the old man, fumbling in rather a confused way for his glasses. “I hope – nothing wrong!”
His hands trembled as he opened the envelope and took out the message, while as he read the pencilled words his jaw dropped, and the old butler took a step forward.
“My lord!”
These words brought him to himself.
“That will do, Thompson. I will ring.”
The old butler glanced at his master uneasily, but obeyed, and then Lord Henry, with palsied hand, held the sham telegram to the lamp and read once more:
“From Smith, West Strand.
“To Lord Henry Moorpark,
“300, Saint James’s Square.
“If you care for your honour, follow her ladyship. She has gone to keep an appointment at Channel Hotel.”
He crushed the paper in his hand, and caught at the table for support.
Then he recovered, and drew himself up proudly.
“It is a lie – a scandal!” he said in a hoarse whisper. “The dog who could send that slur against my wife deserves to be hung!”
He tottered slightly at first as he walked, but he kept pulling himself together, twitching his head and crushing the paper more tightly in his hand, as he went slowly towards the door.
He would not hurry, he was too proud and full of trust and belief in Marie for that; and thrusting the telegram into his pocket, he, in his usual leisurely way, touched the bell for the dessert to be cleared away, threw open the door, and gave his customary cough as he crossed the hall before mounting the handsome staircase, step by step, where Marie had turned when she left him a short time before.
The old man held his head up more and more erect as he went on, and when the butler came from below in answer to the bell, he noted that his lordship was humming in a low voice a snatch of an air that was often played in the square by the organs.
He was too chivalrous to believe the message, and in the calmest manner possible he placed his hand upon the door-knob, turned it, entered the softly-lit drawing-room, closed the door in his usual gentle way, and crossed towards Marie’s chair, where she would be seated by the steaming urn, with Ruth reading aloud as was her wont.
“I have been thinking, my dear – ” he said.
Then he stopped, perfectly calm, though both chairs were empty, and his lips quivered slightly.
“It is a lie – a cruel lie! God bless her! I’ll not believe it!”
He muttered this as he went on, and was about to ring the bell, when he hesitated. Should he? – should he not?
It would be braver and better to do so, he thought, and would show his calm confidence to his servants.
But why should he trouble them? Poor sweet! her head had been aching a good deal that day, she said, and she had gone to lie down. Ruth, perhaps, was with her. He would go up and see.
He went slowly up to the bedroom – tapped; there was no answer, and he softly entered, to find the lights burning and something white upon the toilet-table – something white that caught his eye on the instant, and involuntarily he said:
“A note!”
Of course – a note to explain why she was not there.
He glanced at himself in the long cheval-glass that had so often reflected the form of his beautiful wife. His face was very pale, but he could see that he looked perfectly cool and collected as he crossed to the toilet-table and took up the note.
He raised his glasses, and saw that it was open – a note directed in a feminine hand to Lady Henry Moorpark.
The note fell from his fingers and a frown gathered on his brow as, after a few moments’ hesitation, he walked rapidly out of the chamber and down into the drawing-room, where he rang the bell, and a footman came to the call.
“Has her ladyship gone out, Robert?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And Miss Allerton?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Did they have the carriage?”
“No, my lord; Miss Allerton went out directly after dinner, and her ladyship soon after.”
“That will do.”
The man left the room, and Lord Henry stood for a few minutes gazing straight before him, and with a strangely stern aspect in his face.
Love and chivalry were fighting hard with ordinary worldliness, and it was a question which would win.
“I ought to go,” he said at last – “I will go. Heaven knows that I do not – that I will not doubt her; but she is not here, and it is very strange. I will go.”
He went downstairs, all in the most calm and deliberate way, as if everything depended upon his being perfectly cool, and after ringing for one of the servants, he was helped on with his light overcoat, his hat and gloves were handed to him, his black cane with its crutch handle, and he went quietly out into the square. He raised his cane as a hansom cab came by, got in, and was driven to the Channel Hotel, where he paid and dismissed the man.
An attendant was in the vestibule as he entered, and, beckoning to the man, he placed a half-sovereign in his hand, a feeling of shrinking on the increase, and the shame making him hesitate as he asked whether two ladies had come there since eight or nine o’clock.
“Two ladies, without luggage? Yes, sir. And a gentleman. In Number 99, sir.”
Lord Henry hesitated again, for love and chivalry seemed to throw themselves in his way to prevent him from doing what he told himself was a mean action.
But he felt that he must go on now, and, going a little closer to the man, he said:
“Take me up at once, and show me in without announcing my name.”
The man nodded, and led him up the great staircase, passing what seemed to be innumerable rooms before stopping at one where he waited for his lordship to come close up before throwing open the door for him to enter.
The telegram was right so far: Lady Henry Moorpark was there, but she was in company with Ruth.
So far good; but Captain Marcus Glen, her old lover, was present, and Mr Paul Montaigne.
