"Look!" says Mr. Gower reproachfully. "What do you take me for? I'd die first. Ah!"—turning modestly aside—"how I have always been maligned!" He sighs. "I'm going to die now," says he. "Go on, aunt," in a melancholy tone. "There is little time to lose. Perfect your arrangements. The water is rising. I admire you. I do, indeed. There is a certain dignity in dying nicely, and without a sound."
"I won't die!" cries Miss Gower wildly. "I won't be dignified.
Ho! there! Help! help!"
She is appealing to the shores on either side, but no help is forthcoming. She turns at last a pale glance on Randal.
"Randal!" cries she, "you say you are tired of life. But—I—I'm not!"
"This is folly," says Mr. Gower. "It is born of an hour, filled with a sudden fear. In a few moments you will be yourself again, and will know that you are glad of a chance of escaping from this hateful world that you have been for so many years reviling. Just think! Only yesterday I heard you abusing it, and now in a very few moments you will sink through the quiet waters to a rest this world has never known."
"You are wrong. It is not folly," says Miss Gower wildly. "I don't want to die. You do, you say. Die, then! But why sacrifice me? Oh, goodness gracious, Randal, the boat is sinking! I feel it. I know it is going down."
"So do I," says Gower, with an unearthly smile. "Pray, aunt, pray!"
"I shan't!" cries Miss Gower. "Oh, you wretched boy! Oh, Randal, what's the matter with the boat?"
"It's settling," says Mr. Gower tragically. "There is time for a last prayer, dear aunt."
Miss Gower gives a wild shriek.
"Forgive me, my beloved aunt," says Mr. Gower, with deep feeling. He is standing up now, and is doing something in the bottom of the boat. "Honour alone has driven me to this deed."
"Honour! Randal! Then it isn't madness. Oh, my dear boy, what is it? Oh," shrieking again to the irresponsive shore, "will no one save us?"
"You can!" says Mr. Gower. "At least you could. I fear now it is too late. I gave you a hint about that before, but you scorned my quotation. Therefore, thy death be on thy own head!"
"Oh, it can't be too late yet. You can swim, my dear good Randal. My dearest boy! I can help, you say. But how, Randal, is it—can it be that the debt you spoke of a while ago has driven you to this?"
"Ay, even to this!" says Mr. Gower in a frenzied tone.
"How much is it, dearest? Not very much, eh? Your poor old aunt, you know, is far from rich." As a fact, she hardly knows what to do with her money. "Oh, speak, my dear boy, speak!"
"It is only seven hundred pounds," says Mr. Gower in a voice full of depression. "But rather than ask you to pay it, aunt I would——" He bends downwards.
"Oh, don't!" screams Miss Gower. "For Heaven's sake don't make any more holes!"
"Why not?" says Randal. "We all can die but once!"
"But we can live for a long time yet."
"I can't," says he. "Honour calls me. Naught is left me but to die."
Here he stands up and begins to beat frantically upon the bottom of the boat, as if to make a fresh hole.
"Oh, darling boy, don't! Seven hundred pounds, is it? If that can save us, you shall have it, Randal, you shall indeed!"
"Is that the truth?" says Gower. He seats himself suddenly upon the seat opposite to her, and with a countenance not one whit the less draped in gloom, pulls from his pocket a cheque-book, a pen, and a tiny little ink case.
"I hardly know if there is yet time," says he, "but if you will sign this, I shall do my best to get back to a life that is apparently dear to you, though not"—mournfully—"to me."
Miss Gower takes the pen, plunges it into the ink, and writes her name. It is not until to-morrow that she remembers that the cheque was drawn out in every way, except for her signature.
"Ah, we may yet reach the shore alive!" says Mr. Gower, in a depressing tone, putting in the plug.
When they reach it, he gives his arm to his aunt, and, in the tenderest fashion, helps her along the short pathway that leads to the house.
In the hall quite a large number of people are assembled, and everyone runs toward them.
"Why, we thought you were lost," says Mrs. Chichester.
"Yes, so we were very nearly," says Mr. Gower, shaking his head and advancing into the hall with the languid airs of one who has just undergone a strange experience.
"But how—how?" They all crowd round him now.
"Poor aunt and I were nearly drowned," says Mr. Gower pathetically. He takes a step forward, and the water drips from his trousers. He looks back at Miss Gower. "Weren't we?" says he.
"But you are dripping!" cries Tita, "whilst Miss Gower seems quite dry. Dear Miss Gower," turning anxiously to that spinster, "I hope you are not wet."
"Ah! she was so nice, so nice," says Randal sweetly, "that she wouldn't let me do much for her. But if you will just look under her petticoats I am afraid you will——"
"Randal!" cries Miss Gower indignantly.
After this the spinster is hurried upstairs by many willing hands and is put to bed. Tita, on her way down from seeing her made comfortable, meets Randal redressed and dry and comfortable in the library.
"What does all this mean?" says she. "When you spoke this morning of taking Miss Gower out on the lake I—I did not suspect you of anything—but now——"
"Well, now, you shall hear the truth," says Gower. Whereupon he gives her a graphic account of the scene on the lake.
"I knew she'd take that fence," says he. "And I was right; there wasn't even a jib."
"I wonder you aren't ashamed of yourself," says Tita indignantly.
"Don't wonder any more. I am ashamed of myself. I'm so ashamed that I'm going at once to pay my debts."
"Oh, I like that!"
"Well, I am. I shall give my landlady five pounds out of her account."
"And the account?"
"I really think it must be about seventy or eighty by this time," says Mr. Gower thoughtfully. "However, it doesn't matter about that. She'll be awfully pleased to get the five pounds. One likes five pounds, you know, when one has lost all hope of ever getting it."
"Oh, go away!" says Tita. "You are a horrid boy!"
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.
"She has gone to bed," says Tita, reappearing in the drawing-room just as the clock strikes nine on the following evening.
"Thank goodness!" says Mrs. Chichester, sotto voce, at which
Captain Marryatt laughs.
"She is not very ill, I hope?" says Margaret.
"Oh no! A mere headache."
"Bile!" suggests Mr. Gower prettily.
Tita looks angrily at him.
