Kitabı oku: «A Double Knot», sayfa 24
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.
“I believe, Dick, you’d flirt with a mop if it was stuck in a petticoat,” said Glen to him one day on their way to Bryanston Square. “What’s it all for – practice?”
“I don’t ask you why you flirt with married ladies,” said Dick sharply.
Glen started, and looked grave. And at that time a little friendly counsel might have turned him aside, for he thought a good deal of quiet, grave Lord Henry. But he frowned, and said angrily, “He is no friend of mine. He came between us. Why should I study him?”
He closed his eyes then fast to the risk and danger, giving himself up to his revived passion, and went on gliding slowly down the slope towards the precipice that threatened both.
On the other side, Ruth was passing through a strange course of education. At first, in her innocency, she could hardly believe it possible, but more and more the fact dawned upon her that a kind of self-deception was going on with Marie, who apparently believed that she was furthering Ruth’s happiness, while she was yielding to the delight of being once more in company with Glen, listening to his voice, living a delicious, dreamy existence, of whose danger she seemed to be unaware.
Volume Three – Chapter Ten.
A Dangerous Enemy
Much as Ruth was in Marie’s confidence, and sisterly as their intercourse had become, there were points now upon which each feared to touch.
Of late Glen’s name had ceased to be mentioned, and Ruth’s feelings towards Marie were a strange intermingling of love, jealousy, and fear.
Ruth was alone one day in the drawing-room, having stayed at home on account of a slight headache, while Marie had gone to make a few calls after setting down Lord Henry at his club.
Ruth had taken up a book, but though she went through page after page, she had not the slightest recollection of what she had been reading, her thoughts having wandered away to Marcus Glen and Marie.
“I ought to have gone with her,” she thought; and then she began to tremble as she felt a kind of dread overcoming her.
“It is terrible,” she thought; “I cannot bear it. He does not care for me, and I cannot save him; but,” she cried, setting her teeth, “I will not leave her again, and I will speak to her at once.”
She hesitated for a moment, as if in alarm at the determination she had made, and then moved towards the door.
“I will go on there at once; she may be there. If she is not, Marcus Glen will be, and I will appeal to him, for I cannot bear this agony.”
It was a good resolve, one which she would have carried out; but just then she recoiled, and her heart began to beat painfully, while the blood forsook her cheeks.
Mr Montaigne had softly closed the door behind him, and was advancing towards her, with a smile upon his lip, and a peculiar look in his eyes, which made her tremble.
“What!” he said, “alone? This is an unexpected pleasure.”
“He knew I was alone,” thought Ruth, “and that is why he has come.”
He advanced towards her, and in spite of her determination to be firm, she took a step or two backwards before she held out her hand, and said with tolerable firmness:
“Lady Henry has gone out in the carriage.”
“And will not be back just yet,” he said with a smile. “Ah, well, it does not matter.”
He had taken her hand and pressed it firmly, retaining it in his, and before Ruth could realise it he had drawn her to him, and pressed his lips to hers.
“Mr Montaigne!” she cried, struggling to free herself. “This is an insult!”
“What! from me?” he whispered, his face flushing, and his arms clasping her more tightly. “Why, what nonsense, Ruth! You know how I have loved you from the time you were a child, and have always meant that you should some day be my little wife.”
“Oh no! It is impossible! Mr Montaigne, are you mad?”
She cast a despairing glance at the bell, but it was beyond her reach, and he smiled as he kissed her passionately again and again.
“Why are you left alone?” he said in a hoarse whisper; “because fate has arranged it expressly for us. See how I have patiently waited for an opportunity, ever since that night when we were surprised in each other’s arms by that wretched servant. Why, Ruth, Ruth, my little one, what is the use of this struggling? It is absurd. You are a woman now – the woman I have always loved. It is our secret, darling, and – ”
“Help! help!” cried Ruth loudly as the door opened and Marie walked in, Mr Paul Montaigne, carried away by his passion, having failed to hear the carriage stop, quite a couple of hours sooner than he had expected.
