He had taken her hand and pressed it firmly, retaining it in his, and before Ruth could realise it he had drawn her to him, and pressed his lips to hers.

"Mr Montaigne!" she cried, struggling to free herself. "This is an insult!"

"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 pa.s.sionately again and again.

"Why are you left alone?" he said in a hoa.r.s.e 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 pa.s.sion, 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."

Marie stopped as if she had been stung, and faced round, darting an indignant glance at Montaigne, who, in place of leaving the room, coolly walked to one of the mirrors, and readjusted his white tie.

Marie recovered herself, and had her hand upon the bell, when Montaigne said quietly:

"Don't be foolish, my dear; exposures are such awkward things."

"For you, sir," cried Marie. "Then leave the house, and never enter it again. But for the fact of your being so old a friend, I would have you turned out."

"Words, words, words, my dear Marie," he said, taking a chair and crossing his legs. "Let me see. It is Hamlet says that, I think. Now look here, my dear child--but sit down, I want to talk to you."

"Will you leave this room, sir?" cried Marie angrily.

"No, my child, I shall not," he said, smiling. "You say you are ready to expose me for this playful little interview which you interrupted between Ruth here and myself--Ruth, the lady who is to be my wife."

"Your wife!" cried Marie indignantly.

"Yes: my wife; and don't raise your voice like that, my dear child. By the way, you are back soon. Was not our dear Marcus at Bryanston Square?"

"Marcus? Captain Glen?" cried Marie, whose lips turned white.

"There, my dear little girl. You are not little now, but you seem little to me. You forget, in this wondrous fit of virtuous anger, that I have stood for so many years towards you in the light of a father. In my way I have helped you to position and a rich husband, and when I found that, womanlike--fashionable womanlike, I should say--your ladyship was beginning to show taste for pleasure, and even taking to your handsome self a lover, I did not interfere. While because I, in due course, and after a long and patient courtship, take the girl I love in my arms, you talk of turning me out, call me scoundrel and villain, and threaten me with Lord Henry's displeasure."

"It is disgraceful, sir," said Marie; "you are old enough to be her father."

"Humph! Yes. Perhaps so, but nothing like so much older as Lord Henry is than you. Now look here, my dear Marie, I am obliged to speak plainly. I don't ask for a truce; but I demand your help and countenance. I mean to marry Ruth."

Marie stood pointing to the door, but Montaigne did not stir.

"Pshaw!" he exclaimed--"a stage trick. Are you aware of what it means to make me your enemy, my dear child? You are angry and excited now.

You did not quite realise my words. Do you think I am blind about Captain Glen? As to dropping the mask, well, there, it is down. I am a man even as you are a woman, and why should I not love?"

Marie's arm dropped to her side, and she stood gazing at him with her cheeks and lips now ashy of hue.

"There," he continued, laughing, "the storm is over, and we understand each other. I will go now, and mind this, dear Marie, I will religiously keep your ladyship's secrets so long as you keep mine."

He rose, and, taking her hand, mockingly kissed it. Then, crossing to Ruth, he would have caught her in his arms, but she started from him, and stood at bay on the other side of a table.

"You foolish child!" he said, laughing; "you must be a little wiser when I come again."

As the door closed upon him Marie stood with her eyes closed, listening, and then with a cry of despair she threw herself into her cousin's arms.

"Oh, Ruth, Ruth, Ruth, what have I done! what have I done! I swear to you I am innocent, indeed--indeed."

"I believe it, I know it," cried Ruth, holding her to her heart; "but oh, Marie, you must never see him again! Pray, pray keep away."

"Yes, yes," she cried; "I will. I am innocent, I am indeed. But, oh, it is horrible! I will stay away. I will see him no more. But you-- that man--he has us in his power."

"I beg your pardon," said a soft voice; "I think I must have left my gloves in here. Yes, there they are!" and Paul Montaigne quietly crossed the room, took a pair of gloves from a chair, and then smiled and went softly out.

The cousins gazed in each other's eyes, motionless, till they heard the closing of the front door.

"Oh, Marie," whispered Ruth, in an awe-stricken way, "he must have heard every word you said!"

And Marie echoed hoa.r.s.ely, "Every word!"

Mr Montaigne allowed a couple of days to elapse before he called again in Saint James's, and then, serious man as he was, he swore, for the shutters were closed: the family was out of town.

It was no unusual time for anyone to go, for, as he stood there hesitating on the step, a slatternly-looking girl was making the streets ring with her minor-pitched cry of "Sixteen branches a penny--new lavender; sixteen branches a penny." It was well on in August, and fashionable London was taking wing.

"Clever woman!" thought Montaigne: "this is her move; but I can mate her when I please."

He rang, and a woman-servant answered the bell.

"His lordship is out of town," the woman said.

"At his country seat?" said Montaigne at haphazard.

"Oh dear no, sir! his lordship has taken my lady and Miss Allerton on the Continong, and they are not coming back for some time. Mr Harvey, his lordship's agent, will send on all letters."

"Thank you. I am very much obliged," said Montaigne with his blandest smile; and he raised his hat and went away smiling, cursing Marie in his heart.

"'All comes to the man who waits,'" he thought.

Volume 3, Chapter XI.

RUTH'S WORK UNDONE.