"What a hideous word that is!" says Mrs. Bethune, with a sneer. "It ought to be expunged from every decent dictionary. Fortunately," with a rather insolent glance at Randal, who is so openly a friend of Tita's, "very few people use it—in civilized society."
"And I'm one of them," says the young man, with deep self-gratulation. "I like to be in a minority—so choice, you know; so distinguished! But what, really," turning to Tita, "is the matter with poor, dear old auntie?"
"A chill, I should think," returns Tita severely. Has he forgotten all about yesterday's escapade? "She seemed to me very wet when she got home last evening."
"She was soaking," says Mr. Gower. "She didn't show it much, because when the water was rising in that wretched old boat—really, you know, Maurice ought to put respectable boats on his lake—she pulled up her——"
"Randal!"
"Well, she did!" says Randal, unabashed. "Don't glare at me! I didn't pull up anything! I'd nothing to pull up, but she——" Here Mr. Gower gives way to wild mirth. "Oh, if you'd seen her!" says he—"such spindleshanks!"
At this Marryatt gets behind him, draws a silken chair-back over his face, thus mercifully putting an end to his spoken recollections.
"If I were you, Tita, I should order Randal off to bed," says Margaret, who, I regret to say, is laughing. "He has been up quite long enough for a child of his years."
"Well—but, really, what is the matter with Miss Gower?" asks somebody.
"Temper," puts in Mrs. Bethune, with a shrug.
She is leaning back in an easy-chair, feeling and looking distinctly vexed. Maurice is away. This morning he had started for town to meet his mother, and bring her back with him for a short stay at Oakdean. He had gone away directly after breakfast, telling them all he would be home by the evening if possible; but he feared the journey would be too long for his mother, and that probably she would spend the night in town. In the meantime, if anything in the shape of a murder or an elopement should occur, they might telegraph to Claridge's. He had then turned and smiled at Tita.
"I leave them all in your care," he had said.
Was there meaning in his smile—was it a little entreaty to her to be "good" during his absence?
"Well, she's in bed, any way," says Tita; "and the question is, what shall we do now?"
"Dance!" says someone.
But they have been dancing every evening, and there seems nothing very special about that.
"I tell you what," says Tita; "let us have hide-and-seek!"
"Oh, how lovely!" cries Mrs. Chichester, springing to her feet.
"What a heavenly suggestion!"
"Yes; two to hunt, and all the rest to hide in couples," says Tom
Hescott.
It has occurred to him that he would like to hunt with Tita, or else to hide with her; and it might be managed. Margaret, who happens to be looking at him, makes a slight movement forward.
"Perhaps we should disturb Miss Gower!" says she anxiously.
"Oh no!" says Mrs. Bethune quickly. "Her room is in the north wing. If we confine our game to this part of the house, she can never hear us."
"Still, it seems such a silly thing to do!" says Margaret nervously.
She distrusts Marian where Tita is concerned. Why should she advocate the game—she who is the embodiment of languor itself, to whom any sort of running about would mean discomfort?
"Dear Margaret," says Mrs. Bethune, in a low voice, but a distinct one—one quite loud enough for Colonel Neilson to hear, who is standing near Miss Knollys—"don't give way to it; don't let it conquer you—too soon!"
"It?—what?" asks Margaret unconsciously.
"Middle age!" sweetly, and softly always, but with a rapid glance at Neilson. She leans back and smiles, enjoying the quiet blush that, in spite of her, rises to Margaret's cheek. "I feel it coming," says she. "Even I feel it. But why encourage it? Why not let these children have their game, without a check from us who are so much older?"
"That is not the question," says Margaret coldly, who has now recovered herself. "My thought was that perhaps Maurice might not approve of this most harmless, if perhaps——"
"Frivolous performance. Of course, if you are going to manage
Maurice and Maurice's wife," with a strange laugh, "there is no more
to be said. But I wish you joy of the last task. And as for
Maurice," with a curl of her lips, "he is not a prig."
"Well, neither am I, I hope," says Margaret, with perfect temper.
She turns away, Colonel Neilson, who is furious with Mrs. Bethune, following her. As for the latter, she looks after Margaret until she is out of sight, and for once, perhaps, is sorry for her rudeness. She likes Margaret, but she is out of heart to-night and irritable. The absence of Rylton, the coming of her aunt, all tend to disturb her. And Rylton had gone without a word, a look even!—he who always dwelt upon her words, had studied her looks; he had not given her one farewell sign. She had waited to see if he would give one to Tita; but he had not—at least, nothing in particular—nor had Tita run out to the hall to see him off. She had blown him a little kiss from behind the urn, which he had accepted calmly, and that was all!
"Come on," says Randal excitedly; "Miss Hescott and I will hunt the lot of you! But look here, you must all keep to the parts of the house agreed on. I am not going to have my beloved aunt descending upon me in a nightcap and a wrapper!"
"Well, you must give us three minutes," says Tita, "and you mustn't stir until you hear someone cry, 'Coo-ee!' You understand now, Minnie."
"I know! I'll keep him in hand," says Miss Hescott.
"And he mustn't peep," says Mrs. Chichester.
"Good gracious! what a mean thought!" says Mr. Gower, who is already laying plans in his own mind as to how he is to discomfit the hiders, and win laurels for himself as a searcher.
"Well, off we go!" cries Mrs. Chichester, flying out of the room,
Captain Marryatt after her.
Hide-and-seek as a game leaves little to be desired. Even Margaret, who had said so much against it, enters into the spirit of it presently, and knows the throes of anguish when the hunter draws nigh her hiding-place, and the glow of joy when she has safely eluded him and flown to the den, without a clutch upon so much as the end of her garments. Indeed, all have given themselves up to the hour and its excitement, except only Marian Bethune, who, whilst entering into the game with apparently all the zest of the others, is ever listening—listening—— He had said he might come home to-night. And it is now close on eleven! In ten minutes, if at all, he will be here. If only she could so manage as to——
They are all now standing once more, laughing, talking, in the small drawing-room, preparatory to another start.
"Who'll hunt now?" asks Colonel Neilson, who has been far and away the best pursuer up to this.
"Why not Tita and Mr. Hescott?" says Marian suddenly, vivaciously. She seems to have lost all her indolence. "They have not been hunting once to-night."