“What is the meaning of this?” cried Marie fiercely, as Ruth ran to her arms, panting and sobbing with shame.
“Marie – why did you leave me? He – insulted – this man – ”
“Is a villain who hides his true nature beneath a mask,” cried Marie indignantly. “I always doubted him. How comes he to be alone here with you? Leave the house, sir! Lord Henry shall be made acquainted with the conduct of his guest.”
Marie placed Ruth in a chair, and was crossing towards the bell, when Montaigne said quietly:
“Ah, yes; poor Lord Henry! He does not know us all by heart.”
Marie stopped as if she had been stung, and faced round, darting an indignant glance at Montaigne, who, in place of leaving the room, coolly walked to one of the mirrors, and readjusted his white tie.
Marie recovered herself, and had her hand upon the bell, when Montaigne said quietly:
“Don’t be foolish, my dear; exposures are such awkward things.”
“For you, sir,” cried Marie. “Then leave the house, and never enter it again. But for the fact of your being so old a friend, I would have you turned out.”
“Words, words, words, my dear Marie,” he said, taking a chair and crossing his legs. “Let me see. It is Hamlet says that, I think. Now look here, my dear child – but sit down, I want to talk to you.”
“Will you leave this room, sir?” cried Marie angrily.
“No, my child, I shall not,” he said, smiling. “You say you are ready to expose me for this playful little interview which you interrupted between Ruth here and myself – Ruth, the lady who is to be my wife.”
“Your wife!” cried Marie indignantly.
“Yes: my wife; and don’t raise your voice like that, my dear child. By the way, you are back soon. Was not our dear Marcus at Bryanston Square?”
“Marcus? Captain Glen?” cried Marie, whose lips turned white.
“There, my dear little girl. You are not little now, but you seem little to me. You forget, in this wondrous fit of virtuous anger, that I have stood for so many years towards you in the light of a father. In my way I have helped you to position and a rich husband, and when I found that, womanlike – fashionable womanlike, I should say – your ladyship was beginning to show taste for pleasure, and even taking to your handsome self a lover, I did not interfere. While because I, in due course, and after a long and patient courtship, take the girl I love in my arms, you talk of turning me out, call me scoundrel and villain, and threaten me with Lord Henry’s displeasure.”
“It is disgraceful, sir,” said Marie; “you are old enough to be her father.”
“Humph! Yes. Perhaps so, but nothing like so much older as Lord Henry is than you. Now look here, my dear Marie, I am obliged to speak plainly. I don’t ask for a truce; but I demand your help and countenance. I mean to marry Ruth.”
Marie stood pointing to the door, but Montaigne did not stir.
“Pshaw!” he exclaimed – “a stage trick. Are you aware of what it means to make me your enemy, my dear child? You are angry and excited now. You did not quite realise my words. Do you think I am blind about Captain Glen? As to dropping the mask, well, there, it is down. I am a man even as you are a woman, and why should I not love?”
Marie’s arm dropped to her side, and she stood gazing at him with her cheeks and lips now ashy of hue.
“There,” he continued, laughing, “the storm is over, and we understand each other. I will go now, and mind this, dear Marie, I will religiously keep your ladyship’s secrets so long as you keep mine.”
He rose, and, taking her hand, mockingly kissed it. Then, crossing to Ruth, he would have caught her in his arms, but she started from him, and stood at bay on the other side of a table.
“You foolish child!” he said, laughing; “you must be a little wiser when I come again.”
As the door closed upon him Marie stood with her eyes closed, listening, and then with a cry of despair she threw herself into her cousin’s arms.
“Oh, Ruth, Ruth, Ruth, what have I done! what have I done! I swear to you I am innocent, indeed – indeed.”
“I believe it, I know it,” cried Ruth, holding her to her heart; “but oh, Marie, you must never see him again! Pray, pray keep away.”
