"A cruel compact," says Margaret slowly, but with decision. "I think this marriage should not be so much as thought of! That child! and Maurice, who cares nothing for her. Marian"—Miss Knollys turns suddenly to Marian, who has withdrawn behind the curtains, as if determined to have nothing to say further to the discussion— "Marian, come here. Say you think Maurice should not marry this silly child—this baby."

"Oh! as for me," says Mrs. Bethune, coming out from behind the curtains, her face a little pale, "what is my weight in this matter? Nothing! nothing! Let Maurice marry as he will."

"As he will!" Lady Rylton repeats her words, and, rising, comes towards her. "Why don't you answer?" says she. "We want your answer. Give it!"

"I have no answer," says Mrs. Bethune slowly. "Why should he not marry Miss Bolton?—and again, why should he? Marriage, as we have been told all our lives, is but a lottery—they should have said a mockery," with a little bitter smile. "One could have understood that."

"Then you advise Maurice to marry this girl?" asks Lady Rylton eagerly.

"Oh, no, no! I advise nothing," says Marian, with a little wave of her arms.

"But why?" demands Lady Rylton angrily.

She had depended upon Marian to support her against Margaret.

"Simply because I won't," says Mrs. Bethune, her strange eyes beginning to blaze.

"Because you daren't?" questions Lady Rylton, with a sneer.

"I don't understand you," says Marian coldly.

"Don't you?" Lady Rylton's soft, little, fair face grows diabolical. "Then let me explain." Margaret makes a movement towards her, but she waves her back. "Pray let me explain, Margaret. Our dear Marian is so intensely dull that she wants a word in season. We all know why she objects to a marriage of any sort. She made a fiasco of her own first marriage, and now hopes——"

She would have continued her cruel speech but that Mrs. Bethune, who has risen, breaks into it. She comes forward in a wild, tempestuous fashion, her eyes afire, her nostrils dilated! Her beautiful red hair seems alight as she descends upon Lady Rylton.

"And that marriage!" says she, in a suffocating tone. "Who made it? Who?" She looks like a fury. There is hatred, an almost murderous hatred, in the glance she casts at the little, languid, pretty woman before her, who looks back at her with uplifted shoulders, and an all-round air of surprise and disapprobation. "You to taunt me!" says she, in a low, condensed tone. "You, who hurried, who forced me into a marriage with a man I detested! You, who gave me to understand, when I resisted, that I had no place on this big earth except a pauper's place—a place in a workhouse!"

She stands tall, grave, magnificent, in her fury before Lady Rylton, who, in spite of the courage born of want of feeling, now shrinks from her as if affrighted.

"If you persist in going on like this," says she, pressing her smelling-bottle to her nose, "I must ask you to go away—to go at once. I hate scenes. You must go!"

"I went away once," says Mrs. Bethune, standing pale and cold before her, "at your command—I went to the home of the man you selected for me. What devil's life I led with him you may guess at. You knew him, I did not. I was seventeen then." She pauses; the breath she draws seems to rive her body in twain. "I came back——" she says presently.

"A widow?"

"A widow—thank God!"

A silence follows; something of tragedy seems to have fallen into the air—with that young lovely creature standing there, upright, passionate, her arms clasped behind her head, as the heroine of it. The sunlight from the dying day lights up the red, rich beauty of her hair, the deadly pallor of her skin. Through it all the sound of the tennis-balls from below, as they hurry to and fro through the hair, can be heard. Perhaps it reaches her. She flings herself suddenly into a chair, and bursts out laughing.

"Let us come back to common-sense," cries she. "What were we talking of? The marriage of Maurice to this little plebeian—this little female Croesus. Well, what of the argument—what?"

Her manner is a little excited.

"I, for one, object to the marriage," says Margaret distinctly. "The child is too young and too rich! She should be given a chance; she should not be coerced and drawn into a mesh, as it were, without her knowledge."

"A mesh? Do you call a marriage with my son a mesh?" asks Lady Rylton angrily. "He of one of the oldest families in England, and she a nobody!"

"There is no such thing as a nobody," says Miss Knollys calmly. "This girl has intellect, mind, a soul! She has even money! She must be considered."

"She has no birth!" says Lady Rylton. "If you are going in for Socialistic principles, Margaret, pray do not expect me to follow you. I despise folly of that sort."

"I am not a Socialist," says Margaret slowly, "and yet why cannot this child be accepted as one of ourselves? Where is the great difference? You object to her marrying your son, yet you want to marry her to your son. How do you reconcile it? Surely you are more of Socialist than I am. You would put the son of a baronet and the daughter of heaven knows who on an equality."

"Never!" says Lady Rylton. "You don't understand. She will always be just as she is, and Maurice——"

"And their children?" asks Margaret.

Here Mrs. Bethune springs to her feet.

"Good heavens! Margaret, have you not gone far enough?" says she. If her face had been pale before, it is livid now. "Why, this marriage—this marriage"—she beats her hand upon a table near her—"one would think it was a fact accomplished!"

"I was only saying," says Miss Knollys, looking with a gentle glance at Marian, "that if Maurice were to marry this girl——"

"It would be an honour to her," interrupts Lady Rylton hotly.

"It would be a degradation to him," says Margaret coldly. "He does not love her."

She might have said more, but that suddenly Marian Bethune stops her. The latter, who is leaning against the curtains of the window, breaks into a wild little laugh.

"Love—what is love?" cries she. "Oh, foolish Margaret! Do not listen to her, Tessie, do not listen."

She folds the soft silken curtains round her slender figure, and, hidden therein, still laughs aloud with a wild passion of mirth.

"It is you who are foolish," cries Margaret, with some agitation.

"I?" She lets the curtains go; they fall in a sweep behind her. She looks out at Margaret, still laughing. Her face is like ashes. "You speak too strongly," says she.

"Do you think I could speak too strongly?" asks Margaret, looking intently at her. It is a questioning glance. "You! Do you think Maurice ought to ask this poor, ignorant girl to marry him? Do you advise him to take this step?"

"Why, it appears he must take some step," says Marian. "Why not this?"

Margaret goes close to her and speaks in so low a tone that Lady Rylton cannot hear her.

"His honour, is that nothing to you?" says she.

"To me? What have I got to do with his honour?" says Mrs. Bethune, with a little expressive gesture.

"Oh, Marian!" says Miss Knollys.

She half turns away as if in disgust, but Marian follows her and catches her sleeve.

"You mean——" says she.

"Must I explain? With his heart full of you, do you think he should marry this girl?"

"Oh, his heart!" says Mrs. Bethune. "Has he a heart? Dear Margaret, don't be an enthusiast; be like everybody else. It is so much more comfortable."

"You can put it off like this," says Miss Knollys in a low tone. "It is very simple; but you should think. I have always thought you—you liked Maurice, but you were a—a friend of his. Save him from this. Don't let him marry this child."

"I don't think he will marry a child!" says Mrs. Bethune, laughing.

"You mean——"

"I mean nothing at all—nothing, really," says Marian. "But that baby! My dear Margaret, how impossible!"



CHAPTER VIII.

HOW A STORM RAGED; AND HOW, WHEN A MAN AND WOMAN MET FACE TO FACE, THE VICTORY—FOR A WONDER—WENT TO THE MAN.



There has been a second scene between Lady Rylton and Sir Maurice—this time a terrible scene. She had sent for him directly after dinner, and had almost commanded him to marry Miss Bolton. She had been very bitter in her anger, and had said strange things of Marian. Sir Maurice had come off triumphant, certainly, if greatly injured, and with his heart on fire. He had, at all events, sworn he would not marry the little Bolton girl. Those perpetual insinuations! What had his mother meant by saying that Marian was laying herself out to catch Lord Dunkerton, an old baron in the neighbourhood, with some money and a damaged reputation? That could not be true—he would not believe it. That old beast! Marian would not so much as look at him. And yet—had she not been very civil to him at that ball last week?

Coming out from his mother's boudoir, a perfect storm of fury in his heart, he finds himself face to face with Marian. Something in his face warns her. She would have gone by him with a light word or two, but, catching her by the wrist, he draws her into a room on his left.

"You have had another quarrel with your mother," says she sympathetically, ignoring the anger blazing in his eyes. "About that silly girl?"

"No. About you!"

His tone is short—almost violent.

"About me?"

She changes colour.

"Yes, you. She accuses you of encouraging that wretched old man, Dunkerton. Do you hear? Speak! Is it true?"

"This is madness!" says Marian, throwing out her hands. "How could you believe such folly? That old man! Why will you give ear to such gossip?"

"Put an end to it, then," says he savagely.

"I? How can I put an end to it?"

"By marrying me!"

He stands opposite to her, almost compelling her gaze in return. Mrs. Bethune gives it fearlessly.

"Maurice dearest, you are excited now. Your mother—she is so irritating. I know her. Marriage, as we now stand, would mean quite dreadful things. Do be reasonable!"

"You talk of reason," says he passionately. "Does love reason? No! I will hear your last word now."

"Are you condemning me, then, to death?" asks she, smiling delicately, and laying two large but delicate hands upon his arms.

He shakes her off.

"Answer me. Will you marry me, or will you not?"

"This is too sudden, Maurice!"

A little fire is kindling in her own eyes; she had objected to that last repulsion.

"Sudden! After all these months!" He pauses. "Is it to be Dunkerton or me?" asks he violently.

"Please do not bring Lord Dunkerton into this discussion," says she coldly.

"I certainly shall."

"You mean that I——"

"Have encouraged him. So I hear, at all events, and—there are things I remember."

"For the matter of that," says she, throwing up her beautiful head, "there are things I remember too! You—you dare to come here and accuse me of falsity when I have watched you all day making steady court to that wretched little plebeian, playing tennis with her all the day long, and far into the evening! No! I may have said half a dozen words to Lord Dunkerton, but you—how many half-dozen words have you said to Miss Bolton? Come, answer me that, as we seem bent on riddles."