"Yes; that is true," says Captain Marryatt.
"I hate hunting and I like hiding," says Tita. "Colonel Neilson, you and Margaret can be our pursuers this time. Come, Tom! come, all of you!"
Mrs. Bethune for a moment frowns, and then a quick light comes back to her eyes. Even better so—if Maurice should arrive. She had planned that they—those two, Tita and her cousin—should be together on his arrival, should he come; and now, now they will be hiding together in all probability! Oh for Maurice to come now—now!
She has evaded her own partner in the game, and, slipping away unobserved, is standing in one of the windows of the deserted library—a window that opens on the avenue—listening for the sound of horses' hoofs. In five minutes Maurice will be here, if he comes at all to-night, and as yet they have scarcely started on their game of hide-and-seek. She had heard Tita whisper to Mr. Hescott something about the picture-gallery—she had caught the word—a delightful place in semi-darkness, and with huge screens here and there. Oh, if only Tita could be found hiding behind one with Mr. Hescott!
She presses her hot cheek against the pane of the open window, and as she does so she starts. She leans out into the night, and yes—yes, beyond doubt, here is the carriage!
It is rounding the bushes at the corner, and is already in sight. She springs lightly into the hall—now deserted, as all the house party have gone up the stairs to the happy hunting grounds above. All, that is, except Margaret and Colonel Neilson, who are waiting for the "Coo-ee."
Mrs. Bethune had forgotten them, and running lightly through the hall, she opens the door, and steps into the moonlight just as Sir Maurice comes up the steps.
"You!" says he, surprised.
"Yes. I heard you coming." There is a sort of wild delight in her voice. She would have liked to have flung herself into his arms, but the men outside are busy with his portmanteau and other things; and then—his mother——
"Your mother?" asks she, peering into the darkness.
"She has not come. I had a telegram from her at Claridge's. She can't come till next week, so I came back." He pauses, and then, abruptly, "Where is Tita?"
"Tita?" Mrs. Bethune shrugs her shoulders, and a little low laugh escapes her. "She is playing hide-and-seek," says she, "with—her cousin."
"What are you saying?" exclaims Rylton, her manner far more than her words striking cold to his heart. "Do you mean to insinuate——"
"Why, nothing. I insinuate nothing; we have all been playing——"
"All?"
"Yes."
"You and——"
"And everyone else."
"Was there nothing better, then, for you all to do?"
"Many things," coldly. "But your wife started the game. She had doubtless her reasons——"
"Is that another insinuation? But at all events you cannot condemn the game, as you joined in it."
"I could not avoid joining in it. Was I to be the one to censure my hostess?"
"Certainly not," sternly. "No one is censuring her. And besides, as you all——" Then, as though the words are torn from him, "Where is she now?"
"In the picture-gallery, behind one of your favourite screens, with
Mr. Hescott."
"A graphic description," says he. He almost thrusts her aside, and steps quickly into the hall. Mrs. Bethune, leaning against the wall behind her, breaks into silent, terrible laughter.
At the foot of the stairs Margaret comes quickly to him. His face frightens her.
"Where are you going, Maurice?"
"Upstairs," returns he quite calmly.
"You are going to be angry with Tita," says Margaret suddenly. "I know it! And nothing is true. Nothing! What has Marian been saying to you? She"—with the very strangest little burst of passion, from Margaret, the quiet Margaret!—"she has been telling you lies!"
"My dear Margaret!"
"Oh, Maurice, do be led by me!—by anyone but her!" says Miss
Knollys, holding him, as he would have gone on. "Why can't you see?
Are you blind?"
"I really think I must be," returns he with a peculiar smile. "It is only just now I am beginning to open my eyes. My dear, good Margaret!" He lifts her hand from his sleeve and pats it softly. "You are too good for this world. It is you who are blind, really. It will take longer to open your eyes than even mine." He runs lightly past her up the stairs.
Margaret gives a little cry of despair. Colonel Neilson, catching her hand, draws her into a room on the left. The expected "Coo-ee" has been called twice already, but neither Margaret nor Neilson have heard it.
"Marian has done this," says Margaret, in great distress. He has her hand still in his, and now, half unconsciously, she tightens her fingers over his.
"That woman is a perfect devil!" says the Colonel savagely. "She is playing Old Harry with the régime here."
"I can't think what she means to be the end of it," says Margaret.
"She can't marry him herself, and——"
"She might, you know, if—if—she could manage to prove certain things."
"Oh no! I won't believe she is as bad as that," says Margaret with horror. "She has her good points. She has, really, though you will never believe me."
"Never!" says the Colonel stoutly. "The way she behaved to you this evening——"
"To me?" Margaret flushes quickly. The flush makes her charming. She knows quite well to what he is alluding, and she likes him for being indignant with Marian because of it—and yet, if only he hadn't alluded to it! It isn't nice to be called middle-aged—though when one is only thirty, one ought to be able to laugh at it—but when one is thirty and unmarried, somehow one never laughs at it.
"To you. Do you think I should have cared much if she had been beastly to anyone else? I tell you, Margaret, I could hardly restrain myself! I had only one great desire at the moment—that she had been a man."
"Ah! But if she had been a man, she wouldn't have said it," says
Margaret. There is a little moisture in her eyes.
"No, by Jove! of course not. I'll do my own sex that credit."
"And after all," says Margaret, "why be so angry with her? There was nothing but truth in what she said."
There is something almost pathetic in the way she says this; she does not know it, perhaps, but she is plainly longing for a denial to her own statement.
"I really think you ought to be above this sort of thing," says the Colonel, with such indignation that she is at once comforted; all the effusive words of flattery he could have used could not have been half so satisfactory as this rather rude speech.
"Well, never mind me," says she; "let us think of my dear little girl. My poor Tita! I fear—I fear——" She falters, and breaks down. "I am powerless. I can do nothing to help her; you saw how I failed with him just now. Oh, what shall I do?"
She covers her face with her hands, and tears fall through her fingers.
Neilson, as if distracted by this sad sight, lays his arm gently round her shoulder, and draws her to him.
"Margaret, my darling girl, don't cry about it, whatever you do," entreats he frantically. "Margaret, don't break my heart!"
