CHAPTER XVIII.
HOW TITA GETS A SCOLDING, AND HOW SHE REBELS AND ACCUSES SIR MAURICE OF BREACH OF CONTRACT.
"Can I come in?"
Rylton's voice is a little curt as he knocks at his wife's door. It is not the door opening into the corridor outside, but the inner door that leads from her room to his, and to the dressing-room beyond.
"Yes, of course," cries Tita pleasantly.
She is just on the point of dismissing her maid for the night—the maid who has so little to do; no long hair to brush, only the soft little curly locks that cover her mistress's head. She has taken off Tita's evening gown, and, now that the little locks have been carefully seen to, has taken off her dressing-gown also. It occurs to Tita that she might as well take herself off as well, and as soon as possible.
This thought makes her laugh.
"You can go now, Sarah," says she to the maid, who loves her; "and don't bring me my tea before eight to-morrow, because I'm as sleepy as sleepy can be."
She nods kindly to the dismissed maid, and, going to the door where
Rylton is presumably standing, lets him in.
"How early you are!" says she, thinking of the glories of the smoking-room below.
"How late you are!" returns he. "I half fancied you would have been asleep by this time!"
"Oh, well, I soon shall be!" says she. "I was just going to say my prayers as you came in; after that it won't take me a minute to get out of my clothes, and," with a little laugh, "into my bed."
Her clothes, as she stands at present, are so becoming that it seems quite a pity that she should ever get out of them. Her neck and arms—soft and fair and round as a little child's—are shining in the lamplight, and beneath them the exquisite lace petticoat she wears gives her the air of one who is just going to a fancy ball. It is short enough to show the perfect little feet and the slender ankles beneath it.
"How inhospitable of you to desert your friends so soon!" says she. "Why, you never come up till two, do you?—at least, so you tell me."
"You will catch cold if you stay like that," says he.
It is a somewhat irrelevant remark; but, for the first time in all his knowledge of her, the tender charm that is her own becomes clear to him. It seems to him that she is a new being—one he has never seen before; and, with this fresh knowledge, his anger towards her grows stronger.
"I!—in this weather! Why, it is hardly chilly even yet, in spite of the rain; and, besides, I have this fire!" She catches his hand, and draws him towards the hearthrug. "I am sure you have something to say to me," says she. "Come and sit by the fire, and tell me all about it."
"It is nothing, really," says Rylton, resisting her pretty efforts to push him into a luxurious lounging chair. "It is only a question about your cousin."
He leans his elbow on the chimney-piece, and looks down at her—a dainty fairy lying now in the bosom of some soft pink cushions, with her legs crossed and her toes towards the fire. She has clasped her arms behind her head.
"About Minnie?"
"No."
His heart hardens again. Is this duplicity on her part? How small, how innocent, how girlish, how—reluctantly this—beautiful she looks! and yet——
"About Tom, then?"
"About Mr. Hescott"—coldly—"yes."
"What! you don't like him?" questions Tita, abandoning her lounging attitude, and leaning towards him.
"So far as he is concerned," with increasing coldness, "I am quite indifferent to him; it is of you I think."
"Of me! And why of me? Why should you think of me?"
"I hardly know," somewhat bitterly; "except that it is perhaps better that I should criticise your conduct than—other people."
"I don't know what you mean!" says Tita slowly.
Her charming face loses suddenly all its vivacity; she looks a little sad, a little forlorn.
"There is very little to know," says Rylton hurriedly, touched by her expression.
"But you said—you spoke of my conduct!"
"Well, and is there nothing to be said of that? This cousin——" He stops, and then goes on abruptly: "Why does he call you Titania?"
"Oh, it is an old name for me!" She looks at him, and, leaning back again in her chair, bursts out laughing. She has flung her arms over her head again, and now looks at him from under one of them with a mischievous smile. "Is that the whole?" says she. "He used to call me that years ago. He used to say I was like a fairy queen."
"Used he?"
Rylton's face is untranslatable.
"Yes. I was the smallest child alive, I do believe." She springs to her feet, and goes up to Rylton in a swaying, graceful little fashion. "I'm not so very big even now, am I?" says she.
Rylton turns his eyes from hers with open determination; he steels his heart against her.
"About this cousin," he says icily. "He is the one who used to say you had hands like iron, and a heart like velvet?"
"Yes. Fancy you remembering that!" says Tita, a sudden, quick gleam of pleasure dyeing her pretty cheeks quite red.
"I always remember," returns Rylton distantly.
His tone is a repulse. The lovely colour fades from her face.
"I'm tired," says she suddenly, petulantly. She moves to the other end of the room, and, opening a wardrobe, pretends to make some rearrangements with its contents. "If you have nothing more to say"—with perhaps more honesty than politeness—"I wish you would go away."
"I have something more to say." The very nervousness he is feeling makes his tone unnecessarily harsh. "I object to your extreme intimacy with your cousin."
Tita drops the dress she has just taken from the wardrobe, and comes back once more into the full light of the lamp. Her barer and slender arms are now hanging straight before her, her fingers interlaced; she looks up at him.
"With Tom?"
"With Mr. Hescott."
"I have known Tom all my life," defiantly.
"I don't care about that. One may know people all one's life, and yet have very unpleasant things said about one."
"Can one——" She stops suddenly, facing him, her eyes fixed on his; her lips part, her slight little frame quivers as if with eagerness. It grows quite plain that there is something she desires passionately to say to him—something terrible— but all at once she controls herself; she makes a little gesture with her right hand, as if throwing something from her, and goes on quickly, excitedly: "What do you mean? Who has been talking about me?"
"I didn't say anyone had been talking about you."
"Yes, you did! You hinted it, at all events. Go on. Tell me who it was."
"Even if I knew I should not tell you," says Rylton, who is now white with anger.
He had understood her hesitation of a moment since. He had known exactly what she wanted to say to him, and unfortunately the pricking of is conscience had only served to add fuel to the fire of his discontent towards her.
"Well, I'll tell you," says Tita, coming a step closer to him, her eyes blazing. "It was Mrs. Bethune. I know that she is no friend of mine. And I may as well say at once that I detest her. You may like her, but I don't, and I never shall. She's a beast!"