"All this is as nothing," says Rylton. "You know, as well as I do, that Miss Bolton has not a thought of mine! I want only one thing, the assurance that you love me, and I put it at marriage. Will you link your fate with mine, low down though it is at present? If you will, Marian"—he comes closer to her and lays his hands upon her shoulders, and gazes at her with eyes full filled with honest love—"I shall work for you to the last day of my life. If you will not——"

He pauses—he looks at her—he waits. But no answer comes from her.

"Marian, take courage," says he softly—very softly. "My darling, is money everything?"

She suddenly leans back from him, and looks fair in his eyes.

"It is, it is," says she hoarsely. "I can't again go through what I suffered before. Wait, do wait—something—something will happen——"

"You refuse me?" says he, in a lifeless tone.

"Not that. Don't speak like that. Don't leave me, Maurice."

"It is our last hour," says he deliberately. "Be sure of that. If money is so much to you—if money counts so far beyond all that a man can give you of his heart and soul—then take it."

"And you," says she, "are you not seeking money, too? This girl, this little fool; your mother has led you to think of her. You will marry her!"

"I will marry you," says he coldly, "if you will marry me."

"I have told you that it is impossible"—she draws a deep breath—"at present."

"You will not trust me, then, to make a fortune for you?"

"A fortune! It takes so long to make; and," smiling, and drawing nearer to him, and suddenly flinging her arms around his neck, "are we not happy as we are?"

"No." He loosens her arms lightly, and, still holding them, looks at her. How fair she is, how desirable! "Marian," says he hoarsely, "think! It is indeed my last word. Will you trust yourself to me as things are, or will you reject me? Marian, say you will marry me as I now am—poor, ruined."

He holds her, gazing at her despairingly. She would have spoken, perhaps, but no words come to her; no words to soften her grim determination. She will not marry him poor—and yet she loves him.

Rylton, with a stifled oath, pushes her from him.

"This is the end," says he.

He goes to the door.

"Maurice!" says she faintly.

He turns.

"Well, will you marry me to-morrow?" asks he mockingly.

"No. But——"

"There is no time for 'buts,'" says he.

He opens the door and closes it sharply behind him.

Mrs. Bethune flings herself back into a chair, and presses her handkerchief to her face.

"Oh, it is nothing, nothing," says she presently. She gets up, and, standing before a glass, arranges her hair and presses her eyebrows into shape. "He gets impatient, that is all. He will never be able to live without me. As for that absurd child, Maurice would not look at her. No, I am sure of him, quite, quite sure; to-morrow he will come back to me, repentant."



CHAPTER IX.

HOW MAURICE PLACES HIS LIFE IN THE HANDS OF THE HOYDEN, AND HOW SHE TELLS HIM MANY THINGS, AND DESIRES MANY THINGS OF HIM.



Maurice had said it was his last word. He goes straight from Marian Bethune to one of the reception-rooms, called the lesser ballroom, where some dancing is going on. His face is a little white, but beyond that he betrays no emotion whatever. He feels even surprised at himself. Has he lost all feeling? Passing Randal Gower he whispers a gay word or two to him. He feels in brilliant spirits.

Tita Bolton is dancing, but when her dance comes to an end he goes to her and asks her for the next. Yes; he can have it. She dances like a little fairy, and when the waltz is at an end he goes with her, half mechanically, towards the conservatory at the end of the room.

His is calm now, quite calm; the chatter of the child has soothed him. It had been a pleasure to dance with her, to laugh when she laughed, to listen to her nonsense. As he walks with her towards the flowers, he tells himself he is not in the least unhappy, though always quite close to him, at his side, someone seems to be whispering:

"It is all over! it is all over!"

Well, so much the better. She has fooled him too long.

The conservatory at the end of the lesser ballroom leads on to the balcony outside, and at the end of that is another and larger conservatory, connected with the drawing-room. Towards this he would have led her, but Tita, in the middle of the balcony, stops short.

"But I want to dance," says she.

That far-off house, full of flowers, seems very much removed from the music.

"You have been playing tennis all day," says Rylton. "You must be tired. It is bad for you to fatigue yourself so much. You have had enough dancing for awhile. Come and sit with me. I, too, am tired."

"Well, for awhile," says she reluctantly.

It is with evident regret that she takes every step that leads her away from the dancing-room.

The larger conservatory is but dimly lit with lamps covered with pale pink shades. The soft musical tinkling of a fountain, hidden somewhere amongst the flowering shrubs, adds a delicious sense of coolness to the air. The delicate perfume of heliotrope mingles with the breath of the roses, yellow and red and amber, that, standing in their pots, nod their heads drowsily. The begonias, too, seem half dead with sleep. The drawing-room beyond is deserted.

"Now, is not this worth a moment's contemplation?" says Rylton, pressing her gently into a deep lounging chair that seems to swallow up her little figure. "It has its own charm, hasn't it?"

He has flung himself into another chair beside her, and is beginning to wonder if he might have a cigarette. He might almost have believed himself content, but for that hateful monotonous voice at his ear.

"Oh, it is pretty," says Tita, glancing round her. "It is lovely. It reminds me of Oakdean."

"Oakdean?"

"My old home," says she softly—"where I lived with my father."

"Ah, tell me something of your life," says Rylton kindly.

No idea of making himself charming to her is in his thoughts. He has, indeed, but one idea, and that is to encourage her to talk, so that he himself may enjoy the bliss of silence.

"There is nothing," says she quickly. "It has been a stupid life. I was very happy at Oakdean, when," hesitating, "papa was alive; but now I have to live at Rickfort, with Uncle George, and," simply, "I'm not happy."

"What's the matter with Rickfort?"

"Nothing. It's Uncle George that there is something the matter with. Rickfort is my house, too, but I hate it; it is so gloomy. I'm sure," with a shrug of her shoulders, "Uncle George might have it, and welcome, if only he wouldn't ask me to live there with him."

"Uncle George seems to make a poor show," says Rylton.

"He's horrid!" says Miss Bolton, without reservation. "He's a beast! He hates me, and I hate him."

"Oh, no!" says Rylton, roused a little.

The child's face is so earnest. He feels a little amused, and somewhat surprised. She seems the last person in the world capable of hatred.

"Yes, I do," says she, nodding her delightful little head, "and he knows it. People say a lot about family resemblances, but it seems wicked to think Uncle George is papa's brother. For my part," recklessly, "I don't believe it."

"Perhaps he's a changeling," says Sir Maurice.

"Oh, don't be silly," says Miss Bolton. "Now, listen to this." She leans forward, her elbows on her knees, her eyes glistening with wrath. "I had a terrier, a lovely one, and she had six puppies, and, would you believe it! he drowned every one of them—said they were ill-bred, or something. And they weren't, they couldn't have been; they were perfectly beautiful, and my darling Scrub fretted herself nearly to death after them. I begged almost on my knees that he would leave her one, and he wouldn't." Her eyes are now full of tears. "He is a beast!" says she. This last word seems almost comic, coming from her pretty childish lips.

"Well, but you see," says Rylton, "some men pride themselves on the pedigree of their dogs, and perhaps your uncle——"

"Oh, if you are going to defend him!" says she, rising with a stiff little air.

"I'm not—I'm not, indeed," says Rylton. "Nothing could excuse his refusing you that one puppy. But in other ways he is not unkind to you?"

"Yes, he is; he won't let me go anywhere."

"He has let you come here."

"Just because your mother is Lady Rylton!" says the girl, with infinite scorn. She looks straight at him. "My uncle is ashamed because we are nobodies—because his father earned his money by trade. He hates everyone because of that. My father," proudly, "was above it all."

"I think I should like to have known your father," says Rylton, admiring the pride in her gray eyes.

"It would have done you good," returns she thoughtfully. She pauses, as if still thinking, and then, "As for me, I have not been good at all since I lost him."

"One can see that," says Rylton. "Crime sits rampant in your eyes."

At this she laughs too; but presently she stops short, and turns to him.

"It is all very well for you to laugh!" says she ruefully. "You have not to go home next week to live again with Uncle George!"

"I begin to hate Uncle George!" says Rylton. "You see how you are demoralizing me! But, surely, if you cannot live in peace with him, there must be others—other relations—who would be glad to chaperone you!"

"No," says the girl, shaking her head sadly. "For one thing, I have no relations—at least, none who could look after me; and, for another, by my father's will, I must stay with Uncle George until my marriage."

"Until your marriage!" Sir Maurice laughs. "Forgive me! I should not have laughed," says he, "especially as your emancipation seems a long way off."

Really, looking at her in the subdued lights of those pink lamps, she seems a mere baby.

"I don't see why it should be so far off," says Tita, evidently affronted. "Lots of girls get married at seventeen; I've heard of people who were married at sixteen! But they must have been fools. No? I don't want to be married, though, if I did, I should be able to get rid of Uncle George. But what I should like to do would be to run away!"

"Where?" asks Rylton, rather abominably, it must be confessed.

"Oh, I don't know," confusedly. "I haven't thought it out."

"Well, don't," says he kindly.

"That is what everyone would say," impatiently. "In the meantime, I cannot go on living with my uncle. No; I can't." She leans back, and, flinging her arms behind her neck, looks with a little laughing pout at Rylton. "Some day I shall do something dreadful," says she.

She is charming, posing so. Rylton looks at her. How pretty she is! How guileless! How far removed from worldly considerations! His affair with Marian is at an end. Never to be renewed! That is settled. He had given her a last word, and she had spurned it.

After all, why should he not marry this charming child? The marriage would please his mother, and restore the old name to something of its ancient grandeur. And as for himself—why, it matters nothing to him.

"It is all over. It is all over."

Again that teasing voice in his ear.

Well, if it is all over, so much to the good. But as for this girl sitting near him, if he must take her to be his wife, it shall be at least in good faith. She shall know all. Probably she will refuse him. For one thing, because he is ten years older than she is—a century in the eyes of a child of seventeen; and, for another, because she may not like him at all. For all he knows, she may hate him as she hates her uncle George, in certain ways.