Miss Knollys' tears cease as suddenly as though an electric battery has been directed at her.
"Nonsense! Don't be foolish! And at my age too!" says she indignantly.
She pushes him from her.
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.
Rylton, striding upstairs, makes straight for the picture-gallery. It strikes him as he passes along the corridor that leads to it that a most unearthly silence reigns elsewhere, and yet a sort of silence that with difficulty holds back the sound behind it. A strange feeling that every dark corner contains some hidden thing that could at a second's notice spring out upon him oppresses him, and, indeed, such a feeling is not altogether without justification. Many eyes look out at him at these corners as he goes by, and once the deadly silence is broken by a titter, evidently forcibly suppressed! Rylton takes no notice, however. His wrath is still so warm that he thinks of nothing but the picture-gallery, and that screen at the end of it—where she, his wife, is——
Now, there is a screen just inside the entrance to this gallery, and behind it are Minnie Hescott and Mr. Gower. Randal's eyes are sharp, but Minnie's even sharper. They both note, not only Maurice's abrupt entrance, but the expression on his face.
"Do something—quickly," says Minnie, giving Randal a little energetic push that all but overturns the screen.
"Anything! To half my kingdom; but what?" demands Mr. Gower, in a whisper very low, as befits the occasion.
"Tita is down there with Tom," says Miss Hescott, pointing to the far end of the long, dimly-lit gallery. "Do you want to see murder done?"
"Not much," says Gower. "But—how am I to prevent it?"
"Don't you know what you must do?" says she energetically. "Those idiots downstairs have forsaken us. Run up the room as quick as you can—past Sir Maurice—and pretend you are the one who is hunting. I'll go for Tom. If we make a regular bustle, Sir Maurice won't think so much about our little game as he does now. Did you see his face?"
"I saw fireworks," says Mr. Gower. Then, "I'm off," says he.
He slips out from behind the screen, and galloping up the room comes to the screen very nearly as soon as Rylton. Not soon enough, however. Rylton has turned the corner of it, and found Tita with Tom Hescott crouching behind it, whispering together, and evidently enjoying themselves immensely.
As she sees him, Tita gives a little cry. She had plainly taken him for one of the hunters, and had hoped he would pass by.
"Oh, you!" cries she. "You! Go away. Go at once! They'll find us if——"
She waves him frantically from her. He is too angry to see that there is not a vestige of embarrassment in her air.
Here Gower comes up panting.
"Caught!" cries he, making a pounce of Tita.
"Not a bit of it!" says she, springing away from him to the other side of the screen. "And you, Randal, you are not hunting. Where's Colonel Neilson? Where's Margaret?"
"They changed," says Mr. Gower mendaciously. "Miss Hescott and I are upon the track; we are the bloodhounds—we," making another grab at her soft gown, "have got you!"
"No, you haven't," says Tita, whereupon there ensues a very animated chase round and round the screen, Tita at last finding shelter—of all places—behind her husband—behind Maurice, whose face it is quite as well she cannot see.
He makes a movement as if to go, but she catches him, and unless he were to use violence he could hardly get away.
"There now!" says she, addressing Rylton indignantly. "See how you've given us away. You've told him where we were. Don't stir. You mustn't. If you do he'll catch me."
She laughs defiantly at Gower as she says this. Gower could have laughed too. There could, indeed, be hardly anything stranger than the scene as it stands—comedy and tragedy combined. The husband cold, impassive, stern, and over his shoulder the charming face of his little wife peeping—all mirth and fun and gaiety.
"You must stay," says she, giving Sir Maurice a little shake. "Why, you've betrayed our hiding-place. You've shown him where we were. It isn't fair, Randal—it isn't indeed——"
"You are caught, any way," says Gower, who would willingly bring the scene to a close.
He can see Maurice's face, she cannot. As for Tom Hescott, his sister has chased him out of the gallery long before this, with a promptitude that does her credit.
"Caught! Not I," says Tita. "Caught, indeed!"
"Certainly you're caught," says Gower, making frantic little dabs at her; but she dances away from him, letting her husband go, and rushing once more behind the unfriendly screen that has done her so bad a turn.
"Certainly I'm not," retorts she, nodding her saucy head at him. Slowly and artfully, as she speaks, she moves towards the farther end of the screen, always keeping an eye on her adversary over the top of it until she comes to the far end, when, darting like a little swallow round the corner, she flies down the long, dark gallery. Once only she turns. "Now am I caught?" cries she, laughing defiance at Gower.
"Call that fair, if you like!" says he, in high disgust.
But she is gone.
* * * * *
The house is quiet again. Gower and Marryatt are still lingering in the smoking-room, but for the rest, they have bidden each other "Good-night" and gone to their rooms.
Tita is sitting before her glass having her hair brushed, when a somewhat loud knock comes to her door. The maid opens it, and Sir Maurice walks in.
"You can go," says he to Sarah, who courtesies and withdraws.
"Oh! it is you," says Tita, springing up.
Her hair has just been brushed for the night, and round her forehead some cloudy ringlets are lying. She had thrown on her dressing-gown—a charming creation of white cashmere, almost covered with lace—without a thought of fastening it, and her young and lovely neck shows through the opening of the laces whiter than its surroundings. Her petticoat—all white lace, too, and caught here and there with tiny knots of pale pink ribbons—is naturally shorter than her gown would be, and shows the dainty little feet beneath them.
"When youth and beauty meet together,
There's worke for breath."
And surely here are youth and beauty met together! Rylton, seeing the sweet combination, draws a long breath.
She advances towards him in the friendliest way, as if delighted.
"I haven't had a word with you," says she. "Hardly one. You just told me your mother had not come, and"—she stops, and breaks into a gay little laugh—"you must forgive me, but what I said to myself was, 'Thank goodness!' " She covers her eyes with widened fingers, and peeps at him through them. "What I said to you out loud was, 'Oh, I am sorry!' Do you remember? Now, am I not a hypocrite?"
At this she takes down her hands from her eyes, and holds them out to him in the prettiest way.
He pushes them savagely from him.
"You are!" says he hoarsely; "and one of the very worst of your kind!"
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.
Her hands drop to her sides. She grows suddenly a little pale. Her eyes widen.