"Tita!"
Her husband stares at her aghast. The small form seems transfigured.
Has she grown?
"Yes—a beast! I don't care what you think. I'm not afraid of you—remember that! I was not even afraid of Uncle George. I shall never be afraid of anyone in all this wide, wide world!"
Suddenly her passion breaks down. Her arms fall to her sides, and she leans back against the end of her bed like a broken lily.
"Tita—if you would let me explain," says Rylton, who is overcome by her forlorn attitude, "I——"
"No." He would have laid his hands gently upon her pretty bare shoulders, but she repulses him. "I want no explanation; there isn't one."
Then, to his surprise and misery, she covers her face with both her hands and bursts into tears.
"You are unkind," sobs she wildly. "And you are not true. You don't tell the truth. You said—you said," passionately, "that you would be good to me. That you would let me do as I liked—that I should be happy! That was why I married you! That I might be happy! And now—now——"
"But to do as you liked! Tita, be reasonable."
"Oh, reasonable! Uncle George used to talk to me like that. He was a reasonable person, I suppose; and so are you. And he—hated me!" She grows silent as one might when some dreadful thought assails one. "Perhaps," says the poor child, in a quick, frightened sort of way, "you hate me too. Perhaps everyone hates me. There are people whom everyone hates, aren't there?"
"Are there?" asks Rylton drearily.
At this moment, at all events, he feels himself to be hateful. What a pitiful little face he is looking at!
"Yes, my uncle detested me," says Tita slowly, as if remembering things. "He said I ought not to have had all that money. That if I had not been born, he would have had it. But one can't help being born. One isn't asked about it! If"—she pauses, and the tears well up into her eyes again—"if I had been asked, I should have said no, no, NO!"
"Don't talk like that," says Rylton.
There is a sensation of chokiness about his throat. How young she is—how small—and to be already sorry that ever she was born! What a slender little hand! Just now it is lying crushed against her breast. And those clear eyes. Oh, if only he could have felt differently towards her—if he could have loved her! All this passes through his mind in an instant. He is even thinking of making her some kindly speech that shall heal the present breach between them, when she makes a sudden answer to his last remark.
"If you weren't here, I shouldn't have to talk at all," says she.
"True," he returns, feeling a little discomfited. "Well, good-night,
Tita."
"Good-night."
She refuses to see his proffered hand.
"Of course," says Rylton, who now feels he is in the wrong, "I am very sorry that I—that I——"
"Yes, so am I," with a saucy little tilting of her chin.
"Sorry," continues Rylton, with dignity, "that I felt it my duty to—to——"
"Make a fool of yourself? So am I!" says Lady Rylton.
After this astounding speech there is silence for a moment or two. Then Rylton, in spite of himself, laughs. And after a faint struggle with _her_self, Tita joins in his mirth. Emboldened by this departure, and really anxious to make it up with her, Rylton bids her good-night again, and this time would have added a kiss to his adieu. But Tita pushed him away.
"Kiss you? Not likely!" says she scornfully; "I shall never want to kiss you again in all my life!"
CHAPTER XIX.
HOW RYLTON'S HEART CONDEMNS HIM. AND HOW, AS HE WALKS, A SERPENT STINGS HIM. AND HOW HE IS RECOVERED OF HIS WOUND. AND HOW THE LITTLE RIFT IS MENDED—BUT WITH TOO FINE THREAD.
Rylton had gone to his own room in a strange frame of mind. He called it aggrieved, but, au fond, there were some grains of remorse at the bottom of it. He had married her, and in spite of all things was bound to protect her. That sad little touch of hers, "Perhaps everyone hates me," had gone to his heart.
There were other things that had gone home too. Little things, but bitter to the senses of one highly cultured; and of course the Ryltons had been accustomed to the best of things always. Tita's phrases grated a good deal. That "make a fool of yourself" had sunk deep, and there were so many other extraordinary expressions. The women of his own world very often used them in fun, but Tita used them in earnest: that made all the difference.
And yet—he was sorry that he had vexed her. It kept him sleepless an hour almost, dwelling upon this, and even in the morning, when he awoke, it was the first thought that assailed him.
* * * * *
It is in truth a lovely morning. Sweet as June, and fresh as "Fresh
May."
Rylton, whilst dressing, tells himself he wishes to goodness he had been clever enough to make it up with his wife before going to bed last night. Nothing so horrid as little coldnesses, little bickerings before one's guests—and Tita is so untutored that probably she will make it rather unbearable for him during breakfast.
He has underrated Tita, however. She is almost the first down, and gets through the morning salutations to her guests in the gayest style, and takes possession of the teapot and the huge old urn quite calmly. She has delivered up the coffee to Margaret, to whom she always look as a sure ally. So calm, so pretty in her demeanour, that Rylton, taking heart of grace, throws to her a word or two—to his utter chagrin!
Not that the words are not responded to; not one of them, indeed, but is answered, yet Tita's eyes had not gone with her words. They had been downcast; busied, presumably, with the tea-cup now, or a smile to her neighbour on her left, or a chiding to the fox-terrier at her knee. She gives Rylton the impression, at all events, that she will be civil to him in the future, but that she regrets the fact that she has to be.
When the hateful meal is over he rises, telling himself that he must make it up with her, and as soon as possible. That child! to have a living feud with her. It is out of the question! And, besides, before one's guests! How bad it will look. A disagreement is not allowed between a host and hostess—when one is staying in their house, at all events. It is quite simple to get all the quarrelling over beforehand, to so arrange as to look like winged angels when one's house-party is here to see.
He refuses to have anything to do with a swift glance from Mrs. Bethune as he leaves the breakfast-room. He gets quickly past her, disturbed at heart, and going through the hall, turns abruptly towards the stables.
The day is lovely. A sort of Indian summer reigns. And presently most of those staying in the house turn their steps towards the pleasure grounds. The tennis courts have been kept marked, in spite of the fact that the regular tennis season is at an end, and Mr. Gower, who is an indefatigable player, has called on Miss Hescott to get up a double with him.
The idea has evidently caught on, for now everyone seems to be swarming tennis-wards, rackets in hand, and tennis shoes on feet.