Marie sank into the nearest chair. Paul Montaigne caught Ruth by the wrist, and whispered a few words; while, on seeing who had come, Marcus Glen stepped boldly forward, and seemed ready to defend the woman he loved.
“Be silent,” whispered Montaigne – “not a word! Your only hope now is to cling to me.”
“May I ask what is the meaning of this meeting, Lady Henry?” asked his lordship. “I had a telegram advising me to come here, and I find you in company with Captain Glen.”
“Who came to meet me, Lord Henry,” cried Ruth, flinging off Montaigne’s grasp and clinging to Glen’s arm.
Glen directed one glance at Marie, who had turned from him, and was standing with knitted brow, half-closed eyes, and blanched face, crushed down as it were by her shame, and with all a soldier’s quickness of decision he determined to try and save her.
“Let me explain, Lord Henry – Lady Henry,” said Glen quickly. “I am to blame for this clandestine meeting. Lady Henry, you meant well by your pursuit, but you cannot alter matters now. Ruth accepts me as her husband, and nothing but force would take her away. If I have spoken too plainly, you must forgive me. Once more, I am to blame.”
“Well acted,” muttered Montaigne. “Now, my Lady Marie; it is your turn now.”
But Marie stood as if stunned.
“This is fine, heroic language, Captain Glen,” said Lord Henry; “may I ask to how many ladies you have used it before?”
“I deserve your rebuke, my lord,” said Glen; “but there comes a time to every man when he feels that he is in earnest. I am in earnest now.”
“If, sir, you are in earnest, why did you not make your advances like a gentleman?”
“One moment,” interposed Montaigne, who had now recovered himself, and stood with a smile upon his lip; “Lord Henry, I have been protector, tutor to these ladies from their childhood: I wish to say a few words to Captain Glen.”
Lord Henry bowed.
“Ruth, my child,” continued Montaigne, “leave Captain Glen for a few minutes.”
She shrank from him with such a look of revulsion that the rage in his breast flamed up again, and his craftiness for the moment failed.
“Now, sir,” said Glen sternly, and he looked menacingly at the man whom he blamed for the frustration of that night’s plans.
“You have cleverly hoodwinked the poor old fool amongst you,” whispered Montaigne, “but you have not blinded me. I have a prior claim to Miss Allerton’s hand, and I tell you this,” he cried, his rage making him tremble, “that after this night, if you so much as approach her again, I’ll expose Marie to her husband – I’ll tell him all.”
Glen glanced at Marie, who was talking in a low voice to Lord Henry, while, suffering now from the reaction, Ruth had sunk into a chair, trembling at what she had dared to do.
“You understand,” continued Montaigne, upon whose forehead the veins stood out. “That is my price for silence. Ruth is mine, or I drag that woman into the dust.”
He stood there with his face thrust forward, his hands clenched, and a fiercely vindictive look in his eyes, while Glen seemed to be weighing his position, but he was not. He let his eyes wander from Montaigne to Lord Henry. Then he glanced at Ruth, who for a moment met his gaze with a piteous, appealing glance, before flushing deeply, and drooping in very shame.
“Heaven bless her, she is too good for me!” thought Glen; “but before this scoundrel should lay hands upon her – ”
“You understand me,” reiterated Montaigne; “now go.”
“Understand you!” whispered Glen; and as he spoke he laid one hand sharply on Montaigne’s shoulder, clutching him in so fierce a grip that he caused intense pain. “Yes; now understand me.”
Montaigne glared at him, and he suffered acutely, but he did not wince.
“You have uttered your threats: now hear mine. That lady’s reputation is in your hands.”
“Is this all?” said Montaigne defiantly.
“No,” whispered Glen, placing his lips close to Montaigne’s ear; “I have not read your death-sentence: betray us, and I will kill you, so help me God!”
The two men were glaring at each other, and by degrees, as Montaigne’s face grew of a sickly, leaden hue, his eyelids drooped, and he shrank away.
Glen crossed to Ruth and took her hand.
“Heaven bless you?” he whispered. “I dare not say more to you now. I am not worthy, Ruth. Would I were a better man! Be kind to her, for she wants your aid.”
She did not speak, but stood there trembling, till he led her to Lord Henry.
Will you take her, sir? he said. “You will not refuse her a home for what has occurred?”
If Lord Henry Moorpark had felt any hesitation, it was chased away by the action of his wife, who caught her cousin to her heart.
“Some day, Lady Henry – Lord Henry,” continued Glen, “I will come as a gentleman, and ask that the past may be forgotten, and that Ruth Allerton may be my wife. Mr Montaigne – ”
He signed toward the door, and vainly trying to resist the stern eyes fixed upon him, Montaigne led the way, and was followed out.
Volume Three – Chapter Fourteen.