However it is, he will tell her that he has no love for her. It shall be all fair and above-board between them. He can give her a title. She can give him money, without which the title would be useless.

On the instant he makes up his mind to risk the proposal. In all probability she will say "No" to it. But if not—if she accepts him—he swears to himself he will be true to her.

"The most dreadful thing you could do," says he, "would be to marry a man who did not love you."

"Eh?" says she.

She seems surprised.

"To marry a man, then, with whom you weren't in love!"

"Oh, that, that's nothing," says she grandly. "I'd do a great deal more than that to get away from my uncle. But"—sorrowfully— "nobody's asked me."

She says it so innocently, so sweetly, that Rylton's heart grows cold within him. To ask her! To tempt this child——

"But," says he, looking away from her religiously, "would you marry a man who was not in love with you?"

"Not in love with me?"

"No. Not actually in love, but who admired—liked you?"

"But a man who wasn't in love with me wouldn't want to marry me," says Tita. "At least, that's what the novels say."

"He might," says Rylton deliberately. He leans forward. "Will you marry me?"

He almost laughs aloud as he makes his extraordinary proposal. If it fails, as it certainly must, he will throw up the remnant of his life here and go abroad. And, at all events, he can so far satisfy his mother as to assure her that he had placed his all at this little heiress's feet.

"You! You!" says she.

She stares at him.

"Even me! You said a moment ago that no man would ask you to marry him for any reason less than love; but I—I am not in love with you, and yet I ask you to marry me."

He pauses here, shocked at his own words, his brutal audacity.

"But why?" asks the girl slowly.

She is looking at him, deep inquiry and wonder in her great gray eyes.

"Because I am poor and you are rich," says he honestly. "Your money could redeem this old place, and I could give you a title—a small thing, no doubt."

"You could take me away from my uncle," says the girl thoughtfully. There is silence for awhile, and then—"I should be able to do as I liked," says she, as if communing with herself.

"That certainly," says Rylton, who feels as if all things should be allowed her at this juncture, considering how little it is in his power to allow.

"And you?" She looks up at him. "You could do as you liked, too!"

"Thank you!" says Rylton.

He smiles in spite of himself, but the girl continues very grave.

"You say you have nothing," says she, "but this house?"

"It is useless arguing about it," returns Rylton; "this house will go shortly with all the rest. For myself, I don't care much really, but my mother—she would feel it. That's why I say you can help us, if you will."

"I should like to help you!" says Tita, still very slowly.

She lays a stress upon the word "you."

"Well, will you trust yourself to me?"

"Trust myself!"

"Will you marry me? Consider how it is. I lay it all before you. I am not in love with you, and I have not a penny in the world. Literally, I have nothing."

"You have a mother," says Tita. "I," pathetically, "have nothing." It is plain to him that she had set great store by her dead father. "I have nothing, really. But you say this house must go?"

"Not if you will help me to keep it."

"I should not like to live here," says Tita, with some haste. And then in a low tone, "Your mother would live here?"

"Yes, certainly."

"Well, and I—I have been very unhappy with Uncle George," says she. Her air is so nave that Rylton bursts out laughing. After all, the last thing he would desire either would be to live here with his mother.

"You would not have to make this place your home," says he. It had never been a home to him since his father's death. "You shall command me in this matter; I shall live at Oakdean if that is your desire." Indeed, it seems to him it would be a great relief to get away from the Hall, from his mother, from——

"To live at Oakdean!" The girl's face grows transfigured. She stares at him as if hardly seeing him, however; her thoughts have carried her back to past delights in which he has had no part. "To live there again!" She sighs quickly, excitedly. "You haven't seen it, you don't know," says she. "But it is the most beautiful place on earth." She puts out her hand and lays it on his. "If I marry you, will you promise that I shall live at Oakdean?"

"If you will do me the honour to marry me, you shall live just where you like," returns he. Indeed, to him it is now a matter of indifference where life may be dragged out to its weary end. But Tita fails to see the apathy in his manner.

"Then, it is settled," cries she joyfully. She clasps her hands. "Oh, how good of you!" says she. "What a blessing I came here! Fancy getting rid of Uncle George and getting back to Oakdean all in one stroke!" Suddenly she looks round at him; there is almost terror in her gaze. "You are sure you mean it?" says she.

"I mean it. But, Tita,"—he takes one of her hands and holds it between his own, and regards her with some anxiety—"have you thought it all out? I have told you the truth, you know. I have told you that I am not in love with you."

"In love with me! I'm sure I hope not," says Tita with a disgusted air. "Don't put yourself out about that. I should hate you if you were in love with me. Fancy a person following me about always, and saying silly things to me, and perhaps wanting to kiss me! You," anxiously looking at him with searching eyes, "you wouldn't want to kiss me, would you?"

She looks so pretty as she puts this startling question, that Rylton loses himself a little.

"I don't know."

"Then you had better know, and at once," says Miss Bolton, with decision.

The whole affair seems to be trembling in the balance. A sense of amusement has most unfortunately seized on Rylton, and is shaking him to his very heart's core. To marry a girl who even objected to a kiss! It sounds like a French play. He subdues his untimely mirth by an effort, and says gravely, "How can I promise you that I shall never want to kiss you? I may grow very fond of you in time, and you—but, of course, that is far more improbable—may grow fond of me."

"Even so," begins she hotly. She pauses, however, as if some thought had struck her. "Well, let it stay so," says she. "If ever I do grow to like you as much as you fancy, why, then you may kiss me—sometimes."

"That's a bargain," says he.

Again he suppresses a desire to laugh. It seems to him that she is intensely interesting in some way.

"In the meantime," says he, with quite a polite air, "may I not kiss you now?"

"No!" says she. It is the lightest monosyllable, but fraught with much energy. She tilts the shoulder nearest to him, and peeps at him over it, with a half-merry little air.

She sets Rylton's mind at work. Is she only a silly charming child, or an embryo flirt of the first water? Whatever she is, at all events, she is very new, very fresh—an innovation! He continues to look at her.

"Really no?" questions he.

She nods her head.

"And yet you have said 'Yes' to everything else?"

She nods her head again. She nods it even twice.

"Yes, I shall marry you," says she.

"I may tell my mother?"

Miss Bolton sits up. A little troubled expression grows within her eyes.

"Oh! must you?" cried she. "She will be mad. She won't let you marry me—I know she won't. She—hates me."

"My dear child, why?" Rylton's tone is shocked. The very truth in her declaration makes it the more shocking. And how does she know? His mother has been sweetness itself to her before the curtain.

"Never mind, I know," says Tita. "I feel things. They come to me. I don't blame her. I'm sure I'm often horrid. I know that, when I look at other people. When I look at——"

She pauses.

"Look at whom?"

"At your cousin."

"My cousin!"

"Yes! You love her, don't you?"

"Love her!" He has turned suddenly as pale as death. "What do you mean?" asks he in a low voice.

"I love her, any way," says Tita. "I think Miss Knollys is the nicest person in all the world."

"Oh, Margaret?" says he. He says it involuntarily. The relief is so great that it compels him to give himself away.

"Why, who else?" says Tita. "Who did you think I meant?"

"Who could I think?" says he, recovering. "Even now I am surprised. Margaret, though very superior in most ways, is not always beloved."

"But you love her?"

"Oh yes, I do!"

"I am glad of that," says Tita. "Because I love her more than anyone I know. And I have been thinking"—she looks at him quickly—"I have been thinking that"—nervously—"that when I marry you, Miss Knollys will be my cousin, too, in a sort of way, and that perhaps she will let me call her by her name. Do you," anxiously, "think she will?"

"I know she will." His answer is terse. He has barely yet recovered from the shock she had innocently given him.

"And your mother?" asks she, going back to the first question. "Do you think she will like you to marry me? Oh, do persuade her!"

"Make no mistake about my mother, Tita; she will receive you with open arms." He feels as if he were lying when he says this, yet is it not the truth? "She will be glad to receive you as a daughter."

"Will she? She doesn't look like it," says Tita, "not sometimes when I—look back at her!"

She rises, and makes a step towards the door of the conservatory that will lead her to the balcony, and so back to the dancing-room.

"Tita? Bear with my mother," says he gently, and in a low voice.

The girl turns to him, her whole young, generous heart in her voice. "Oh, I shall! I shall indeed!"

They traverse the long balcony in silence. The moon is flooding it with brilliant light. Here and there are groups in twos or threes—the twos are most popular. Just as they come to the entrance to the dancing-room, an alcove now deserted, Tita stops short and looks at him.

"You have promised to be kind to me!" says she, her voice trembling. For the first time the solemnity of this marriage arrangement of hers seems to have dawned upon her.

"I have," says Rylton earnestly.

"I am often very troublesome," says the poor child. "Uncle George says so. But you——" She hesitates, looking at him always. Her gaze is intense. He feels as if she is watching him, taking his mental temperature, as it were.

"Be kind to me in turn, Tita," says he. "Don't mistrust me. Try to know that I like you."

"I wish," says she, a little forlornly, "that you could be fond of me. I'm—you don't know it—nobody knows it—but I'm often very lonely. I've been lonely all the time since pappy died."

"You shall never be lonely again," says Rylton. "I'm your friend from this hour—your friend for ever." He is touched to his very heart by her words and her small face. He stoops over her, and in spite of all that has been said against kissing, presses his lips to her soft cheek!

"Ah! You are kind. I do like you," says she, gazing at him with earnest eyes. "Yes, I know I shall be happy with you." She is evidently comparing him most favourably with Uncle George. "And you will be fond of me, won't you? You will be good to me?"

"I will, so help me God!" says Rylton very solemnly.

To her it seems an oath of allegiance—kindly, tender, reassuring. To him it is a solemn abjuration of all his devotion to—the other.



CHAPTER X.

HOW MAURICE GIVES WAY TO TEMPER, AND HOW LADY RYLTON PLANTS A SHAFT OR TWO. AND HOW MARGARET SAYS A WORD IN SEASON, AND HOW IN RETURN COLONEL NEILSON SAYS A WORD TO HER.



