"No," whispered Glen, placing his lips close to Montaigne's ear; "I have not read your death-sentence: betray us, and I will kill you, so help me G.o.d!"

The two men were glaring at each other, and by degrees, as Montaigne's face grew of a sickly, leaden hue, his eyelids drooped, and he shrank away.

Glen crossed to Ruth and took her hand.

"Heaven bless you?" he whispered. "I dare not say more to you now. I am not worthy, Ruth. Would I were a better man! Be kind to her, for she wants your aid."

She did not speak, but stood there trembling, till he led her to Lord Henry.

Will you take her, sir? he said. "You will not refuse her a home for what has occurred?"

If Lord Henry Moorpark had felt any hesitation, it was chased away by the action of his wife, who caught her cousin to her heart.

"Some day, Lady Henry--Lord Henry," continued Glen, "I will come as a gentleman, and ask that the past may be forgotten, and that Ruth Allerton may be my wife. Mr Montaigne--"

He signed toward the door, and vainly trying to resist the stern eyes fixed upon him, Montaigne led the way, and was followed out.

Volume 3, Chapter XIV.

A WOMAN'S WORK.

Directly after leaving the dinner-table Ruth set herself to watch her cousin, asking herself the while what course she had better pursue.

At times she thought she would speak to Lord Henry, but she shrank from such an exposure. Marie would perhaps be saved from the step she evidently contemplated, but at what a cost! Her husband's confidence would be for ever gone, and the old man's happiness at an end.

Marie was very pale, but there was a red spot burning in either cheek, and as Ruth watched her she could see a deep frown upon her brow, while from time to time she pressed her hand upon her breast as if to still the beatings of her heart.

Then came those words she had heard Marie mutter perfectly distinctly in her unquiet sleep--the room she was to ask for at the Channel Hotel; the threat Marcus Glen had uttered respecting his action if she did not come; and as Ruth sat there in the terrible silence of the large drawing-room, she felt that if she did not do something at once the strain upon her mind would be more than she could bear.

All at once Marie gave a start, and drew in her breath as if in sudden pain. She seemed to forget the presence of Ruth, and, rising, walked quickly to the mantelpiece, pressing her hair back from her forehead, while, taking advantage of her back being turned, Ruth glided softly into the smaller drawing-room, which was in comparative darkness.

The idea had come at last. It seemed reckless and wild, but she knew that it was useless to appeal to Marie. She would go herself to Marcus Glen. He was n.o.ble-hearted and true. There was a simple manliness in his nature that made her hope, and she would kneel and appeal to him to spare her cousin, to pause before he wrecked the happiness of the good, chivalrous old man who trusted his wife in the pride and n.o.bleness of his heart.

"I shall be too late," thought Ruth; and, wound up now to a pitch of excitement which seemed to urge her to act, she softly turned the handle of the door, glided out, and without stopping to close it, ran up to her room.

Money she had, and in a very few minutes she had dressed herself for her task, and, closely veiled, she stepped softly to the door.

It opened silently, and she was about to glide downstairs, when she heard a faint rustle, and, drawing back, she peered through the nearly closed door, and saw Marie come up the stairs and enter her room.

Nerving herself for her task, she stepped out, and softly pa.s.sed Marie's room, hesitated for a moment as she heard a door close downstairs, and the servants' voices ascending--all else was still in the great mansion; and as quickly as she could she ran past the drawing-room door and down into the hall, where she stopped and clung to the great coil of the bal.u.s.trade for support.

Her heart had failed her. There was that great dark door to pa.s.s, just beyond which, at the foot of the table, she knew Lord Henry was seated with his decanter and gla.s.s before him.

But just then a slight sound somewhere upstairs brought back the memory of Marie's face, and, hesitating no longer, she stepped quickly to the front door, her hand was upon the lock, and then she felt as if she were turned to ice, for the voice of the old butler said respectfully:

"I will open it, ma'am."

He had been seated in the great hall-porter's chair waiting for his lordship to leave the dining-room, and he now swung open the wide door for her to pa.s.s out.

She went down the two or three steps, feeling like one in a dream, wondering, though, whether the butler would go and tell Lord Henry that she had gone out, and feeling each moment, as she hurried along the pavement, that someone was about to place a hand upon her shoulder and bid her stay.

Her mouth felt dry, her breath came fast, and the throb of her pulses was painful; but she was on her way to the place of rendezvous, and it was to save those she loved from ruin.

There were wheels behind, and she stopped instinctively and looked round. It was an empty cab, and, taking this as a signal, the driver drew rein. Ruth mechanically stepped in, and then started as the little trap above her was opened, and the driver asked where to drive.

"Channel Hotel," came mechanically from her lips, and in her agitation it only seemed a minute before she was in front of the great entrance.

"Take me to Number 99," she said as indifferently as she could, and a waiter led the way.

She trembled so that she could hardly proceed, for the idea was horrible. What did she hear Marie say? Was it Number 99, at this hotel?

She was not sure now, and she felt faint and giddy as she followed the man upstairs, and along a wide corridor. Should she ask him to stop?

She dare go no farther, and her lips moved to stay him, when he paused by a door. Before she could find breath to speak or power of utterance, he tapped lightly, and she heard him say:

"A lady to see you, sir."

There was the noise of a chair pushed quickly back, and a heavy tread upon the carpet as she entered, moved, it seemed to be, by some power that was not her own. Then as the door closed behind her she saw that she was right, for, exclaiming loudly, "Marie! my darling!" Glen caught her in his arms.

"Captain Glen!"

Ruth struggled indignantly from him, and s.n.a.t.c.hed off her veil.

He staggered back.

"Ruth! you here?" he cried.

"Yes. I was compelled to come. Marie--my cousin--Lady Henry--Oh, Captain Glen!"

"Is she ill? Has she sent you? Do you know?" he whispered hoa.r.s.ely.

"She has not sent me," cried Ruth. "She does not know I have come. Oh, Captain Glen!" she cried, sobbing violently as she threw herself upon her knees and clasped his feet, "for heaven's sake, spare her! Do not bring down such misery upon that home."

"Ruth, my child, hush! for heaven's sake!"

"No, no, no, no!" sobbed Ruth, and she went on incoherently as she clung to his feet: "You are not thinking of the horror of your crime. You do not love her--you cannot care for her, or you would not drive her to this terrible sin."

"Not love her--Marie? Is she coming?"

"I pray heaven, no," said Ruth simply. "I would sooner see her dead."

"Then I will go and fetch her," cried Glen, furious with disappointment.

"I will not bear it; I cannot bear it. I'll tear her away from him-- but no," he said bitterly, "I promised something else, and I know she will come."

"Is this Marcus Glen?" said Ruth simply, as she remained there upon her knees; "is this the man who I told Marie was the soul of truth and honour?"

"No; it is the poor deluded, wretched man who has been twice tricked and cozened of his love. It is useless; I cannot, I will not listen to you!"

"You shall!" she cried, springing to her feet. "You shall go away from here, for she shall not leave her home for you. I would die sooner than see this shame brought upon her. Coward, to force me, a mere girl, to speak to you as I do! Oh, it is cruel, it is shameful, and yet you talk of love!"