Rylton, turning back from the stables an hour later, and with a mind still much upset, finds all the courts occupied, and everyone very much alive. Standing on the top of the stone steps that lead down to one of the courts, he glances sharply round him. No! Tita is not here. Tita, who is a perfect devotee where tennis is concerned. Where is she, then? A second time his glance sweeps the tennis courts, and now his brow grows dark; Hescott is not here, either.
He draws in his breath a little sharply, and without descending the steps, goes round the courts nearest him to where an opening in the wood will lead him beyond fear of conversation.
As he reaches this opening, a voice behind him cries gaily, "Whither away, Sir Maurice?"
He turns and manages to smile pleasantly at Minnie Hescott, who, with Mrs. Bethune, is close behind him. A fancy that Marian has brought Miss Hescott here to say something occurs to him, and he curses himself for the thought. Is he growing suspicious of everyone?
"I was going down to one of the lower farms," says he in a light tone. He had not been going there, but the evasion seems impossible to avoid.
"You won't find anything there," says Mrs. Bethune, smiling at him. She is dressed entirely in black, and from under the huge black hat that shades her face her eyes gleam up at him in a sort of mockery—sad, yet beseeching. She is looking beautiful! Her pale face, so refined; the masses of her rich, red hair shining gorgeously in the clear sunlight.
"No? I shall find old Wicks and his wife, at all events."
"Oh, that? Yes."
"Why, what did you think I was looking for?"
"I really hardly know;" she smiles, and then says quietly, "Why, amusement, of course."
At this moment Minnie Hescott, who detests being left out of anything, determines on boring a way into the tête-à-tête before her.
"Where is Tita?" asks she. "We wanted her for tennis, she is such a good player; but no one could find her."
"Not even your brother?" asks Mrs. Bethune.
"Not even Tom; she disappeared somewhere after breakfast."
"Why, so did he!" and Mrs. Bethune lifts her brows in a very amused fashion.
"Oh no, he didn't," says Minnie Hescott, casting a sudden shrewd glance at her. "He was in the library writing letters till an hour ago. I know that, because I was with him."
"What an excellent sister you are!" says Mrs. Bethune, with a slight laugh.
"Why?" asks Miss Hescott slowly. "Because I was with him?" Her tone is a little dangerous.
"Naturally," says Mrs. Bethune, saving herself promptly. "To be always with one's brother shows devotion indeed; but you forget your rôle, don't you? Where has he been for the past hour? You haven't told us that! Surely you have not forsaken him now, when it may be the hour of his extremity." Her tone is jesting, but all through it Rylton can read between the lines.
"He is with Colonel Neilson, at the kennels," replies Miss Hescott promptly.
"Ah, I told you you were a good sister," says Mrs. Bethune.
"Because I said Tom was with Colonel Neilson? Do you think he isn't with him?" asks Minnie, looking at her fixedly.
"My dear girl! What a bêtise! No! Because you take such care to know what he is doing. And so he is now with Colonel Neilson?"
"Yes," shortly.
"I'm afraid I must go," says Sir Maurice; "if I don't catch those Wickses at this hour I shall never catch them at all." He nods to Minnie. For a second his eyes meet Marian's. There is something in them that so satisfies her, that on way back with Minnie she makes herself thoroughly agreeable to that astute damsel. What was there in his eye?—rage, hatred, revenge!
In truth, Rylton's mind is full of evil thoughts as he strides onward into the recesses of the wood. The falling autumn leaves crackle beneath his swift tread, and through the trees the sky shows signs of storm. But what storm in all Nature can be compared with the rage that stirs the heart of man?
Marian Bethune's coverts hints, added to his own suspicions, have set his heart on fire! And that girl's attempts at evasion, her hiding of her brother's faults—all that, too, had been laid bare to him by Marian!
Just now it seems to him as true as life itself that Tita and Tom Hescott have gone for a walk together; somewhere—anywhere beyond the ken of those of her own household. To think that he should have sacrificed his whole life—that he should have married this child, who is less to him that thistledown, to be cast aside by her, and to let her bring down his good name with ignominy to the dust.
He is striding onwards, lost in miserable thought, when suddenly footsteps, coming quickly towards him, rouse him. Someone is laughing. The laughter strikes to his very soul. When people laugh seldom, one always knows their laugh. Before Tom Hescott turns the corner Rylton knows it is his. But his companion!
"Why, there you are, Rylton!" says Colonel Neilson at the top of his voice. "By Jove! well met! We've been disputing about a point in the tenant right down here, and you can set us straight!"
Rylton can hardly account to himself for the terrible revulsion of feeling he endures at this moment. Is it joy? Can it be joy? What is she to him or he to her? Yet positively it is a most thankful joy he feels as he sees these two men approaching him together. After all, Minnie Hescott had been right. It is perhaps worthy of notice that he does not say to himself that Marian Bethune had been wrong!
He sets Colonel Neilson straight on a point or two, and then goes on again, striking now, however, into a pathway that leads him very far from the farm he had proposed to visit. It opens out into a pleasant little green sward dotted with trees, through which the sun glints delicately. One of these trees is a gnarled old oak.
As Rylton steps into this open glade the oak attracts him. He looks at it—first carelessly, and then with sharp interest. What strange fruit is that hanging on it? A foot!—an exquisite little slipper!
He stands still, and looks higher; and there he sees Tita embedded amongst the leaves, half reclining on a giant bough and reading. The book is on her knees, her eyes upon her book.
CHAPTER XX.
HOW TITA TAKES HIGH GROUND, AND HOW SHE BRINGS HER HUSBAND, OF ALL PEOPLE, TO HER FEET.
She looks like a little elf. All at once the pretty beauty of her breaks upon Rylton. The reaction from such extreme doubt of her to a clear certainty has made his appreciation of her kinder—has, perhaps, opened his eyes to the perfections she possesses. However this may be, there is, beyond question, a great deal of remorse in his soul as he walks towards the tree in which she sits enshrined.
How will she receive him? Not a word, save those much-begrudged ones at breakfast, has passed between them since last night; and this hurrying away from the others, does it not mean a dislike to meet him?
"You have mounted very high in the world!" says he, stopping beneath the tree and addressing her.
