Volume Three—Chapter Thirteen.
Lord Henry Receives a Telegram.
“I shall be waiting for you this evening at the Channel Hotel. It is an easy walk from the square. Ask to be shown to Number 99. If you are not there by ten o’clock, good-bye! There will be the report of a pistol heard. Without you I can bear my life no longer.”
Every word burned into her mind, and she seemed to be mentally repeating it constantly, even as some familiar tune will keep on humming in the brain.
“If you are not there by ten o’clock there will be the report of a pistol heard.”
Marie felt that he would keep his word.
Over and over and over again, with dreary reiteration, those words kept recurring, and then, as the day wore on and she went to her room, she found herself repeating them aloud.
She bathed her burning temples, but found no relief. She threw herself upon a couch, and tried to obtain rest, but those words kept on, and she repeated them as if they were a lesson, till everything seemed dreamlike and strange, and she wondered whether she had really met Glen that morning.
At last she dropped into a feverish, uneasy sleep, the result of her weariness, but the words kept on, and she felt that she was repeating them as she went straight on towards a thick darkness, whose meaning she could not penetrate. All she knew was that she was irresistibly impelled towards that darkness, and it made her shudder as she drew nearer and nearer, till she felt that her next step would be into this strange mystery, when she found herself confronted by Ruth.
“Are you ill, dear?”
“No, not ill; only weary in spirit, dear. There, I am better now. But tell me about yourself. Have you seen Montaigne lately?”
“Yes,” said Ruth with a shiver. “He seems to watch and follow us. He was in Piccadilly this morning as we came back from the Academy.”
“The insolent!” said Marie calmly. “Is it time to dress?”
“Oh no,” cried Ruth, looking curiously at her cousins ashy face. “You have been to sleep, and forgotten how time goes.”
“Have I? Yes, I suppose I have. Let me see, there is no one coming to dinner to-night?”
“No, not to-night,” said Ruth, gazing with wondering eyes at her cousin.
“No, no, of course not! My brain feels hot and confused to-day. I shall be better soon!”
She rose, and then descended with Ruth to the drawing-room, chatting calmly with her over the five o’clock tea, and seemed as if she had forgotten the morning’s incident. This went on till the dressing-bell rang, when, placing her arm round her cousin, she went with her upstairs to their several rooms, kissing her affectionately, and bidding her not be late.
Marie looked perfectly calm when they met again in the drawing-room, where Lord Henry was awaiting their descent, and as Ruth entered she saw her cousin half seated upon one of the arms of a lounge, resting her soft white arm upon her husband’s shoulder as she bent down and kissed him tenderly upon the forehead.
She did not start away, but rose gravely, and directly after, dinner was announced, and Lord Henry took Ruth down.
The dinner passed off much as usual. The conversation was carried on in the quiet, calm way customary at that house, and Lord Henry smiled gravely and pleasantly first at one, then at the other, as he retailed to them, in his simple, placid manner, some piece of news that he had heard at the club, to which Marie listened with her quiet deference to her husband, whose slightest word seemed always to rouse her to listen.
When they rose Lord Henry left his chair in the most courtly way to open the door for them, Marie drawing back for Ruth to pass out first, while she hesitated, before placing her arms round her husband’s neck. She kissed him on his forehead, holding him tightly to her for a moment or two, and then she passed into the hall and began to ascend the stairs, looking handsomer than she had ever looked to him before, as she went up with the soft glow of the lamp shining down upon her pale face.
As she reached the first landing she smiled back at him in a strange way, hesitating for a moment or two before passing out of his sight.
“God bless her,” said the old man, with tears in his eyes. “I wish I was years younger—for her sake.”
He returned to his chair, poured out his customary glass of port-wine, and sat sipping it in a calm, satisfied spirit. So happy and at rest did he feel, that, for a wonder, he finished that glass and poured out another, which he held up to the light and examined with all the air of a connoisseur.
Then sip after sip followed, with the dark ancestral paintings seeming to look down warningly at him from the wall, till he finished that second glass and began to doze. Then the doze came to an abrupt conclusion, and his lordship started up, for he thought he heard the closing of a door, but his eyelids dropped lower and lower till they were shut, and this time he slept deeply—so deeply that he did not hear the butler enter with his cup of coffee, which the old servitor placed softly upon the table, and then went out.
“Eh? What?” exclaimed Lord Henry, starting up.
“Beg pardon for waking your lordship,” said the butler, holding out a silver salver, upon which was a reddish—brown envelope; “but here is a telegram.”
“Telegram? Bless me!” exclaimed the old man, fumbling in rather a confused way for his glasses. “I hope—nothing wrong!”
His hands trembled as he opened the envelope and took out the message, while as he read the pencilled words his jaw dropped, and the old butler took a step forward.
