A Double Knot

She paused, and Lord Henry watched her with a growing reverence in his face.

“Then came that dreadful night,” she continued, “and all was at an end. The old love is dead, Lord Henry, and what you have seen to-night was but the agitation such a meeting would produce. Take me home now – take me home.”

“No,” he said tenderly; “you are agitated, my child. Let us walk a little longer. Marie,” he continued, as he held her hand in his, and made no attempt to move, “I once asked you to be an old man’s wife. I told you to-night how your happiness is mine. Forgive me if I ask you again – ask you to give me the right to protect you against the world, and while I remain here to devote my life to making yours glide happily, restfully on. Am I mad in asking this of you once more?”

She did not answer for some moments, but when she did she laid her other hand in his, and suffered him to draw her nearer to him till her head rested upon his shoulder.

Marie went straight back to her room and sat down to think, with her face buried in her hands, till she felt them touched, when she started up, and found her cousin gazing at her questioningly. She told Ruth all, the communication almost resulting in a quarrel, for the girl had fired up and accused her of cruelty.

“You are condemning him and yourself to misery,” she cried, “and I will speak. Oh, Marie, Marie! undo all this; I am sure that some day you will be sorry for it.”

“You foolish child,” said Marie, kissing her affectionately. “Oh, Ruthy, I wish we had known more of each other’s hearts. You are so good in your disposition that you judge the world according to your own standard.”

“Oh no, no, I do not!” cried Ruth. “I only speak because I am sure Captain Glen is too good and honest a gentleman to behave as you have said.”

“Perhaps so,” said Marie coldly, as she caressed and smoothed Ruth’s beautiful hair. “But you must not let this advocacy of yours win you too much to Captain Glen’s side.”

“What do you mean?” cried Ruth, flushing.

“I mean that he is not to be trusted, and that it would be a severe blow to me if I found that you had been listening to him, as might be the case, when I am not near to take care of and protect you.”

“Oh, pray. Marie!” cried Ruth, with her face like crimson, “don’t talk like that. Oh no, no! I could never think of anyone like that if he had been your lover, Marie, which he is.”

“Clotilde’s lover – my lover – your lover – any handsome woman’s lover. Oh! Ruthie!” said Marie scornfully, “let us be too womanly to give him even a second thought. There, it is all over. Dear Lord Henry was so tender and kind to me,” she continued lightly. “He was as bad as you, though, at first.”

“How as bad as I?” said Ruth.

“He wanted to fetch that man to give place to him. To make me happy, he said.”

“There!” cried Ruth excitedly; “and he is right. Lord Henry is so wise and good, and he must know.”

“He is one of the best and noblest of gentlemen,” said Marie, throwing back her head and speaking proudly, “and I’ll try to make him the truest and best of wives.”

“But, oh, Marie! don’t be angry with me, dear,” cried Ruth, clinging to her; “think a moment. Suppose – suppose you should find out afterwards that you had misjudged Captain Glen.”

“Hush!” cried Marie; and her face looked so fierce and stern that Ruth shrank from her. “Never speak to me again like that. I tell you, it is dead now – my love for him is dead. You insult me by mentioning his name to Lord Henry’s affianced wife.”

Ruth crept back to her to place her arms tenderly round her neck, and nestle in the proud woman’s breast.

“I do love you, Marie,” she said tenderly; “and I pray for your future. May you, dear, be very, very happy!”

“I shall be,” said Marie proudly; “for I am to marry one whom I can esteem, and whom I shall try to love.”

Ruth wept softly upon her cousin’s breast for a few minutes, and then started from her and wiped away her tears, for there were footsteps on the stairs.

The reign of coldness was at an end, and the honourable sisters had their hearts set at rest by the announcement Lord Henry had been making to them below.

He had sat for some time in silence, and the subject was too delicate for the ladies to approach. They had been about to summon Marie to return, but he had smiled, and suggested that she should be left to herself.

Then the Honourable Philippa’s heart had sunk, so had the heart of the Honourable Isabella, whose mind was in a paradoxical state, for she longed to see and hear that Captain Glen was happy; and to have added to his happiness she would have given him Marie’s hand at any moment, but at the same time it made her tremble, and the tears rose to her dim eyes whenever she dwelt upon the possibility of another becoming his wife.