He has come towards her very softly on the grass—so softly that she has not heard his coming. And now, as he speaks, she starts violently, and looks down at him as if surprised out of all measure. In a second, however, she recovers herself.
"True!" says she; "I have married you!"
It is to be still war, then! Rylton bites his lips, but controls himself. It is plain he is not forgiven. But, after all, she has had something to forgive, and more—far more than she even knows. That last suspicion of her was base.
"That is an unkind little speech!" says he gently. "It reminds me that it was you who set me up in the world."
This shaft tells.
Tita colours warmly; her generous soul shrinks from such an accusation.
"I didn't mean that," says she; "you know very well I didn't. I wish," petulantly, "you would go away; I want to read."
"Well, I'm going," says Rylton. As a means of carrying out this promise, he props himself up with a branch of the tree on which she is sitting—a branch on a level with her dainty little silk-clad feet. He has leant both his arms on it, and now involuntarily his eyes rest upon her shoes. "What beautiful feet you have!" says he slowly.
It is a perfectly Machiavellian speech. Tita's feet are beyond argument, and there is not a woman in this world, any way, who has beautiful feet, who doesn't want everyone to tell her all about them.
"No, no; they're nothing," says she, making a pretence of tucking up the much-maligned feet in question under her frock, which basely fails to help her.
But even as she says this she smiles—reluctantly, no doubt; but, still, she does smile—and casts a glance at Rylton from under her long lashes. It is a delightful look—half pleased, half defiant, wholly sweet.
"Forgive me, Tita!" says her husband quickly.
"I don't want you to talk to me like that," says she, with a frown.
"But I must say that. Well, will you?"
"I don't know." She stops, and again casts that pretty glance at him. "At all events, you will have to promise me one thing."
"Anything."
"No; I'm in earnest."
"So am I."
He ventures now to take one of the charming feet so close to him into one of his hands, and strokes the instep softly with the other.
"Oh no! you are never in earnest with me," says the girl. "But what
I want you to say is, that you won't do it again."
"Do what?"
"Scold me."
"Never—never!" says Rylton.
"That's a promise, mind."
"I shall mind it."
"Very well—I forgive you."
"Let me bring you back to Mother Earth, then," says Rylton.
"No, thank you; I can take myself down."
"That's being unkind to yourself. Take down your friends if you like, but spare yourself."
"I should like to take you down," says she maliciously.
"Am I your friend, then?"
"No—no, indeed!"
"Well——"
He pauses and looks at her. All at once it seems to him that perhaps he is her friend—a friend—a mere friend! But could a man who loved another woman be an honest friend to his wife?
"Are you?" asks Tita.
"Yes. Didn't I want to take you down just now?"
At this she gives in and laughs a little. He laughs too.
"You are too clever for me," says she.
"And you—what are you? Too good for me, perhaps."
"I don't think you ought to say things you don't mean," says Tita. "But as you have made that promise—why, you may take me down now."
She leans towards him, holding out her arms. He takes her into his, and brings her slowly, carefully to the grass beside him. Even when safely landed here he still holds her.
"We are friends?" asks he.
His tone is a question.
"Yes, yes, of course," impatiently. "Are they playing tennis? Do you think they want me?"
It is impossible for him to misunderstand her meaning. A longing to get back to the others to play, and win at her favourite game of tennis, has been in part the cause of her ready forgiveness.
"Certainly they want you," says he, surprised at himself for the touch of chagrin he feels. "But," still holding her, "you have quite made it up with me, haven't you?"
"Quite—quite."
"But what a way to make it up!" says Rylton reproachfully.
He is smiling all through, however.
"What's the matter with it?" asks Tita.
"Don't you know? Must I tell you? Last night, Tita, you told me you would never want to kiss me again."
"Well, kissing's a bore," says Tita, with a little grimace. "I never want to kiss anyone really, except——"
She hesitates.
"Except?" asks Rylton, his grasp tighter on her arms.
"Except Margaret."
Rylton bursts out laughing; for the moment he believes her, afterwards—
"What a baby you are!" says he; "and what a cruel baby! Tita, I shan't believe you have forgiven me unless you——"
"I think it is you who are the baby," says she, with a shrug. "What on earth do you want to kiss me for? Well, there," holding up to him the coolest, freshest cheek in the world, "you can kiss me if you like."
"Is that all?" says Rylton, somewhat piqued.
"Yes—all," with decision. "I can't bear people to kiss me on my mouth."
"Perhaps you would prefer that people would not kiss you at all?"
"Well, yes, I should," says she. "But," quickly, "of course, you are not quite like other people. You may kiss my cheek if you like."
"Thank you," says Rylton. "I appreciate the difference."
He kisses her cheek discreetly, but would have liked to shake her as he does so.
CHAPTER XXI.
HOW EVERYONE GOES TO LADY WARBECK'S DANCE, AND HELPS TO MAKE IT A SUCCESS; AND HOW MANY CURIOUS THINGS ARE SAID AND DONE THERE.
Everyone has come now, and old Lady Warbeck, resplendent in pearls and brocade, has dropped into a chair that some charitable person has placed behind her.
It is indeed close upon midnight, and dancing it at its height. Flowers are everywhere, and a band from town has been secured. This latter is quite a flight on the part of Lady Warbeck, who, as a rule, trusts the music to the local geniuses. Altogether everyone acknowledges it is very well done. Very well done indeed, and a good deal more than one would expect from the Warbecks!
Old Sir Thomas is marching round, paying senile compliments to all the prettiest girls; his son Gillam, with a diamond stud that you could see a mile off, is beaming on Mrs. Bethune, who is openly encouraging him. Indeed, "The Everlasting," as he is called by his friends (it is always one's friends who give one a bad name), is careering round and about Mrs. Bethune with a vigour hardly to be expected of him. He is looking even younger than usual. Though fully forty-five, he still looks only thirty—the reason of his nickname! Everyone is a little surprised at Mrs. Bethune's civility to him, she having been studiously cold to all men save her cousin Sir Maurice during the past year; but Mrs. Bethune herself is quite aware of what she is doing. Of late—it seems difficult of belief—but of late she has fancied Maurice has avoided her. He was always a little highflown with regard to morals, dear Maurice, but she will reform him! A touch, just a touch of jealousy will put an end to the moral question!
