“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.”