Maurice goes straight to his mother's room, not from a sense of duty, but a desire to clinch the matter finally. Lady Rylton would be the last person to permit backsliding where her own interests were concerned, and perhaps—— He does not exactly say it to himself in so many words, but he feels a certain dread of the moment when he shall be alone—a prey to thought. What if he should regret the move he had taken, to the extent of wanting it undone? His step grows quicker as he approaches his mother's room. His interview with her is of the slightest—a bare declaration of the fact. She would have fallen upon his neck in the exuberance of her triumph and her satisfaction, but he coldly repulses her.

"My dear mother, why such enthusiasm over my engagement to a girl of whom you distinctly disapprove?"

"Disapprove! Of Tita! Dearest Maurice, what an idea!"

"We won't go into it," says Maurice, with a gesture of ill-suppressed disgust. "I know your opinion of her. I beg to say, however, I do not share it. Badly as I shall come out of this transaction, I should like you to remember that I both admire and like Miss Bolton."

"I know, dearest boy, I know," says Lady Rylton, in the tone one would use to an acute sufferer. "It is very noble of you, Maurice. It is a sacrifice. I felt sometimes I had no right to demand——"

"The sacrifice is hers," says he shortly, gloomily.

His eyes are bent upon the ground.

"Hers! That little upst—— that poor unsophisticated child! My dear Maurice, why run away with things? Of course she was charmed, enchanted, flattered, in that you admired her so much as to ask her to be your wife."

"She was not," says Maurice flatly.

"Exactly what I should have expected from such a——" Lady Rylton checks herself in her fury. "From such an innocent creature," substitutes she. "But for all that, I shall consider how great is the sacrifice you have made, Maurice—how you have given up the happiness of your life to preserve the old name."

"I am beginning to get tired of the old name," says Maurice slowly. "Its nobility seems to me to be on the decline."

"Oh, not now," says Lady Rylton, who does not understand him, who could not, if she tried, fathom the depths of self-contempt that he endures, when he thinks of this evening's work, of his permitting this child to marry him, and give him her wealth—for nothing—nothing! What can he give her in return? An old name. She had not seemed to care for that—to know the importance of it. "Now it will rise again, and at all events, Maurice, you have saved the old home!"

"True!" says he. "For you."

"For me? Oh, dearest boy, what can you mean?"

"Yes, for you only. She refuses to live here with you."

The very disquietude of his soul has driven him into this mad avowal. Looking at her with dull eyes and lowering brows, he tells himself—in this, one of the saddest hours of his life—that he hates the mother who bore him. Her delight in his engagement is odious to him; it seems to fan his rage against her. What has she ever done for him, what sympathy has she ever shown? She has embittered the life of the woman he loves; she has insulted the woman he is to marry. What consideration does she deserve at his hands?

"She refuses to live here with me?" says Lady Rylton. "And why, may I ask?"

Her small, pale face flushes angrily.

"I don't know, really; you should be the one to know."

His tone is so cold, so uncompromising, that she decides on coming to terms for the present. Afterwards, when that girl has married him, she will remember to some purpose, so far as she is concerned. There is a little tale that she can tell her.

"Dearest Maurice, how could I? I always fancied I treated her with the utmost kindness. But why should we worry about it? No doubt it was a mere girlish fancy, a distaste," playfully, "to the terrible mamma-in-law of fiction. Such monsters do not exist now. She will learn that by degrees. You will bring her to stay with me for awhile on your return from your honeymoon?"

"If you desire it."

"Of course I shall desire it; then she and I will become great friends. You are going? My love to your little fiance, and say I am so charmed, so delighted! And tell her I should like her to come to me for a quiet little talk in the morning about eleven; I shall have no one with me then but Marian."

"She shall not come to you, then," says Rylton. A dark red mounts to his brow. What a diabolical thought—to receive those two together! "Do you hear?" says he imperiously.

"Good heavens, yes!" says his mother, pretending prettily to cower before him. "What a tone! What a look! What have I done, then?"

"What devilish cruelty is in your heart I don't know," says he, his passion carrying him beyond all bounds; "but understand at once, I will not have Tita tortured."

Lady Rylton leans back in her chair and laughs.

"You would have made a good tragic actor," she says. "If this little plebeian throws you over after all, you should think of it. You remind me of your father when he was in his most amusing moods. There, go; kiss Tita for me." Rylton turns to the door, his very soul on fire with rage. Just as he goes out, she calls to him, with a little soft musical ripple of laughter. "By-the-bye, take care you do not kiss Marian instead," says she.



* * * * * *



He meets Margaret on his way downstairs. He had walked up and down the passages above, in the dim light, with a view to bringing himself back into a state of control, with so much success that, when he comes face to face with Miss Knollys, he seems to her as self-possessed as usual. He had seen her talking to Tita in the hall below, in a somewhat earnest manner, and had taken it for granted that Tita had told her of their engagement.

"Well," says he, stopping her.

"Well?" returns she, smiling.

"You have heard?"

"Of what? Anything new?" curiously. The very best women are curious.

"Of my engagement; surely she has told you?"

"She? Who? Marian!"

"No—no!"

Then the truth comes to her.

"Tita?" she says faintly.

He nods his head; words fail him.

"She told me nothing," says Margaret, recovering herself.

"Yet I saw you talking together just now."

"You did indeed."

"And she said nothing?"

"Nothing."

"Then what were you talking about?"

"I was advising her to marry no man who did not love her."

"What an extraordinary piece of advice to give to a girl who, as far as you knew, was not going to be married at all! What led up to it?"

"Not Tita, certainly. It was I who led up to it."

"And why?"

"Do you think I have been blind and deaf, Maurice, during the past fortnight?" Miss Knollys almost compels his gaze. "If you are going to marry this young girl, this child, I hope, I"—almost passionately—"hope it will be for her good and yours."

"Margaret! What a tone! You mean something!"

"I do." Margaret's strong face lights up with honest anxiety. "I mean this!" She takes a step nearer him. "How is it between you and Marian?"

"Why, how has it been?" asks he, with affected lightness; but a change passes over his face.

"Oh, Maurice, take care!" says his cousin, laying her hand upon his arm.

"Well, if you must have it," says he, frowning, "all that is over."

He breaks away from her, frowning still.

It is quite plain to her that she has offended him. But even as he leaves her he looks back; a sort of grim smile illumines his face.

"I note that in your 'hoping' you have put Miss Bolton before me; that is as it should be. She is a sworn admirer of yours. Did you know it?"

"No. But she appeals to me—I don't know why—but I feel that I could love her," says Margaret, in short sentences as if thinking, and as if a little surprised at herself. Suddenly she breaks into a more immediate feeling. "Oh, Maurice, love her too! Try, try to love her; she is so young. Her very soul is in your keeping. Be good to her; she is a mere baby. If you neglect her, forget her——"

Maurice casts a queer look at her.

"'Is thy servant a dog?'" quotes he.



* * * * *



Margaret moves slowly away. She had, when Maurice met her, been bent on going upstairs to her books and her thoughts; but now she turns backward. She feels as if she wants something. Perhaps she finds it—unconsciously, however—when she stops before a tall, soldierly-looking man, who, seeing her, comes to meet her with evident pleasure.

"You look disturbed!" says Colonel Neilson.

He is, as I have said, a tall man, with a kindly face, and deep eyes of a dark colour. There is nothing very special about him; he is not, strictly speaking, handsome, yet he was, last season, one of the most popular men in town.

"Yes, and no," says Margaret. "My cousin has confided a sort of secret to me."

"A secret! I may not hear it, then?"

"Well, I don't know. It is, as I have hinted, a sort of secret, not very much to be kept."

"I may hear it, then?"

"I suppose so. At all events," with a laugh, soft and silk, "I should like you to hear it, because I want your opinion. You will give it?"

"You know I will give you everything I have," says he.

"Oh no! you must not talk like that," says she. "Put all that on one side, and let me have you for my friend. I want one now—not for myself, but for another; for two others, in fact. You know how fond I am of Maurice, and lately I have contracted quite a romantic, for me"—she pauses and laughs—"well, quite a romantic affection, for a little girl staying here with my aunt. You know who I mean—Tita Bolton."

"A charming child?"

"I am so glad you like her! But, as you say, she is a mere child; and Maurice has proposed to her, and she has accepted him, and I am curious about her future."

"Hers only?"

"Oh no! His, too!"

"It will be a risk, certainly," says Colonel Neilson. "I thought—I imagined—I had heard that Rylton was engaged to his cousin, Mrs. Bethune—a very beautiful woman."

"How can you think so!" says Margaret. "Well, yes, no doubt she is beautiful, but I should not like Maurice to marry her."

"You would prefer his marrying the 'charming child'?"

"I don't know what I prefer," says Miss Knollys. She casts a reproachful glance at him that certainly is not deserved. Has he not served her late and early for the past six years? "I thought you would help me!"

"You know I shall do that, however things may turn."

"Well, help me here. What ought Maurice to do? I am so dreadfully unhappy about this projected marriage of his."

"It seems to me you are unhappy about all things except those that concern yourself. Your own future seems a blank to you; is it not so?"

Miss Knollys makes a little movement.

"Why should it be always a blank?" says he. "Margaret," in a low tone, "let me fill it!"

Margaret rises impatiently.

"After all, you can't help me," says she, turning abruptly away.

"Margaret, hear me!"

"No, no, no! What is the use?"

She goes slowly down the hall.



CHAPTER XI.

HOW THE LAST DAY COMES, AND HOW SOME STRANGE WORDS ARE SAID BEFORE THE MARRIAGE IS ACCOMPLISHED; AND HOW MARION BETHUNE SCORES A POINT.



The dawn of the wedding-day has broken. Everything has been hurried over as much as possible; with no unseemly haste—just in the most ordinary, kindly way—however. But Lady Rylton's hand was at the helm, and she guided her barque to a safe anchor with all speed. She had kept Tita with her—under her eye, as it were—until the final accomplishment should have taken place.