She has thrown aside the dark colours she usually affects, and is to-night all in white. So is Tita. So is Mrs. Chichester, for the matter of that. The latter is all smiles, and is now surrounded by a little court of admirers at the top of the room, Captain Marryatt, fatuous as ever, by her side, and the others encircling her.
"Quite refreshing to see so many men all together," says she in a loud voice, addressing everybody at once. She likes an audience. "As a rule, when one gets into the country, one sticks a glass in one's eye, and ask, 'Where's the MAN?'"
"I never heard anything so unkind in my life," says Mr. Gower, with a deep reproach. "I'm sure ever since you have been in the country you have had a regiment round you, waiting on your lightest word."
"Oh! you git!" says Mrs. Chichester, who is as vulgar as she is
well-born. Her glance roams down the room. "Just look at Mrs.
Bethune and 'The Everlasting,'" says she. "Aren't they going it?
And for once the fair Bethune is well-gowned."
"Yet I hear she is very hard up at present," says a woman near her.
"What eyes she has!"
"I was told she made her own gowns," says another, laughing.
"Pouf!" says Mrs. Chichester. "That's going a trifle too far. One may make the garment that covers one—I'm sure I don't know, but I've heard it—but no one ever made a gown except a regular clothes woman—a modiste."
"And, for the matter of that, hers is beautiful. Do you see how the catch at the side of the dress is? It shows the bit of satin lining admirably."
"Well, but how did she get such a charming gown if she is as you say—well, 'hard up'?"
"Ah! To go into a thing like that! How rude!" says Mrs. Chichester, going off into a little convulsion of laughter behind her fan.
"Talking of clothes," says Captain Marryatt at the moment, "did you ever see anything like Gillam's get up?"
"Gillam? Is that Mrs. Bethune's partner?"
"Yes. Just look at his trousers, his diamonds! How can Mrs.
Bethune stand it all?"
"Perhaps she admires it—the diamonds at all events."
"'My love in his attire doth show his wit!'" quotes Marryatt, who likes to pose as a man of letters.
"'When the age is in the wit is out,'" quotes Gower in his turn, who can never resist the longing to take the wind out of somebody's sails; "and, after all, The Everlasting is not a youth! No doubt his intellect is on the wane."
"He's a cad, poor fellow!" says one the cavalry men from the barracks at Merriton.
"Nonsense!" says the girl with him, a tall, heavy creature. "Why, his father is a baronet."
The cavalry man regards her with pity. How little she knows!
"A cad is not always the son of a sweep," says he, giving his information gently; "sometimes—he is the son of a prince."
"Ah! now you are being very funny," says the girl, who thinks he is trying to be clever.
"Yes, really, isn't he?" says Mrs. Chichester, who knows them both; she is a sort of person who always knows everybody. Give her three days in any neighbourhood whatsoever, and she'll post you up in all the affairs of the residents there as well as if she had dwelt amongst them since the beginning of time. You, who have lived with them for a hundred years, will be nowhere; she'll always be able to tell you something about them you never heard before.
"Isn't he?" says she; she is now regarding the heavy girl with suppressed, but keen, amusement. "And to be funny in this serious age is unpardonable. Don't do it again, Captain Warrender, as you value your life."
"I shan't!" says he. "A second attempt might be fatal!"
"How well Mr. Hescott dances!" goes on Mrs. Chichester, who admires
Tom Hescott.
"True. The very worst of us, you see, have one good point," says
Gower.
"I don't consider Mr. Hescott the worst of you, by a long way," returns she.
"Oh no, neither do I," says a pretty little woman next to her, a bride of a few weeks, who, with her husband, has just come up.
"I have you on my side then, Lady Selton?" says Mrs. Chichester.
Lady Selton nods her reply. She is panting, and fanning herself audibly. Without the slightest ear for music, she has been plunging round the room with her husband, who is still so far infatuated as to half believe she can dance. She is an extremely pretty woman, so one can condone his idiocy.
At this moment Hescott appears. He goes straight to the bride. He has been sent, indeed, by Lady Warbeck.
"Will you give me the pleasure of this dance, Lady Selton?" asks he.
"It? What is it?" nervously.
"A waltz."
He is smiling at her. She has a charming figure. Of course she can dance. Tom Hescott would not have asked the loveliest woman in the land to waltz with him, if he knew her to be a bad dancer.
"I can't waltz at all," says the bride. But her husband comes to the rescue.
"Oh, nonsense!" says he, smilingly. "Hescott dances so well that he will teach you. Go, go with him." He gives her a playful little push towards Hescott, who is looking very blank. "You'll get into it in no time."
"Get into it."
The disgust that is writ so large on Hescott's face, as he leads her away, makes Mrs. Chichester shake with laughter.
"He'll find it a slight difference after Lady Rylton's waltzing," says she to Marryatt.
"He'll find a difference in every way. Lady Selton is devoted to her husband——"
"And Lady Rylton——"
"Well!" He hesitates.
"How vague! But I know, I know! By-the-bye," with a swift change of tone that quite deceives him, "which do you admire most?"
"Oh, Lady Rylton, of course. Lady Selton is pretty—in a way—but——"
"Then you prefer the woman who is not devoted to her husband?"
"I don't see how that argument comes in," says he quickly. "Some husbands are—are——"
"Quite true. They are indeed," interrupts Mrs. Chichester, who seems to be enjoying herself. "But what an aspersion on poor Sir Maurice."
"I wasn't thinking of him," says Marryatt hurriedly.
"Of whom then?"
She fixes her eyes full on his—eyes merry with mischief.
"Oh, I don't know," says he confusedly.
"Of my husband?"
"Mrs. Chichester, I don't think——"
"That's right," says she, rising and slipping her arm into his. "Never think; it's about the most foolish thing anyone can do. _I _never think. I only wait; waiting is full of promise."
CHAPTER XXII.
HOW RYLTON ASKS HIS WIFE TO TREAD A MEASURE WITH HIM, AND HOW THE FATES WEAVE A LITTLE MESH FOR TITA'S PRETTY FEET.
"Will you give me this dance, Tita?" asks Sir Maurice, going up to his wife.
