"I am sick of this," says he; "I shall go no farther."
"But your bet?"
"It is a damnable bet!" exclaims he fiercely. "I ought to be ashamed of myself for having made it. You win it, of course, in a sense, as I decline to go on with it; but, still, I believe that I win it in fact."
"You are afraid," says she, with a daring that astonishes even herself.
"I am afraid of forgetting that once I was a gentleman," says he curtly.
"You are afraid of what is in that arbour," returns she mercilessly.
Rylton hesitates. To draw back is to betray disbelief in his wife; to go on is to join in a conspiracy against her. He had started on that conspiracy in a moment of intense passion, but now his very soul revolts from it. And yet if he draws back it will show. . . . It will give this woman beside him the victory over the woman he has married. And then a sudden thought comes to him. Why not go on? Why not put it to be proof? Why not win his wager? Tita is thoughtless; but it would be madness in anyone to think her vile. It was madness in him a moment since to dream of her being alone in that small, isolated arbour with Hescott. Much as he may revolt—as he does revolt—from this abominable wager he has entered into, surely it is better to go on with it and bring it to a satisfactory end for Tita than to "cry off," and subject her to scoffs and jeers from her adversary.
"Let us go on," says he quietly. "I shall win my bet. But that is nothing! What really matters is, that I should have entered into such a wager with you or anyone. That is a debt I shall never be able to repay—Lady Rylton."
His tone is bitterly self-condemnatory, but Marian has scarcely caught that. The "Lady Rylton" has struck upon her ears, and hurt her to her heart's core! Oh, that she could destroy—blot out that small usurper!
"You have regained your courage? Come, then," says she, in a low tone that is full of a strange mirth.
He follows her along the grassy path—a path noiseless—until presently, having skirted a few low bushes, he finds himself, with Marian beside him, at the southern side of the arbour.
Marian, laying her hand silently upon his arm, points through the evergreens that veil the seat within; a mocking, triumphant smile is on her lips.
There is no need for any indication on her part, however—Rylton can see for himself. On the low, rustic seat within the arbour is Tita—with Hescott beside her. The two young heads are close together. Tita is whispering to Hescott—something very secret, undoubtedly. Her small face is upturned to his, and very earnest. His face.
Rylton never forgets his face!
Tita is speaking—she is smiling—she leans toward her companion; her voice is full of a delicious confidence.
"Well, remember it is a secret—a secret between us."
Rylton draws back as if stabbed. He would have given his soul to hear the end of this terrible beginning—this beginning that, at all events, sounds so terrible to him; but the fact that he is longing to hear, that he has been listening, makes him cold from head to heel.
He moves away silently. Mrs. Bethune, catching his arm, says quickly:
"You heard—a secret—a secret between those two—you heard!"
There is something delirious in her tone—something that speaks of revenge perfected, that through all his agitation is understood by him. He flings her hand aside, and goes swiftly onwards alone into the dense darkness of the trees beyond, damning himself as he goes. A very rage of hatred, of horror of his own conduct, is the first misery that assails him, and after that——
After that he sees only Tita sitting there with Hescott beside her—he whispering to her, and she to him.
He stops in his rapid walk, and pulls himself together: he must have time—time to think, to control himself, to work it all out.
Things seem to come back to him with a strange clearness. He remembers how Tita had once said to him that she never cared to kiss anyone except—Margaret. Her hesitation returns to him now; was Margaret the name she would have said had not fear, mixed with prudence, prompted her words? He remembers, too, that she had once refused to let him kiss her lips—him, her husband! Why? He trembles with rage as he asks himself this question. Was it to keep them sacred for someone else—for that "old lover" of hers, for example?
Who had called him that? Marian, was it not? Old lover!
He had laughed at the name then. That child to have a lover! Why, he had believed she did not know the meaning of the word "love." What a baby she had always seemed to him—a careless, troublesome baby. And now!
Great heavens! Who is to be trusted? Is anyone to be trusted? He had put his faith in Tita; he had thought her wild, perhaps a little unmanageable, but—yes, he had thought her lovable; there had been moments when——
And now it had all come to this, that she had deceived him—is wilfully deceiving him.
He does not even in this, his angry hour, accuse her of more than a well-developed flirtation with her cousin; but that is the beginning of an end that he will put a stop to at once, and for ever. He will show her who is her master. If she cannot respect herself, he will, at all events, take care that she respects his name; she shall not disgrace that.
He has hardly known where his feet have taken him, but now he finds himself on a lighted path, with two or three couples coming towards him; evidently they have just left the dancing-room. He has therefore described a circle, and come back to the place from which he started. One of the men passing him looks into his face.
That quick, curious glance brings Rylton to himself. He cannot stay here any longer. He must go back into the house. It will be madness to absent himself. And, after all, is not the whole thing madness? What is this girl to him? A mere name; nothing more.
He mounts the steps leading to the conservatory, and, meeting Minnie
Hescott, asks her to dance.
"This is only a supper dance," says she. "I'm engaged for all the rest. But, if you like, I'll take one turn with you. After that you must get me something to eat; I never felt so hungry in all my life."
CHAPTER XXV.
