COLLECTION
OF
BRITISH AUTHORS
TAUCHNITZ EDITION.
VOL. 2957.
THE HOYDEN. BY MRS. HUNGERFORD.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
THE HOYDEN
A NOVEL
BY MRS. HUNGERFORD
AUTHOR OF
"MOLLY BAWN," "PHYLLIS," "A CONQUERING HEROINE,"
ETC. ETC.
COPYRIGHT EDITION.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
LEIPZIG
BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ
1894.
CONTENTS
OF VOLUME II.
CHAPTER I.
How Minnie Hescott gives Tita a Hint; and learns that Hints may be thrown away; and how Margaret's Soul is grieved
CHAPTER II.
How Tita commits a great Folly, though little is the Sin that lies therein. And how Margaret tries to make Peace, and what comes of it
CHAPTER III.
How Mr. Gower grows darkly mysterious; and how Tita hears of the
Arrival of another Guest
CHAPTER IV.
How Tita's Soul at last is stirred; and how her Happiness is threatened and herself set at naught; and how Minnie Hescott speaks
CHAPTER V.
How Miss Gower goes for a pleasant Row upon the Lake with her
Nephew; and how she admires the Sky and Water; and how presently
Fear falls on her; and how Death threatens her; and how by a mere
Scratch of a Pen she regains Shore and Life
CHAPTER VI.
How all the House Party at Oakdean grow frivolous in the Absence of the Lord and Master; and how Mrs. Bethune encourages a Game of Hide-and-seek; and how, after many Escapes, Tita is caught at last
CHAPTER VII.
How Tita is "caught," but by one whom she did not expect; and how she played with Fire for a little Bit; and how finally she ran away
CHAPTER VIII.
How Tita, having been repulsed, grows angry; and how a very pretty
Battle is fought out; and how Tita gains a Present; and how Sir
Maurice loses his Temper
CHAPTER IX.
How Mrs. Bethune is brought before the Bar; and how she gives her Evidence against Tita; and how Maurice's Mother desires an Interview with Maurice's Wife
CHAPTER X.
How "that Girl" was "seen" by the Dowager Lady Rylton; and how Tita held her small Head very high, and fought a good Fight with the Enemy
CHAPTER XI.
How Tita goes for a Walk with two sad Companions—Anger and Despair; and how she meets Sir Maurice; and how she introduces him to Anger
CHAPTER XII.
How Tita, running from the Enemy, suddenly finds herself Face to Face with another Foe; and how she fights a second Battle, and comes off victorious
CHAPTER XIII.
How a little Sparring is done amongst the Guests at Oakdean; and how
Tom Hescott tells a Story
CHAPTER XIV.
How Tita flings herself upon Margaret's Breast; and how Margaret comforts her; and how Tita promises to be good; and how she has a Meeting "by Lamplight alone"
CHAPTER XV.
How Jealousy runs Riot in Oakdean; and how Margaret tries to throw Oil upon the Waters; and how a great Crash comes, with many Words and one Surprise
CHAPTER XVI.
How Maurice tells his Mother of the great Fiasco; and how she receives the News
CHAPTER XVII.
How Matters come to a Climax; and how Tita tells Maurice many Things that sting him sharply; and how he lays Hands upon her; and how the last Adieux are said
CHAPTER XVIII.
How Margaret steps into the Breach, and learns that all Peacemakers are not blessed
CHAPTER XIX.
How Margaret and Tita tread many Paths; and how Fortune, having turned her Back on Tita, shows a smiling Front to Maurice
CHAPTER XX.
How Margaret starts as a special Pleader, and is much worsted in her Argument; and how a simple Knock at the Hall Door scatters one Being who delights in War
CHAPTER XXI.
How Margaret makes a fearful Discovery; how she rushes to the Rescue, but is far from well received; and how Tita gives herself away, not once, but twice
CHAPTER XXII.
How Maurice smokes a Cigar, and muses on many Things; how he laments his Solitude; and how an unexpected Visitor comes to him
CHAPTER XXIII.
How Rylton's evil Genius comes to him and speaks sweet Treacheries within his Ear; and how he renounces her and all her Deeds
CHAPTER XXIV.
How Tita pleads her Cause with Margaret; and how Margaret rebukes her; and how Steps are heard, and Tita seeks Seclusion behind a Japanese Screen; and what comes of it
CHAPTER XXV.
How Tita wages War with Margaret and Maurice; and how Margaret suffers ignominious Treatment on both Hands; and how Maurice at the last gains one small Victory
CHAPTER XXVI.
How some old Friends reappear again; and how some News is told; and how Maurice makes another Effort to win his Cause
CHAPTER XXVII.
How Maurice gains another Point; and how Tita consents to think about it; and how Margaret tells a Lie
CHAPTER XXVIII.
How Tita receives a Basket of Flowers and an Entreaty; and how she ceases to fight against her destiny
CHAPTER XXIX.
How a Journey is begun as the Day dies down; and how that Journey ends; and how a great Secret is discovered—the Secret of Tita's Heart
THE HOYDEN.
CHAPTER I.
HOW MINNIE HESCOTT GIVES TITA A HINT; AND LEARNS THAT HINTS MAY BE THROWN AWAY; AND HOW MARGARET'S SOUL IS GRIEVED.
Minnie Hescott, during the time it takes her to go down the terrace steps behind Tita, comes to a resolution. She will give Tita a hint! It will be a gift of no mean order, and whether it be well received or not, will always be a gift to be remembered, perhaps with gratitude.
And Minnie, who is strictly practical if nothing else, sees a fair hope of return in her present plan. She likes Tita in her way—likes her perhaps better than she likes most people, and Tita may be useful to her as Sir Maurice Rylton's wife. But Tita, dismantled of her honours, would be no help at all, and therefore to keep Tita enthroned is now a very special object with her astute cousin.
In and between all this is Minnie's detestation of Mrs. Bethune, who has occasionally been rude to her in the small ways that make up the sum of life.
Minnie, who is not sensitive, takes the bull by the horns.
"Mrs. Bethune," says she, as they go by a bed of hollyhocks now hastening to their death, "is a friend of yours?"
It is a question.
"Mrs. Bethune!" says Tita, stopping and looking at her as if wondering.