A pause had followed, during which Lord Henry had rested his elbow upon the table and his head upon his hand, and there, with the tears hanging on the lashes of his half-closed eyes, and as if in ignorance of the presence of the sisters, he sat thinking dreamily, and smiling softly at the vacancy before him in the gloomy room.

The Honourable Philippa felt that her hopes had been once more dashed, and that Lord Henry had that night proposed and been refused.

“May I send you some tea, Lord Henry?” she said faintly.

“I beg your pardon, dear Miss Philippa, dear Miss Isabella,” he cried, starting up with a sweet smile upon his face and the weak tears in his eyes. “I was so overpowered by the enjoyment of my own selfish happiness that I could think of nothing else.”

“Happiness?” faltered the Honourable Philippa; and her sister’s hand trembled about her waist as if she were busily trying to unpick the gathers of her antique poplin gown.

“Yes, my dear ladies,” he said, “happiness!” and he took and kissed in turn their trembling hands. “Our dear Marie has accepted me, and with your consent, as I am growing an old man fast, and time is short, we will be married quietly almost at once.”

The Honourable Philippa sank back agitated à la mode. The Honourable Isabella sank back feeling really faint and with a strange fluttering at her heart, for, like some mad dream, the idea would come that, now his suit with Marie was perfectly hopeless, Captain Glen might yet say sweet words to her.

It was a mad dream, but it lasted for some hours. It lasted till after Lord Henry had bade them affectionately farewell, and they had gone up to the young girls’ room, and Marie had been kissed and blessed with prayers for her happiness.

It lasted, too, until the honourable sisters had retired for the night; and somehow the joyous feeling of hope that had been deferred so long would keep rising brighter and brighter in the Honourable Isabella’s breast. By the light of that hope she saw the manly, handsome face of Marcus Glen smiling upon her, as he came and told her that it was not too late even now, and that Ninon de l’Enclos was quite venerable when she loved.

It was very pleasant, and an unwonted flush burned in her face – just such a flush as appeared there when she tried some of that peculiar white paste belonging to Lady Anna Maria Morton, which, applied to the cheeks, turned them of a peachy red.

“It is very foolish of me,” she murmured, in quite a cooing voice; “but I don’t know: Lady Anna Maria is going to be married to a young and handsome husband, so why should not I?”

Poor little lady! She was finishing her night toilet as she thought all this, and then it was time to put out the lights.

There were two – an unwonted extravagance – burning, one on either side of the little old-fashioned toilet-glass, and with a smile of satisfaction she paused to look at herself before extinguishing the candles.

There was but little vanity in her composition, and it left room for a great deal of latent affection. As she gazed into the old glass the extinguisher dropped from her hand; she uttered a pitiful cry, and sank into a chair sobbing and bewailing her lost youth.

“No, no, no!” she sobbed; “he could never love such a dreadful thing as that!” And as she sat there the candles burned down, one to drop out at once, the other to flicker and dance in a ghostly way, but the Honourable Isabella heeded it not, for she was assisting at the interment of her love.

“He could never love such a one as I,” she said to herself; and as she sat there in the cold and darkness, her thin hands pressed one upon the other, her heart seemed to ask her who there was for Captain Glen to love; and as she asked herself the question the soft, innocent face of Ruth rose before her, and seemed to be looking gently and kindly in her eyes as she dropped asleep.

Volume Three – Chapter Six.

The Double Knot

As Gertrude Huish, wild with horror and half mad as she realised that there was something which she could not comprehend about the man who had clasped her in his arms, raised her voice in a loud appeal for help, steps were heard upon the stairs, and there was loud knocking.

“Go in there!” was whispered hoarsely, and trembling with the great dread which had come upon her she escaped from the hands which held her, rushed through an open door and shut it to and locked it before she stood alone in the darkness, ready to swoon away.

It was horrible! Those rumours about John Huish which she had proudly refused to believe – were they, then, all true? That woman had claimed him for her husband, and what, then, was she? And then his manner – the coming of the police – his conduct to her!

“God help me!” she half cried. “It is not he – it cannot be! What is to become of me? What shall I do?”

Yes; that was it. That explained the feeling of loathing she had felt when he clasped her in his arms. At other times her arms had stolen round his neck, her lips had clung to his; while now this man seemed half mad, his breath reeked of spirits, and he horrified her. Was it really, then, all true – that her husband had a double life, or was this some horror in his place?