HOW TITA TOLD A SECRET TO TOM HESCOTT IN THE MOONLIGHT; AND HOW HE SOUGHT TO DISCOVER MANY THINGS, AND HOW HE WAS MOST INNOCENTLY BAFFLED.
"Of course, I shall understand that it is a secret," says Tom
Hescott.
Both he and Tita are quite unaware of the fact that Rylton and Mrs. Bethune had just been standing behind them. Tita, who had been dancing with Hescott, had led the way to this spot when they came out into the garden.
"Still," says Tita, hesitating, "perhaps I ought not to speak. A secret is a secret, you know."
"Yes; everyone knows that," says Hescott.
"Knows what?" sharply.
"About a secret."
"If you're going to be nasty, you shan't know it at all," says Tita.
"I understand you very well. You think no woman can keep a secret."
"Ah! but a man can. Tell me yours."
"Nonsense! A woman is twice as good at keeping a secret as a man is. And I can tell you this"—with a little emphatic shake of her charming head—"that I should not tell you anything of this secret, only that you are always calling her names."
"Her? Who?"
"Oh, you know very well."
"Who do I know very well? Not a soul here except you; and, after all, I don't think I know you very well."
"Well, if you don't you ought."
"Ought what? Know the mysterious 'her' or you?"
"Me!"
Hescott looks at her keenly in the dim light. Is she a born coquette, or is she only a sweet child—the sweetest child that earth ever gave forth? Somehow it would have hurt him to find her a coquette.
"Ah! I don't know you."
"Tom!" There is a little reproach in her tone. Suddenly she puts out her little slim hand and slips it into his. "As if we weren't brought up together," says she, "just like a brother and sister. You remember the old days, don't you, Tom? when we used to go fishing together, and the cricket——"
"Is it wise to remember?" says Hescott in a low tone.
His heart is beating; his fingers now close on hers.
"I don't know—yes. Yes, I think I like to," says Tita. "Darling pappy! Sometimes it all comes back to me. How happy I was then!"
"And now, Tita, now!—are you happy now?" asks he.
His tone is almost violent. The pressure of his hand on hers grows hurtful. Involuntarily she gives a little cry.
"Nonsense! Of course I am happy!" says she petulantly, pulling her hand out of his. "How rough you are, Tom!"
"Did I hurt you?" exclaims he passionately. "Tita, forgive me. To hurt you——"
"There, don't be a fool!" says Tita, laughing. "My fingers are not broken, if that's what you mean. But you certainly _are _rough: and, after all"—mischievously—"I don't think I shall tell you that secret now."
"You must. I shan't sleep if I don't know it. You said I knew the heroine of it."
"Yes, you do indeed," laughing.
"And that I was always calling her names?"
"True; and I can't bear that, because"—gently—"I love her." She pauses, and goes on again very earnestly: "I love her with all my heart."
"I envy her," says Hescott. "I'm glad this mysterious stranger is a she."
"Why?"
"Oh, no matter; go on. Tell me more. What evil names have I called her?"
"The worst of all. You have called her an old maid—there!"
"Good heavens! what an atrocity! Surely—surely you malign me."
"No, I don't; I heard you. And it was to me, too, you said it."
"What! I called you an old maid!"
"Pouf! No!" laughing gaily. "That's out of your power."
"It is indeed," says Hescott slowly.
He is looking at her, the little, pretty, sweet, lovely thing! If she were a maid to-day, some chance—some small chance—might have been his.
"Well, I'll tell you about it," says she. She looks round her cautiously, in the funniest little way, as if expecting enemies in the bushes near her. Then she hesitates. "After all, I won't," says she, with the most delightful inconsistency. "It wouldn't be a secret if I did."
"Oh, go on," says Hescott, seeing she is dying to speak. "A secret told to me is as lost as though you had dropped it down a well."
"You must remember first, then, that I should never have told you, only that you seemed to think she couldn't get married. It"—hesitating—"it's about Margaret!"
"Miss Knollys!" Hescott stares. "What has she been up to?"
"She has been refusing Colonel Neilson for years!" solemnly. "Only this very night she has refused him again; and all because of a silly old attachment to a man she knew when she was quite a girl."
"That must have been some time ago," says Hescott irreverently and unwisely.
"A very few years ago," severely. She rises. She is evidently disgusted with him. "Come back to the house," says she. "I am engaged for the next."
"A word," says Tom, rising and following her. He lays a detaining hand upon her soft, little, bare arm. "You blame her—Miss Knollys—for being faithful to an old attachment?"
"Y-es," says Tita slowly, as if thinking, and then again, "Yes!" with decision. "When the old attachment if of no use any longer, and when there is someone else."
"But if there was an old attachment, and"—Hescott's face is a little pale in the moonlight—"and practically—no one else—how then?"
"Eh?"
"I mean, if"—he comes closer to her—"Tita, if _you _had known a man who loved you before you were married, and if when you did marry—"
"But she didn't marry him at all," interrupts Tita. "He died—or something—I forget what."
"Yes; but think."
"There is nothing to think about. He died—so stupid of him; and now she is making one of the nicest men I know miserable, all because she has made up her mind to be wretched for ever! So stupid of her!"