A Woman’s Work
Directly after leaving the dinner-table Ruth set herself to watch her cousin, asking herself the while what course she had better pursue.
At times she thought she would speak to Lord Henry, but she shrank from such an exposure. Marie would perhaps be saved from the step she evidently contemplated, but at what a cost! Her husband’s confidence would be for ever gone, and the old man’s happiness at an end.
Marie was very pale, but there was a red spot burning in either cheek, and as Ruth watched her she could see a deep frown upon her brow, while from time to time she pressed her hand upon her breast as if to still the beatings of her heart.
Then came those words she had heard Marie mutter perfectly distinctly in her unquiet sleep – the room she was to ask for at the Channel Hotel; the threat Marcus Glen had uttered respecting his action if she did not come; and as Ruth sat there in the terrible silence of the large drawing-room, she felt that if she did not do something at once the strain upon her mind would be more than she could bear.
All at once Marie gave a start, and drew in her breath as if in sudden pain. She seemed to forget the presence of Ruth, and, rising, walked quickly to the mantelpiece, pressing her hair back from her forehead, while, taking advantage of her back being turned, Ruth glided softly into the smaller drawing-room, which was in comparative darkness.
The idea had come at last. It seemed reckless and wild, but she knew that it was useless to appeal to Marie. She would go herself to Marcus Glen. He was noble-hearted and true. There was a simple manliness in his nature that made her hope, and she would kneel and appeal to him to spare her cousin, to pause before he wrecked the happiness of the good, chivalrous old man who trusted his wife in the pride and nobleness of his heart.
“I shall be too late,” thought Ruth; and, wound up now to a pitch of excitement which seemed to urge her to act, she softly turned the handle of the door, glided out, and without stopping to close it, ran up to her room.
Money she had, and in a very few minutes she had dressed herself for her task, and, closely veiled, she stepped softly to the door.
It opened silently, and she was about to glide downstairs, when she heard a faint rustle, and, drawing back, she peered through the nearly closed door, and saw Marie come up the stairs and enter her room.
Nerving herself for her task, she stepped out, and softly passed Marie’s room, hesitated for a moment as she heard a door close downstairs, and the servants’ voices ascending – all else was still in the great mansion; and as quickly as she could she ran past the drawing-room door and down into the hall, where she stopped and clung to the great coil of the balustrade for support.
Her heart had failed her. There was that great dark door to pass, just beyond which, at the foot of the table, she knew Lord Henry was seated with his decanter and glass before him.
But just then a slight sound somewhere upstairs brought back the memory of Marie’s face, and, hesitating no longer, she stepped quickly to the front door, her hand was upon the lock, and then she felt as if she were turned to ice, for the voice of the old butler said respectfully:
“I will open it, ma’am.”
He had been seated in the great hall-porter’s chair waiting for his lordship to leave the dining-room, and he now swung open the wide door for her to pass out.
She went down the two or three steps, feeling like one in a dream, wondering, though, whether the butler would go and tell Lord Henry that she had gone out, and feeling each moment, as she hurried along the pavement, that someone was about to place a hand upon her shoulder and bid her stay.
Her mouth felt dry, her breath came fast, and the throb of her pulses was painful; but she was on her way to the place of rendezvous, and it was to save those she loved from ruin.
There were wheels behind, and she stopped instinctively and looked round. It was an empty cab, and, taking this as a signal, the driver drew rein. Ruth mechanically stepped in, and then started as the little trap above her was opened, and the driver asked where to drive.
“Channel Hotel,” came mechanically from her lips, and in her agitation it only seemed a minute before she was in front of the great entrance.
“Take me to Number 99,” she said as indifferently as she could, and a waiter led the way.
She trembled so that she could hardly proceed, for the idea was horrible. What did she hear Marie say? Was it Number 99, at this hotel?
She was not sure now, and she felt faint and giddy as she followed the man upstairs, and along a wide corridor. Should she ask him to stop? She dare go no farther, and her lips moved to stay him, when he paused by a door. Before she could find breath to speak or power of utterance, he tapped lightly, and she heard him say:
“A lady to see you, sir.”
There was the noise of a chair pushed quickly back, and a heavy tread upon the carpet as she entered, moved, it seemed to be, by some power that was not her own. Then as the door closed behind her she saw that she was right, for, exclaiming loudly, “Marie! my darling!” Glen caught her in his arms.
“Captain Glen!”
Ruth struggled indignantly from him, and snatched off her veil.
He staggered back.
“Ruth! you here?” he cried.
“Yes. I was compelled to come. Marie – my cousin – Lady Henry – Oh, Captain Glen!”
“Is she ill? Has she sent you? Do you know?” he whispered hoarsely.
“She has not sent me,” cried Ruth. “She does not know I have come. Oh, Captain Glen!” she cried, sobbing violently as she threw herself upon her knees and clasped his feet, “for heaven’s sake, spare her! Do not bring down such misery upon that home.”
