Part 30 (1/2)

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.