"Has it ever occurred to you that there is such a thing as love?" asks Hescott, looking at her with a sudden frown.
"Oh, I've heard of it," with a little shrug of her pretty shoulders; "but I don't believe in it. It's a myth! a fable!"
"And yet"—with an anger that he can hardly hide, seeing her standing there so young, so fair, so debonnair before him—so insensible to the passion for her that is stirring within his heart—"and yet your friend, Miss Knollys, is giving up her life, you say, to the consecration of this myth."
Tita nods.
"Yes; isn't she silly! I told you she was very foolish."
"You assure me honestly that you don't believe in love?"
"Not a bit," says Tita. "It's all nonsense! Now come in—I want to dance. And remember—remember, Tom, you have promised not to breathe a word about what I have told you."
"I promise," says Hescott in a slow sort of way; he is thinking.
When they reach the dancing-room they find it, comparatively speaking, empty, save for a few enthusiastic couples who are still careering round it.
"Supper must be on," says Hescott. "Come and have something."
* * * * *
As they enter the supper-room several people look at them. To Rylton, who is standing near Mrs. Bethune, these glances seem full of impertinent inquiry. In reality they mean nothing, except admiration of his wife. To-night Lady Rylton has been pronounced by most of those present the prettiest woman in the room. Hescott pilots his charming companion to a low lounge in a corner of the room, a place at any of the tables being impossible to get. But Rylton decides that he has taken her to that secluded spot to make more conspicuous his flirtation with her; and she—she seems only too ready to help him in his plan.
The fact that he is frowning heavily is conveyed to him by a voice at his elbow.
"Don't look so intense—so like a thirteenth-century conspirator!" says Mrs. Bethune. Her eyes are full of laughter and mischief—there is something of triumph in them too. "What does it matter, after all?"
"True." He gives her a brilliant smile in return for her rather mocking one. "Nothing matters—except the present moment. Let us consider it. Are you engaged for this dance?"
"Yes; but I can manage to forget my partner."
"That means?"
"You know very well what it means—what it always meant—in the old days."
Her lips part over her beautiful teeth; now there is no mockery in her smile, only love, and a most exquisite delight.
"Ah, Marian!" says he, in a low tone.
He leads her from the room. Her hand tightens on his arm; he feels the pressure, and now in the ball-room his arm goes round her. She—the woman he had loved for so long—is in his arms; he forgets everything. He has sworn to himself in the last minute or two that he will forget. Why, indeed, should he remember?
For the rest of the evening he gives himself up to Marian—devoting himself to her; telling himself he is knowing the old sweet happiness again, but always with a strange unaccountable sting at his heart.
CHAPTER XXVI.
HOW TITA LOOKS AT HERSELF IN THE GLASS AND WONDERS; AND HOW SHE DOES HER HAIR IN QUITE A NEW STYLE, AND GOES TO ASK SIR MAURICE WHAT HE THINKS OF IT; AND HOW HE ANSWERS HER.
"You can go to bed, Sarah; I shan't want you. And any other night when I am out so late you must not stop up for me. Do you hear?"
"Oh! But, my lady——"
"Yes, yes, yes; I know," interrupting her gaily. "But I won't have it. Do you think I can't take off my own frocks? You will lose your beauty sleep, and I shall be responsible for it. There, go; I'm all right now."
Tita waves her gaily out of the room. She is indeed in the merriest mood, having enjoyed her evening immensely, and danced to the very last minute. She had been thoroughly sorry when Sir Maurice had told her that she ought to say "Good-night" to her hostess and come home. She had not noticed the coldness of his manner at all, being so disappointed at his suggestion; but she had said "Good-night" at once to old Lady Warbeck, who would have liked her to stay on, having taken a great fancy to her; and as she had come back in a brougham with Margaret and Colonel Neilson and Minnie Hescott, she had not seen her husband since.
Having at last dismissed her maid, who had insisted on waiting to take off her evening dress, Tita sits down before the glass to look at herself (all women like looking at themselves), and to think over her evening.
How well the men danced, especially Tom!—though, after all, not so well as Maurice. What a pity she could not have had that one dance with him he had asked her for.
She leans forward, and pulling some hairpins out of her short, curly hair, pushes it into another shape, a little lower down on the neck, to see if that would suit her better. No, it wouldn't.
After all, Maurice might have asked her again. He danced a great deal with Mrs. Bethune towards the end of the evening, and how charming he looked when dancing!
She rests her arms—soft, naked arms, round and white as a child's—upon the dressing-table and wonders. Wonders if that old story—the story her mother-in-law had told her of Maurice and Mrs. Bethune—was really true. Maurice did not look like that—like a man who would be dishonest. Oh no! It is not true—that horrid story!
Her eyes light up again; she goes back again to her hair, the arrangement of which, on account of its length, is difficult. She piles it now far up on her head, and sticks little diamond pins into it. She almost laughs aloud. She looks like a Japanese young woman. And it's very pretty, too—she does look nice in this way. What a pity nobody can see her! And with this little new white dressing-gown, too! Such a little dream of a thing!
Where's Maurice? Surely he must have come up by this time. Some of the men had gone into the smoking-room on their return; but it is so late—with the dawn breaking; perhaps Maurice has come up.
