A Double Knot Part 69

"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 pa.s.sionately.

"Good-night. I will go to my room now; I can bear no more."

"G.o.d bless you, my child. It must be hard to bear, but you are n.o.ble 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, flus.h.i.+ng 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 pa.s.sing 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 d.i.c.k 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 pa.s.sionate 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 att.i.tude she listened to the bitter, pa.s.sionate 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 b.u.t.t 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 n.o.ble to be so wicked as you say. I will not believe it. I do not care; I would not believe it unless he stood here and owned to it himself. I know it is cruel and wicked to say so, but it is Clotilde who is to blame. Marcus Glen loves you, and he would not do you such a wrong."

"You are too young and innocent, Ruth," said Marie coldly. "Good-night.

It is only the wakening from another dream."

Volume 3, Chapter V.

THE REWARD OF PERSEVERANCE.

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

He was right.

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

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

"I do not think I should mind, sister," said the Honourable Isabella.

"And besides, Joseph might walk behind them, as he does when we go for a walk."

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