He laid his hand upon her lips, for just then Markes’ voice was heard outside.
“Ruth! Miss Ruth!”
“Sit still, foolish child!” he whispered, holding her more tightly; “that woman would perhaps chatter if she knew you were here like this with me.”
A chill of horror came over Ruth, and she sat like one paralysed, as the handle turned, the door opened, and Markes looked into the darkened room.
“Why, where has the girl gone?” she muttered angrily.
She went away directly, and a moment or two later her voice was heard crying:
“She isn’t in the drawing-room, cook.”
“You had better go up to your own room, child,” said Montaigne softly. “I will go now. Do not trouble about this; for I think it weak to trust servants, whose ignorance and prejudice often lead them to wrong ideas. Good-night, my child. You have neither father nor mother, but remember that while Paul Montaigne lives you have one who is striving to fill the place of both, as he tries to watch over you for your good.”
He had allowed her to rise now, but he still retained her hand as he stood beside her, his words for the moment disarming the resentment in her breast.
“Good-night, my dear child. I shall let myself out after you have reached your room. Good-night—good-night. Nay, your lips, Ruth, to me.”