A Double Knot Part 77

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 st.i.tches 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 pa.s.sing 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 pa.s.sed 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 gla.s.s 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?"