What does she mean?
"Yes," says Minnie pleasantly. "A friend. An old friend!"
"Not an old friend," says Tita quietly. "She is a cousin of
Maurice's."
"Yes. But not a friend of yours?"
"No," coldly.
"I'm glad of that," says Minnie, with hilarity. "I hate old friends, don't you? They always cost one such a lot. They tell one such horrid news about one's self. They do such nasty things. Give me a stranger for choice. And as for Mrs. Bethune, now you have told me she is not a friend of yours, I suppose I may speak freely. Do you know, Tita, I'd keep my eye on her if I were you. You have given me a free hand, so I can tell you what is in my mind. That woman—she means——"
"What?" asks Tita, turning upon her with some haughtiness.
"Business!" says Minnie Hescott, with an emphatic nod. "Mischief all through. She's up to mischief of some sort. I tell you what," says Minnie, with her old young look, "you've got to keep your eye on her."
"I could never keep my eye on anyone," says Tita, with a sudden, irrepressible little laugh. "And why should I keep my eye on Mrs. Bethune? To tell you a solemn truth, Minnie, I can't bear to look at her. She's beautiful, so they say, but to me she is hideous. Therefore, why should I keep my eye on her? It," with a whimsical little glance, "would hurt me so."
"Nevertheless, you should!" says Minnie solemnly. "She's a viper!"
"Vipers are ugly."
"And dangerous."
"Then why look at them?"
"To avoid them—lest they sting you," says Minnie, feeling quite pleased with herself for this flight of fancy.
"You think," says Tita, stopping and looking at her, "that Mrs.
Bethune will sting me?"
"I think nothing," says Minnie Hescott, throwing out her hands in an airy fashion; "only, get rid of her—get rid of her, Tita, as soon as ever you can!"
"To get rid of a guest! No," says Tita. "She may stay here, and I shall make her welcome for ever——" She pauses and looks full at her cousin. There is great courage and great pride in her look. "For ever!" repeats she.
"There is always a fool somewhere!" says Minnie Hescott, with a sigh. "Well," abandoning the discussion for the present, "let us go for our walk round the garden."
As they pass beneath the balcony, Margaret, who is leaning over it, with Colonel Neilson beside her, makes a little irrepressible movement.
"What is it now?" asks he, who knows every mood of hers.
"Nothing. I was only thinking about Tita."
"A charming subject."
"Oh! too charming," says Margaret, with a sigh. "That child troubles me."
"But why? She seems to be getting on all right, in spite of your evil prognostications before her marriage. She and Rylton seem on very good terms."
"Not to-day, at all events," shaking her head.
"No? I confess I did think there was a little rift somewhere."
"Oh yes! There is something," says Margaret somewhat impatiently. "Did you see the poor child's eyes, and her whole air? Her pretty little attempts at unconcern?"
"I thought Rylton looked rather put out, too."
"I didn't look at him. I have no patience with him. It is a mad marriage for any man to make." She pauses. "I am afraid there was some disagreeableness last night." She hesitates again. Though quite determined never to marry Colonel Neilson or any other man, she permits herself the luxury of retaining Neilson as a confidential friend. "I wish her cousin, Mr. Hescott, was not quite so attentive to her. She is very young, of course, but I don't think she ought to have danced so much with him last night."
"And what of Rylton?" asks the Colonel, pulling the glass out of his eye and sticking it in again in an angry fashion. "Who did he dance with?"
"Yes. I saw," sadly.
"Well, why should he complain, then?" says Neilson, who can see the right and the wrong so much better because it is not his own case. "To tell you the truth, Margaret, I think Mrs. Bethune should not be here."
"I think that, too. But it appears it was Tita who invited her."
"My dear girl, who else? But there is such a thing as coercion."
"It was the prettiest, the most cordial letter. I read it."
"Then you think she knows nothing of that old affair?"
"Old?" She looks quickly at Neilson. "Do you think it is old—worn out, I mean?"
"No, I don't," says Neilson promptly. "And in my opinion, the sooner
Mrs. Bethune terminates her visit the better for everyone."
"What an unhappy marriage!" says Margaret, with a sigh. "All marriages are unhappy, I think."
"Not a bit of it. Most of the married people we know would not separate even were the power given them to do so."
"That is merely because they have grown necessary to each other."
"Well, what is love?" says Neilson, who is always defending his great cause against Margaret's attacks. "Was there ever a lover yet, who did not think the woman he loved necessary to him?"
"It is not the higher form of love," says Margaret, who still dreams of an ideal, born of her first attachment—an ideal that never in this practical world could have been realized, and if it could, would have been condemned at once as tiresome to the last degree.
"It is high enough for most people," says Neilson. "Don't grow pessimistic, Margaret. There is a great deal of light and joy and laughter in the world, and I know no one so framed to enjoy it as yourself, if only you would give yourself full sway. You condemn marriage, yet how can you speak of it with authority—you who have not tried it?"
"Oh, do, do stop," says Margaret, lifting her hand. "You are getting on that—that wretched old tack again."
"So I am. I know it. I shall be on that tack to the end of my life. And I think it so unfair of you to condemn anybody without even a hearing."
"Why, I must," says she, laughing in spite of herself.
"No, you needn't. Marry me, and then give judgment!"
"I shall never marry," says Margaret, with cold decision; then, as if ashamed of her tone, she looks up at him. It is rather a shy look, and makes her even more admirable in the eyes of the man watching her. "Why will you persist?" asks she.
"I must. I must."
"It sounds like a doom," says she lightly, though tears are gathering in her eyes. "Don't waste your life. Don't!"
"I am not wasting it. I am spending it on you," says the Colonel, who is really a delightful lover.
"Ah! but that is so dreadful—for me!"
"Do I worry you, then?"
"No! no! A thousand times no!" cries she eagerly. "It is only that I must always reproach myself?"
"Why always? Give in, Margaret, and let me change my place from lover to husband."
"It is often a fatal change."
"You mistrust me?"
"You! No, indeed! You least of all. I believe in you from my very soul! Don't think that, Harry. But," impatiently, "why go over it again and again?"
Colonel Neilson turns a solemn face to hers.
"Margaret!" says he. "Are you bent on dying an old maid?"
Miss Knollys flushes; she turns aside.