"What is it? What have I done now?" asks she.
The "now" has something pathetic in it.
"Done! done!" He is trying to keep down the fury that is possessing him. He had come to speak to her with a fixed determination in his heart not to lose his temper, not to let her have that advantage over him. He would be calm, judicial, but now—— What is the matter with him now? Seeing her there, so lovely and so sweet, so full of all graciousness—a very flower of beauty—a little thing—
"Light as the foam that flecks the seas,
Fitful as summer's sunset breeze"—
somehow a very rage of anger conquers him, and he feels as if he would like to take her and compel her to his will. "You have done one thing, at all events," says he. "You have forfeited my trust in you for ever."
"I have?"
"Yes, you! When I left home this morning, what was the last word I said to you? I must have been a fool indeed when I said it. I told you I left our house and our guests in your charge."
"Well?"
"Well?" He checks himself forcibly. Even now, when passion is gathering, he holds himself back. "When I came back what did I see?"
"Our house—not in flames, I hope; and our guests—enjoying themselves!" Tita has lifted her head. She allows herself a little smile. Then she turns upon him. "Ah, I told you!" says she. "You want always to find fault with me."
"I want nothing but that my wife should show some sort of dignity."
"I see! You should have asked Mrs. Bethune to see after your house—your guests!" says Tita.
She says it very lightly. Her small face has a faint smile upon it. She moves to a large lounging chair, and flings herself into it with charming abandon, crosses her lovely naked arms behind her head, and looks up at him with naughty defiance.
"Perhaps you hardly know, Tita, what you are saying," says Rylton slowly.
"Yes, I do. I do indeed. What I do not know is, what fault you have to find with me."
"Then learn it at once." His tone is stern. "I object to your playing hide-and-seek with your cousin."
"With my cousin! One would think," says Tita, getting up from her chair and staring at him as if astonished, "that Tom and I had been playing it by ourselves!"
"It seemed to me very much like that," says Rylton, his eyes white and cold.
"I know what you mean," says Tita. "And," with open contempt, "I'm sorry for you—you think Tom is in love with me! And you therefore refuse to let me have a single word with him at any time. And why? What does it matter to you, when you don't care? When you are not in love with me!" Rylton makes a slight movement. "It's a regular dog in the manger business; you don't like me, and therefore nobody else must like me. That's what it comes to! And," with a little blaze of wrath, "it is all so absurd, too! If I can't speak to my own cousin, I can't speak to anyone."
"I don't object to your speaking to your cousin," says Rylton; "you can speak to him as much as ever you like. What I object to is your making yourself particular with him—your spending whole hours with him."
"Hours! We weren't five seconds behind that screen."
"I am not thinking of the screen now; I am thinking of yesterday morning, when you went out riding with him."
"What! you have not forgotten that yet?" exclaims she, with high scorn. "Why, I thought you had forgiven, and put all that behind you."
"I have not forgotten it. I might have considered it wiser to say nothing more about it, had not your conduct of this evening——"
"Nonsense!" She interrupts him with a saucy little shrug of her shoulders. "And as for hours—it wasn't hours, any way."
"You went out with him at eight o'clock——"
"Who told you that?"
"Your maid."
"You asked Sarah?"
"Certainly I did. I had to do something before I asked my guests to sit down to breakfast without their hostess!"
"Well, I don't care who you asked," says Tita mutinously.
"You went out at eight, and you came home late for breakfast at half-past ten."
"I explained all that to you," says Tita, flinging out her hands. "Tom and I went for a race, and of course I didn't think it would take so long, and——"
"I don't suppose," coldly, "you thought at all."
"Certainly I never thought I was going to get a scolding on my return!"
"A scolding! I shouldn't dream of scolding so advanced a person as you," says Rylton—who is scolding with all his might.
"I wonder what you think you are doing now?" says Tita. She pauses and looks at him critically. He returns her gaze. His cold eyes so full of condemnation, his compressed lips that speak of anger hardly kept back, all make a picture that impresses itself upon her mind. Not, alas! in any salutary way. "Well," says she at last, with much deliberation and open, childish vindictiveness, "if you only knew how ugly you are when you look like that, you would never do it again!" She nods her head. "There!" says she.
It is so unexpected, so utterly undignified, that it takes all the dignity out of Rylton on the spot. It suddenly occurs to him that it is no good to be angry with her. What is she? A mere naughty child—or——
"You do not know who you are like!" continues she.
Rylton shakes his head; he is afraid to speak—a sudden wild desire to laugh is oppressing him.
"You are the image of Uncle George," says she, with such wicked spite that a smile parts his lips.
"Oh! you can laugh if you like," says she, "but you are, for all that. You're worse than him," her anger growing because of that smile. "I never——"
"Never what?"
"I never met such a cross cat in my life!" says Lady Rylton, turning her back on him.
"It's well to be unique in one's own line," says he grimly.
A short laugh breaks from him. How absurd she is! A regular little spitfire; yet what a pretty one. His heart is full of sadness, yet he cannot keep back that laugh. He hardly knows how he has so much mirth left in him, but the laugh sounds through the room and drives Tita to frenzy.
"Oh, you can laugh!" cries she, turning upon him. "You can laugh when—when——" She makes a frantic little gesture that flings open the loose gown she wears, and shows once again her charming neck; words seem to fail her. "Oh! I should like to shake you," says she at last.
"Would you?" said Rylton. His laughter has come to an end. "And you.
What do you think I should like to do with you?"
He looks at her.
"Oh! I know. It is not difficult to answer," with a contemptuous glance from under the long, soft lashes, beneath which his glance sinks into insignificance. "You would like to give me away!"
There is a pause.
It is on Rylton's tongue to say she has given herself away very considerably of late, but he abstains from saying so—with difficulty, however!
"No, I should not," says Rylton gravely.
"No? Is that the truth?" She bites her lips. "After all," with angry tearfulness, "I dare say it is. I believe you would rather keep me here for ever—just to be able to worry the life out of me day by day."
"You have a high opinion of me!"
Rylton is white now with rage.
"You are wrong there; I have the worst opinion of you; I think you a tyrant—a perfect Nero!"
Suddenly she lifts her pretty hands and covers her face with them.
She bursts into tears.