Tita is standing in a recess near the window. The window is wide open, and filled at each corner with giant ferns in pots.
"Ye—es," says Tita, with hesitation.
"Of course, if you are engaged——"
"That's it, I'm not quite sure."
Rylton laughs unpleasantly.
"Oh, if you want to give it to somebody else——"
"I don't," returns Tita calmly. "You dance better than anyone here, except Tom."
"Perhaps, then, you wish to reserve it for Tom? I see you have already danced a good deal with Tom."
"It is such a pleasure to dance with him," says she enthusiastically.
"One can see how you regard it."
"What do you mean?" looking at him. "Have I danced too much with him?
If you imagine——"
"I shouldn't presume to imagine. But this dance, why can't I have it?"
"Well, to tell you the truth, I've lost my card. I can't think what
I have done with it."
"Dropped it, perhaps."
"No; I fancy"—frowning as if trying to remember—"that I gave it to somebody to keep for me."
"Tom, perhaps," dryly.
"I think not."
"Well, your partner for this dance, whoever he is, doesn't seem to be in a hurry to claim you," says Rylton, making his rude speech very suavely. "You may as well give it to me."
At this moment Hescott, looking rather out of breath, comes up to them, pushing the curtain near him aside.
"What a place to hide yourself!" says he to Tita. "I have been hunting for you everywhere." Here he catches sight of Rylton. "Oh, you, Rylton! Tita is in good company, at all events."
"She is always in good company, of course," returns Rylton, smiling.
"Why, is it you, then, who is my partner?" says Tita, quickly looking at Tom. "Maurice wants me to dance this with him. I told him I should be delighted to, but——"
"Did you tell me that?" interrupts Sir Maurice, always smiling.
"Well, if I didn't say it, I meant it," with a shrug. "But, you see, I had lost my card, so I wasn't sure whether I was engaged to somebody else or not."
"Why——" begins Hescott.
He stops dead short. Suddenly it occurs to him that perhaps she doesn't wish her husband to know! He curses himself for this thought afterwards. She—she to descend to duplicity of any sort!
"It is you who have my card!" cries Tita suddenly, as if just remembering, and with a merry laugh. "Of course! How could I have forgotten!"
"How, indeed!" says her husband pleasantly; his mouth is looking a little hard, however.
"Give it to me," says Tita.
Hescott gives her the car in silence. If she is ignorant, he, at all events, is quite aware that there is thunder in the atmosphere.
Tita runs her eye down the card.
"Yes, this dance is yours," says she, looking up at Tom.
"If you would prefer to dance it with Sir Maurice——" begins he.
He is looking at her. His heart feels on fire. Will she elect to dance with this husband, who, as report goes, so openly prefers another?
"No, no, no!" cries Tita gaily; "I have promised you. Maurice can ask me for another later on."
"Certainly," says Sir Maurice courteously.
He nods and smiles at them as they leave the recess, but once past his view, his expression changes; his brow grows black as night. What does it all mean? Is she as innocent as heaven itself, or as false as hell? All things point the latter way.
First she had said—— What was it she had said? That she didn't know whether she were engaged to this dance or not. A clear putting off—a plan to gain time. She had lost her card; she couldn't imagine how and where. Then comes the inevitable cousin with the card. And his hesitation—that was fatal. He surely was clever enough to have avoided that. She had known what to do, however; she had taken the bull by the horns. She had given "Tom," as she calls him, a safe lead.
And yet—and yet! Her face comes back to him. Could he accuse that face of falsehood? And another thing: If she and that cousin of hers were in collusion, would they have so openly defied him, as it were?
No; it is out of the question. So far as she goes, at all events, there is nothing to complain of. That she is indifferent to him—her husband—is, of course, beyond question. He himself had arranged all that beforehand—before his marriage. Both he and she were to have a loose rein, and there was to be no call for affection on either side.
His mind runs back to those early days when he had asked Tita to marry him. He had been altogether satisfied with the arrangements then made—arrangements that left him as free as air, and his wife too. He had thought with boredom of this marriage, and had grasped at any alleviation of the martyrdom. And now it is just as he had ordained it. And yet——
Tita has disappeared. Once or twice he had caught a glimpse of her floating round the room with her cousin, but for the past five minutes she has not been en évidence at all. Sir Maurice, moving out of the recess, is touched by a hand from behind. He turns.
Marian Bethune, beautiful, more animated than usual, and with her eyes sparkling, smiles up at him.
"How dull you look!" cries she gaily. "Come out here on the balcony and enjoy the moonlight for awhile."
She had been standing out there in the shadow, and had heard and seen what had occurred between Tita and her husband, and later on with Tom Hescott. Rylton follows her. The soft chill of the air outside attracts him. It seems to check all at once the bitter anger that is raging in his heart. It surprises himself that he should be so angry. After all, what is Tita to him? A mere name. And yet——
Outside here the night looks exquisite. Star after star one sees decking the heavens with beauty.
"Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising through the mellow shade,
Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid."
Such a night is this, delicate, tender, its charms heightened by a soft low wind that sweeps over the gardens and sends a sigh or two to the balconies above.
"Well!" says Mrs. Bethune.
She had led him to the far end of the balcony, where no seats are, and where, therefore, one may be sure of seclusion—for the moment, at all events. She looks up at him. Some pale pink lamps from behind throw a slight radiance on her—not too deep a radiance. They are too far behind for that, but yet enough to soften her, to idealize her, and to render even more delicate the exquisite flesh tints of her face.
She has waited for her answer some time, but is well satisfied that no answer has been forthcoming. Rylton's eyes are resting upon hers, as if surprised at this new fairness of hers. His glance is full of admiration, yet there is something of sadness—of anger in it, too, that annoys her, in spite of her exultation. For whom is the anger—for that little fool he has married? It seems to her an absurd thing that he should cast a thought, even an angry one, upon his wife when she—Marian—is here.
She has been leaning upon the rails of the balcony, and now draws closer to him.
"Why waste a thought on her?" says she in a low tone that is almost a whisper.
"On her! Who?" asks he quickly, and with an evident start.
"Oh!" with a shrug. "If you don't wish to go into it."
"But into what?"