"What an odious word!" says she.
She walks deliberately into the drawing-room behind her. Neilson still stands leaning over the balcony—a slow and distinctly satisfied smile crosses his features.
CHAPTER II.
HOW TITA COMMITS A GREAT FOLLY, THOUGH LITTLE IS THE SIN THAT LIES THEREIN. AND HOW MARGARET TRIES TO MAKE PEACE, AND WHAT COMES OF IT.
Breakfast is nearly over—an uncomfortable breakfast, with only a host to guide it—the hostess had put in no appearance. This would be nothing if the plea of headache had been urged, but headache had been out of it altogether. In fact, Lady Rylton had gone out riding at eight o'clock with her cousin, Mr. Hescott, and has not yet come back, though the clock points at ten-thirty.
Sir Maurice had made very light of it. He had asked Mrs. Bethune to pour out the tea, and had said that Tita would be back presently. But everyone can see that he is upset and angry, and Margaret, noting it all, feels her heart grow cold within her.
As a fact, Rylton is feeling something more than anger. Something akin to fear. Where is she—the girl he had married, meaning to be true to her if nothing else? He had questioned her maid very casually, very unconcernedly, and she had told him that her mistress had gone out riding this morning about eight o'clock with Mr. Hescott. His questions had been so clever, so altogether without anxiety, that the maid had believed in him, and saw nothing in his words to dwell upon later.
Yet Rylton's heart had seemed to cease beating as she answered him. She had gone riding with Hescott. With Hescott! Will she ever come back?
Tita's face, when she had left him that last night, is before him now. Tita's determination not to accept the olive branch he offered her yesterday is before him too. What if she——
And, in truth, Tita had been angry. Her spirit had been roused. His open declaration that he believed her capable of carrying on a flirtation with her cousin had hurt her more than she cared to confess even to herself. It was so silly—so unjust! She—she!
And he! What of him? Everything that his mother had told her of his affection for Marian grew, all at once, fresh in her mind. How did he then _dare _to speak to her of inconstancy? He—who had been false to her from the very beginning. When he had spoken to her to-day, as she passed him on her way to the garden, she had felt as though she could hardly bring herself to answer him—and always revenge was in her mind. Revenge—to show him how little she cared for his censures.
When, therefore, Hescott during the evening asked her to go for a ride with him before breakfast next morning, she had said yes quickly—so quickly, that Hescott foolishly believed she meant more than a readiness to ride in the early morning. Did she wish to be with him? A mad hope made his heart warm.
As for Tita—she thought only of that small revenge. She would go for a ride with Tom, without telling Maurice one word about it. She could easily be back in time for breakfast, and no one, therefore, would be annoyed, except Maurice! It seemed delightful to annoy Maurice!
* * * * *
The little revenge hardly seems so delightful now, however, as she springs from her horse, and running into the hall, followed by Hescott, sees by the clock there that it is just half-past ten.
"Oh! you should have told me," cries she, most unjustly turning upon Tom.
"Good heavens! How could I? I didn't know myself. I told you I had left my watch on my dressing-table."
"Well, we are in for it now, any way," says she, with a little nervous laugh.
She walks straight to the breakfast-room, and, throwing open the door, goes in.
"I'm so sorry!" says she at once.
She gives a little general, beaming smile all round. Only Margaret can see the nervousness of it. She had taken off her hat in the hall, and her pretty, short air is lying loosely on her forehead. There is a tiny dab of mud on her cheek, close to the eye. It is distinctly becoming, and looks more like a Queen Anne patch than anything else.
All the men rise as she enters, except Rylton, who is reading a letter of such deep importance, evidently, that he seems hardly to note his wife's entrance. Tita beckons to them all to resume their seats.
"I'm dreadfully sorry—dreadfully," says she, in a quick little way.
"I had no idea it was so late. So good of you," turning to Mrs.
Bethune, who is sitting at the head of the table, "to take my place!
You see," looking once again round her, "when I started I did not
mean to go so far."
"Ah! that is what so often happens," says Mrs. Bethune, with a queer little glance from under her lids.
There is something so insolent both in her meaning and her voice, that Margaret's face flushes, and she makes a slight movement as if to rise; but Colonel Neilson, who is next her, by a slight gesture restrains her. She looks at Maurice, however, as if wondering why he does not interfere—does not say something; but Maurice seems more than ever buried in his letter. Indeed, beyond one brief glance at his wife, he has taken no notice of her.
Margaret's eyes go back to Tita. Everyone is offering her a seat here or there, and she is shaking her head in refusal. Evidently Mrs. Bethune's remark has gone by her, like the wind unheard; it had not been understood.
"Come and sit here, and have a hot cup of coffee," says Captain
Marryatt.
"No, thank you. I couldn't really. See how muddy I am," glancing down at her skirt. "It must have rained a great deal last night. Tom and I ran a race, and this is the result. I must go upstairs and change my things."
"Certainly, a change would be desirable in many ways," says old Miss Gower, in her most conscious tone, on which her nephew, who is helping himself to cold pie on the sideboard, turns and looks at her as if he would like to rend her.
"Yes, run away, Tita; I'll be up with you in a moment," says
Margaret gently, fondly. "I am afraid you must feel very damp."
"I feel very uncomfortable, any way," says Tita, though without arrière pensée. Mrs. Chichester, dropping her handkerchief, gets her laugh over before she picks it up again. Tita moves towards the door, and then looks back. "Maurice," says she, with a courage born of defiance, "will you send me up some breakfast to my room?"
Sir Maurice turns at once to the butler.
"See that breakfast is sent up to Lady Rylton," says he calmly.
A faint colour rises to Tita's forehead. She goes straight to the door. Randal Gower, who is still at the sideboard, hurries to open it for her.
"There's a regular ta-ra-ra waiting for you," says he, "in the near bimeby."
Tita gives him an indignant glance as she goes by, which that youth accepts with a beaming smile.
Tita has hardly been in her room twenty minutes, has hardly, indeed, had time to change her clothes, when Margaret knocks at the door.
"May I come in?" asks she.
"Oh! come in. Come in!" cries Tita, who has just dismissed her maid. She runs to Margaret and kisses her on both cheeks. "Good-morning," says she. And then saucily, "You have come to read me a lecture?"