"And you promised you would never be unkind to me!" sobs she.
"Unkind! Good heavens!" says Rylton, distractedly. Who is unkind?
Is it he or she? Who is in fault?
"At all events you pretended to be fond of me."
"I never pretend anything," says Rylton, whose soul seems torn in twain.
"You did," cries Tita wildly. "You did." She brushes her tears aside, and looks up at him—her small, delicate face flushed—her eyes on fire! "You promised you would be kind to me."
"I promised nothing," in a dull sort of way. He feels crushed, unable to move. "It was you who arranged everything; I was to go my way, and you yours."
"It was liberal, at all events."
"And useless!" There is a prophetic note in his voice. "As you would have gone your way, whether or no."
"And you, yours!"
"I don't know about that. But your way—where does that lead? Now, look here, Tita,"—he takes a step towards her—"you are bent on following that way. But mark my words, bad will come of it."
"Nothing bad will come of my way!" says Tita distinctly.
Her eyes are fixed on his. For a full minute they regard each other silently. How much does she know? Rylton's very soul seems harassed with this question. That old story! A shock runs through him as he says those last words to himself. Is it old? That story? Marian! What is she to him now?
"As for Tom," says Tita suddenly, "I tell you distinctly I shall not give him up."
"Give him up!" The phrase grates upon his ear. "What do you mean?" demands he, his anger all aflame again.
"That I shall not insult him, or be cold to him, to please you or anybody."
"Is that your decision? Then I think it will be wise of your cousin to shorten his visit."
"Do you mean by that that you are going to be uncivil to him?"
"Yes!" shortly, and with decision.
"You will be cold to him? To Tom? To my own cousin? Maurice,
Maurice! Think what you are doing!"
She has come close up to him. Her charming face is uplifted to his.
"Think what you are doing," returns he hoarsely. He catches her hands. "If you will swear to me that he is nothing to you—nothing——"
"He is my cousin," says Tita, who hardly understands.
"Oh!" He almost flings her from him. "There—let it be as you will," says he bitterly. "It is you cousin—your house."
Tita grows very pale.
"That is ungenerous," says she.
"I have all the faults, naturally." He goes towards the door, and then suddenly comes back and flings something upon the table before her. "You once told me you were fond of rings," says he.
The case has flown open, because of his passionate throwing of it, and an exquisite diamond and pearl ring lies displayed. Tita springs to her feet.
"Oh, wait! Don't go! Oh, do stop!" cries she, in great distress. "Fancy your thinking of me when you were in town! And what a lovely, lovely ring! Oh! Maurice—I'm sorry. I am indeed!"
She holds out her hands to him. Rylton, still standing on the threshold of the door, looks back at her.
Is it an apology? An admission that she has been wrong in her dealings with her cousin? An open declaration that this night's undignified proceedings are really being repented of?
He comes slowly back to her.
"If you are sorry——" begins he.
"Oh, I am indeed. And you must let me kiss you for this darling ring. I know you hate me to kiss you—but," she flings her arms round him, "I really must do it now."
Instinctively his arms close round her. With a thoroughly astonished air, however, she wriggles herself free, and draws back from him.
"You have done your part beautifully," says she, with a little soft grimace. "You bore up wonderfully. I'll let you off next time as a consideration."
"I don't want to be let off," says Rylton.
"There, that will do," lifting her hand. "And I am sorry—remember that."
"If you are," says he, "you will promise me—not to——"
He has grown quite serious again. He hardly knows how to put it into words, and therefore hesitates; but if only she will cease from her encouragement of her cousin——
"Oh no—never. I shall never do it again," says she earnestly. "It was so—so—dreadful of me——"
"If you see it now, I wonder you didn't see it then," says Rylton, a little stiffly; this sudden conversion brings all the past back to him.
"Well, but I didn't see it then—I always talk too fast."
She hangs her pretty head.
"I don't remember what you said," says Rylton, a little at fault. "But—if you are honestly determined, Tita, to be—er—a little more circumspect in that direction in future——"
"I am—I am indeed!" cries Tita. "I'm sure I can't think how I ever said it to you! It was so rude—so horrid——"
"Said? What?" demands Rylton, with quick suspicion.
"Well, you know I did call you a cross cat!" says his wife, with a little slide glance at him, and a tremulous smile, and withal such lovely penitence, that if he had not been led astray by another thought, he would have granted her absolution for all her sins, here and hereafter, on the spot.
As it is, his wrath grows once more hot within him; so she is _not _sorry after all.
"Pshaw!" says he.
"Oh, and I called you ugly, too!" cries Tita. "Oh, how could I? But you will forgive me, won't you?" She runs after him, and lays her hand upon his arm. "You do forgive me, don't you?"
"No!" says he violently.
He almost flings her from him.
"Hypocrite!" he says to himself, as he fastens the door of his own room.
A baby's face, and the heart of a liar! She had played with him; she had fooled him; she had, at all events, refused to say she regretted her conduct with her cousin.
He goes down to the garden, feeling it impossible to sleep just now, and, coming back two hours later, finds the ring he had given her lying on his dressing-table. There is no note with it—not even a single line.
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.
"And now for the news," says the elder Lady Rylton, next morning, leaning back in her chair; she objects to the word "Dowager."
Contrary to all expectations, she had arrived to-day at half-past eight, and is now, at one o'clock, sitting in her room with Mrs. Bethune before her. She had seen Tita, of course; but only for a moment or so, as she had been in a hurry to get to her bedroom and her maid, and have the ravages that travel had laid upon her old-young face obliterated. She had, indeed, been furious (secretly) with Tita for having come out of her room to bid her welcome—such bad taste, obtruding one's self upon a person in the early hours of the morning, when one has only just left a train. But what can one expect from a plebeian!
"News?" says Marian, lifting her brows.
"Well," testily, "I suppose there is some! How is the ménage going on? How is it being managed, eh? You have a tongue, my dear—speak! I suppose you can tell me something!"
"Something! Yes."
"What does that mean?"
"A great deal," says Mrs. Bethune.
"Then you can tell me a great deal. Begin—begin!" says Lady Rylton, waving her hand in her airiest style. "I guessed as much! I always hated that girl! Well—and so—— Do go on!"
