A Double Knot Part 76

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

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

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

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

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

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

Volume 3, Chapter IX.

LADY HENRY GROWS CALM.

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

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

She had been in a state of mental agony the night through, refusing to retire, and pa.s.sing 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 pa.s.sion 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 pet.i.tion 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 pa.s.sionate 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.