"No. No, indeed," replies Margaret earnestly. She _had _perhaps, but the sight of the child's small, pretty, entreating face has done away with everything condemnatory that was in her mind. Still, there is such a thing as a word in season. "But, Tita dearest," says she, "is it wise, the way you are going on?"
"Ah! I knew I should not escape," says Tita whimsically.
"I am not going to scold you, really," says Margaret, smiling; "but consider, dear child! To begin with——"
"Oh, this is worse than I thought," interrupts Tita, covering her face with her hands, and blinking at her through her fingers. "Is it going to be firstly, secondly, thirdly? Come to the thirdly at once."
"Do you know what you want?" says Margaret, who feels fonder of her every moment. "A good slap! I shall deliver it some day. But, seriously now, Tita, you ought to have considered your guests, at all events. If you had stayed in your room it would have been nothing—but——"
"But because I stayed in the open air it was _something!" _Tita bursts out laughing. "Oh, isn't it funny?" says she. "It would have been all right if I had had a bad headache. Either way they wouldn't have seen me at breakfast, and what it amounts to is, that they are very angry because I hadn't a bad headache."
"No one is angry at all."
"No one?"
"Except Maurice, and surely he has some right on his side. You know your conduct was a little—just a little—er——"
"Rude," says Tita, helping her out. "Well, I know that, and I am sorry to my heart's core, Margaret, if I was rude—to you!"
The climax is very sweet. Margaret tells herself that Tita is too much for her. The girl by this time has her arms round her neck.
"Don't mind me," says Margaret, holding the little form closely to her. "Think of yourself, my dearest. As if I should misunderstand you! But you should study conventionality a little; you should——"
She breaks off; it almost seems to her that she is preaching deception to this baby.
"Now, I'll tell you," says Tita, leaning back a little from her, and pointing each word by a tap on her shoulder, "I'm not so bad as I seem! I really meant to be in, in time for breakfast—but Tom——"
"Tom," impatiently, "is a bad adviser!"
"It wasn't his fault, any way. The fact is, I took it into my head to run a race with him. He is always lauding that old horse of his, you know——"
"I don't know. All I do know is, that Mr. Hescott must have had a watch about him."
"Well," triumphantly, "he hadn't. So you don't know anything after all, you darling old Madge! He had forgotten it. He had left it at home! That was just what put us out! Not that I care. Well, I was going to tell you about our race. We started for Clumber's Hill—to get there and back again, and all went well until my mare ran away with me!"
"Ran away——"
"Don't look like that. I love a horse to run away with me; and there were no sandpits or precipices of any sort; it was a real _good _run away. Oh!" throwing out her arms, "how I enjoyed it!" She pauses. "But I don't think Tom did. He was like an egg when he came up with me. So white!"
"Never mind Mr. Hescott, go on."
"Well, that's all. By the time I had the mare well in hand again, we were a good many miles farther from here than we meant to be, and, of course, I was late." She puts Margaret away from her a little, and looks at her. "After all," says she, "why should Maurice be so angry about it? Everyone makes mistakes now and then. I suppose," lightly, "even the immaculate Maurice can make his?"
"No doubt," says Margaret, in a low tone.
Is he not making a mistake now—a dreadful one?
"And, for the matter of that, so can you," says Tita audaciously, but so lovingly that no one could be angry with her.
"Don't waste time over me," says Margaret, growing very red, but laughing. "Come back to your naughty little self. Now what are you going to do about this, Tita?"
"Do?"
"Yes. Couldn't you go down and say something pretty to Maurice?"
"Go down—to Maurice? Go and beg his pardon. Is that what you mean? No, thank you!"
"But, my dear, he is your husband?"
"Is that all?" Tita tilts her chin airily. "One would think I was his daughter, the way you speak, or his slave! No. I shan't apologize to him, Margaret, is that is what you mean. I'm hanged if I do!"
"Tita—my dear!" Margaret looks shocked. "I don't think you ought to use such expressions. You make me very unhappy when you do."
"Do I?" Tita gives her a little sidelong glance, meant to be contrite, but too full of mischief to be anything but incorrigible. "Then I'm hanged if I say it again," says she.
"Tita, you will come to grief yet," says Margaret, laughing in spite of herself. "Now to return to our argument. I tell you, you owe Maurice something for this escapade of yours, innocent as it is. Fancy in what an awkward position you placed him with your guests! A man doesn't like to feel awkward; and he is, naturally, a little annoyed with you about it. And——"
"Nonsense!" says Tita; "the guests have nothing to do with it! As if I didn't know! Maurice is just in a bad temper because I have been riding with Tom. He hates poor old Tom. If I had gone riding with Randal or any of the others, and hadn't been in till luncheon, he would have said nothing—he would have treated it as a joke, I dare say."
"Well—but, Tita, is there nothing in his objection to Mr. Hescott? You must admit, dearest, that your cousin is a little—well, attentive to you."
"Why, of course he is attentive to me. He is quite like a brother to me."
"Brothers, as a rule, are not so very attentive to their sisters. The fact is, Tita," says Margaret desperately, "that I think—er—that Maurice thinks—that Mr. Hescott is——"
"In love with me? I know that," says Tita, without the faintest embarrassment. "Isn't it absurd? Fancy Tom being in love with me!"
Margaret tells herself that she could fancy it very easily, but refrains from saying so.
"How do you know he isn't?" asks she slowly.
"Why, if he was, I suppose he would tell me so," says Tita, after which Miss Knollys feels that further argument would be useless.
Suddenly Tita turns to her.
"You think me entirely in the wrong," says she, "and Maurice altogether in the right. But there are things about Maurice I do not understand. Is he true or is he false? I never seem to know. I don't ask much of him—not half as much as he asks of me—and still——"
"What do you mean, Tita?" asks Margaret, a nervous feeling contracting her throat.
Has she heard, then?—does she know?
"I mean that he is unfair to me," says Tita, standing back from
Margaret, her eyes lighting. "For one thing, why did he ask Mrs.
Bethune to pour out tea this morning in my absence? Was there,"
petulantly, "no one else to ask?"
"She is his cousin."
"So are you."
"My dear, I am not married."
"More shame on you," says Tita, with the ghost of a smile. "Well, there was Miss Gower!"