Her position was maddening, and she felt at times that her reason must give way as, with hands extended, she felt her way in the intense darkness about the little bedroom till her hands rested upon the second door, which, like the first, was fast.

She remembered now that he had entered the room, locked the door, and removed the key, so that she was a prisoner in the utter darkness, where at last she threw herself upon her knees and prayed for help and guidance in her sore strait.

She rose up at last strengthened and calmer, feeling that she must escape and get back home at any cost. No, to Uncle Robert, who would help her; for she dared not, after leaving home as she did, face Lady Millet now.

Then, as she pressed her head with her hands, she felt confused and strange. Her brain swam, and she told herself that she must not go.

One o’clock – two o’clock had struck, and still she sat there in the darkness, with her brain growing more and more bewildered; and then she started to her feet and a cry rose to her lips, for there were footsteps without, and they passed the door and entered the next room.

Then as she stood listening to the heavy beating of her heart there was the harsh scratching noise made by a match, and a gleam of light shone beneath the door.

What should she do? He was coming again, and an insane desire came upon her to seek for the window and cast herself out – anything to avoid meeting him now.

At last, when the mental agony of suspense was more than she could bear longer, the door was suddenly opened, the light shone in, and a low hoarse cry of horror subsided into a wail of relief, for there stood the same woman, pale, even ghastly, holding a candle above her head, and with a dull, angry look upon her countenance as she entered the room.

“Well,” she said harshly, “are you satisfied?”

“I don’t understand you,” said Gertrude eagerly, as she crept towards her; “but you are a woman. Pray, pray help me to get away from this dreadful place. For indeed it is dreadful to me,” continued Gertrude, catching at the woman’s hand, but only for her to snatch it angrily away.

“You don’t know it as I do,” she said, “or you would call it a dreadful place. Don’t touch me: I hate you!”

“No, no, I never injured you!” cried Gertrude piteously. “Oh, as you are a woman, help me! Here, look, I will reward you. Take this.”

She hastily detached her watch and chain, and held them out.

“Pah!” exclaimed the woman, “what are they to me? I’ve seen him and them bring scores of them, and rich jewels, diamonds and pearls – I’m sick of them; and do you think I would take that from you?”

“Why not?” cried Gertrude. “Oh, have you no pity for me?”

“Pity? Pity for you! Why, are you not his wife?”

“Yes, yes, yes, but you cannot understand. I cannot explain. Help me to get away from here. I must go – to my friends.”

“Go? To your friends?” said the woman, looking perplexed. “What, have you quarrelled already?”

“Oh, do not ask me – I cannot tell you,” cried Gertrude piteously; “only help me to escape from here, and I will pray for you to my dying day.”

“What good’s that?” said the woman mockingly. “I’m so bad that no one could pray me good. I’m a curse and a misery, and everything that’s bad. Pray, indeed! I’ve prayed hundreds of times that I might die, but it’s no good.”

“Have you no heart – no feeling?” cried Gertrude, going down upon her knees.

“Not a bit,” said the woman bitterly. “They crushed one and hardened the other till it all died.”

“Let me pass you then!” cried Gertrude angrily. “I will not stay.”

“If I let you pass, you could not get away. The doors are locked below, and you could not find the keys. You don’t want to go.”

“What can I say – how am I to tell you that I would give the world to get away from here?” cried Gertrude. “Oh, for Heaven’s sake save me before he comes again!”

“He will not come again. He is downstairs drunk. He is always either drunk or mad. And so you are the new Mrs John Huish?”

“Yes, yes!” cried Gertrude; and then wildly, “Tell me, it is not true? You – you – cannot be his wife!”

“The parson said I was when we were married – Mrs Frank Riversley.”

“Ah!” cried Gertrude joyously. “Sometimes,” continued the woman, as if she enjoyed torturing her rival; “lately he has called himself John Huish – since he has neglected me so much to go to clubs and chambers.”

“Oh!” sighed Gertrude.

“But I never complained.”

“I cannot bear this,” moaned Gertrude to herself; and then, fighting down the emotion, she crept upon her knees to the woman and clasped her hand.

“Let me go,” she moaned. “Let me get away from here, and I will bless you. Ask anything of me you like, and it shall be yours, only get me away.”

“You don’t want to go,” said the woman mockingly. “It’s all a sham.”

“How can I prove to you that I mean it?” cried Gertrude.