“My lord!”
These words brought him to himself.
“That will do, Thompson. I will ring.”
The old butler glanced at his master uneasily, but obeyed, and then Lord Henry, with palsied hand, held the sham telegram to the lamp and read once more:
“From Smith, West Strand.
“To Lord Henry Moorpark,
“300, Saint James’s Square.
“If you care for your honour, follow her ladyship. She has gone to keep an appointment at Channel Hotel.”
He crushed the paper in his hand, and caught at the table for support.
Then he recovered, and drew himself up proudly.
“It is a lie—a scandal!” he said in a hoarse whisper. “The dog who could send that slur against my wife deserves to be hung!”
He tottered slightly at first as he walked, but he kept pulling himself together, twitching his head and crushing the paper more tightly in his hand, as he went slowly towards the door.
He would not hurry, he was too proud and full of trust and belief in Marie for that; and thrusting the telegram into his pocket, he, in his usual leisurely way, touched the bell for the dessert to be cleared away, threw open the door, and gave his customary cough as he crossed the hall before mounting the handsome staircase, step by step, where Marie had turned when she left him a short time before.
The old man held his head up more and more erect as he went on, and when the butler came from below in answer to the bell, he noted that his lordship was humming in a low voice a snatch of an air that was often played in the square by the organs.
He was too chivalrous to believe the message, and in the calmest manner possible he placed his hand upon the door-knob, turned it, entered the softly-lit drawing-room, closed the door in his usual gentle way, and crossed towards Marie’s chair, where she would be seated by the steaming urn, with Ruth reading aloud as was her wont.
“I have been thinking, my dear—” he said.
Then he stopped, perfectly calm, though both chairs were empty, and his lips quivered slightly.
“It is a lie—a cruel lie! God bless her! I’ll not believe it!”
He muttered this as he went on, and was about to ring the bell, when he hesitated. Should he?—should he not?
It would be braver and better to do so, he thought, and would show his calm confidence to his servants.
But why should he trouble them? Poor sweet! her head had been aching a good deal that day, she said, and she had gone to lie down. Ruth, perhaps, was with her. He would go up and see.
He went slowly up to the bedroom—tapped; there was no answer, and he softly entered, to find the lights burning and something white upon the toilet-table—something white that caught his eye on the instant, and involuntarily he said:
“A note!”
Of course—a note to explain why she was not there.
He glanced at himself in the long cheval-glass that had so often reflected the form of his beautiful wife. His face was very pale, but he could see that he looked perfectly cool and collected as he crossed to the toilet-table and took up the note.
He raised his glasses, and saw that it was open—a note directed in a feminine hand to Lady Henry Moorpark.
The note fell from his fingers and a frown gathered on his brow as, after a few moments’ hesitation, he walked rapidly out of the chamber and down into the drawing-room, where he rang the bell, and a footman came to the call.
“Has her ladyship gone out, Robert?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And Miss Allerton?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Did they have the carriage?”
“No, my lord; Miss Allerton went out directly after dinner, and her ladyship soon after.”
“That will do.”
The man left the room, and Lord Henry stood for a few minutes gazing straight before him, and with a strangely stern aspect in his face.
Love and chivalry were fighting hard with ordinary worldliness, and it was a question which would win.
“I ought to go,” he said at last—“I will go. Heaven knows that I do not—that I will not doubt her; but she is not here, and it is very strange. I will go.”
He went downstairs, all in the most calm and deliberate way, as if everything depended upon his being perfectly cool, and after ringing for one of the servants, he was helped on with his light overcoat, his hat and gloves were handed to him, his black cane with its crutch handle, and he went quietly out into the square. He raised his cane as a hansom cab came by, got in, and was driven to the Channel Hotel, where he paid and dismissed the man.
An attendant was in the vestibule as he entered, and, beckoning to the man, he placed a half-sovereign in his hand, a feeling of shrinking on the increase, and the shame making him hesitate as he asked whether two ladies had come there since eight or nine o’clock.
“Two ladies, without luggage? Yes, sir. And a gentleman. In Number 99, sir.”
Lord Henry hesitated again, for love and chivalry seemed to throw themselves in his way to prevent him from doing what he told himself was a mean action.
But he felt that he must go on now, and, going a little closer to the man, he said:
“Take me up at once, and show me in without announcing my name.”
The man nodded, and led him up the great staircase, passing what seemed to be innumerable rooms before stopping at one where he waited for his lordship to come close up before throwing open the door for him to enter.
The telegram was right so far: Lady Henry Moorpark was there, but she was in company with Ruth.
So far good; but Captain Marcus Glen, her old lover, was present, and Mr Paul Montaigne.