“Yes, yes,” she cried; “I will. I am innocent, I am indeed. But, oh, it is horrible! I will stay away. I will see him no more. But you – that man – he has us in his power.”
“I beg your pardon,” said a soft voice; “I think I must have left my gloves in here. Yes, there they are!” and Paul Montaigne quietly crossed the room, took a pair of gloves from a chair, and then smiled and went softly out.
The cousins gazed in each other’s eyes, motionless, till they heard the closing of the front door.
“Oh, Marie,” whispered Ruth, in an awe-stricken way, “he must have heard every word you said!”
And Marie echoed hoarsely, “Every word!”
Mr Montaigne allowed a couple of days to elapse before he called again in Saint James’s, and then, serious man as he was, he swore, for the shutters were closed: the family was out of town.
It was no unusual time for anyone to go, for, as he stood there hesitating on the step, a slatternly-looking girl was making the streets ring with her minor-pitched cry of “Sixteen branches a penny – new lavender; sixteen branches a penny.” It was well on in August, and fashionable London was taking wing.
“Clever woman!” thought Montaigne: “this is her move; but I can mate her when I please.”
He rang, and a woman-servant answered the bell.
“His lordship is out of town,” the woman said.
“At his country seat?” said Montaigne at haphazard.
“Oh dear no, sir! his lordship has taken my lady and Miss Allerton on the Continong, and they are not coming back for some time. Mr Harvey, his lordship’s agent, will send on all letters.”
“Thank you. I am very much obliged,” said Montaigne with his blandest smile; and he raised his hat and went away smiling, cursing Marie in his heart.
“‘All comes to the man who waits,’” he thought.
Volume Three – Chapter Eleven.
Ruth’s Work Undone
The Continental trip extended to months, after which there were a few visits, so that it was well into the next season before they were back at the house in Saint James’s, and after their return Marie devoted herself to Ruth, hoping that Montaigne would not show himself again, though they both trembled at the thought of his coming.
Still, he did not show himself, and matters went on so happily and well that Ruth began to hope that Marie’s love for Glen was dead, when, in an evil hour, and, as Marie said, to fulfil a social duty, they called upon Lady Anna Maria Morton, meeting Lady Littletown there; when that lady insisted upon their dining with her at her town house, and it was next to impossible to refuse.
Lady Littletown was a match-maker at heart, and she always looked upon her conservatory, with its brilliant flowers, as her greatest aid in such matters. Hence it was that her ladyship took care to have a conservatory wherever she lived.
She had taken a handsome house in South Kensington for a short season, one that was admirably furnished in this respect, though far from being equal to Mr Elbraham’s glass palace. Still, it was enough.
Lord Henry frowned slightly on finding that Captain Glen was among the guests, and deputed by Lady Littletown to take Marie in to dinner; but his brow cleared directly, and he smiled at his wife as she went by him and gave him an appealing look that seemed to say, “Don’t blame me.”
Hardly had they passed on to the staircase before Glen said in a quick, agitated voice: “I thought I was never to see you again. I must have a few words with you before you go.”
Five minutes before, Marie had told herself that she was brave and strong, and that the past fancy was dead; but on hearing these words her hand trembled, her heart beat fast, and she knew that she was as weak as ever, and that she could only falter: “It is impossible!”
“It is not impossible!” he said angrily. “I must – I will see you.”
They entered the dining-room, and for the next two hours everything seemed to Marie like a dream. Lord Henry was at the bottom of the table, taking his old place of host, and the flower-filled vases completely shaded his wife from sight: still, Ruth was exactly opposite, apparently listening to the conversation of Glen; but Marie knew that she was watching them narrowly.
She went upstairs in a dream, just as she had come down, and answered questions, talked and entered into the various themes of conversation as if she were quite collected; but all the time there had been a restless throbbing of her pulses, and she trembled, and felt that she would have given the world to be away!
At last!
Marie heard the dining-room door open, and the sound of ascending voices. Lord Henry would be there directly, and she would ask him to take her back.