She crosses a little passage and goes to the door leading into his room, and knocks lightly; no answer. She knocks again, more impatiently this time, and as still only silence follows her attempt, she opens the door and steps on tiptoe into the room.
It is lit by two or more lamps, and at the end of it, close to a hanging curtain, stands Maurice in his trousers and shirt, having evidently just flung off his evening coat.
"Oh, here you are!" cries she with open delight. "I was afraid you hadn't come up yet, and I wanted to show myself to you. Look at my hair!" She pulls out the skirts of her dainty loose gown and dances merrily up to him. "Don't I look lovely?" cries she, laughing.
Rylton has turned; he is looking at her; his eyes seem to devour her—more with anger than delight, however. And yet the beauty of her, in spite of him, enters into his heart. How sweet she is, standing there with her loose gown in her pretty uplifted hands, and the lace flounces of her petticoat showing in front! She had not fastened this new delight in robes across her neck, and now the whiteness of her throat and neck vies with the purity of the gown itself.
"He looked on her and found her fair,
For all he had been told."
Yet a very rage of anger against her still grows within his heart.
"What brought you here?" asks he sharply, brutally.
She drops her pretty gown. She looks at him as if astonished.
"Why—because"—she is moving backwards towards the door, her large eyes fixed on him—"because I wanted you to look at me—to see how nice I am."
"Others have looked too," says he. "There, go. Do you think I am a fool?"
At that Tita's old spirit returns to her. She stands still and gives him a quick glance.
"Well, I never thought so till now," says she. She nods at him.
"Good-night."
"No, stop!" says Rylton. "I will have this out with you. You pretend to misunderstand me; but I shall make it clear. Do you think I have not seen your conduct of this evening?"
"Mine?"
"Yes, with your cousin—with Hescott." He draws nearer to her. His eyes are on fire, his face white. "Do you think I saw nothing?"
"I don't know what you saw," says she slowly.
All her lovely mirth has died away, as if killed by a cruel death.
"Don't you?" tauntingly. "Then I will tell you. I saw you"—he pauses as if to watch the changes of her face, to see when fear arises, but none does—"in the arbour"—he pauses again, but again no fear arises—"with your cousin."
He grows silent, studying her with eager eyes, as if expecting something; but nothing comes of all his scrutiny, except surprise. Surprise, indeed, marks all her charming features.
"Well?" says she, as he stops, as if expecting more.
She waits, indeed, as one at a loss.
"Well?" He repeats the word with a wild mockery. Could there be under heaven another woman so dead to all honesty? Does she dare to think she can deceive him to the end? In what a lovely form the evil can dwell! "Well!" He brings down his hand with a little crash upon the table near her. "I was there—near that arbour. I heard—I heard all."
"Well, I'm sorry," says Tita slowly, colouring faintly.
"Sorry! Is that all? Do you know what it means—what I can do?"
"I don't see that you can do anything," says she, thinking of her revelation to Hescott about Margaret. "It is Colonel Neilson who might do something."
"Neilson?"
"Yes, Colonel Neilson."
"Are you mad?" says Sir Maurice, in a low tone, "to think you can thus deceive me over and over again?"
He draws back from her. Disgust is in his heart. Does she dream that she can pass off Neilson as her lover, instead of Hescott? He draws a sharp breath. How she must love Hescott, to seek thus to shield him, when ruin is waiting for herself!
"I am not mad," says Tita, throwing up her head. "And as to deceiving you—Of course I can see that you are very angry with me for betraying Margaret's secret to Tom; but, then, Tom is a great friend, and when he said something about Margaret's being an old maid, I couldn't bear it any longer. You know how I love Margaret!—and I told him all about Colonel Neilson's love for her, and that she needn't be an old maid unless she liked. But as to deceiving you——"
Rylton, standing staring at her, feels that it is the truth—the truth only—to which he is listening. Not for a moment does he disbelieve her. Who could, gazing on that small, earnest face? And yet his silence breathes of disbelief to her. She steps backwards, and raises her little hand—a little hand very tightly clenched.
"What! Do you not believe me?" asks she, her eyes blazing.
"I believe you? Yes," returns her quickly. "But there is this——"
"There is this, too," interrupting him passionately. "You accuse me of deception most wrongfully, and I—I accuse you of the worst thing of all, of listening behind my back—of listening deliberately to what was never meant for you to hear."
"I did not listen," says Rylton, who is now very white. "It so chanced that I stood near the arbour; but I heard only one word, and it was about some secret. I came away then. I did not stay."
Tita turns to him with a vehemence that arrests him.
"Who brought you to the arbour?" asks she.
"Brought me?"
"Yes. Who brought you?"
"What do you mean?" asks Rylton, calmly enough, but with a change of colour.
"Ah! you will not betray her, but I know. It was Mrs. Bethune. Now"—she goes nearer to him, her pretty, childish face transformed by grief and anger—"now, confess, it was!" She draws back again. "No," says she, sighing disconsolately. "No, of course you would not tell. But I," looking back at him reproachfully, "I—told _you—_things."