He frowns. He is feeling very irritable still, in spite of his admiration of her beauty.
She makes a little gesture of contempt.
"If you will not acknowledge me as even your friend."
"You!" says he sharply. "You! Are you my friend?"
There is a pause. She looks away from him. And then——
"Oh, more than that!" cries she in a low but passionate tone. "Far more!"
She lays her hand upon her throat, and looks up to heaven. The moonlight, striking upon her as she so stands, makes her fairness even greater.
"Marian! You mean——"
The past rushes in upon him. He has turned to her.
"No! no! It is nothing," says she, with a little laugh that is full of pain. She makes a movement that almost repulses him. "But I am your friend, if nothing else; and the world—the world is beginning to talk about you, Maurice!"
"About me!"
He has drawn back with a sharp pang. She sees that this new idea that touches him, or that little fool (as she has designated Tita in her mind), has destroyed his interest in her for the moment.
"Yes! Be warned in time."
"Who is daring to talk about me?"
"Not about you directly; but about Lady Rylton."
Some strange feeling compels him to put a fresh question for her, though he knows what the answer will be.
"My mother?"
"This is unworthy of you," says Marian slowly. "No; I meant Tita!"
CHAPTER XXIII.
HOW MARIAN FIGHTS FOR MASTERY; AND HOW THE BATTLE GOES; AND HOW CHANCE BEFRIENDS THE ENEMY.
"Tita! You wrong her!" says he. "Why speak of her? You should not; you always disliked her."
"True." She is silent for a moment, looking down into the silent garden. Then she lifts her head, and gazes straight at him. "You know why I disliked her. You must! You—you only. Some instinct from the very first warned me against her. I knew. I knew she would rob me of all that life had left me. I knew"—with a quick, long sob—"she would take you from me!"
Rylton, who has been leaning on the railings beside her, raises himself, and stands staring at her, a terrible anguish in his eyes.
"Marian—think," says he hoarsely.
"Oh, why did you marry her?" cries she, smiting her hands together as if half distracted. "There was always so much time—time!"
"There was none."
"There is always time!" She is silent for a moment, and then, with an increase of passion in her tone, repeats her question: "Why did you marry her?"
"You—to ask me that!" exclaims he fiercely.
"It was not like you," says she, interrupting him in a measure, as though unable to keep back the words, the accusations, that are rushing to her lips. "I have known you so long—so long. Ah! I thought I knew you. I believed you faithful. I believed you many things. But, at all events"—with a sad and desolate reproach—"I never believed you fond of money."
"Marian!" She has laid her hand upon his arm, and now he flings it from him. "That you should accuse me! Money! What was money to me in comparison with your love? But you—you——"
He does not go on: it is so hard to condemn her. He is looking at her in the tender light with eyes that seek to read her heart, and he is very pale. She can see that, in spite of the warm, pink glow of the lamps behind them.
"Well—and I?" questions she, with deep agitation.
How handsome he is! how lovable! Oh for the good sweet past she has so madly flung aside!
"You refused me," says he slowly, "you, on whom my soul was set."
"For your own good," in a stifled voice.
"Don't repeat that wretched formula," exclaims he vehemently. "It means nothing. It was not for my good. It was for my damnation, I think. You see how things are going."
He stops abruptly here, as if thinking of something, and she knows and resents the knowledge that his mind has gone back to Tita—resents it, though his thought has been condemnatory of his wife. Why can't he forget her altogether?
"Yes I meant it for your good," says she, in a whisper.
Her heart is beating wildly.
"You refused me," persists he, in a dull tone. "That is all I remember. You refused me—how many times?"
She turns away from him.
"Once too often, at all events," replies she, in a low, wretched voice.
She makes a movement as if to go back to the lighted rooms beyond, but he catches her and compels her to stay with him.
"What do you mean?" demands he sternly. "To say that to me—and now—now, when it is too late."
"Too late, indeed!" echoes she.
Her voice sounds like the voice of one dying. She covers her face with her hands. He knows that she is crying. Very gently he takes down one of the hands and holds it between both his own, and presses it to his lips. How dear she has always been to him! He realizes in this moment how dear she still is.
"Marian, have pity on me," says he hoarsely. "I have suffered a great deal. And your tears——"
"My tears! They will avail me nothing," says she bitterly. "When you have forsaken me, what is left?"
"Have I forsaken you?" He pauses, as if to control the agitation that is threatening to overcome him. "When all I cared for was lost to me," he goes on presently, his eyes upon the ground, "when you had told me that marriage between us was impossible, then one thing remained, and one only—ambition. The old place had been ours for two centuries—it had its claim on me. If love was not to be my portion, I felt I might as well do all I could for the old name—the old place."
"And your wife? Was that honourable towards her?" She smiles, but her smile is a sneer. "After all, she would not care," says she. "She carried her point! She has compelled you to raise her from the mud to the sky!"
Rylton draws back suddenly. All at once recollection comes to him. His wife! Yes, Tita is his wife, and honour binds him to her. He drops Mrs. Bethune's hand.
"I have been quite honourable," says he coldly. "I arranged matters with her. She knows—she is content to know—that——"
"What?" Mrs. Bethune has felt the change in his manner ever since she mentioned Tita's name. "That you once loved me!"
"No," frowning, "I have not told her that."
"Ah!" cries she, with a sort of passionate relief, "I thank you for that, even though your love for me may now be dead. I thank you for that; and as for your wife, what is she to you?"
"She is my wife!" returns he gloomily. "I shall remember that—always!"
"Ah! she will make you remember it," cries Marian, with a queer laugh. "I warn you of that!"
"You warn me!"
"Yes—yes." She throws out her arms in the moonlight, and laughs again, with a great but cruel delight. "You will see. You don't care for her, she doesn't care for you, and you will see——"
"Marian, take care! I can hear nothing said against my wife, even by you."
"You prefer to hear it, then, from others?" says Mrs. Bethune, leaning back against the railings that overlook the gardens beneath, with a strange smile upon her lips.
"I prefer to believe that there is nothing to hear"—haughtily.
"You can prefer what you like," says she, with a sudden burst of rage; "but hear you shall!"
She takes a step nearer him.