That was Marcus Glen’s voice speaking loudly, and every fibre of her body seemed to thrill as she listened to its tones.
Marie’s back was to the door as he entered, and she could not see him; but she seemed to feel his approach, and all was a dream once more, as he seated himself on the ottoman by her, and began to talk about some current topic.
She answered him, took the opposite side, talking freely and well, and Lord Henry chided himself for his uneasy feeling, and felt that he ought to be proud of such a wife. She was devoted to him, and he trusted her with all his heart.
The conversation was very animated for the time that Glen stood by her; but all the while Marie’s pulses kept up that quick, feverish throb, and there was the hidden sense of danger still within her heart.
May had come round again, the Academy pictures were once more drawing their crowds, and directly after an early breakfast one morning Marie and Ruth walked up into Piccadilly to spend a couple of hours while the rooms were empty and cool.
How it happened Marie afterwards hardly realised, but she had become separated from her cousin, who had wandered on into the next room, leaving her gazing listlessly about, when suddenly her heart seemed to stand still, for close beside her there was a low sigh, and she felt more than saw that Glen was at her elbow.
Mastering her emotion, she turned quickly to reproach him for following her there, when she saw that he had his back to her, and was gazing intently at a portrait. She did not speak. It was a kind of gasp or catching of the breath; but he heard it, and turned sharply round to face her.
“Marie!” he exclaimed.
“Hush! Don’t speak to me, for God’s sake!”
She said no more, but reeled, and would have fallen had he not caught her arm, and led her through the next opening and downstairs to the refreshment-room, quite empty at that early hour, the waiters not being ready for visitors.
There were a couple of the attendants at hand, ready to bring water and ice, and at the end of a few minutes Marie gazed wildly about her – starting violently, though, as she heard the deep voice at her side.
“That will do,” he said quietly. “A few minutes’ rest and she will be quite recovered.” Then they were alone, with Glen whispering to her eagerly, and she listening with her eyes half-closed and a strange dazed look in her pallid face.
“No, no!” she said at last feebly.
“You shall,” he cried, and his strong will prevailed over her more and more. “You must leave him, Marie. I do not ask it: I know you love me. You always have loved me. Come to me, my darling, or I must die.”
“Die!” she moaned. “No, no; not you. O God, forgive me! Would that I were dead!”
“Dead, when there is a life of happiness before us?” he whispered. “Marie dearest, at last! You understand?” he said, after whispering for some time.
“Yes, yes,” she said slowly; and he spoke again very quickly, but in low, distinct tones.
“Yes,” she repeated heavily, “I understand.”
“Marie!”
“Lady Henry was taken suddenly ill in one of the rooms, Miss Allerton,” said Glen hurriedly. “Fortunately I was there.”
“Ill,” said Ruth slowly, as she ran to Marie’s side. “Fortunately you were there. Captain Glen, I will see to my cousin now. Will you have the goodness to go?”
He raised his hat and slowly walked away.
“Marie, Marie!” cried Ruth piteously. “How could you deceive me so?”
“No, no!” cried Marie excitedly. “I did not know he was here. It was an unexpected meeting. Take me – ”
She was about to say “home,” but she could not utter the word, and as they walked back Ruth thought of this, and a hand seemed to compress her heart as she said to herself:
“The work of months undone!”
Volume Three – Chapter Twelve.
John Huish Gets Back Part of his Brains
More than once during the severe attack of brain-fever from which John Huish lay prostrate at Highgate, Dr Stonor compressed his lips and asked himself whether he would save his young friend’s life. At such times, as he sat by the bedside and gazed in his patient’s face, the lineaments brought back the scene by the pit and his father’s agony, as Captain Millet lay apparently dying.
“How time has gone!” the doctor would mutter, “and how like he looks to his father now!”
But a change for the better came at last, and after a long and weary convalescence he was once more about, month after month gliding by, and the brain refusing to accompany the body on its way to health.