Marie sank into the nearest chair. Paul Montaigne caught Ruth by the wrist, and whispered a few words; while, on seeing who had come, Marcus Glen stepped boldly forward, and seemed ready to defend the woman he loved.
“Be silent,” whispered Montaigne—“not a word! Your only hope now is to cling to me.”
“May I ask what is the meaning of this meeting, Lady Henry?” asked his lordship. “I had a telegram advising me to come here, and I find you in company with Captain Glen.”
“Who came to meet me, Lord Henry,” cried Ruth, flinging off Montaigne’s grasp and clinging to Glen’s arm.
Glen directed one glance at Marie, who had turned from him, and was standing with knitted brow, half-closed eyes, and blanched face, crushed down as it were by her shame, and with all a soldier’s quickness of decision he determined to try and save her.
“Let me explain, Lord Henry—Lady Henry,” said Glen quickly. “I am to blame for this clandestine meeting. Lady Henry, you meant well by your pursuit, but you cannot alter matters now. Ruth accepts me as her husband, and nothing but force would take her away. If I have spoken too plainly, you must forgive me. Once more, I am to blame.”
“Well acted,” muttered Montaigne. “Now, my Lady Marie; it is your turn now.”
But Marie stood as if stunned.
“This is fine, heroic language, Captain Glen,” said Lord Henry; “may I ask to how many ladies you have used it before?”
“I deserve your rebuke, my lord,” said Glen; “but there comes a time to every man when he feels that he is in earnest. I am in earnest now.”
“If, sir, you are in earnest, why did you not make your advances like a gentleman?”
“One moment,” interposed Montaigne, who had now recovered himself, and stood with a smile upon his lip; “Lord Henry, I have been protector, tutor to these ladies from their childhood: I wish to say a few words to Captain Glen.”
Lord Henry bowed.
“Ruth, my child,” continued Montaigne, “leave Captain Glen for a few minutes.”
She shrank from him with such a look of revulsion that the rage in his breast flamed up again, and his craftiness for the moment failed.
“Now, sir,” said Glen sternly, and he looked menacingly at the man whom he blamed for the frustration of that night’s plans.
“You have cleverly hoodwinked the poor old fool amongst you,” whispered Montaigne, “but you have not blinded me. I have a prior claim to Miss Allerton’s hand, and I tell you this,” he cried, his rage making him tremble, “that after this night, if you so much as approach her again, I’ll expose Marie to her husband—I’ll tell him all.”
Glen glanced at Marie, who was talking in a low voice to Lord Henry, while, suffering now from the reaction, Ruth had sunk into a chair, trembling at what she had dared to do.
“You understand,” continued Montaigne, upon whose forehead the veins stood out. “That is my price for silence. Ruth is mine, or I drag that woman into the dust.”
He stood there with his face thrust forward, his hands clenched, and a fiercely vindictive look in his eyes, while Glen seemed to be weighing his position, but he was not. He let his eyes wander from Montaigne to Lord Henry. Then he glanced at Ruth, who for a moment met his gaze with a piteous, appealing glance, before flushing deeply, and drooping in very shame.
“Heaven bless her, she is too good for me!” thought Glen; “but before this scoundrel should lay hands upon her—”
“You understand me,” reiterated Montaigne; “now go.”
“Understand you!” whispered Glen; and as he spoke he laid one hand sharply on Montaigne’s shoulder, clutching him in so fierce a grip that he caused intense pain. “Yes; now understand me.”
Montaigne glared at him, and he suffered acutely, but he did not wince.
“You have uttered your threats: now hear mine. That lady’s reputation is in your hands.”
“Is this all?” said Montaigne defiantly.
“No,” whispered Glen, placing his lips close to Montaigne’s ear; “I have not read your death-sentence: betray us, and I will kill you, so help me God!”
The two men were glaring at each other, and by degrees, as Montaigne’s face grew of a sickly, leaden hue, his eyelids drooped, and he shrank away.
Glen crossed to Ruth and took her hand.
“Heaven bless you?” he whispered. “I dare not say more to you now. I am not worthy, Ruth. Would I were a better man! Be kind to her, for she wants your aid.”
She did not speak, but stood there trembling, till he led her to Lord Henry.
Will you take her, sir? he said. “You will not refuse her a home for what has occurred?”
If Lord Henry Moorpark had felt any hesitation, it was chased away by the action of his wife, who caught her cousin to her heart.
“Some day, Lady Henry—Lord Henry,” continued Glen, “I will come as a gentleman, and ask that the past may be forgotten, and that Ruth Allerton may be my wife. Mr Montaigne—”
He signed toward the door, and vainly trying to resist the stern eyes fixed upon him, Montaigne led the way, and was followed out.