George Manville Fenn (continued 7)

“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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Volume Three—Chapter Six.

The Double Knot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well,” she said harshly, “are you satisfied?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Pity? Pity for you! Why, are you not his wife?”

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

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

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

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

“Have you no heart—no feeling?” cried Gertrude, going down upon her knees.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The parson said I was when we were married—Mrs Frank Riversley.”

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

“Oh!” sighed Gertrude.

“But I never complained.”

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

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

“You don’t want to go,” said the woman mockingly. “It’s all a sham.”

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

“I don’t know; I only know that if I did he would kill me.”

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

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

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

“That man? that man?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Afraid of the dark?”

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

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

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

Volume Three—Chapter Seven.

Between Sisters.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My darling! are you ill?” he cried.

“Yes. Very ill, take me home.”

“Had I not better send for medical help at once?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The conversation?” said Marie. “Yes; certainly.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Clotilde! for heaven’s sake be silent. Think of your position—of what you are. Your words are terrible.”

“Terrible? What, because I said I liked Marcus Glen? Why, so I do. He’s a splendid fellow.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t be foolish, Clo!” said Marie. “Let us talk of something else.”

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

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

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

“Clotilde!”

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

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

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

“I do not understand you,” exclaimed Marie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you mean?”

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

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

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

“It is not true,” cried Marie.

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

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

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

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

“Why, I brought you to your senses, silly child!”

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

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

“You are talking folly,” said Marie huskily.

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

Marie made no reply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Innocent!” exclaimed Marie involuntarily.

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

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

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

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

“Then—then,” wailed Marie, “he was true?”

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

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

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

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

“What does it matter now? You are looking as if—as if—Rie! Here, take my salts.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Volume Three—Chapter Eight.

Gertrude Takes Sanctuary.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” said Salome, “he has been too much bothered lately—fifteen,” and she scored a second “two.”

“More trouble coming,” said Vidler—“twenty-two.”

“And nine’s a screw,” said Salome seriously, taking another couple for thirty-one.

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

“Eight,” said Vidler. “How ill Miss Renée looks!”

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

“Got you this time,” said Vidler, smiling, as he played an ace—“fifteen”—and scored his two.

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

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

Pop!

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

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

“It isn’t a purse,” she said, holding it to the light. “It’s a coffin!”

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 Renée 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 Renée 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 Renée, 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.”

Renée 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.

Renée 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 Renée, 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 Three—Chapter Nine.

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.

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.