"She is not married, either."
"And no shame to anyone." Here Tita, in spite of her wrath, cannot help laughing. "But really, Margaret, the blame should not be entirely on my side. If I have to accuse Maurice——"
"Accuse him! Of what?"
Tita looks full at her.
"You are a good friend," says she; "but his mother told me."
CHAPTER III.
HOW MR. GOWER GROWS DARKLY MYSTERIOUS; AND HOW TITA HEARS OF THE ARRIVAL OF ANOTHER GUEST.
Tita, going down the stairs after her interview with Margaret, meets
Randal in the hall below.
"You look rather down on your luck!" says he.
"My looks belie me, then," says she stoutly. "But you—what is the matter with you?"
"Ruin!" says Mr. Gower tragically. "My looks do not belie me."
"Good gracious, Randal!"
"Ruin stares me in the face," says he, "look where I will."
"Very rude of it," says Tita, with an irrepressible laugh. "One should never stare people out of countenance. You should speak to Ruin."
"Oh, it's all very fine making a joke of it!" says Mr. Gower, who is, however, laughing too.
"Where are you going now?" asks Tita, as he moves away from her towards the hall door.
"'Anywhere—anywhere out of the world,'" quotes he, with a dismal shake of the head.
"Is it so serious as all that?" cries Tita. "Look here, Randal, wait a moment, can't you? I have a last request to make. If you are bent on dying, do it; but do it nicely—be picturesque: something original, and no blood. Promise me there will be no blood!"
"'So young, and so untender!'" says Gower, gazing at her with deep reproach.
He seems full of quotations.
"But where are you going, really?"
"Out."
He pauses.
"Not out of your mind, I hope?"
"Don't be too sure."
"Well, wait, and I'll go with you," says she, glancing at the stand in the hall where her garden hat is generally to be found.
"Not to-day," says Gower; "you mustn't come with me to-day. I'm going out on business."
"Business!"
Mr. Gower and business seem so very far apart.
"Gruesome business," repeats he, dropping his voice to a whisper. "I'm going with my aunt—'my dear, unmarried aunt.' It's my last chance. I shall do or die to-day, or else"—an afterthought striking him—"she will."
"Where are you going with her?"
"I am taking her," says Mr. Gower, looking darkly round him, "for a row on the lake. She says she dotes on lakes. I don't think she will dote on your lake when she returns, if"—with a murderous eye—"she ever does."
"Are you going to drown her?" asks Tita, catching him by the arm.
She is laughing still.
"I hope not—I hope not," says Gower gloomily. "Circumstances may be favourable. We must pray for the best."
He tears himself away from her with a profound sigh, and she is still standing, laughing in the hall, when the library door opens, and Rylton comes into the hall.
Her laughter dies quickly. Rylton, after a swift, careless glance at her, goes towards the letter-rack and places a letter in it, then goes back to the library. As he reaches the door, however, he hears little running feet behind him.
"Don't go—don't go," says Tita. She has laid one hand upon his arm, and is looking up at him. "You are angry with me, and——"
"Angry? No!"
"You are—you know you are! And you want to scold me, and——"
"You are quite mistaken," says Rylton, shaking off her hand gently, but with decision. "I have no desire whatever to scold you. Why should I?"
He goes past her into the library, but she follows him—a lovely little penitent—with lowered eyes.
"Do scold me!" says she. "I was wrong; and I did it on purpose, too."
"On purpose?"
"Yes," hanging her pretty head; "I did it to annoy you! You were so—so nasty about Tom the other night—do you remember? So I wanted to make you really mad this time—just for revenge, you know; but, honestly, I didn't mean to be late for breakfast."
"Didn't you?" drearily.
"No, I didn't; you must believe that." She goes nearer to him, and slips her hand through his arm. "Maurice!" whispers she. He makes her no answer. She moves even closer to him, and, leaning her little head against his shoulder, looks up at him. "Do scold me!" says she again. The tender, childish voice touches him; it goes home to his heart—the heart that is so full of another. He looks down at her, and, stooping, lays his lips on hers. It can hardly be called a kiss; yet it satisfies her, to whom, as yet, kissing means so little. "Now I am forgiven," cries she triumphantly. "Is _that _your scolding?"
"I told you I couldn't scold you," says he.
As he says this he sighs heavily.
"What a sigh!" She pushes him from her with both hands. "After all,
I believe you hate me!"
"No, I don't," says Rylton.
He smiles. After all, why not be friends with her? Had he explained that indifference was the word she should have used for hate, would she be any the wiser?
"No—really?" She has flung herself into a chair, and is looking at him with her hands clasped behind her head. "Well," thoughtfully, "I don't hate you, either. That's a blessing, isn't it?"
"A great one."
He feels a little piqued, however, at the nonchalance of her manner. Why should it occur to her that she might hate him? She has, unknowingly certainly, but unquestionably, blocked his way to the fulfilment of his desires, but he—— He changes colour; is he standing in her way, then?
"What was the letter you were reading this morning when I came in?"
"A letter?"
He brings himself back to the present with an effort.
"Yes. It was so interesting," says she, making him a little malicious grimace, "that you could not spare a moment from the reading of it to acknowledge my presence."
"It was from my mother."
"No wonder it was so engrossing," says Tita naughtily. "Well——"
"It isn't well; it is ill," returns he, laughing. "She says she is coming to stay with us for a week or so on her way to Lady Sarah's."
"Why is she coming?"
"For our sins, I suppose. I really don't know any other reason." He casts an anxious glance at her. "I am afraid that you won't care about it."
"Well, I shan't," says Tita frankly; "but if she wants to come, there is nothing more to be said. What I am afraid of is that Marian won't like it."
"Marian?"
"Yes, Marian. It struck me that she was not very fond of your mother. Was I right?"
"I could not possibly answer for Marian."
"No?"
"Certainly not."
"Yet I thought," with a swift glance, "that you were the one person in the world who could have told me all about her."
"You were wrong, then. I have known Marian, and—liked her; but I think no human being can answer for another's likes and dislikes."
"Perhaps so." She looks down thoughtfully. "When is your mother coming?"
"To-morrow. I shall run up to town and meet her, and bring her on."
"You will be back to-morrow night?"