"I hardly know what you expect me to say," says Mrs. Bethune coldly, and with a hatred very badly suppressed.
"You know perfectly well," says her aunt. "I wish to know how
Maurice and his wife are getting on."
"How can I answer that?" says Marian, turning upon her like one brought to bay.
It is too bitter to her, this cross-examination; it savours of a servitude that she must either endure or—starve!
"It is quite simple," says Lady Rylton. She looks at Marian with a certain delight in her eyes—the delight that tyrants know. She has this creature at her heels, and she will drag her to her death. "I am waiting," says she. "My good girl, why don't you answer? What of Maurice and his wife?"
"They are not on good terms, I think," says Mrs. Bethune sullenly.
"No? And whose fault is that?" Lady Rylton catches the tip of Marian's gown, and draws her to her. When she has made her turn, so that she can study and gloat over the rapid changes of her face, she says, "Yours?" in a light, questioning way.
She smiles as she asks her question—a hateful smile. There is something in it almost devilish—a compelling of the woman before her to remember days that should be dead, and a secret that should have been hers alone.
"Not mine, certainly," says Marian, clearing her throat as though it is a little dry, but otherwise defying the scrutiny of the other.
"And yet you say they are not on good terms!" Lady Rylton pauses as if thinking, and then goes on. "No wonder, too," says she, with a shrug. "Two people with two such tempers!"
"Has Tita a temper?" asks Marian indifferently.
Lady Rylton regards her curiously.
"Have you not found that out yet?" asks she.
"No," coldly.
"It argues badly for you," says her aunt, with a small, malicious smile. "She has shown you none of it, then?"
"None," distinctly.
"My dear Marian, I am afraid Maurice is proving false," says Lady
Rylton, leaning back in her chair, and giving way to soft, delicate
mirth—the mirth that suits her Dresden china sort of beauty.
"Evidently our dear Tita is not afraid of you."
"You take a wrong reading of it, perhaps," says Mrs. Bethune, who is now, in spite of all her efforts to be emotionless, a little pale. "She is simply so indifferent to Maurice, that she does not care whom he likes or dislikes—with whom he spends—or wastes his time. Or with whom he——"
"Flirts?" puts in Lady Rylton, lifting her brows; there is most insolent meaning in her tone.
For the first time Mrs. Bethune loses herself; she turns upon her aunt, her eyes flashing.
"Maurice does not flirt with me," says she.
It seems horrible—horrible, that thought. Maurice—his love—it surely is hers! And to talk of it as a mere flirtation! Oh no! Her very soul seems to sink within her.
"My good child, who was speaking of you?" says Lady Rylton, with a burst of amusement. "You should control yourself, my dear Marian. To give yourself away like that is to suffer defeat at any moment. One would think you were a girl in your first season, instead of being a mature married woman. Well, and if not with you, with whom does Maurice flirt?"
"With no one." Marian has so far commanded herself as to be able now to speak collectedly. "If you will keep to the word 'flirtation,' you must think of Tita, though perhaps 'flirtation' is too mild a word to——"
"Tita!"
Tita's mother-in-law grows immediately interested.
"Yes, Tita. What I was going to say when you interrupted me was, that she refuses to take me into consideration—or anyone else for the matter of that—because——"
She stops—she feels choking; she honestly believes that Tita likes Tom Hescott far more than she likes her husband. But that the girl is guilty, even in thought guilty, she does not believe; and now she speaks—and to this woman of all others—— And yet if she does speak, ruin will probably come out of it—to Tita. She hesitates; she is lost!
"Oh, go on!" says Lady Rylton, who can be a little vulgar at times—where the soul is coarse, the manner will be coarse too.
"There is a cousin!" says Marian slowly.
"A cousin? You grow interesting!" says Lady Rylton. There is a silence for a moment, and then: "Do you mean to tell me that this girl," with a scornful intonation, "has a—Really" with a shrug, "considering her birth, one may be excused for calling it—a follower?"
"Yes."
"And so l'ingénue has awakened at last!"
"If you mean Tita," icily, "I think she is in love with her cousin; and, beyond all doubt, her cousin is in love with her."
"Birds of a feather!" says Lady Rylton. It has been plain to Marian for the past five minutes that her aunt has been keeping back her temper with some difficulty. Now it flames forth. "The insolence!" cries she, between her teeth. "That little half-bred creature! Fancy—just _fancy—_her daring to be unfaithful to my son! To marry a Rylton, and then bring a low intrigue into his family!" She turns furiously on Marian. "Where is she?"
"Tita?"
"Yes. I must see her this moment—this moment; do you hear?" The tyrannical nature of her breaks out now in a furious outburst. She would have liked to get Tita in her grasp and crush her. She rises. "I wish to speak to her."
"I should advise you to do no such foolish thing," says Mrs.
Bethune, rising too.
"You advise!—you! Who are you?" says Lady Rylton insolently. "When did I ask for your advice, or take it? Send that girl here—directly."
"Surely you forget that 'that girl' is at this moment your hostess!" says Marian Bethune, who has some sense of decency left. "This is her house; I could not deliver such a message to her."
"Then take another! Say——"
"Nor any other. She dislikes me, as I dislike her. If you wish to see her, send a message through her maid, or," a happy thought coming to her, "through Margaret; she cares for Tita as a cat might care for her kitten!"
"Poor Margaret," says Lady Rylton, with a sneer. "I fear she will always have to care for other cats' kittens!"
"Do you? I don't," says Marian, who, though she detests most people, has always a strange tenderness for Margaret.
"What do you mean?" asks Lady Rylton sharply.
"I think she will marry Colonel Neilson."
"Don't make yourself more absurd than you need be!" says her aunt contemptuously. "An old maid like that! What could Colonel Neilson see in her? I don't believe a word of that ridiculous story. Why, she is nearly as bad—worse, indeed," with a short laugh, "than a widow——like you!"
"I think she will marry him, for all that," says Mrs. Bethune calmly, with supreme self-control. She takes no notice of her insult.
"You can think as you like," says her aunt. "There, go away; I must arrange about seeing that girl."
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.