The wedding, she declared, should be from her house, from The Place, seeing that the poor darling child was motherless! She made herself all things to Tita in those days, although great anger stung her within. She had been bitterly incensed by Maurice's avowal that Tita had declined to live with her at The Place, but she had been mightily pleased, for all that, in the thought that therefore The Place would be left to her without a division of authority.

Sir Maurice has gone to Rickfort to interview "Uncle George" of unpleasant fame. He had found him a rather strange-looking man, but not so impossible as Tita had led him to imagine. He made no objection of any sort to the marriage, and, indeed, through his cold exterior Maurice could see that the merchant blood in him was flattered at his niece's alliance with some of the oldest blood in England.

He was quite reasonable, too, about his niece's fortune. So much was to go to redeeming the more immediate debts on the property; for the rest, Sir Maurice declared he would have nothing to do with it. The money should be settled on his wife entirely. It was hers; he had no claim to it. He would have something off his own property, a small thing, but sufficient for his requirements. He gave his word to quit the turf finally. He had no desire to amuse himself in that sort of way again—or, indeed, in other ways. He wished to settle down, etc. It occurred to old Bolton, who was a shrewd man, that Sir Maurice looked like one whose interest in life and its joys was at an end. Still, he was a baronet, and of very ancient lineage, and it was a triumph for the Boltons. He refused to acknowledge to himself that he was sacrificing his niece. It was not a sacrifice; it was an honour!

For one thing the old man stipulated, or rather bargained. He had managed his niece's affairs so far with great success; some of her money was in land, in Oakdean and Rickfort, for example; the rest he had invested securely, as he hoped and believed. If he might still be acknowledged as her guardian?

Sir Maurice, of course, gave in. Thoroughly ashamed and humiliated by the whole affair—he, the man, without a penny; she, the woman, possessed of all things in that line—it gave him genuine relief to tell her uncle that he would be actually thankful if he would still continue to be the head of her affairs, and manage her money matters, as he had managed them hitherto—and always with such happy results.

Mr. Bolton had bowed to him over his spectacles; his curious gray eyes caught a little addition of light, as it were. He was honoured by Sir Maurice's confidence, but, if he might suggest it, he thought that whilst Sir Maurice's affairs were righting themselves, he ought to allow himself a certain income out of his wife's money.

But Rylton would not hear of it. He had, as he had already told Mr. Bolton, a small yearly income that he might with honesty call his own. It was specially small on account of his mother's jointure having to be paid out of the estate also. Of course he could not curtail that, nor would he desire to do so. And, seeing how deeply dipped the estates were, he could, of course, only take as much as he could reasonably desire. With his future wife's help, however, he felt the old property could be brought back in time to its former splendid position—to a position that he would be proud to see her the mistress of, etc.

There is always a good deal of humbug talked on these occasions. Maurice, perhaps, talked very considerably less than most people; and, indeed, when he said he would gladly see her mistress of all he ought to have, he spoke something very near the truth. He was grateful to her beyond all words, and he had sworn to himself to be loyal to her.

Lady Rylton was distinctly annoyed when she heard of the arrangements come to. She would have liked Maurice to have had entire control of his wife's fortune. And, oddly enough, Tita was annoyed too.

"Oh, I wish you had broken away entirely from Uncle George," she had said to Maurice, when he had come down on one of his flying visits to The Place between his engagement and his marriage.

"But why? He seemed to me quite a nice old gentleman."

She could not explain why, however, but only clung to her belief that they would be better without Uncle George. She hated him. That seemed to be the sum total of her objection.

Maurice had left The Place the morning after his engagement. He had had time to have an interview with his little fiance, who seemed surprised that he wanted it in private, and who, to his great relief, insisted on making very cool adieux to him in the public hall, where everyone was passing to and fro, and where Mr. Gower was making a nuisance of himself by playing ball against the library door. Naturally it was impossible to have an affecting parting there.

Marian had not come down to breakfast. And Sir Maurice was conscious of a passionate sense of relief. She had heard. He knew—he felt that! His mother would not spare her; and even if she had not cared as he had cared, still, unless she was the greatest fiend on earth, she must have had some small love for him—how terribly small he knows! He assures himself of that all day long in the living torture he is enduring, as if by it he can reconcile himself to his marriage with this child, whose money is so hateful, and whose presence is such a bore.

There are a few things, however, always to be thankful for. Tita, in the frankest fashion in all their interviews, has told him that she doesn't care a fig about him, that she was marrying him only to escape from Uncle George!

All their interviews have been but few. Sir Maurice had run down from here, and there, and everywhere, just for a night at a time, arriving barely in time for dinner, and going away before breakfast. Once, and once only, he had seen Mrs. Bethune. Those other times she had been confined to her room with neuralgia (what should we all do without neuralgia?), or with letters to write, or something, anything else.

That one time she came out of the library at the very moment he had arrived. They met in the hall, and it was quite impossible to avoid seeing him. She came forward with a charming air.

"Is it you? How long since we have met!" said she. Her tone was evenness itself; she was smiling brightly. If she was pale, he could not see it in the darkening twilight. "How troublesome these elections are! I see you have been staying with the Montgomerys; I do hope he will get in. But Conservatives are nowhere nowadays. Truth lies buried in a well. That's a good old saying." She nodded to him and went up a step or two of the stairs, then looked back. "Don't stay away from The Place on my account," said she, with rather an amused smile. "I like to have you here. And see how badly you are behaving to the beloved one!"

She smiled again, with even more amusement than before, and continued her graceful way up the stairs. He had turned away sore at heart. She had not even thought it worth her while to make an appeal to him. If she had! He told himself that even then, if she had said but one word, he would have thrown up everything, even his honour, and gone with her to the ends of the earth. But she had not said that word—she had not cared—sufficiently.



* * * *



And now it is indeed all over! They have come back from the church—Tita just as she is every day, without a cloud on her brow, and laughing with everybody, and telling everybody, without the least disguisement, that she is so glad she is married, because now Uncle George can never claim her again. She seems to have no thought but this. She treats her newly-made husband in a merry, perfectly unembarrassed, rather boyish style, and is, in effect, quite delighted with her new move.

Sir Maurice has gone through it all without a flaw. At the breakfast he had made quite a finished little speech (he could never have told you afterwards what it was about), and when the bride was upstairs changing her wedding garments he had gone about amongst his guests with an air that left nothing to be desired. He looks quite an ideal bridegroom. A mad longing for solitude drags him presently, however, into a small anteroom, opening off a larger room beyond. The carriage that is to convey him to the station is at the door, and he almost swears at the delay that arises from Tita's non-appearance.

Yet here—here is rest. Here there is no one to breathe detestable congratulations into his ear—no one.

A tall, slight figure rises from a couch that is half hidden by a Chinese screen. She comes forward a step or two. Her face is pale. It is Marian Bethune.

"You!" says she in a low, strange voice. "Have you come here, too, to think?" She speaks with difficulty. Then all at once she makes a stray movement with her hands, and brings herself to her senses by a passionate effort. "You are like me, you want quiet," says she, with a very ordinary little laugh; "so you came here. Well, shall I leave you?"

She is looking very beautiful. Her pallor, the violet shades beneath her eyes, all tend to make her lovely.

"It is you who have left me."

"I? Oh no! Oh, think!" says she, laughing still.

Rylton draws a long breath.

"After all, it could never have come to anything," says he, in a dull sort of way.

"Never, never," smiling.

"I don't believe you care," says he bitterly.

She looks at him. It is a curious look.

"Why should I? Do you care?"

He turns away.

"Don't let us part bad friends," says she, going to him, and twining one of her hands round his arm. "What have I done to you, or you to me? How have we been enemies? It is fate, it is poverty that has been our common enemy, Maurice, remember what we have been to each other."

"It is what I dare not remember," says he hoarsely.

His face is resolutely turned from hers.

"Well, well, forget, then, if you can. As for me, remembrance will be my sole joy."

"It is madness, Marian, to talk to me like this. What is to be gained by it?"

"Why, nothing, nothing, and so let us forget; let us begin again as true friends only."

"There is no hope of that," says he.

His voice is a mere whisper.

"Oh yes, there is—there," eagerly, "must be. What! Would you throw me over altogether, Maurice? Oh, that I could not bear! Why should we not be as brother and sister to each other? Yes, yes," vehemently; "tell me it shall be so. You will ask me to your new house, Maurice, won't you?"

She is looking up into his face, her hand still pressing his arm.

"My wife's house."

"Your wife's house is yours, is it not? You owe yourself something from this marriage. You will ask me there now and then?"

"She will ask her own guests, I suppose."

"She will ask whom you choose. Pah! what is she but a child in your hands?"

"Tita is not the cipher you describe her," says Rylton coldly.

"No, no; I spoke wrongly—I am always wrong, it seems to me," says she, with such sweet contrition that she disarms him again. "I cannot live if I cannot see you sometimes, and, besides, you know what my life is here, and how few are the houses I can go to, and"—she slips her arms suddenly round his neck—"you will ask me sometimes, Maurice?"

"Yes."

"You promise that?"

"I promise that, as far as it lies in my power, I will always befriend you."

"Ah, that is not enough," says she, laughing and sobbing in the same breath. "I am losing you for ever. Give me something to dwell upon, to hope for. Swear you will make me your guest sometimes."

"I swear it," says he huskily.

He removes her arms from his neck, and holds her from him. His face is gray.

"It is for the sake of our old friendship that I plead," says she.

The tears are running down her cheeks.

"Our friendship," repeats he, with a groan.

He makes a movement as if to fling her from him, then suddenly catches her to his heart, and presses his lips passionately to hers.



* * * * *



"Maurice! Maurice!" calls somebody.

Marian sinks upon a couch near her, and buries her face in her hands. Sir Maurice goes into the hall to meet his bride.