He was very quiet and gentle, but he seemed to have no recollection of what had gone by, neither did he evince any desire, but passed his time mostly in the doctor’s study, where an unrolled mummy had apparently so great an attraction for him that he would sit near and watch it hour after hour when no one was by.
“Must get him better first,” the doctor would say. “I can’t run the risk of bringing on a relapse.”
So John Huish remained in utter ignorance of the fact that his young wife had been confined to her bed at the gloomy house in Wimpole Street, so prostrated by all she had had to pass through, that the doctors called in advised total rest and quiet, combined with careful nursing. Nothing calculated to excite her was to reach her ears. Hence, when in his turn Dr Stonor called, his lips were sealed respecting John Huish’s state; and poor Gertrude never mentioned his name.
After leaving Renée by her sister’s side, the doctor had a long chat with his old friend, whose white hand trembled as he thrust it forth to be taken by the visitor.
“How is she?” said the latter. “Ah, poor girl, she is very ill!”
“But she will get better? Oh, Stonor, don’t flatter me: tell me the truth!”
“Tell you the truth? – of course I shall! Well, she’ll be better when she gets back to her husband.”
“And how is John Huish?” and the white hand trembled inside the panel, like some leaf agitated by the wind.
“He is bad – very bad,” said the doctor. “I’ve had a hard fight with him, for his brain has had some serious shock. Poor fellow! he has been a little queer in the head for some time past, and consulted me at intervals, but I could make nothing of it. It’s a very obscure case, and I would not – I could not believe that there was anything more than fancy in his symptoms. But he was right, and it seems like a lesson to me not to be too conceited. His mind has been very impressionable, and from what I can gather he has not been carrying on as he should.”
“No, no, I’m afraid not!”
“There was some sad scene with his young wife, I suppose.”
(Text on pages 164 and 165 missing.)
“Well, I always think that it was a very insane, morbid proceeding, tinged with vanity, to shut yourself up as you have done these thirty years.”
“I took an oath, when I found to what I was reduced, that I would never look upon the face of man again, and I have kept it.”
“I should think that you were more likely to be forgiven for breaking such an oath than for keeping it,” said the doctor drily.
“But I have kept it!” said Robert Millet sternly. “In a few short hours I found that I had lost all worth living for, and I retired here to die.”
“Yes,” said the doctor, in his bluff, dry way; “but when you found that you were so long dying, I think you might have done something useful.”
There was no reply to this, and the doctor loosed the thin white hand, and began to tap the little ledge by the panel.
“I wrote down to Huish about his son’s illness,” he said at last.
“Yes: well?” said the recluse eagerly.
“He begged me to do all I could. He never leaves his room now. Gout or rheumatism has crippled him. Strange how things come about with the young people.”
“Yes: I’m getting old now, and I wanted to feel full of forgiveness towards Huish, and that is why I took to his boy. It is hard that matters have turned out as they have.”
“Very,” said the doctor. “Well, I’m not going to advise, but I should like to know that you had broken your oath at last, and let light into your brain as well as into your house. Good-bye; I’ll let you know how John Huish gets on.”
Dr Stonor went straight to Highgate and found what seemed an improvement in his patient, for Huish was sitting up; but he seemed strangely reticent and thoughtful, and never asked any questions as to his wife or his relatives, but seemed to be dreaming over something with which his mind was filled.
Time passed, and with closely cut hair, and a strange sallowness in his complexion, John Huish was up, and had been out times enough in the extensive garden, but there was a something in his manner that troubled the doctor a great deal, and was looked upon by him as a bad symptom. He was always dreaming over something, and what that was he never said.
Miss Stonor conversed with him, and he was gentle and talked rationally. He answered the doctor’s questions reasonably enough, and yet, as soon as his attention was released, he was back again, dreaming over the one thing that seemed to trouble his mind.
“Will he get well?” said Miss Selina to the doctor one morning.