There is scarcely time for Lady Rylton to make arrangements for a private interview with her daughter-in-law, as Mrs. Bethune has scarcely left her room before that small person knocks at the door. And there is, perhaps, a slight touch of confusion on the older woman's face as Tita enters. She had not had time to prepare the little bitter barbs she had meant to fling against the girl's heart, and is now slightly taken aback.
However, Nature, the All-Mother, has been generous to Tessie in the way of venom, and after a moment or two she tells herself that she will be able to get through this interview with honour.
"My dear Tita. You! So glad! Pray come and sit down."
"I just came," says Tita smiling, but hesitating on the threshold, as if desirous of an excuse to run away again as quickly as possible, "to see if you were quite comfortable—quite happy."
"Ah, happy!" says Lady Rylton in a peculiar tone. "Do come in, Tita. It is a fad of mine—a silly one, no doubt—but I cannot bear to look at an open door. Besides, I wish to speak to you."
Tita closes the door and comes well into the room. She does not seat herself, however; she remains standing near the chimney-piece.
"About what?" asks she promptly.
"About many things." Perhaps the girl's bluntness has daunted her a little, because, as she says this, she moves uneasily, and finally changes her seat for a low lounge that brings the light on the back of her head. "I am sorry to say I have heard several unpleasant things about you of late."
Tita stares at her.
"I don't understand you," says she.
"Then it must be my unhappy task to have to explain myself," says Tessie, who has now recovered herself, and is beginning to revel in the situation. The merriest game of all, to some people, is that of hurting the feelings of others. "For one thing, I am grieved to hear that you have made my son far from happy in his married life."
A quick red dyes Tita's face. It lasts for a moment only. She controls herself admirably, and, going to a chair, pulls it a little forward in a perfectly self-possessed fashion, pausing a little over the exact position of it, after which she seats herself amongst the cushions.
"Has Maurice told you that?" asks she.
"Maurice? No!" haughtily. "In our set husbands do not complain of their wives."
"No?" says Tita. She looks amused. "Then who else could it be in 'our set' who has said nasty little things about me? Mrs. Bethune?"
"All this is beside the question," says the dowager, with a wave of her hand. "There is something else I must speak of—painful though it is to me!" She unfurls the everlasting fan, and wafts it delicately to and fro, as if to blow away from her the hideous aroma of the thing she is forced to say. "I hear you have established a—er—a far too friendly relationship with a—er—a cousin of your own."
If Tita had grown red before, she is very white now.
"I am sure you are not aware of it," says she, setting her small teeth, but speaking quite calmly, "but you are very impertinent."
"I—I?" says Lady Rylton. In all her long, tyrannical life she has met with so few people to show her defiance, that now this girl's contemptuous reply daunts her. "You forget yourself," says she, with ill-suppressed fury.
"No, indeed," says Tita, "it is because I remember myself that I spoke like that. And I think it will save time," says she quietly, "and perhaps a good deal of temper too—mine," smiling coldly, "is not good, you know—if you understand at once that I shall not allow you to say insolent things like that to me."
"You allow me!" Tessie gets up from her chair and stares at her opponent, who remains seated, looking back at her. "I see you have made up your mind to ruin my son," says she, changing her tone to one of tearful indignation. "You accepted him, you married him, but you have never made even an effort to love him."
Here Tessie sinks back in her chair and covers her eyes with her handkerchief. This is her way of telling people she is crying; it saves the rouge and the powder, and leaves the eye-lashes as black as before.
"It is not always easy to love someone who is in love with someone else," says Tita.
"Someone else! What do you mean?"
"There is one fault, at all events, that you cannot find with me," says Tita; "I have not got a bad memory. As if it were only yesterday, I remember how you enlightened me about Maurice's affection"—she would have said "love," but somehow she cannot—"for—for Mrs. Bethune."
"Pouf!" says the dowager. "That! I don't see how that can influence your conduct. You married my son, and you ought to do your duty by him. As for Marian, if you had been a good wife you should have taught him to forget all that long ago. It seems you have not." She darts this barbed arrow with much joy, and watches for the pain it ought to have caused, but watches in vain. "The fact of your remembering it all this time only shows," says Tessie vindictively, angry at the failure of her dart, "what a malicious spirit you have. You are not only malicious, but silly! People of the world never remember unpleasant things."
"Well, I am not of them; I remember," says Tita. She pauses. "People of the world seem to me to do strange things."
"On the contrary," with a sneer, "it is people who are not in society who do strange things."
"Meaning me?" flushing and frowning. Tita's temper is beginning to give way. "What have I done now?" asks she.
"That is what I have been trying to explain," says Lady Rylton, "but your temper is so frightful that I am afraid to go into anything. Temper, my dear Tita, should always be one's slave; it should never be given liberty except in one's room, with one's own maid or one's own husband."
"Or one's own mother-in-law!"
"Well, yes! Quite so!" says Tessie with a fine shrug. "If you will make me one apart, so be it. I hate scenes; but when one has a son—a precious, only child—one must make sacrifices."
"I beg you will make none for me."
"I have made one already, however. I have permitted my son to marry you."
"Lady Rylton——"
"Be silent!" says Tessie, in a low but terrible voice. "How dare you interrupt me, or speak to me at all, until I ask for a reply? You, whom I have brought from the very depths, to a decent position in society! You—whom I have raised!"
"Raised!"
"Yes—you! I tell you you owe me a debt you never can repay."
"I do indeed," says Tita, in a low voice; her small firm hands are clasped in front of her—they are tightly clenched.
"You married him for ambition," goes on Tessie, with cold hatred in her voice and eye, "and——"
"And he?" The girl has risen now, and is clinging with both hands to the arms of her chair. She is very pale.
"Pshaw!" says the dowager, laughing cruelly. "He married you for your money. What else do you think he would marry you for? Are you to learn that now?"
"No." Tita throws up her head. "That pleasure is denied you. He told me he was marrying me for my money, long before our marriage."
Lady Rylton laughs.
"What! He had the audacity?"
"The honesty!" Somehow this answer, coming straight from Tita's heart, goes to her soul, and in some queer, indescribable way soothes her—comforts her—gives her deep compensation for all the agony she has been enduring. Later on she wonders why the agony was so great! Why had she cared or suffered? Maurice and she? What are they to each other? A mere name—no more! And yet—and yet!