"Many things," returns he coldly—unreasonably angry with her because of her allusion to Mrs. Bethune; "and hardly to your credit. Why should you tell Mr. Hescott your secrets? Why is he to be your confidant?"
"I have known Tom all my life."
"Nevertheless, I object to him as a special friend for you. I don't think married women should have special friends of the other sex. I object to your confiding in him secrets that you never told to me. You said nothing to me of Margaret's love affairs, although she is my cousin."
"You forget, Maurice. I spoke to you several times, but you never seemed to care. And I should not have told Tom, only he called her an old maid, and that hurt me, and I wanted to show him how it was. I love Margaret, and I—I am fond of Tom, and——"
The hesitation, though unmeant, is fatal. Rylton turns upon her furiously.
"It is of no consequence to me whom you love or whom you—care for," says he, imitating her hesitation, with a sneer. "What is of consequence to me, is your conduct as my wife, and that I object to altogether!"
There is a long pause, and then—
"My conduct?" says she slowly. She lifts her hands and runs them softly though her loose hair, and looks at him all the time; so standing, few could vie with her in beauty. She pauses. "And yours?" asks she.
"Mine?"
"Yes, yours! I don't know what you mean about my conduct. But you, you have been dancing all the night with that horrid Mrs. Bethune. Yes!"—letting her hands fall, and coming towards him with a face like a little angry angel—"you may say what you like, but you have been dancing all night with her. And she is horrid."
This is carrying the war into the enemy's camp with a vengeance. There is something in her tone that startles Rylton. Has she heard of that old attachment? His heart grows sick within him. Has it come to this, then? Is there to be concealment—deception on his part? Before his marriage he had thought nothing of his love for Marian in so far as it could touch his wife, but now—now, if she knows! But how can she know? And besides——
Here his wrath grows warm again. Even if she does know, how does that affect her own behaviour? Her sin is of her own making. His sin—— Was it ever a sin? Was it not a true, a loyal love? And when hope of its fulfilment was denied him, when he placed a barrier between it and him, had he not been true to that barrier? Only to-night—to-night when, maddened by the folly of this girl before him—he had let his heart stir again—had given way to the love that had swayed him for two long years and more.
"You forget yourself," says he coldly.
"Oh no, I don't," says Tita, to whom this answer sounds rather overbearing. "Why should I?" She glances at him mischievously from under her long lashes. "I should be the most unselfish person alive if I did that." She hesitates for a moment, and then, "Do you ever forget yourself?" asks she saucily.
She laughs—her little saucy air suits her. She is delighted with herself for having called Mrs. Bethune "horrid," and given him such a delicious tit-for-tat. She looks full of fun and mischief. There is no longer an atom of rancour about her. Rylton, in spite of himself, acknowledges her charm; but what does she mean by this sudden sweetness—this sudden sauciness? Is she holding out the olive-branch to him? If so, he will accept it. After all, he may have wronged her in many ways; and at all events, her faults—her very worst fault—must fall short of crime.
"Sometimes," replies he. He smiles. "I forgot myself just now, perhaps. But you must admit I had provocation. You——"
"Oh, don't begin it all over again," cries she, with delightful verve. "Why should you scold me, or I scold you? Scolding is very nasty, like medicine." She makes a little face. "And, you know, before we married we arranged everything."
"Before?"
"Yes, before, of course. Well—good-night!"
"No; don't go. Tell me what it was we arranged before our marriage?"
Rylton has drawn a chair for her towards the fire that is lighting in his grate, and now sinks into another.
"It's awfully late, isn't it?" says Tita, with a yawn, "but I'll stay a minute or two. Why, what we arranged was, that we should be friends, you and I—eh?"
"Well?"
"Well—that's all. Poke up the fire, and let me see a blaze. Fancy your having a fire so early!"
"Haven't you one?"
"Yes. But then I'm a woman. However, when I see one I want it poked.
I want it blazing."
At this Sir Maurice pokes the fire, until it flames well up the chimney.
"Ah! I like that," says Tita. She slips from her chair to the hearthrug—a beautiful white soft Persian one—and sits upon it, as it were, one snowflake on another. "How nice it is!" says she, staring at the sparks roaring up the chimney; "such a companion!" She leans back and rests her head against Rylton's knees. "Now, go on," she says comfortably.
"Go on?"
"Yes. We were saying something about friends. That we should be friends all our lives. So we shall be. Eh?"
"I don't know." Rylton bends over her, and, suddenly laying his hand under her chin, lifts her face so that he can see it. "You mean that I shall be your friend, and you mine."
"Yes. Yes, of course."
"You have other friends, however. And I don't like that."
"What! Is one to have only one friend?" She wriggles her face out of his hands, and moving her body as she reclines upon the white rug, so turns herself that she comes face to face with him. "Only one!" says she, smiling. She flings her arms across his knees, and looks up at him.
"Is not one enough?" He is looking at her very earnestly. How lovely she is! What a strange charm lies in her deep eyes! And her smile—
"The smile that rests to play
Upon her lip, foretells
That musical array
Tricks her sweet syllables."
"Oh, it would be a poor world with only one friend," says she, shaking he head.
"You want two?" His brow is darkening again.
"More than that. I want you, and Margaret, and——"
"Hescott?"