"Well, she seems to think so; but I expect she will be tired, and stay in town until next morning. In the meantime," smiling at her, "I leave the house and the guests and everything in your charge."
"How delightful!" cries Tita, clapping her hands.
Rylton turns away.
CHAPTER IV.
HOW TITA'S SOUL AT LAST IS STIRRED; AND HOW HER HAPPINESS IS THREATENED AND HERSELF SET AT NAUGHT; AND HOW MINNIE HESCOTT SPEAKS.
"Such a day to go out on the lake!" says Mrs. Bethune, with a contemptuous curve of her lip. "Really, that old woman must be as mad as she is disagreeable."
"Well, she could hardly be more so," says Mrs. Chichester.
They are all in the oriel chamber, the windows of which look upon the lake, and now they can see Randall and Miss Gower rowing apparently in the utmost peace across it.
"She has a perfect passion for boating," says Margaret.
"So I should say. I dare say it seems to her pretty and idyllic."
"Her passions ought to be at a low ebb by this time," says Mrs. Bethune with a sneer. She has suffered many things at the old maid's hands.
"Well, let us pray Randal will bring her home in safety," says Tita, laughing.
"My dear Lady Rylton!"
"Heavens—what a prayer!" exclaims Mrs. Chichester.
"Let us say it backwards," says captain Marryatt, which is considered such a wonderful departure for him, such a stroke of wit on his part, that everyone laughs in the most encouraging fashion.
"You'll be a reigning wit yet, if you don't look out," says Mrs.
Chichester.
"As you are a reigning toast," responds he, quite fired by the late ovation.
"Oh, goodness!" says Mrs. Chichester, shrugging up her thin shoulders and casting a queer glance round her from under her brows; "let us take him away quickly, before he cuts himself with his own smartness."
"Yes. Come down to the library, it's warmer there," says Tita. She leads the way to the door, and when at it looks back over her shoulder at her husband. "Are you coming, Maurice?"
"In a moment or two. I have a few letters to write first."
"And you?" says Tita, looking at Mrs. Bethune.
"I, too, have some letters to write," returns Marian.
Her tone is quite ordinary, but to the young girl gazing at her there seems something defiant in her eyes and her smile. What is it in the smile—a sort of hateful amusement.
Tita leaves the room. She goes out and down the spiral stairs quite collectedly, to all appearance, yet she is not aware for a moment that Margaret's hand is on her arm. For the first time—the first time in all her young and most innocent life—a sin has touched her soul. She has learned to hate—she as yet does not know why—but she knows she hates Marian Bethune.
As the door closes behind her and her guests, Rylton turns on
Marian.
"Why did you say that? Why didn't you go?" says he.
His face is white as death. He cannot account to himself for the agitation that is consuming him.
"Why should I not say what is the truth?" returns she, her beautiful daring eyes full on his. "Why should I go? Does Lady Rylton demand that all her guests should be at her beck and call, morning, noon, and night?"
"She demands nothing," says Rylton.
The terrible truth of what he is saying goes home to him. What has she ever demanded, that poor child, who has given him her fortune, her life? Her little, sweet, half-pathetic face as she looked back at him from the doorway is before him. Her face is often before him now.
"She must be a fool, then," says Marian insolently. She takes a step nearer to him. "Don't let us talk of her. What is she to us?" cries she, in a low fierce tone that speaks of words held back for many days, words that have been scorching her, and must find sound at last. "Maurice! Maurice! how long is this to go on!" She takes a step nearer to him, and then, as if it is impossible to her to hold back any longer, she flings herself suddenly into his arms. "Maurice, speak to me. My love! My life!" Her words are low, dispirited, broken by little sobs.
Rylton presses her to him. It is an involuntary movement, the action of one who would succour another when in trouble. His face has lost all colour. He is indeed as white as death. He holds her. His arms are round her—round this woman he has loved so long; it is—it must be a supreme moment—and yet—
He lays his hands upon her arms, and putting her gently back from him gazes into her drenched eyes. Those eyes so dear, so lustrous. How often has he looked into them, when,
"Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again!"
"Marian," says he. His tone is tenderness itself, yet there is now a sudden strength in it that astonishes him. She had had all the strength in those old days. She had dominated him, subduing him by her beauty, her charm. The charm is there still—he knows that as he gazes into her deep eyes, but is it quite as potent? A year ago would she have been standing before him, looking at him as she is looking now with this ineffable passion in her gaze whilst he stood too? No. He would have been at her feet, her slave, her lover, to do with as she would. "Marian, is this wise?"
"Ah! one moment!" entreats she sadly. "It is so seldom I can see you alone, and this blessed chance—will you refuse it? You saw how I dared everything. How I even risked her suspicion. It was because I felt I should see—should speak with you again."
"You should consider yourself," says he in a dull tone.
He hardly understands himself. Where is the old, wild longing to be with her, when others are away, to hold her in his arms? To kiss her lips—dear willing lips?
"What do I care about myself?" returns she vehemently. Her passion has so carried her with it, that she has failed to see the new wonder in his air, the chill, the lack of warmth, the secret questioning. "Ah, Maurice, forgive me! It is so like you to think of me before yourself. And I know one must think. But will it be always so? Is there no chance, no hope—of freedom for you and me? You are rich now, and if—if——"
"Don't," says he, in a choked tone.
He almost pushes her from him, but she clings to him.
"I know—I know," says she. "It is a dishonourable thought, but thoughts will come. And you——" She catches him by both arms, and swaying her little body a little, compels his gaze to meet hers. "They come to you, too," cries she in a low tone, soft as velvet, but quick with fervour. "You, too, long for freedom. Do I not know you, Maurice? Do I not believe in you? You are mine—mine! Oh how I honour you, for your honour to her! I think you are the one good man I ever met. If I loved you before your marriage, I love you a thousand times better since. You are mine, and I am yours. And we must wait—wait—but not for long. That girl——"
He releases himself from her by a quick, almost infuriated gesture. At the very instant of his doing so the sound of footsteps coming along the corridor without can be heard. Mrs. Bethune steps quickly to a side-door, and passes noiselessly into a passage that leads her to a back staircase. As she runs along it softly, noiselessly, a great swell of delight lifts her bosom.