The partings are very brief. Tita, who is in the gayest spirits, says good-bye to everybody with a light heart. Has not her freedom been accomplished? She receives Lady Rylton's effusive embrace calmly. There are some, indeed, who say that the little bride did not return her kiss. Just at the very last, with her foot almost on the carriage step, Tita looks back, and seeing Margaret at a little distance, runs to her, and flings herself into her embrace.

"You are mine now, my own cousin!" whispers she joyfully.

"God bless you, Tita," says Margaret in a whisper, too, but very earnestly, "and preserve to you your happy heart!"

"Oh, I shall always be happy," says Tita; "and I shall hurry back to see you," giving her another hug.

Then somebody puts her into the carriage, and, still smiling and waving her hands, she is driven away.

"Really, Margaret, you should be flattered," says Lady Rylton, with a sneer. "She seems to think more of you than of her husband."

"I hope her husband will think of her," returns Margaret coldly. "As I told you before, I consider this marriage ill done."



CHAPTER XII.

HOW TITA COMES BACK FROM HER HONEYMOON, AND HOW HER HUSBAND'S MOTHER TELLS HER OF CERTAIN THINGS THAT SHOULD HAVE BEEN LEFT UNTOLD.



"And the weather—the weather was the most marvellous thing!" says Tita, with enthusiasm. "Perpetual sunshine! Here, in September, it often pelts rain all day long!"

"Pelts! My dear Tita, what a word!" says Lady Rylton.

She sinks back in her chair as if overcome, and presses her perfumed handkerchief to her face.

"What's the matter with it?" asks Tita, a little smartly, perhaps. "It's a right-down good word, in my opinion. I've heard lots of people use it."

"No doubt you have," says her mother-in-law.

"Well, so have you, I dare say!" says Tita.

"I expect we all have," says Margaret Knollys, laughing. "Still, you know, Tita, it's not a pretty word."

"Very good; I shan't say it again," says Tita, the mutinous little face of a moment ago now lovely with love.

She has come back from her honeymoon quite as fond of Margaret as when she started.

It is now the middle of September; outside on the lawn the shadows are wandering merrily from tree to tree. The sun is high, but little clouds running across it now and again speak of sharp rains to come.

"The air so soft, the pines whispering so low, The dragon-flies, like fairy spears of steel, Darting or poised."

All these speak of the glad heat that still remains, though summer itself is but a dream that is gone.

Tita's honeymoon is at an end. It had seemed to her delightful. She had taken but a child's view of it. Maurice had been so kind, so good, so different from that nasty old uncle. He had been so good, indeed, that when he asked her to come first to see his mother (Lady Rylton had made quite a point of this in her letters to him; the county might think it so odd if the young wife did not appear anxious to fly into her arms on her return), she had said "Yes" quite willingly, and with a grateful little glance. He had done so much for her, she must do something for him. But she hated going back to The Place, for all that. She wanted to go straight to her own old home, her beautiful Oakdean, without a single stop.

She has been at The Place now for a week. Margaret Knollys and Randal Gower are the only two guests, Mrs. Bethune being on a visit to some friends in Scotland. The shooting here is excellent, and Sir Maurice has enjoyed himself immensely. Sir Maurice's wife has, perhaps, not enjoyed herself quite so much. But nothing, so far, has occurred to render her in the very least unhappy. If the clouds be black, she has not seen them. Her young soul has uplifted itself, and is soaring gaily amongst the stars. In her ignorance she tells herself she is quite, quite happy; it is only when we love that we doubt of happiness, and thus sometimes (because of our modesty, perhaps) we gain it. Tita has never known what love means.

There has been a little fret, a little jar to-day, between her and Lady Rylton. The latter's memory is good, and she has never forgotten what Maurice—in a moment's folly—had said of Tita's determination not to live with her at The Place. It is Lady Rylton's rle to return to all, in extra good measure, such injuries as she may judge herself to have received.

Tita naturally, in this small warfare, is at a disadvantage. She has forgotten her words, but even if she remembered them, would not for a moment suspect Maurice of having repeated them. And, indeed, Maurice, as we all know, had done it in a heated moment with best intent towards his small betrothed; besides, Tita at this time—so heartwhole and so dbonnaire—gives no thinking to anything save the getting out into the fresh air in these uncertain days, and the breaking in of a young horse that Maurice has made her a present of. Danger walks behind her, but she never turns her head; what has she to fear?

"Youth, that knows no dread Of any horrors lurking far ahead, Across the sunny flowered fields of life."

carries her safely right into the enemy's camp. Cruel youth!

"Won't you come out with me and have a stroll in the gardens before tea?" asks Margaret, rising. It seems to her that the social air is growing a little too sultry. "Come, Tita; it will do you good."

"Oh, I should love it!" says Tita, starting to her feet.

"Dear Margaret, you forget that, though Tita has been here for a week, this is the very first quiet moment I have had with her! Do not tempt her from me!"

"Certainly not, Tessie, if you wish to have her with you," says Margaret, reseating herself.

Now, more than ever, she feels there is danger in the air.

"Don't let me keep you," says Lady Rylton, with deliberation. "Go, dear Margaret, and get some of the sweet evening air—it may be of use to your complexion; it is the tiniest bit yellow of late. And when one is twenty-five—it is twenty-five?"

She knows Margaret's truthful nature.

"Thirty," says Margaret, who knows her, too, to the very ground.

"Ah, impossible!" says Lady Rylton sweetly. "Twenty-five, Margaret—not a day more! But, still, your complexion—— There, go away and refresh it; and come back when I have had my little chat with my dearest Tita."

Margaret casts a swift glance at the girl sitting there, apparently quite unconscious of the coming storm, and with her hands twined behind her head. She has her legs crossed—another sin—and is waving one little foot up and down in a rather too careless fashion.

Tita looks back at her.

"Don't be long," says she inaudibly.

Margaret gives her a nod, and goes out through the window.

"My dearest child," says Lady Rylton, nestling cosily into her chair, and smiling delicately at Tita over the top of her fan, "you may have noticed that I gave dear Margaret her cong with intent?"

"I saw that you wanted to get rid of her," says Tita.

"I fear, my dear, your training has been somewhat defective," says Lady Rylton, biting her lips. "We never—we in society, I mean—never 'get rid' of people. There are better ways of doing things, that——"

"It must cause you a lot of trouble," says Tita. "It looks to me like walking half a dozen times round your bath on a frosty morning, knowing all along you will have to get into it."

"Sh!" says Lady Rylton. "My dear, you should not mention your bath before people."

"Why not? When one loves a thing, one speaks of it. Don't you love your bath?" asks Tita.

Lady Rylton sits glaring at her, as if too horrified to go on. Tita continues:

"If you don't, you ought, you know," says she.

"You must be out of your mind to talk to me like this," says Lady Rylton at last. Something in the girl's air tells her that there is some little touch of devilment in it, some anger, some hatred. "But, naturally, I make allowances for you. Your birth, your surroundings, your bringing up, all preclude the idea that you should know how to manage yourself in the world into which you have been thrown by your marriage with my son."

"As for my birth," says Tita slowly, "I did not choose it; and you should be the last to throw it in my teeth. If you disapproved of it before my marriage with your son, why did you not say so?"

"There were many reasons," says Lady Rylton slowly, deliberately. "For one, as you know, your money was a necessity to Maurice; and for another——" She breaks off, and scans the girl's face with an air of question. "Dare I go on?" asks she.

"Why should you not dare?" says Tita.

A quick light has come into her eyes.

"Ah, that is it! I have something to say to you that I think, perhaps, should be said, yet I fear the saying of it."

"For you, or for me?" asks Tita.

She has her small brown hands clasped tightly together in her lap now. There is something nervous in the tension of them. Where, where is Margaret? For all that, she looks back at her mother-in-law with a clear and fearless glance.

"For you," says Lady Rylton—"for you only! But before I begin—I am a very nervous person, you know, and scenes," again pressing her handkerchief to her face, "upset me so—tell me, do tell me, if you have a good temper!"

"I don't know," says Tita. "Why?"

"Well, a reasonable temper! I know Maurice would try anything—less than that."

"Has it to do with Maurice? Yes? I am very reasonable," says Tita, laughing. She shows all her pretty teeth. "Now for the other reason for deigning to accept me as your son's wife!"

She laughs again. She seems to turn Lady Rylton into a sort of mild ridicule.

"I don't think I should laugh about it if I were you," returns Lady Rylton calmly, and with the subdued air that tells her intimates when she is in one of her vilest moods. "I feel very sorry for you, my poor child; and I would have warned you of this thing long ago, but I dreaded the anger of Maurice."

"Why, what is it?" cries Tita vehemently. "Has Maurice murdered somebody, or defrauded somebody, or run away with somebody?"

"Oh no! He did not run away with her," says lady Rylton slowly.

"You mean—you mean——"

The girl is now leaning forward, her small face rather white.

"I mean that he has been in love with his cousin for the past two years."

"His cousin!" Tita's thoughts run to Margaret. "Margaret?"

"Nonsense!" says Lady Rylton; the idea strikes her as ludicrous. The surprise, the strange awakening to the young bride, who, if not in love with her husband, has at all events expected loyalty from him, has affected her not at all; but this suggestion of Margaret as a possible lover of Maurice's convulses her with amusement. "Margaret! No!"

"Who, then?" asks Tita.

"Marian—Marian Bethune."

"Mrs. Bethune!"

"Did you never guess? I fancied perhaps you had heard nothing, so I felt it my duty to let you into a little of the secret—to warn you. Marian might want to stay with you, for example—and Maurice——"

"Mrs. Bethune may stay with me with pleasure," says Tita. "Why not?"

"Why not?" Lady Rylton pauses as if choking. She had thought to lower this girl into the very dust, and revenge herself on Maurice at the same time by her shameful revelation. "You do not care, then?" says she, bitterly disappointed.

Tita does not answer her. Suddenly her young thoughts have gone backwards, and all at once she remembers many things. The poison has entered into her. In a moment, as it were, she is back in that dim conservatory where Maurice (he has never been "he" or "him" to her, as happier girls, who love more and are more beloved, would have styled him)—where Maurice had asked her to marry him.

