There were those who said that he was a Jesuit, but when it came to his ears he merely smiled pityingly, and made a point of attending church at all the week-day services, and repeating the responses in a quiet, reverent way that, combined with his closed eyes, gave him the aspect of true devoutness.

How he lived none knew, but it was supposed that he had an income from a vineyard in Central France, one which he had inherited from his father, an English gentleman who had had a taste for wine-growing.

Mr Paul Montaigne never contradicted the rumour, and he never entered into particulars about his past. He had been the friend of the mother of Clotilde and Marie. He had brought the children over to England when quite a young man, with a very French look and a suggestion of his being a student at a French religious seminary. He had brought letters of introduction with him, and he had been in England ever since.

Time seemed to have stood still with Paul Montaigne. Certainly, he was just a shade stouter, and there were a few bright, silvery-looking hairs about his temples; in other respects he looked quite a young man, for his smoothly-shaven face showed scarcely a line, his dark eyes were bright, and his black brows were as smoothly arched as if drawn with a pair of compa.s.ses.

Upon that smooth face there was always a pensive, half-sad smile, one which he seemed to be constantly trying to wipe off with his soft, plump, well-shaped, and very white hand, but without success, for the smile was always there--the quiet, beseeching smile, that won so many women's confidence, but sometimes had the contrary effect upon the sterner s.e.x.

Those who said that he was a student were to some extent right, for his modest lodgings at Teddington were well furnished with books, and he was a familiar object to many, as with his white hands clasped behind him he walked in his semi-clerical habit to and from the Palace at Hampton Court--through Bushey Park, and always on the same side of the road, making a point of pausing at the inlet of the Diana Pool to throw crumbs of bread to the eager fish, before continuing his walk in by the Lion Gate into the Palace gardens to the large fountain basin, where the great gold and silver fish also had their portion.

He never spoke to anyone; apparently n.o.body ever spoke to him, and he went his way to and fro, generally known as "the priest," making his journeys two or three times a week to call at the apartments of the Honourable Misses Dymc.o.x to see his young pupils, as he called them, and to converse with them to keep up their French.

Upon these occasions he partook of the weak tea handed round by Joseph, and broke a portion off one of the thin biscuits that accompanied the cups. In fact, he was an inst.i.tution with the Dymc.o.x family, and had been duly taken into the ladies' confidence respecting the movement proposed by Lady Littletown.

"My dear ladies," he had responded, "you know my position here--my trust to the dead; I watch over the welfare of their children, and you tell me this is for their well-being. What else can I say but may your plans prosper?"

"But I would not mention it to the children, Mr Montaigne," said Miss Philippa.

"I mention it! My dear madam, all these years that you have known me, and is my character a sealed book to you still?"

"For my part, I don't like him," said Joseph once to Markes, and he was politely told not to be a fool. Cook, however, who had a yearning after the mysterious, proved to be of a more sympathetic mind, and when Joseph told her his opinion, that this Mr Montaigne was only a Jesuit and a priest in disguise, cook said she shouldn't a bit wonder, for "them sort often was."

Now, cook had not seen Mr Montaigne, so her judgment should be taken _c.u.m grano_, as also in the case where Joseph declared Mr Montaigne to be "a deep 'un," when she declared that was sure to be the case.

On the night of the dinner-party at Hampton, the carriage--to wit, Mr Buddy's fly--had no sooner departed than Markes announced her intention of going next door to see Lady Anna Maria Morton's maid; at which cook grunted, and, being left alone, proceeded to take out a basket from the dresser drawer, and seated herself to have what she called a couple of hours' good darn.

One of those hours had nearly pa.s.sed, and several black worsted stockings had been ornamented with patches of rectangular embroidery, when the outer door-bell rang.

"If that's one of them dratted soldiers calling with his impudence, he'll get sent off with a flea in his ear," cried cook.

She bounced up angrily, and made her way to the door. It was no gallant Lancer in undress uniform and a cane under his arm, but Mr Paul Montaigne, whom cook at once knew by his description.

"The ladies in?" he said quietly.

"No, sir; which, please, they've gone to dine at Lady Littletown's."

"To be sure, yes, I had forgotten," he said, smiling nicely--so cook put it--at the plump domestic. "But never mind, I will have a few minutes'

chat with Miss Clotilde and Miss Marie."

