"'Froissart's Chronicle,'" replied Ruth.

"An excellent work--one which leads the mind to an appreciation of chivalry and the n.o.ble deeds of the past. Any work of fiction?"

"Ye-es," faltered Ruth; "I have read part of a novel."

"That the Misses Dymc.o.x placed in your hands?"

"No," faltered Ruth, speaking like a found-out child. "Ought I to tell you, Mr Montaigne?"

"a.s.suredly, my child. What should you keep from me?"

"It was a work by George Eliot that Clotilde had obtained from the library."

"Unknown to her aunts?"

"Yes, Mr Montaigne; but please don't be angry with her."

"No, my child, I will not."

"Clotilde did not like it, and threw it aside, and I happened to see it; but I have not read much."

"They get novels, then?" said Mr Montaigne.

"They will be very angry with me for telling you, Mr Montaigne."

"I shall not tell them, dear child; perhaps it is natural. What is Clotilde reading now?"

"A French story, 'Annette'."

"In-deed!" said Montaigne softly; and he drew his breath between his teeth. "And have you read it, child?"

"No, Mr Montaigne. Miss Philippa expressly forbade our ever reading French novels; she said they were bad."

"Well--yes--perhaps, my child; but your pure, sweet young mind would eliminate the evil, and retain only the true and good. I should not debar you from such works. So you young ladies obtain novels from the library?"

"I do not," said Ruth simply. "But pray do not ask me such things, Mr Montaigne; it makes me seem to be tale-bearing about my cousins."

"Don't be afraid, my child," continued Montaigne; "let there be more confidence between us. Believe me, Ruth, you may trust me always as your best friend, and one to whom your welfare is very, very dear."

"Thank you, Mr Montaigne," faltered Ruth; "I will try to think of you as you wish. Will you let me ring for candles now?"

"Oh no, it is not necessary, my dear; I am going directly. Come, Ruth, my child, why do you shrink away? Am I so very dreadful, my little girl? There, sit still," he said in a whisper. "I shall have to make you a prisoner, while I read you a lesson on obedience and duty to those who have your welfare at heart."

Ruth was growing alarmed, for he had softly pa.s.sed one arm round her little waist, and in spite of her feeble struggles drawn her to his side.

"There, my child, now I feel as if you were my own loving, dutiful little girl whom I had adopted; and I am going to cross-examine you like a father confessor," he continued playfully. "Ruth dear, I hope this little heart is in safe-keeping."

"I--I do not understand you, Mr Montaigne," cried Ruth, whose womanly instincts were now alarmed.

"Will you loose me, please, and let me ring for the candles? It is quite dark."

"But you are not afraid of being in the dark, my child," he whispered; "and--hush! not a word."

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."

Before she had well realised the fact, he had folded her in his arms, and pressed his lips to hers. Then, loosening her from his embrace, he let her go, and, trembling and agitated as she had never been before, she ran quickly to her room.

Innocent at heart, and unskilled in the ways of the world as girl could be, as she seated herself upon the edge of the bed she ran rapidly over what had taken place.

She did not like Mr Montaigne, and his acts towards her that night made her tremble with indignation; but these thoughts were met by another current, which seemed to tell her that she was misjudging him. He had spoken to her as to one who was very dear to him. His words had been those of a father to his child; and why should she resent it? Mr Montaigne was not a young man, and it might seem to him that their positions had in no wise changed since she, a trembling, heart-broken little girl, fresh from a wretched home, had sat and listened to his soft, bland voice, followed his instructions, and had her curls smoothed by his soft white hand.

"But I am a woman grown now, and it is dreadful," she cried, bursting into a pa.s.sion of indignant tears. "I don't like it. I will speak to Miss Philippa. I don't think it is right."

"Are you there, Miss Ruth?"

"Yes, Markes."

"Oh, that's right. I thought you was lost. Cook told me you were in the drawing-room when I came in. There, child, don't sit and mope in the dark because you did not get asked to the party. You'll be a woman soon, my dear, and maybe they'll find you a husband like the rest."

"Child!" Yes, it was always "child"; but the girl's heart rebelled against the appellation. These elderly maidens could not think of her as one whose mind was ripening fast, in spite of the sunless seclusion in which she lived.

"I'll tell Markes," she thought, as her heart throbbed with the recollection of that which had pa.s.sed. But no; she could not. There was something repellent in this woman's ways, and at last, with her brain in a tumult with conflicting ideas, Ruth sought her pillow, while Paul Montaigne, with a curious smile upon his face, was still pacing his room after his dark walk back to Teddington, one hand clasping the other, as if he still held Ruth's.

"No," he said, "she will not say a word. It is not likely. There is a bond of sympathy between us now."

He walked up and down a little longer, and then stood still, talking softly--half aloud.

"Woman is our master, they say; but let her be led to compromise herself, however slightly, and she becomes the slave. Poor little Ruth, she is very innocent and sweet."