“Ruth, my child, hush! for heaven’s sake!”
“No, no, no, no!” sobbed Ruth, and she went on incoherently as she clung to his feet: “You are not thinking of the horror of your crime. You do not love her – you cannot care for her, or you would not drive her to this terrible sin.”
“Not love her – Marie? Is she coming?”
“I pray heaven, no,” said Ruth simply. “I would sooner see her dead.”
“Then I will go and fetch her,” cried Glen, furious with disappointment. “I will not bear it; I cannot bear it. I’ll tear her away from him – but no,” he said bitterly, “I promised something else, and I know she will come.”
“Is this Marcus Glen?” said Ruth simply, as she remained there upon her knees; “is this the man who I told Marie was the soul of truth and honour?”
“No; it is the poor deluded, wretched man who has been twice tricked and cozened of his love. It is useless; I cannot, I will not listen to you!”
“You shall!” she cried, springing to her feet. “You shall go away from here, for she shall not leave her home for you. I would die sooner than see this shame brought upon her. Coward, to force me, a mere girl, to speak to you as I do! Oh, it is cruel, it is shameful, and yet you talk of love!”
“Hush!” he cried, as she stood before him flushed with her indignation; “what do you know of love?”
“That there is no such thing, if it is to bring shame and disgrace on a weak woman, and death and dishonour upon a good, confiding man. Oh, where is God, that He does not strike you dead for even thinking such a cruel wrong! – Marie, Marie, you shall not go!”
For as she spoke in the anger and bitterness of her heart, the door opened, and, veiled and in a large black cloak, Marie glided in, to shrink cowering away in horror and shame, holding up her hands to keep Ruth off, but in vain, for the girl flung her arms round her, and then turned her head, so as to face Glen.
“You here, Ruth!”
“Yes, to save you from this shame. Oh, Marie, think of dear Lord Henry!” she cried passionately; “think of the disgrace, the horror and remorse to come!”
“I have thought till I can think no more,” moaned Marie. “Oh, Ruth, Ruth, why did you come?”
“In heaven’s name, yes! Why did you come?” cried Glen fiercely, as he tried to tear the couple apart.
“No; keep off!” cried Ruth. “I have told you why: because I would not stand by and be a witness of this shame.”
“But, Ruth, you do not know; you cannot tell. It is too late now.”
“I tell you it is not too late!”
“Yes, my child, it is,” said a low, soft voice; and there stood Paul Montaigne, with his calm aspect and bland smile. “It is too late; the step is taken by you, Ruth, as well as by Marie here. Captain Glen, I will see that Miss Allerton comes to no harm.”
“By what right do you intrude?” cried Glen hotly.
“The right of an old protector of these ladies,” said Montaigne, smiling. “There, do not be angry, my dear sir. I come as a friend. Their interests have been mine for so many years that I, knowing something of the tender passion myself, can sympathise with all. Mind, I do not counsel flight, and if I had been consulted I should not have hesitated to stop you; but as you have taken the irrevocable step, all I can say is – go, get the divorce over as soon as possible, and then I insist upon your marrying my darling ward.”
“Of course, of course!” cried Glen angrily. “Marie, my love,” he whispered, “come.”
“No, no!” cried Ruth, interposing, and clinging to her cousin’s arm. “Marie dear, you will come back?”
Marie looked at her in a piteously helpless fashion, and shook her head.
“My dearest Ruth,” said Montaigne, “your interference is ill-timed. You are fighting against fate. Come, come! I know it seems very dreadful to you, but you must let matters have their course.”
He advanced to take her hand, but she shrank from him with horror.
“No, no!” she cried. “Why do not you interfere?”
“Captain Glen, your train must be nearly due.”
“And Ruth?” said Glen, hesitating. “Will you see her back?”
“Hardly,” said Montaigne, smiling. “She cannot return there; but you can rest content if she is under my charge. Recollect, sir, I have known her almost from a child.”
“Mr Montaigne is right; you are fighting against the irrevocable. The step is taken, and Marie cannot return. Now, for all our sakes, pray go!”
“With Mr Montaigne?” cried Ruth excitedly. “No; I will not go; and I will not leave Marie!”
“Then, in heaven’s name, go with us!”
“No!” said Montaigne fiercely; “Ruth goes with me!”
“Marcus Glen – Marie – I claim your protection from this man!” cried Ruth excitedly.
“Then you shall come!” cried Glen. “Marie, be firm,” he whispered. “Now, Mr Montaigne – you hear Miss Allerton’s decision; stand aside!”
“Miss Allerton stays with me!” said Montaigne firmly; and, in place of giving way, he stepped forward, and an angry collision seemed imminent, when the door was once more thrown open, and Lord Henry Moorpark, looking blanched and old, came into the room.
Ruth had gained her end.