It is not so much that she has hesitated as he has not given her time to speak.
"Well, yes—Tom," says she. "He is my friend!"
"The best of all?" She is not looking at him now, so does not see the expression in his eyes. He is listening breathlessly for her answer, but she knows nothing. She is gazing idly, happily into the fire.
"At present," says she slowly. Then once again she leans across his knees, and looks up at him. "You know Tom is very fond of me—he loves me, I think."
Here Rylton lays his hands upon her wrists, grasping them hard.
"He loves you. He has told you so?"
"No. Why should he?" He lets her hands go. "I know it. He has loved me so many years; and perhaps—in many years"—she comes closer to him, and putting up one soft little hand, lays it on his cheek, and tries to turn his face to hers—"you will love me too!"
Sir Maurice springs to his feet, and, catching her hands, lifts her forcibly to hers.
"There, go," says he, as if choking. "Is that how you speak to him?"
"To him?"
She stands back from him—not trembling, but with a terrible wonder in her eyes.
"To Hescott—— There—go."
"You think——" says she.
"I think you what you are, a finished coquette." He almost pushes her from him.
Tita puts up her hands as if to warn him off.
"I am sorry I ever came here," says she at last. "I am sorry I ever married you. I shall never forgive this—never!"
"And I," says Rylton. "Have I nothing to forgive?"
"Nothing, nothing," passionately. "I came here to-night because I was lonely, and wanted to talk to somebody. I came here to show you my pretty new frock; and how have you received me? You have been _hateful _to me. And yet you wonder that I didn't think you my best friend! You are not a friend at all. You can't bear me! If I had gone to Tom, instead of you—to show him my frock—do you think he would have treated me like this? No, he——"
"Be silent!" says Sir Maurice. "How dare you talk to me like this!" A dark flush has risen to his brow, his nostrils are dilated. Is she mad—to say such things to him? "Go!" says he, pointing imperiously to the door.
"You have said that twice!" returns she in a low tone. A moment her eyes rest on his, in another moment she is gone.
All that is left him is the memory of a little lovely creature, clad in a white gown, who had come to him with merry, happy eyes, and a smile upon her lips—a smile that he had killed!
CHAPTER XXVII.
HOW SIR MAURICE FEELS UNEASY; AND HOW TITA, FOR ONCE, SHOWS HERSELF IMPLACABLE, AND REFUSES TO ACCEPT THE OVERTURES OF PEACE. AND HOW A LITTLE GOSSIP WARMS THE AIR.
It is the next day, and luncheon is well over, a somewhat badly-attended meal. But now all have managed to scramble downstairs, and the terrace is full of people who are saying "Good-morning" to each other at four o'clock in the afternoon.
"I never felt so tired in my life," says Mrs. Chichester, subsiding into a lounge chair, and trying to look as if her tea-gown isn't quite new. She has selected this evening in especial to spring it upon her women friends. As a rule people look dowdy after being up all night. Mrs. Chichester is determined she won't. She appears as fresh as the proverbial lark, in an exquisite arrangement of white silk and lace, and a heavenly temper. Her eyes are a little greener than usual.
"You don't look it," says Sir Maurice, who is standing near. He is wondering if Tita will come down. Tita has not put in an appearance all day. There had been no necessity to send an apology about her absence from breakfast, as almost every one of the women had taken that meal in her own room, but she had sent a word or two of regret about her inability to appear at luncheon, and, somehow, it has got into Sir Maurice's mind that perhaps she has made up her mind to stay in her own rooms all day. The thought makes him uneasy; but at this moment an end is put to it.
There is a little stir on his left, and, looking up, he sees Tita coming towards him down the terrace, stopping at every step to say a word to somebody. Now she stops as she comes to Margaret, and, laying her hands upon her shoulders, kisses her. She is dressed in the simplest little white frock in the world—a frock that makes her look even younger than usual. Her pretty short air is curling all over her head, and her dark gray eyes are very dark to-day. Do shadows lie in them, or has she been crying? It is Rylton who, watching her, asks himself this question, and as he asks it a strange pang shoots through his heart. Good heavens! why had he married her? To make her unhappy? He must have been possessed of the devil when he did that deed.
"How pretty you look, Tita!" Margaret whispers to her—Margaret, who has the gift of knowing how to soothe and please. She, too, has her misgivings about those lovely eyes; but all girls like to be told they are pretty, and Tita at once brightens.
"Am I? You are a goose, Madge!" But she presses Margaret's hands fondly for all that as she leaves her.
"Lady Rylton, come and sit here," cries Mrs. Chichester. "I have a lovely chair here for you. It's as soft as——" She cannot find a simile.
"As what?" asks Gower, who delights in annoying Mrs. Chichester.
"As you!" returns she, with a contemptuous glance that fills him with joy.
"Come," says Mrs. Chichester, calling again to Tita, and patting the chair in question. "You look tired. This is a perfect lounge."
"She looks as if she had been crying," says old Miss Gower, frowning at Tita over her glasses.
Again that strange pang contracts Rylton's heart. Has she been crying—and because of him?
"Looks! What are looks?" cries Mrs. Chichester gaily. "Looks always belie one."