“I don’t know; I only know that if I did he would kill me.”

“Oh no, no; he dare not touch you. Come with me, then, and I’ll see that you are not hurt.”

“Are you in earnest? Better not. I ought to be in bed now – sick almost to death. Better stay,” she said mockingly. “This may kill me. I hope it will, and then you can be happy – with him!”

“No! no! no!” cried Gertrude wildly. “Never again. I did not know. It is too dreadful! Woman, if you hope for mercy at the last, help me to get away before I see that man again.”

“That man? that man?”

“No, no,” cried Gertrude wildly. “I cannot explain. It is too dreadful! He is not my husband. He is like him, but he is not him. I don’t know what I am saying. I cannot explain it. Only for God’s sake get me away from here, or I shall go mad!”

The woman stood gazing at her piercingly as Gertrude cast herself at her feet.

“You do mean it, then?” she said at last.

“Mean it? Yes. I have been deceived – cheated. This man is – Oh! I don’t know – I don’t know,” she cried wildly; “but pray help me, and let me go!”

The woman gazed down at her for a few moments longer, and then said huskily, “Come!”

Gertrude caught at the hand held forth to her, and suffered herself to be led out on to the landing, and then slowly down the dark stairs of the old City mansion in which they were, till they stood in the narrow hall, where, reaching up, the woman thrust her hand into a niche and drew out a key, and then set down and blew out the light.

Gertrude stood trembling, and she clung to the hand which touched her.

“Afraid of the dark?”

“No, no! But pray make haste; he may hear.”

“No. He hears nothing after he has taken so much brandy. He was wild with the other lodgers for interfering; and when he is wild he drinks till he goes to sleep, and when he wakes – ”

She did not finish her sentence, but led her companion to the door, unlocked it, and the next moment the cool dank air of the night was blowing upon Gertrude’s cheek, as she dashed out into the narrow street, flying like some hunted beast, in the full belief that the steps she heard were those of the man who could not be the husband whom she loved.

Volume Three – Chapter Seven.

Between Sisters

“I wished to do everything for the best, my child,” said Lord Henry Moorpark. “I did not like the idea, but Elbraham pressed me to come, and for your sake, as Mrs Elbraham is your sister, I gave way. I wish you had spoken sooner. We have not dined with them since we have been married.”

It was too late then, for they were in the carriage on the way to Palace Gardens. But the dinner-party was not to pass off without trouble, for after the ladies had left, and while Lord Henry was fighting hard with a bad cigar, sipping his coffee and listening to his brother-in-law’s boastings about the way in which the money market was rigged, the butler entered softly, and whispered something to Lord Henry, who rose on the instant.

“Anything wrong, Moorpark?” said Elbraham, in his coarse, rough way.

“Only a call for me,” cried Lord Henry hastily. “Pray sit still, and do not let my absence interfere with your enjoyment.”

“All right; come back as soon as you can,” cried Elbraham; but by that time Lord Henry was in the hall, for the butler had whispered to him that her ladyship had been suddenly taken ill.

To Lord Henry’s astonishment, he found Marie in the hall, hastily drawing a long scarf round her neck and over her head.

“Take me home,” she whispered hoarsely, as he hurried to her side.

“My darling! are you ill?” he cried.

“Yes. Very ill, take me home.”

“Had I not better send for medical help at once?”

“No, no. Home! home!” she whispered, as she clung to his arm.

“But the carriage, my darling? It will not be here till after ten.”

“Let me walk. Take a cab. Anything; only get me away from this house,” she whispered imploringly; and there was that in her face which made Lord Henry send at once for a cab; and it was not until they were in it, and on their way to their house in Saint James’s, that Marie seemed as if she could breathe.

She had thrown herself into his arms as soon as they were in the cab, excitedly bidding him tell her that he trusted her, that she was his own wife, and ended by such a hysterical burst that he grew alarmed, and was about to bid the driver stop at the first doctors, when she seemed to divine that which he intended to do, and gradually grew calmer.

Hereupon he was about to question her, but at his first words the symptoms from which she suffered seemed ready to recur, so he contented himself with holding her hands in his, while she lay back with her head upon his shoulder, every now and then uttering a piteous moan.

The ladies had ascended to the drawing-room that evening, and as soon as they were seated alone there, Marie felt that she had made a mistake in coming.