Now, in some strange fashion, her memory grows alive and compels her to remember how he looked and spoke that night—that night of his proposal to her, when she had asked him if he loved his cousin.

There had been a queer, indescribable change in his face—a sudden pallor, a start! She had thought nothing of it then, but now it comes back to her. She had meant Margaret—Margaret whom she loves; but he—who had he meant?

Really it doesn't matter so much after all, this story of Lady Rylton's. Maurice can go his way and she hers—that was arranged! But, for all that, it does seem rather mean that he should have married her, telling her nothing of this.

"Care! why should I care?" says she suddenly, Lady Rylton's last words clinging to her brain, in spite of all its swift wanderings during the last sixty seconds.

"Such an admirable indifference would almost lead me to believe that you had been born of good parentage," says Lady Rylton, cold with disappointed revenge.

"I was born of excellent parentage——" Tita is beginning, when the sound of footsteps slowly mounting the stairs of the veranda outside comes to them.

A second later Mrs. Gower shows himself.



CHAPTER XIII.

HOW A YOUNG AND LOVELY NATURE TAKES A SHOCK MOST CRUELLY ADMINISTERED. AND HOW A DOWAGER TAKES A NEW NAME AS A DIRECT INSULT. AND HOW TITA DECLINES TO PROMISE ANYTHING.



He stands at the open window looking in. All at once Tita knows and feels that Margaret sent him to rescue her from captivity.

"Lady Rylton," calls he, "won't you come out? The evening is a perfect dream—a boon and a blessing to men, like those pens, you know."

The elder Lady Rylton answers him. She leans forward, a charming smile on her wonderfully youthful features.

"No. No, thanks." She shakes her pretty, fair head at Gower in a delightfully coquettish fashion. Dear boy! How sweet is it of him to come and fetch her for a little stroll among the hollyhocks. "I can't go out now. Not to-night, Randal!"

"Oh! er—so sorry! But——" He looks at Tita. It is impossible not to understand that the Lady Rylton he had intended to take for a little stroll in the calm, delightful evening, had been the younger Lady Rylton. "Well, if your—er—mother—won't come, won't you?" asks he, now addressing Tita distinctly.

"I am not going out either," says she, smiling gently at him. To go now will be to betray fear, and she—no, she will not give in, any way, she will never show the white feather. She will finish this hour with Lady Rylton, whatever it may cost her.

"Really?" asks Gower. He looks as if he would have persuaded her to come with him, but something in her manner convinces him of the folly of persistence.

"Yes, really," returns she, after which he goes down the steps again. They can hear him going, slowly this time, as if reluctantly, and step by step. There doesn't seem to be a run left in him.

"How absurd it is, this confusion of titles!" says Lady Rylton, as the last unsatisfactory step is lost to them in the distance. "Lady Rylton here and Lady Rylton there. Absurd, I call it." She makes a pretence at laughter, but it is a sorry one—her laugh is only angry.

"I suppose it can't be helped," says Tita indifferently. Her eyes are still downcast, her young mouth a little scornful.

"But if you are to be Lady Rylton as well as I, how are we to distinguish? What am I to be?"

"The dowager, I suppose," says Tita, with a little flash of malice. She has been rubbed the wrong way a trifle too much for one afternoon.

"The dowager!" Lady Rylton springs to her feet. "I—do you think that I shall follow you out of a room?"

"Follow me! I'd hate you to follow me anywhere!" says Tita, who does not certainly follow her as to her meaning.

"That is meant to be a smart speech, I presume," says Lady Rylton, sinking back into her seat once more. "But do not for a moment imagine that I dread you. You know very little of Society if you think you will be tolerated there."

"I know nothing of Society," returns Tita, now very pale, "and perhaps you will understand me when I say that I never want to know anything. If Society means people who tell hateful, unkind stories of a husband to his wife, I think I am very well out of it."

"That is a little censure upon poor me, I suppose," says Lady Rylton with a difficult smile. She looks at Tita. Evidently she expects Tita to sink into the ground beneath that austere regard, but Tita comes up smiling.

"Well, yes. After all, I suppose so," says she slowly, thoughtfully. "You shouldn't have told me that story about Maurice and——" She stops.

"I shall not permit you to dictate to me what I should or should not do," interrupts Lady Rylton coldly. "You forget yourself! You forget what is due to the head of the house."

"I do not, indeed; Maurice will tell you so!"

"Maurice! What has he to do with it?"

"Why, he is the head," slowly.

"True, you are right so far," says Lady Rylton bitterly. "But I was not alluding to the actual head; I was alluding to the—the mistress of this house." She pauses, and looks with open hatred at the little girl before her. Tita could have answered her, have told her that her authority was at an end for ever, but by a violent effort she restrains herself. Tita's naturally warm temper is now at boiling-point. Still, she puts a restraint upon herself.

"You will understand for the future, I hope," says Lady Rylton, who has lost all control over her temper; "you will, for the future, at all events, I trust, bear yourself with respect towards the mistress of this house."

Her manner is so insolent, so unbearable, that Tita's short-lived calm gives way.

"Maurice says I am the mistress here," says she distinctly, clearly.

"You! you——" Lady Rylton advances towards her with a movement that is almost threatening.

"Don't be uneasy about it," says Tita, with a scornful little laugh, and a gesture that destroys the meaning of Lady Rylton's. "I don't want to be the mistress here. I dislike the place. I shall be delighted if you will live here—instead of me."

"You are too good!" says Lady Rylton, in a choking tone. She looks as if she could kill this girl, whom she has driven to so fierce an anger.

"I think it dismal," goes on Tita. "I like light and gay places." There is a little clutch at her heart, though why, she hardly knows. What she does know is that she hates this pretty, fair, patrician woman before her—this woman with a well-bred face, and the vulgarest of all vulgar natures. This woman who has betrayed her son's secret. Even to so young a girl, and one who is not in love with her husband, the idea of the husband being in love with somebody else is distinctly distasteful.

"Besides, remember," says Tita, "Mrs. Bethune lives here. After all you have told me of her, and—Maurice—you," breaking into a gay little laugh, "could hardly expect me to make this place my home."

"You certainly seem to take it very lightly," says Lady Rylton. "Maurice must be congratulated on having secured so compliant a wife."

"Why should I care?" asks Tita, turning a bright face to her. "We made a bargain before our marriage—Maurice and I. He was to do as he liked."

"And you?"

"I was to follow suit."

"Outrageous!" says Lady Rylton. "I shall speak to Maurice about it. I shall warn you. I shall tell him how I disapprove of you, and he——"

"He will do nothing," interrupts Tita. She stands up, and looks at the older woman as if defying her. Her small face is all alight, her eyes are burning.

"I dare say not, after all," says Lady Rylton, with a cruel smile. "He knew what he was about when he made that arrangement. It leaves him delightfully free to renew his love-affair with Marian Bethune."

"If he desires such freedom it is his." Tita gathers up her fan, and the long sude gloves lying on the chair near her, and walks towards the door.

"Stay, Tita!" cries Lady Rylton hurriedly. "You will say nothing of this to Maurice. It was in strict confidence I spoke, and for your good and his. You will say nothing to him?"

"I! what should I say?" She looks back at Lady Rylton, superb disdain in her glance.

"You might mention, for example, that it was I who told you."

"Well, why shouldn't I?" asked Tita. "Are you ashamed of what you have said?"

"I have always told you that I spoke only through a sense of duty, to protect you and him in your married life. You will give me your word that you will not betray me."

"I shall give you my word about nothing," coldly. "I shall tell Maurice, or I shall not tell him, just as it suits me."



CHAPTER XIV.

HOW TITA COMES TO OAKDEAN, AND IS GLAD. AND HOW MAURICE CALLS TO HER, AND SHE PERFORMS AN ACROBATIC FEAT. AND HOW A DISCUSSION ARISES.



What a day it is! Golden light everywhere; and the sounds of singing birds, and the perfume of the late mignonette and stocks. Who shall say summer is gone? Tita, flitting gaily through the gardens and pleasure-grounds of her old dear home, her beloved Oakdean, tells herself that it is summer here at all events, whatever it may be in other stupid homes.

Oakdean to-day is at its best, and that is saying a great deal. The grand old lawn, studded here and there with giant beeches, seems sleeping solemnly in the warm light, and to their left the lake lies, sleeping too, rocking upon its breast the lily leaves, whose flowers are now all gone. Over there the hills are purple with flowering heather, and beyond them, yet not so far away but that the soft murmuring of it can be heard, dwells the sea, spreading itself out, grand, immense, until it seems to touch the pale blue heavens.

Tita, stopping with her hands full of lowers, stands upright, and as a little breeze comes to her, draws in a long breath, as if catching the salt from the great ocean that it brings her. Oh, what a day—what a day!

Her lovely old home! Here she is in it once more—parted for ever from the detested uncle, mistress of this one place that holds for her the only happy memories of her youth. Here she and her father had lived—she a young, young child, and he an old one—a most happy couple; and here, too, she had grown to girlhood. And now here she is again, free to roam, to order, to direct, with no single hitch anywhere to mar her happiness.

The lovely new horse that Maurice has got for her leaves nothing to be desired; she has had a gallop on him this morning. And all her dear dogs have been sent to Oakdean, so that her hands are full of favourites. As for Maurice himself, he is delightful. He doesn't even know how to scold. And it will always to be like this—always. As for that story of Lady Rylton's about Marian Bethune—why, Marian is quite an old thing! And besides—well, besides, it doesn't matter. Maurice is here now, and he can't see her, and even if he did—well, even if he did, what harm? Neither she nor Maurice even pretends to be in love with the other, and if he should be in love—as the idiots call it—with Mrs. Bethune, why, he can be! She won't prevent it, only she hopes poor Maurice won't make himself unhappy over that dreadful red-headed creature. But there is certainly one thing; he might have told her.