"Which they've gone as well, sir."

"To be sure, yes, I ought to have known," said the visitor absently, "I ought to have remembered; and is Miss Ruth gone as well?"

"Oh no, sir; she's in the schoolroom all alone!"

"Indeed!" said Mr Montaigne, raising his eyebrows. "Ah, well, I will not disturb--and yet, I don't know; I am rather tired, and I will have a few minutes' chat with her before I walk back."

"Such a nice, mild-spoken kind of gentleman, though he had rather a papish look," said cook; and she ushered the visitor into the empty drawing-room, going directly after to tell Ruth.

It was growing dark, and Ruth, who was in bad spirits at having been left alone, felt a kind of shrinking, she could not have told why, from meeting Mr Montaigne.

He had always been quiet and paternal in his treatment, and she had, as a rule, shared the lessons of Clotilde and Marie; but, somehow, Ruth was one of the women whose confidence he had never won.

"Ah, Ruth, my child," he said, advancing with quiet, cat-like step as she entered, and his voice sounded soft and velvety in the silence of the gloomy place, "and so you are all alone?"

"Yes; I will ring for candles," she said hastily.

"No, my child, it is not necessary," he replied, taking her hand, and leading her to the stiff, formal old sofa at the side of the room. "I had forgotten that the dinner-party was this evening, or I should not have walked over. As it is, dear child, I will sit down and rest for ten minutes, and then stroll back."

"Would you like a cup of tea made for you? cook would soon have it ready," asked Ruth.

"Oh no, no, my child," he said softly, as he sat there, evidently forgetting that he still retained the little white hand, which, after an effort to withdraw, Ruth felt obliged to let rest where it was, prisoned now between both of Mr Montaigne's soft sets of well-cared-for fingers, as he spoke.

"What a calm, delicious repose there always seems to be here, Ruth, within these Palace walls! The gay, noisy throng of pleasure-seekers come from the busy hive of industry, and flit and flutter about the park and gardens; their footsteps echo through the state chambers, as they gaze at the relics of a bygone time, and their voices ring with merry, thoughtless jest; but, somehow, their presence never seems to penetrate to these private apartments, where all is calmness, purity, and peace."

"Yes; I often wonder at the way in which we seem to escape hearing them as we do," replied Ruth, making an effort to respond; for her heart was beating painfully, and she was afraid that the visitor might note the tremor in her voice.

"Peace and repose," he said softly, as he played with the hand he held.

"The world seems far away from you here, and I often envy you the calm, unruffled existence that you enjoy. But tell me, child, did you feel disappointed at not forming one of the party this evening?"

"I--I must confess that I should have liked to go," faltered Ruth.

"Well, yes, it was very natural," he replied; and as Ruth glanced quickly at him, she felt that there was a grave smile upon his face.

She could barely see it, for the room was growing darker, and now, for a few moments, her tremor began to increase.

"But Clotilde and Marie are older than I, and it was only natural that they should be preferred. And then, Mr Montaigne, they are so beautiful."

"Not more beautiful than you are, Ruth."

"Mr Montaigne!"

She made an effort to withdraw her hand, but it was tightly retained.

"Not more beautiful in person, less beautiful in mind and temperament, my child," continued Montaigne. "Don't try to withdraw your hand; I wish to talk seriously to you."

Ruth felt that to struggle would be unseemly, and though she felt an undefined dread of her position, her reason seemed to combat what she was ready to condemn as fancy, and Mr Montaigne had known her from, and still addressed her as, a "child."

"I should feel deeply disappointed if it were not so, Ruth; for I look upon you as one whose mind I have helped to train, whose growing intellect I have tried to form, and bias towards a love of the beautiful and pure and good."

Ruth felt more at her ease, and less troubled that the visitor should retain her hand.

"I have, I think--nay, I boldly say--led your mind in its studies, and guided your reading," continued Montaigne in the same low, bland voice, every tone of which was musical, deep, and sweet. It had not a harsh, jarring tone, but all was carefully modulated, and lent a charm to what he spoke.

Ruth murmured something about feeling very grateful, and wished that he would go.

"Tell me, child," he said gently, and now one soft hand glided to Ruth's wrist, and a finger rested upon her pulse, probably that the mental physician might test the regularity of the beats produced by his long-administered moral medicine, "what are you reading now?"