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.