But what does anything matter? Here she is in her old home, with all her dear delights around her! She glances backwards and forwards, a happy smile upon her lips. From one of the Scotch firs over there, the graceful blossoms of the hop-plant droop prettily. And beyond them on the hillside, far, far away, she can see mushrooms gleaming in the fields, for all the world like little sheep dotted here and there. She laughs to herself as she notes the resemblance. And all is hers—all. And she is in her own home, and happy.

What a blessing she hadn't said "No" when Maurice asked her. If she had, she would have been living at Rickfort now with Uncle George.

"Tita!" cries Maurice.

He has thrown up the window of his smoking-room, and is calling to her.

"Yes?"

She turns to him, her arms full of flowers, her vivacious little face, just like another sort of flower, peeping over them.

"Can you come in for a moment?"

"Why can't you come out? Do, it is lovely here!"

"I can if you like, but it will mean hauling out pencils and paper, and——"

"Oh well, I'll come."

She runs to him across the green, sweet grass, and, standing beneath the window, holds out her hands to him.

"You can't come in this way," says he.

"Can't I? I wish I had a penny for every time I did get in this way," says she. "Here, give me your hands."

He stoops to her, and catches her small brown hands in a close grip. The new Lady Rylton plants a very shapely little foot against an excrescence in the wall, and in a second has her knee on the window-sill.

"After all, my mother was right," says Rylton, laughing. "You are a hoyden."

He takes the slight girlish figure in his arms, and swings her into the room. She stands for a second looking at him with a rather thoughtful air. Then—

"You mother may call me names if she likes," says she. "But you mustn't!"

"No?" laughing again. She amuses him with her little air of authority. "Very good. I shan't! I suppose I may call you wife, any way."

"Oh, that!" She stops. "Did you bring me in to ask me that question?"

At this they laugh together.

"No. I confess so much."

"What, then?"

"Well, we ought to decide at once who we are going to ask for the rest of the shooting. The preserves are splendid, and it seems quite a sin to let them go to waste. Of course I know a lot of men I could ask, but there should be a few women, too, for you."

"Why for me? I like men a great deal better," says Tita audaciously.

"Well, you shouldn't! And, besides, you have some friends of your won to be asked."

"Your friends will do very well."

"Nonsense!" with a touch of impatience. "It is you and your friends who are first to be considered; afterwards we can think of mine."

"I have no friends," says Tita carelessly.

"You have your uncle, at all events; he might like——"

"Oh, don't be an ass," says Lady Rylton.

She delivers this excellent advice with a promptitude and vigour that does her honour. Rylton stares at her for a moment, and then gives way to amusement.

"I shan't be if I can help it," says he; "but there are often so many difficulties in the way." He hesitates as if uncertain, and then goes on. "By the way, Tita, you shouldn't give yourself the habit of saying things like that."

"Like what?"

"Well, telling a fellow not to be an ass, you know. It doesn't matter to me, of course, but I heard you say something like that to old Lady Warbeck yesterday, and she seemed quite startled."

"Did she? Do her good!" says Tita, making a charming little face at him. "Nothing like electricity nowadays. It'll quite set her up again. Add years to her life."

"Still, she wouldn't like it, perhaps."

"Having years added to her life?"

"No; your slang."

"She likes me, any way," says Tita nonchalantly, "so it doesn't matter about the slang. The last word she mumbled at me through her old false teeth was that she hoped I'd come over and see her every Tuesday that I had at my command (I'm not going to have many), because I reminded her of some granddaughter who was now in heaven, or at the Antipodes—it's all the same."

She pauses to catch a fly—dexterously, and with amazing swiftness, in the palm of her hand—that has been buzzing aimlessly against the window-pane. Having looked at it between her fingers, she flings it into the warm air outside.

"So you see," continues she triumphantly, "it's a good thing to startle people. They fall in love with you at once."

Here, as if some gay little thought has occurred to her, she lowers her head and looks at her dainty finger-nails, then up at Rylton from under half-closed lids.

"What a good thing I didn't try to startle you!" says she. "You might have fallen in love with me, too."

She waits for a second as it were, just time enough to let her see the nervous movement of his brows, and then—she laughs.

"I've escaped that bore," says she, nodding her head. She throws herself into a big chair. "And now, as the parsons say, 'to continue'; you were advising me to ask——"

"Your uncle."

All the brightness has died out of Rylton's voice; he looks dull, uninterested. That small remark of hers—what memories it has awakened! And yet—would he go back?

"Chut! What a suggestion!" says Tita, shrugging her shoulders. "Don't you know that my one thought is to enjoy myself?"

"A great one," says he, smiling strangely.

She cares for nothing, he tells himself: nothing! He has married a mere butterfly; yet how pretty the butterfly is, lying back there in that huge armchair, her picturesque little figure flung carelessly into artistic curves, her soft, velvety head rubbing itself restlessly amongst the amber cushions. The cushions had been in one of the drawing-rooms, but she had declared he was frightfully uncomfortable in his horrid old den, and has insisted on making him a handsome present of them. She seems to him the very incarnation of exquisite idleness, the idleness that knows no thought.

"Very good," says he at last. "If you refuse to make up a list of your friends, help me to make up a list of mine. You know you said you would like to fill the house."

"Ye—es," says she, as if meditating.

"Of course, if you don't want any people here——"

"But I do. I do really. I hate being alone!" cries she, springing into sudden life and leaning forward with her hands clasped on her knees.

"How few rings you have!" says he suddenly.



CHAPTER XV.

HOW TITA TELLS OF TWO STRANGE DREAMS, AND OF HOW THEY MOVED HER. AND HOW MAURICE SETS HIS SOUL ON ASKING A GUEST TO OAKDEAN; AND HOW HE GAINS HIS DESIRE.



"Not one, except this," touching her engagement ring. "That you have given me."

"You don't care for them, then?"

"Yes I do. I love them, but there was nobody to give them to me. I was very young, you see, when poor daddy died."

She stops; her mouth takes a mournful curve; the large gray eyes look with a sort of intensity through the windows to something—something beyond—but something that Rylton cannot see. After all, is she so trivial? She cares, at all events, for the memory of that dead father. Rylton regards her with interest.

"He would have given me rings," she says.

It is so childish, so absurd, that Rylton wonders why he doesn't want to laugh. But the little sad face, with the gray eyes filled with tears, checks any mirth he might have felt. A sudden longing to give her another ring, when next he goes to town, fills his heart.

"Well! what about our guests?"

Her tone startles him. He looks up. All the tears, the grief are gone; she is the gay, laughing Tita that he thinks he knows.

"Well, what?" His tone is a little cold. She is superficial, certainly. "If you decline to ask your friends——"

"I don't decline. It is only that I have no friends," declares she.

There is something too deliberate in her manner to be quite natural, and Rylton looks at her. She returns his glance with something of mockery in hers.

"It isn't nice to be married to a mere nobody, is it?" says she, showing her pretty teeth in a rather malicious little laugh.

"I suppose not," says Rylton steadily. "I haven't tried it."

A gleam—a tiny gleam of pleasure comes into her eyes, bus she wilfully repulses it.

"Oh, you—if anybody. However, you knew before you married me, that is one comfort."

"Why do you speak to me like that, Tita?" A frown has settled on Rylton's forehead. It is all such abominably bad form. "You know how—how——"

"Ill-bred it is," supplies she quietly, gaily.

"It is intolerable," vehemently, turning away and walking towards the door.

"Ah, come back! Don't go—don't go!" cries she eagerly. She jumps out of her big chair and runs after him. She slips her hand through his arm, and swinging her little svelte body round, smiles up into his face mischievously. "What's the matter with you?" asks she.

"It is in such bad taste," says Rylton, mollified, however, in a measure in spite of himself. "You should consider how it hurts me. You should remember you are my wife."

"I do. That is why I think I can say to you what I can't say to anybody else," says Tita quietly. "However, never mind; sit down again and let us settle the question about our guests. Here's a sheet of paper," pushing it into his hands. "And here's a pencil—an awfully bad one, any way, but if you keep sticking it into your mouth it'll write. I'm tired of licking that pencil."

She is evidently hopeless! Rylton, after that first crushing thought, gives way, and, leaning back in his chair, roars with laughter.

"And am I to lick it now!" asks he.

"No, certainly not,". She is now evidently in high dudgeon. She puts the pencil back in her pocket, and stands staring at him with her angry little head somewhat lowered. "After all, you are right; I'm horrid!" says she.

"I'm right! By what authority do you say that! Come now, Tita!"

"By my own."

"The very worst in the world, then. Give me back that pencil."

"Not likely," says Tita, tilting her chin. "Here's one belonging to yourself," taking one off the writing-table near. "This can't offend you, I hope. After all, I'm a poor sort," says Tita, with a disconsolate sigh that is struggling hard with a smile to gain the mastery. "It's awfully hard to offend me. I've no dignity—that's what your mother says. And after all, too," brightening up, and smiling now with delightful gaiety, "I don't want to have any. One hates to be hated!"

"What an involved speech! Well, if you won't give me your pencil, let us get on with this. Now, to begin, surely you have someone you would like to ask here, in spite of all you have said."

"Well—perhaps." She pauses. "I want to see Margaret," says she, hurriedly, tremulously, as if tears might be in her eyes.

He cannot be sure of that, however, as her lids are lowered. But her tone—is there a note of unhappiness in it? The very thought gives him a shock; and of late has she not been a little uncertain in her moods?

"I was going to name her," says Rylton.

"Then you see we have one thought in common," says Tita.

She has knelt down beside him to look at his list, and suddenly he lays his palm under her chin, and so lifts her face that he can see it.

"What is it, Tita?" says he. "Is anything troubling you? Last night you were so silent; to-day you talk. It is bad to be unequal."

His tone is grave.

"The night before last I had a bad dream," says Tita solemnly, turning her head a little to one side, and giving him a slight glance that lasts for the tiniest fraction of a second.

It occurs to Rylton that there is a little touch of wickedness in it. At all events, he grows interested.

"A bad dream?"

"Yes, the worst!" She nods her small head reproachfully at him. "I dreamt you were married to a princess!"