The memory of the evening of the “at home” came back very vividly, try how she would to drive it away, and whenever she glanced furtively at Clotilde, she seemed to be gazing not at her sister, but at the woman who had done her a deadly injury.

She fought against this feeling, but it seemed to strengthen, especially as Clotilde kept smiling in a triumphant way – so it seemed to her; and Marie shivered as she felt that she was beginning to hate this sister of hers.

It only wanted Clotilde’s confession to seal the growing feud, and make Marie’s dislike grow into hate indeed.

“How little we see of each other now, love!” began Clotilde. “I thought, dear, that when we were married we should be inseparable. Is it my fault?”

“My husband is very fond of quiet,” said Marie. “We go out but seldom.”

“Poor old gentleman!” said Clotilde mockingly. “I hope you nurse him well.”

Marie started, but she said nothing, and Clotilde went on:

“Isn’t it nice, dear, to be one’s own mistress, with plenty of money at one’s command, and as much jewellery as one likes? Do you remember how we used to long for it all?”

“Yes, I remember,” replied Marie, sighing in spite of herself.

“You remember? Yes, and you sigh about it. Why, Rie, you ought to be as merry as the day is long. Lord Henry is a dear old fellow. How much older, though, he seems than Elbraham! I say, Rie, wouldn’t you like to change?”

“The conversation?” said Marie. “Yes; certainly.”

“No, my dear, not the conversation, but husbands. Poor old Rie! I rather pity you, for Lord Henry is decidedly slow.”

“Clotilde,” said Marie, with dignity. “Lord Henry Moorpark is my dear husband and your guest. The way in which you are speaking of him gives me pain.”

“Pain? Why, Rie, what stuff you are talking – and to me! Heigho! it seems very hard upon us that we should have had to marry these wretched old men, instead of such fellows as – say Captain Glen.”

“How can you speak like that, Clo!” cried her sister, flushing. “I beg you will be silent.”

“Beg, then,” retorted Clotilde, with a resumption of her old schoolroom ways. “Who cares? I shall talk as I like.”

“Do you think it is respectful to your husband or your duty as a woman to speak of – of – that man as you do.”

“Oh yes,” replied Clotilde carelessly. “Why not? I liked Marcus Glen ever so.”

“Clotilde! for heaven’s sake be silent. Think of your position – of what you are. Your words are terrible.”

“Terrible? What, because I said I liked Marcus Glen? Why, so I do. He’s a splendid fellow.”

Marie’s eyes sought the door, but they were quite alone, and she glanced back at her sister with a look of disgust and annoyance painted upon her face in vivid colours.

“Oh, there’s no one to hear us, and I don’t mind what I say before you, Rie. You won’t go and tell tales. You dare not. I say dare,” she continued, with a malignantly spiteful look in her countenance. “You were fond of Marcus Glen, weren’t you?”

Marie did not reply, but sat there with an outraged look upon her face, and Clotilde smiled to herself, and her eyes glittered with malicious delight as she went on:

“Do you know, Rie, I have a good mind to quarrel with you to-night, as I have got you here.”

“Quarrel with me? Why should you do that?” said Marie quietly.

“Oh, for a hundred reasons, my sweet sister. For one, because it is so long since you and I had a good scold. For another, because it was so underhanded of you to hold back when dear aunties wanted us to marry well.”

“Don’t be foolish, Clo!” said Marie. “Let us talk of something else.”

“Yes, we will by-and-by, my sweet sissy; but it was shabby of you to let me marry my old man, and then take advantage of my being fast to make up to my former beau.”

“Can such talk as this benefit either of us?” said Marie, flushing. “Surely it is beneath your dignity as a wife to speak as you do.”

“Dignity? Pooh! Women who marry as we have done, for money, have no dignity – they have sold it.”

“Clotilde!”

“Well, it’s quite true, and you know it. Trash! As if we either of us ever had any. It was nipped in the bud by our dear aunts. No, my dear Rie, we have no dignity, either of us. Slaves have no such commodity. We are only white slaves, the property of the dreadful old men who took a fancy to us and bought us!”

“For heaven’s sake, Clo, be silent,” cried Marie, who had to fight hard to keep down her agitation. “This is cruel?”

“Well, what if it is? Why should you not feel it as well as I? You hate and despise your husband as much as I do mine, and though you are so quiet and so shy, Rie, you mean to take your revenge; and why not?”