"I shall not," says Rylton firmly, if gently. "She is my wife. I have made her that! I shall remember it."
"And she," says Marian furiously, "what does she remember? You may forget all old ties, if you will; but she—does she forget?"
"Forget what?"
Mrs. Bethune laughs softly, sweetly, wildly.
"Are you blind? Are you mad? Can you see nothing?" cries she, her soft, musical voice now a little harsh and strained. "That cousin—have you seen nothing there?"
"You are alluding to Hescott?"
"Yes—to him, and—Tita!"
"Tita?" His brow darkens. "What are you going to say of her?"
"What you"—deliberately—"do not dare to say, although you know it—that she is absolutely depraved!"
"Depraved!"
"There—stand back!" She laughs, a strange laugh. She has shaken herself free from him. "Fancy your taking it like that!" says she. She is laughing still, but panting; the pressure of his hands on her arms is still fresh. "And have you not seen for yourself, then? Is it not open to all the world to see? Is no one talking but me? Why, her flirtation with her cousin is common talk."
"Depraved, you said!" He has recovered out of that first wild passion of his, and is now gazing at her with a certain degree of composure. "Depraved! I will not have that word used. She is young—thoughtless—foolish, if you will, but not depraved!"
"You can delude yourself just as long as you like," returns she, shrugging her shoulders, "but, all the same, I warn you. I——"
She stops suddenly; voices and steps, coming nearer, check her words. She draws a little away from Rylton, and, lifting her fan, waves it indolently to and fro. The voice belongs to Minnie Hescott, who, with her partner, has come out to the balcony, and now moves down the steps to the lighted gardens below. Mrs. Bethune would have been glad at the thought that Miss Hescott had not seen her; but there had been one moment when she knew the girl's eyes had penetrated through the dusk where she stood, and had known her.
Not that it mattered much. The Hescott girl was of little consequence at any time. Yet sharp, too! Perhaps, after all, she is of consequence. She has gone, however—and it is a mere question whether she had seen her with Sir Maurice or not. Of course, the girl would be on her brother's side, and if the brother is really in love with that little silly fool—and if a divorce was to be thought of—the girl might make herself troublesome.
Mrs. Bethune, leaning over the railings lost in such thoughts, suddenly sees something. She raises herself, and peers more keenly into the soft light below. Yes—yes, surely!
But Minnie Hescott, who has gone down the steps into the garden, has seen something too—that fair, fierce face leaning over the balcony! The eyes are following Tita and her brother, Tom Hescott.
CHAPTER XXIV.
HOW RYLTON MAKES A MOST DISHONOURABLE BET, AND HOW HE REPENTS OF IT; AND HOW, THOUGH HE WOULD HAVE WITHDRAWN FROM IT, HE FINDS HE CANNOT.
"You have said," says Rylton, when the steps have ceased, "that you would warn me about my wife. Of what?"
She shrugs her shoulders.
"Ah, you are so violent—you take things so very unpleasantly—that one is quite afraid to speak."
"You mean something"—sternly. "I apologize to you if I was rough a moment since. I—it was so sudden—I forgot myself, I think."
"To be able to forget is a most excellent thing—at times," says she, with a curious smile, her eyes hidden. "If I were you I should cultivate it."
"It?"
"The power to forget—at times!"
"Speak," says he. "It is not a moment for sneers. Of what would you warn me?"
"I have told you before, but you took it badly."
"Words—words," says he, frowning.
"Would you have deeds?" She breaks into a low laugh. "Oh, how foolish you are! Why don't you let things go?"
"What did you mean?" persists he icily.
"What a tragic tone!" Her manner is all changed; she is laughing now. "Well, what did I mean? That your wife—— Stay!" with a little comic uplifting of her beautiful shoulders and an exaggerated show of fear, "do not assault me again. That your wife has shown the bad taste to prefer her cousin—her old lover—to you!"
"As I said, words, mere words," returns he, with a forced smile. "Because she speaks to him, dances with him, is civil to him, as she is civil to all guests——"
"Is she just as civil to all her guests?"
"I think so. It is my part to do her justice," says he coldly, "and,
I confess, I think her a perfect hostess, if——"
"If?"
"If wanting in a few social matters. As to her cousin, Mr. Hescott—being one of her few relations, she is naturally attentive to him."
"Very!"
"And she is——"
"Always with him!" Mrs. Bethune laughs again—always that low, sweet, cruel laughter. "Could attention farther go?"
"Always? Surely that is an exaggeration."
Rylton speaks with comparative calmness. It is plain that his one outbreak of passion has horrified himself, and he is determined not to give way to another whatever provocation may lie in his path.
"Is it?" tauntingly. "Come"—gaily—"I will make a bet with you—a fair one, certainly. Of course, I know as little of your wife's movements at present as you do. I could not possibly know more, as I have been here with you all this time."
"Well—your bet?" darkly.
"That she is now with her old—with Mr. Hescott."
"I take it," says he coldly.
Something in his air that is full of anger, of suppressed fury, gives her pause for thought. Her heart sinks. Is she to win or lose in this great game, the game of her life? Why should he look like that, when only the honour of that little upstart is in question?
"Come, then," says she.
She moves impulsively towards the stairs that lead to the garden—an impulsive step that costs her dear.
"But why this way?" asks Rylton. "Why not here?" pointing towards the ballroom. "Or here?" contemptuously pointing to a window further on that leads to a conservatory.
For a moment Mrs. Bethune loses herself—only for a moment, however.
That first foolish movement that betrayed her knowledge of where
Tita really is has to be overcome.
"The dance is over," says she, "and the gardens are exquisitely lit. Lady Warbeck has great taste. After all, Maurice," slipping her hand into his arm, "our bet is a purely imaginary one. We know nothing. And perhaps I have been a little severe; but as it is a bet, I am willing to lose it to you. Let us take one turn down this walk that leads to the dahlias, and after that——"
"After that——"
"Why, you win, perhaps."
"As you will," says he listlessly.
His heart is still on fire. Not a word passes his lips as they go down the path. His eyes feel strained, hurt; they are staring—staring always towards the end of this path, where a seat is, so hedged round with creepers that one can scarcely see it. Will she be there? He turns abruptly to his companion.