He loves her. He loves her still. He had not repulsed her when she had flung herself into his embrace, and this last moment when he had flung her out of it, that spoke more than all. He had heard those coming footsteps. He had thought of her—her reputation. That was dear to him. She gains her own room by a circuitous round, breathless, unseen, secure in her belief of her power over him. The insatiable vanity of the woman had prevented her from reading between the lines.
Rylton, detesting himself for the necessity for deception, has just seated himself at a writing-table, when Minnie Hescott enters the room. That astute young woman refrains from a glance round the room.
"Still writing?" says she.
She had told herself when she escaped from the others that she would do a good turn to Tita. She decided upon not caring what Rylton would think of her. Men were more easily appeased than women. She would square him later on, even if her plain speaking offended him now; and, at all events, Tita would be on her side—would acknowledge she had meant kindly towards her, and even if all failed still something would be gained. She would have "been even" with Mrs. Bethune.
Miss Hescott's vocabulary is filled with choice sayings, expressive if scarcely elegant. Beyond her dislike to Mrs. Bethune, personally—she might have conquered that—Minnie is clever—there is always the fact that Mrs. Bethune is poor, and poor people, as Minnie has learned through a hard philosophy, are never of any use at all. Mrs. Bethune, therefore, could never advance her one inch on the road to social success; whereas Tita, though she is a mere nobody in herself, and not of half as good birth as Mrs. Bethune, can be of the utmost use as a propeller.
Tita, by happy circumstances, is the wife of a real live Baronet, and Tita is her cousin. Tita has money, and is very likely to go to town every year in the season, and what more likely than that Tita should take her (Minnie) under her wing next season, present her and marry her? Delightful prospect. Her step is quite buoyant as she approaches Rylton and says:
"Still writing?"
"Yes," returns Rylton leisurely, to whom Minnie is not dear.
"I'm sorry. I wanted to say something to you," says Minnie, who has decided on adopting the unadorned style of conversation, that belongs as a rule to the young—the unsophisticated.
"If I can be of the slightest use to you," says Rylton, wheeling round on his chair, "I shall be delighted." He had knocked off the blotting paper as he turned, and now stoops to pick it up, a moment that Minnie takes to see that he has no letter half begun before him, and no letter finished either, as the rack on the side of the wall testifies. Minnie would have done well as a female detective!
"Oh no—no. On the contrary, I wanted to be of use to you."
"To me?"
"Yes. You mustn't be angry with me," says Minnie, still with the air of the ingénue full about her; "but I felt ever since the night before last that I should speak to you."
"The night before last!"
Rylton's astonishment is so immense that he can do nothing but repeat her words. And now it must be told that Minnie, who had seen that vindictive look on Mrs. Bethune's face as she went down the terrace steps on the night of Lady Warbeck's dance, and had augured ill from it for Tita and her brother, had cross-examined Tom very cleverly, and had elicited from him the fact that he had heard footsteps behind the arbour where he and somebody—he refused to give the name—had sat that night, and that he—Tom—had glanced round, and had seen and known, but that he had said nothing of it to his companion. A mutual hatred for Mrs. Bethune, born in the breast of Tom as well as in his sister, had alone compelled Tom to declare even this much. Minnie had probed and probed about his companion, as to who she was, but Tom would not speak. Yet he might as well have spoken. Minnie knew!
"Yes, that night at Lady Warbeck's. I know you will think me horrid to say what I am going to say, and really there is nothing—only—I am so fond of Tita."
"It is not horrid of you to say that," says Rylton, smiling.
"No. I know that. But that isn't all. I—am afraid Tita has an enemy in this house."
"Impossible," says Rylton.
He rises, smiling always, but as if to put a termination to the interview.
"No, but listen," says Minnie, who, now she has entered upon her plan, would be difficult to beat. "Do you remember when you and Mrs. Bethune were standing on the balcony at Warbeck Towers—that night?"
Rylton starts, but in a second collects himself.
"Yes," returns he calmly.
He feels it would be madness to deny it.
"Very well," says Minnie, "I was there too, and I went down the steps—to the garden. Your wife went down before me."
Rylton grows suddenly interested. He had seen Minnie go down those steps—but the other!
"Then?" asks he; his tone is breathless.
"Oh, yes—just then," says Minnie, "and that is what I wanted to talk to you about. You and Mrs. Bethune were on the balcony above, and Tita passed just beneath, and I saw Mrs. Bethune lean over for a second as it were—it seemed to me a most evil second, and she saw Tita—and her eyes!" Minnie pauses. "Her eyes were awful! I felt frightened for Tita."
"You mean to tell me that Mrs. Bethune saw Tita that night passing beneath the balcony?"
The memory of his bet with Marian, that strange bet, so strangely begun, comes back to him—and other things too! He loses himself a little. Once again he is back on that balcony; the lights are low, the stars are over his head. Marian is whispering to him, and all at once she grows silent. He remembers it; she takes a step forward. He remembers that too—a step as though she would have checked something, and then thought better of it.
Is this girl speaking the truth? Had Marian seen and then made her bet, and then deliberately drawn him step by step to that accursed arbour? And all so quietly—so secretly—without a thought of pity, of remorse!
No, it is not true! This girl is false—— And yet—that quick step Marian had taken; it had somehow, in some queer way, planted itself upon his memory.
Had she seen Tita go by with Hescott? She had called it a fair bet! Was it fair? Was there any truth anywhere? If she had seen them—if she had deliberately led him to spy upon them——
A very rage of anger swells up within his heart, and with it a first doubt—a first suspicion of the honour of her on whom he had set his soul! Perhaps the ground was ready for the sowing.
"Saw her? Yes, indeed," says Minnie, still with the air of childish candour. "It was because I saw her that I was so frightened about Tita. Do you know, Sir Maurice,"—most ingenuously this—"I don't think Mrs. Bethune likes Tita."
"Why should you suppose such a thing?" says Rylton. His face is dark and lowering. "Tita seems to me to be a person impossible to dislike."
"Ah, that is what I think," says Minnie. "And it made me the more surprised that Mrs. Bethune should look at her so unkindly. Well," smiling very naturally and pleasantly, "I suppose there is nothing in it. It was only my love for Tita that made me come and tell you what was troubling me."