"Certainly Lady Rylton's must belie her," says Mrs. Bethune, with a slow smile. "What cause has she for tears?"
"Not one!" declares Mrs. Chichester with decision. "It would be 'a sinner above all the Galileans' who would make Lady Rylton cry."
Her queer green eyes smile at Tita, who smiles back at her in her little sweet way, and then all at once bursts out laughing. It is a charming laugh, apparently full of mirth. There are only two present who do not quite believe in it, Margaret and Tom Hescott—but these two love her.
As for Rylton, some instinct causes him at this moment to look at Hescott. Tita's cousin is staring at her, his brows met, his lips somewhat compressed. He has forgotten that people may be staring at him in return, maybe measuring his thoughts on this or that. He has forgotten everything, indeed, except Tita's pale, laughing face and dancing, tear-stained eyes.
"Do you see a ghost?" whispers Mrs. Bethune to him, who has been watching him with cruel amusement.
"I don't know," he answers, hardly hearing her. Is not Tita to-day a ghost of her sweet self? And those words, "A sinner above all the Galileans!" Is there such a sinner?—and if so, surely it is——
Hescott lifts his eyes to meet those of Rylton. For a moment the two men regard each other steadily, and in that moment know that each hates the other with an undying intensity. Mrs. Bethune, who alone sees the working of the little tragedy, leans back in her chair, and lets her lids fall over her eyes. So still she lies that one might think her sleeping, but she is only battling with a fierce joy that threatens every moment to break its bonds, and declare her secret to the world!
During all this, conversation has been going on. Last night's sayings and doings are on the tapis, and everyone is giving his and her experiences. Just now the rather disreputable wife of a decidedly disreputable neighbour is lying on the social dissecting board.
"She gives herself away a good deal, I must say," says Mrs.
Chichester, who loves to hear her own voice, and who certainly
cannot be called ungenerous on her own account. "The way she dances!
And her frock! Good heavens!"
"I hear she makes all her own clothes," says Margaret, who perhaps hopes that this may be one small point in her favour.
Minnie Hescott makes a little moue.
"She may possibly make the things that cover her——"
"That what?" questions Mr. Gower, resting innocent eyes on hers, but Miss Hescott very properly refuses to hear him.
"It must be a matter for regret to all well-minded people," says Miss Gower, shaking her head until all her ringlets are set flying, "that when making that hideous dress, she did not add a yard or two, to——" She pauses.
"The what?" asks Mrs. Chichester, leaning forward.
"The bodice!" replies Miss Gower severely.
"Oh, auntie!" says her nephew, falling back in his chair and covering his face with his hands. "You shouldn't! You really shouldn't! It's—it's not delicate!"
"What do you mean, Randal?" demands his aunt, with a snort that would have done credit to a war-horse. "To whom are you addressing your remarks? Are you calling me indelicate?"
"Oh no—not for worlds!" says Mrs. Chichester, who is choking with laughter, and who only emerges from behind her fan to say this, and go back again. "Who could? But we feared—we thought you were going to say her skirt."
"It is my opinion that you fear nothing," says Miss Gower, with a withering glance at the fan. "And let me tell you that there are other people,"—with awful emphasis—"besides Mrs. Tyneway who would do well to put a tucker round their——"
"Ankles!" puts in Mrs. Chichester sweetly.
"No; their——"
"What was her dress made of?" breaks in Margaret hurriedly, who is afraid of their going too far with the irascible old lady.
"Goodness knows! She was all black and blue, at all events!"
"No! You don't say so?" exclaims Mr. Gower, with a tragic gesture.
"So her husband has been at it again!"
At this they all roar, as people will, at anything, when they have nothing else to do. Even Tita, who, though smiling always, is looking rather depressed, gives way to a merry little laugh. Hearing her, Margaret blesses Randal for his silly old joke.
"Oh, Randal! you are too stupid for anything," says Tita, showing all her pretty teeth.
"You have for once lighted on a solemn truth," puts in Randal's aunt grimly. "Let us hope you are getting sense."
"Or a wise tooth," says Colonel Neilson, with a friendly smile at Tita. "Lady Rylton is very nearly old enough to be thinking of that now."
"As for that wretched Mrs. Tyneway," says Miss Gower, taking no notice of him, "if her husband did so far take the law into his own hands as to make her black and blue, I, for one, should not blame him."
"That's funny!" says Mrs. Chichester, giving her a saucy little smile.
"What is funny, may I ask?"
"To hear you defend a man. I thought you despised them in a body."
"I have my own views about them," says Miss Gower, with a sniff.
"But I admit they have rights of their own."
"Fancy allowing a man to have rights nowadays!" cries Mrs. Chichester, uplifting her long arms as if in amazement. "Good heavens! What a wife you would have made! Rights?" She looks up suddenly at Captain Marryatt, who is, as usual, hanging over the back of her chair. "Do you think a man has any rights?"
"If you don't, I don't," returns that warrior, with much abasement and perhaps more sense than one would have expected from him.
"Good boy," says she, patting his hand with her fan.
"I suppose husbands have some rights, at all events?" says Sir
Maurice.