“I’d give something to be able to say,” was the reply. “At times I think not, for I fear the impression upon his mind is that he is insane, and if a man believes that of himself, how can we get him to act like one who is sane?”
This was at breakfast-time, and the doctor soon after went out, leaving an assistant in charge.
It was a glorious afternoon, and Huish and the three patients were out in the garden, where Captain Lawdor was practising throwing biscuit, as he called it, at a stone balanced on the end of a stick. Mr Rawlinson had a table out and was writing a series of minutes on railway mismanagement; and Mr Roberts was following John Huish about as he walked up and down beneath the old red-brick wall which separated the garden from the road.
This went on for a time, and then Mr Roberts crept softly up to Huish, to whom he had not spoken since the night of the dinner, and said:
“I told you not to look at that Egyptian sorcerer. I knew it would send you mad.”
“Mad!” exclaimed Huish, smiling. “I am not mad.”
“Oh yes,” said Mr Roberts. “You came here and asked the doctor to cure you. No man could do that if he were not mad.”
“Oh, nonsense!” said Huish, looking at him strangely. “I am quite well.”
Mr Roberts shook his head.
“No, you are not; I know how you feel, just like a man I knew used to feel. He always felt as if he were two; and sometimes he was one, sometimes the other. The other was the one the lawyer said was dead. It was so sad, too, for her. What have you done with your wife?”
At last!
John Huish started as if he had been stung. That was the something he had, in a strange secretive way, tried to think of for days past – his wife; and now the mention of her sent a shock like that of electricity through his brain.
He hurried away, and began to walk up and down, growing more and more excited. His wife! Where was she? Yes, he remembered now; the mist that had shrouded his brain was dispelled, and he could think. That something like him had been and taken her away, and he was doing nothing here.
With all the cunning of an insane person he became very calm all at once, for the doctor’s assistant strolled out in the garden just then, walked up to and spoke to him, and not seeing any change, went back to the house, while, glancing sharply round him, John Huish waited for an opportunity to put a plan that he had instantly matured into operation.
He had sense enough to know that he should be refused if he asked leave to go outside, so walking up and down for a few minutes, he suddenly made a run and a bound, caught the top of the wall and scrambled up, and dropped into the lane.
The captain raised a shout, and the assistant came running out, but by the time he reached the gate Huish had disappeared, taking as he did a short cut across the fields, while the assistant searched the road, and then, after fruitless efforts, hurried off to the nearest station, and made his way to Finsbury Circus. Here he broke the news to the doctor, who left him to finish his cases, and, calling Daniel, set off as fast as they could go to Westbourne Road, as being the most likely point for Huish to make for now he was free.
As soon as he had run sharply across the fields, John Huish subsided into a walk, and going along at a pretty good pace, made straight for his home.
To all appearances he was perfectly sane and in his right mind; but there was only one dominant idea there, and to fulfil this he was hurrying on. Still there was a certain amount of strange caution developed in his acts. He seemed to know that there was something wrong with him, and that he must be cautious how he spoke to people; and to this end he carefully avoided everyone who appeared to take the slightest notice of him, till he reached Westbourne Road. There he rang the bell, and the door was answered by his domestic.
The servant looked at him strangely, but said nothing, and he hurried up to his room to try and remove any traces that might strike a stranger of his having been lately ill. His mind was clear enough for that, and as he hastily bathed his face, the cold water refreshed him and he felt more himself.
He was terribly confused, though, at times, and had to ask himself why he was there.
That acted as a touchstone – Gertrude – he had come to seek his wife; he had escaped so that he might find her, for the doctor would not let him go. He told him – yes, he told him his wife was well, and he should see her soon; but it was a lie to quiet him. That devil had got her – his other self. Of course – the servant and the cabman told him so; but he must be quiet, or they would stop him. Perhaps the doctor had sent after him now.
He shuddered and gazed about him for a moment as if his mind were going beyond his control. Then, mastering himself once more, he took up his hat, opened the door, and passed out into the road.