"Why not tell Tita?"
"Ah, Tita is a little angel," says Minnie Hescott. "I might as well speak to the winds as to her. I tried to tell her, you know, and——"
"And——"
He looked up eagerly.
"And she wouldn't listen. I tell you she is an angel," says Minnie, laughing. She stops. "I suppose it is all nonsense—all my own folly; but I am so fond of Tita, that I felt terrified when I saw Mrs. Bethune look so unkindly at her on the balcony."
"You are sure you were not dreaming?" says Rylton, making an effort, and growing careless once again in his manner.
Minnie Hescott smiles too.
"I never dream," says she.
CHAPTER V.
HOW MISS GOWER GOES FOR A PLEASANT ROW UPON THE LAKE WITH HER NEPHEW; AND HOW SHE ADMIRES THE SKY AND THE WATER; AND HOW PRESENTLY FEAR FALLS ON HER; AND HOW DEATH THREATENS HER; AND HOW BY A MERE SCRATCH OF A PEN SHE REGAINS SHORE AND LIFE.
"How delicious the water looks to-day!" says Miss Gower, gazing at the still lake beneath her with a sentimental eye. The eye is under one of the biggest sun-hats in Christendom. "And the sky," continues Miss Gower, now casting the eye aloft, "is admirably arranged too. What a day for a row, and so late in the season, too!"
"'Late, late, so late!'" quotes her nephew, in a gloomy tone.
"Nonsense!" sharply; "it is not so very late, after all. And even if it were there would be no necessity for being so lugubrious over it. And permit me to add, Randal, that when you take a lady out for a row, it is in the very worst possible taste to be in low spirits."
"I can't help it," says Mr. Gower, with a groan.
"What's the matter with you?" demands his aunt.
"Ah, no matter—no matter!"
"In debt, as usual, I suppose?" grimly.
"Deeply!" with increasing gloom.
"And you expect me to help you, I suppose?"
"No. I expect nothing. I hope only for one thing," says Mr. Gower, fixing a haggard gaze upon her face.
"If it's a cheque from me," says his aunt sternly, "you will hope a long time."
"I don't think so," sadly.
"What do you mean, sir? Do you think I am a weathercock, to change with every wind? You have had your last cheque from me, Randal. Be sure of that. I shall no longer pander to your wicked ways, your terrible extravagances."
"I didn't mean that. I wished only to convey to you the thought that soon there would be no room for hope left to me."
"Well, there isn't _now!" _says Miss Gower cheerfully, "if you are alluding to me. Row on, Randal; there isn't anything like as good a view from this spot as there is from the lower end!"
"I like the middle of the lake," says Mr. Gower, in a sepulchral tone. As he speaks he draws in both oars, and leaning his arms upon them, looks straight across into her face. It is now neck or nothing, he tells himself, and decides at once it shall be neck. "Aunt," says he, in a low, soft, sad tone—a tone that reduces itself into a freezing whisper, "Are you prepared to die?"
"What!" says Miss Gower. She drops the ropes she has been holding and glares at him. "Collect yourself, boy!"
"I entreat you not to waste time over trivialities! I entreat you to answer me, and quickly."
Mr. Gower's voice is now apparently coming from his boots.
"Good gracious, Randal, what do you mean?" cries the spinster, turning very yellow. "Prepared to die! Why ask me such a question?"
"Because, dear aunt, your time has come!"
"Randal!" says Miss Gower, trying to rise, "pull me ashore. Do you hear me, sir? Pull me ashore at once. Cease your levity."
"Sit down," says her nephew sadly. "Pray sit down. It comes easier sitting than any other way, I have been told."
"What comes?" Miss Gower casts a wild glance round her. They are far from the shore, and, indeed, even if they had been nearer to it, no help could reach her, as there is not a soul to be seen, and from where they now are not a glimpse of the house is to be had. "Randal, would you murder me?" cries she.
"Oh, dear aunt, what a question!" says Mr. Gower with deep reproach.
"No, far from that. Learn that I, too, am resolved to die!"
"Oh, heavens!" cries Miss Gower, clinging to the sides of the boat. "What brought me out to-day? And to think insanity should break out, in our family here, for the first time! Unhappy youth, bethink yourself! Would you have my death upon your soul?"
Here all at once it occurs to her that she has read somewhere of the power of the human eye. She has an eye, and it is human; she will use it! She leans forward and half closes her lids (presumably to concentrate the rays within), and casts upon Gower a glance that she herself would have designated "fell." The effect is, perhaps, a little destroyed by the fact that her big hat has fallen over her left ear, and that she has put on a diabolic grin—meant to be impressive—that gives all the gold with which the dentist has supplied her, to public view. Quite a little fortune in itself! She speaks.
"How dare you!" says she, in a voice meant to be thunder, but which trembles like a jelly. "Take me back at once to the house! What madness is this!"
She is frightened when she utters the word "madness." But the present madman does not seem to care about it.
"Not madness, aunt," says he, still with unutterable sadness in look and tone, "but sober, terrible truth! Life has ceased to have charms for me. I have therefore resolved to put an end to it!"
"But what of me, Randal!" cries the spinster in an agonized tone.
"I cannot bear to die alone, dear aunt. To leave you to mourn my memory! Such misery I am resolved to spare you. We—die together!"
"Randal—Randal, I say, you are out of your mind."
She has forgotten the power of the eye—everything.
"You are right, dear aunt, I am out of my mind," says Mr. Gower, with the utmost gentleness. "I am out of my mind with misery! I have, therefore, bored a hole in the bottom of this boat, through which I"—sweetly—"am glad to see the water is swiftly coming."
He points gently to where he has removed the plug, and where the water is certainly coming into the boat.
"It is rising, I think," says he softly and very pleasantly.
Miss Gower gives a wild scream.
"Help! help!" yells she. She waves her hands and arms towards the shore, but there is no one there to succour her. "Oh, Randal, the water is coming in—it's wetting my boots. It's getting on to my petticoats! Oh, my goodness! What shall I do?"
Here she picks up most of her garments; nay, all of them, indeed, and steps on to a loose bit of wood lying in the boat.
"Don't look! don't look!" screams she. There is a flicker of something scarlet—a second flicker of something that might be described as white tuckers of white embroidery.