He says it quite lightly—quite debonnairly, yet he hardly knows why he says it. He had been looking at Tita, and suddenly she had looked back at him. There was something in the cold expression of her face, something defiant, that had driven him to make this foolish speech.
"Husbands? Pouf! They least of all," says Mrs. Chichester, who loves to shock her audience, and now finds Miss Gower ready to her hand.
"Where is your husband now, Mrs. Chichester?" asks Colonel Neilson, quite without malice prepense.
Margaret gives him a warning glance, just a little too late. Though indeed, after all, what is there to warn about Mrs. Chichester? She is only one of a thousand flighty young women one meets every day, and though Captain Marryatt's infatuation for her is beyond dispute, still, her infatuation for him has yet to be proved. Margaret had objected to her, in her own mind, as a companion for Tita—Tita, who seems too young to judge for herself in the matter of friendships.
"I don't know, I'm sure," returns Mrs. Chichester, lifting her shoulders. "Miss Gower will tell you; she knows everything. Miss Gower," raising her voice slightly, and compelling that terrible old woman to look at her, "will you tell Colonel Neilson where my husband is now?"
Poor Colonel Neilson! who is beginning to wish that the earth would open and swallow him up.
"It argues ill for you that you should be obliged to ask such a question," says Miss Gower, with a lowering eye.
"Does it? How dreadful!" says Mrs. Chichester. She looks immensely amused. "Do you know I heard the other day that he was married again! It can't be true—can it?"
She appeals once again to Colonel Neilson, as if enjoying his discomfiture, and being willing to add to it through pure mischief. However, she is disappointed this time. Colonel Neilson does not know what to do with her appeal to him, and remains discreetly silent. He can see she is not in earnest.
"At all events, if true," says Mrs. Chichester, looking now at Miss Gower, and speaking in a confidential tone, "I am sure John will let me know about it."
"John" is Major Chichester.
Marryatt is leaning now so far over her that he is whispering in her ear.
"Is this—is this true?" questions he, in low but vehement tones.
"It—it may be. Who can tell?" returns she, with beautiful hesitation.
She subsides once again behind the invaluable fan. To him she seems to be trembling. To Margaret, who is watching her angrily, she seems to be laughing.
"You have evidently great faith in your husband," says Miss Gower, with what she fondly believes to be the most artful sarcasm.
"Oh, I have—I have!" says Mrs. Chichester, clasping her hands in an enthusiastic fashion.
"And he in you, doubtless?"
"Oh, such faith!" with a considerable increase in the enthusiasm.
Miss Gower looks at her over her spectacles. It is an awful look.
"I shall pray for you to-night!" says she, in a piously vindictive tone.
"Oh, thanks! Thanks! How kind of you!" says Mrs. Chichester, with extreme pathos.
There is an explosion on her left. Mrs. Chichester looks mournfully in that direction to see the cause of it. There is only Mr. Gower to be seen! He, as usual, is misconducting himself to quite a remarkable degree. He is now, in fact, laughing so hard but so silently that the tears are running down his cheeks. To laugh out loud with his aunt listening, might mean the loss of seven hundred a year to him.
"What's the matter with you? Aren't you well?" asks Mrs. Chichester, in a loud voice, calculated to draw attention to him.
She feels that here is an opportunity given her to pay off old scores.
"Oh, don't," gasps Gower, frantically struggling still with his laughter. "If she hears you, she'll be down on me like a shot. As you are strong, be merciful!"
"Very well; remember you are in my debt," says she, who au fond is not ill-natured. At this moment Tita passes down the balcony to where her husband is standing on the top of the steps that lead to the gardens beneath.
As she draws closer to him, he fixes his eyes upon her as if to compel a glance from her in return; but Tita, who is accompanied by Minnie Hescott, does not so much as once let her gaze wander in his direction. She comes nearer—ever nearer, laughing and talking gaily, and passes him, still without recognition of any sort. As her skirt sweeps against him, he speaks.
"Are you going out, Tita?"
It is the first word that has passed between them since last night—since she left his room. A sudden angry determination to make her speak to him, induces him now to get before her, and bar her passage to the steps.
"Yes," returns she coldly, graciously, briefly.
She leans back a little, as if to catch up the tail of her white gown—in reality, to avoid looking at him.
"Just here there is shelter," says Rylton, speaking hurriedly, as if to gain time, and keep her from gliding past him. "But outside—— And you have a very thin frock on. Shall I get you a shawl?"
"No, thank you."
Her manner is still perfectly gracious, but still she refuses to look at him. The gathering up of her frock is evidently causing her a great deal of trouble.
"Shall I take you out some cushions, then?"
"No, thank you."
She has conquered the frock now, but still she does not look at him. In fact, she turns to Minnie, and, as though forgetful of his presence, murmurs some little thing or other to her.
"If you are going to the gardens," says Rylton, with Heaven knows what intention—perhaps a desire to show her how little he cares for her childish anger, perhaps to bring matters to their worst—to know what she means—"may I come with you?"
Tita gives him a glance—the fleetest; a smile—the briefest.
"No, thank you," says she, a faint emphasis upon the "No" being the only change in her even tone.
As she speaks she goes down the steps, Minnie Hescott following her.