That quick, curious glance brings Rylton to himself. He cannot stay here any longer. He must go back into the house. It will be madness to absent himself. And, after all, is not the whole thing madness? What is this girl to him? A mere name; nothing more.

He mounts the steps leading to the conservatory, and, meeting Minnie Hescott, asks her to dance.

"This is only a supper dance," says she. "I'm engaged for all the rest. But, if you like, I'll take one turn with you. After that you must get me something to eat; I never felt so hungry in all my life."



CHAPTER XXV.

HOW TITA TOLD A SECRET TO TOM HESCOTT IN THE MOONLIGHT; AND HOW HE SOUGHT TO DISCOVER MANY THINGS, AND HOW HE WAS MOST INNOCENTLY BAFFLED.



"Of course, I shall understand that it is a secret," says Tom Hescott.

Both he and Tita are quite unaware of the fact that Rylton and Mrs. Bethune had just been standing behind them. Tita, who had been dancing with Hescott, had led the way to this spot when they came out into the garden.

"Still," says Tita, hesitating, "perhaps I ought not to speak. A secret is a secret, you know."

"Yes; everyone knows that," says Hescott.

"Knows what?" sharply.

"About a secret."

"If you're going to be nasty, you shan't know it at all," says Tita. "I understand you very well. You think no woman can keep a secret."

"Ah! but a man can. Tell me yours."

"Nonsense! A woman is twice as good at keeping a secret as a man is. And I can tell you this"—with a little emphatic shake of her charming head—"that I should not tell you anything of this secret, only that you are always calling her names."

"Her? Who?"

"Oh, you know very well."

"Who do I know very well? Not a soul here except you; and, after all, I don't think I know you very well."

"Well, if you don't you ought."

"Ought what? Know the mysterious 'her' or you?"

"Me!"

Hescott looks at her keenly in the dim light. Is she a born coquette, or is she only a sweet child—the sweetest child that earth ever gave forth? Somehow it would have hurt him to find her a coquette.

"Ah! I don't know you."

"Tom!" There is a little reproach in her tone. Suddenly she puts out her little slim hand and slips it into his. "As if we weren't brought up together," says she, "just like a brother and sister. You remember the old days, don't you, Tom? when we used to go fishing together, and the cricket——"

"Is it wise to remember?" says Hescott in a low tone.

His heart is beating; his fingers now close on hers.

"I don't know—yes. Yes, I think I like to," says Tita. "Darling pappy! Sometimes it all comes back to me. How happy I was then!"

"And now, Tita, now!—are you happy now?" asks he.

His tone is almost violent. The pressure of his hand on hers grows hurtful. Involuntarily she gives a little cry.

"Nonsense! Of course I am happy!" says she petulantly, pulling her hand out of his. "How rough you are, Tom!"

"Did I hurt you?" exclaims he passionately. "Tita, forgive me. To hurt you——"

"There, don't be a fool!" says Tita, laughing. "My fingers are not broken, if that's what you mean. But you certainly are rough: and, after all"—mischievously—"I don't think I shall tell you that secret now."

"You must. I shan't sleep if I don't know it. You said I knew the heroine of it."

"Yes, you do indeed," laughing.

"And that I was always calling her names?"

"True; and I can't bear that, because"—gently—"I love her." She pauses, and goes on again very earnestly: "I love her with all my heart."

"I envy her," says Hescott. "I'm glad this mysterious stranger is a she."

"Why?"

"Oh, no matter; go on. Tell me more. What evil names have I called her?"

"The worst of all. You have called her an old maid—there!"

"Good heavens! what an atrocity! Surely—surely you malign me."

"No, I don't; I heard you. And it was to me, too, you said it."

"What! I called you an old maid!"

"Pouf! No!" laughing gaily. "That's out of your power."

"It is indeed," says Hescott slowly.

He is looking at her, the little, pretty, sweet, lovely thing! If she were a maid to-day, some chance—some small chance—might have been his.

"Well, I'll tell you about it," says she. She looks round her cautiously, in the funniest little way, as if expecting enemies in the bushes near her. Then she hesitates. "After all, I won't," says she, with the most delightful inconsistency. "It wouldn't be a secret if I did."

"Oh, go on," says Hescott, seeing she is dying to speak. "A secret told to me is as lost as though you had dropped it down a well."

"You must remember first, then, that I should never have told you, only that you seemed to think she couldn't get married. It"—hesitating—"it's about Margaret!"

"Miss Knollys!" Hescott stares. "What has she been up to?"

"She has been refusing Colonel Neilson for years!" solemnly. "Only this very night she has refused him again; and all because of a silly old attachment to a man she knew when she was quite a girl."

"That must have been some time ago," says Hescott irreverently and unwisely.

"A very few years ago," severely. She rises. She is evidently disgusted with him. "Come back to the house," says she. "I am engaged for the next."

"A word," says Tom, rising and following her. He lays a detaining hand upon her soft, little, bare arm. "You blame her—Miss Knollys—for being faithful to an old attachment?"

"Y-es," says Tita slowly, as if thinking, and then again, "Yes!" with decision. "When the old attachment if of no use any longer, and when there is someone else."

"But if there was an old attachment, and"—Hescott's face is a little pale in the moonlight—"and practically—no one else—how then?"

"Eh?"

"I mean, if"—he comes closer to her—"Tita, if you had known a man who loved you before you were married, and if when you did marry—"

"But she didn't marry him at all," interrupts Tita. "He died—or something—I forget what."

"Yes; but think."

"There is nothing to think about. He died—so stupid of him; and now she is making one of the nicest men I know miserable, all because she has made up her mind to be wretched for ever! So stupid of her!"

"Has it ever occurred to you that there is such a thing as love?" asks Hescott, looking at her with a sudden frown.

"Oh, I've heard of it," with a little shrug of her pretty shoulders; "but I don't believe in it. It's a myth! a fable!"

"And yet"—with an anger that he can hardly hide, seeing her standing there so young, so fair, so debonnair before him—so insensible to the passion for her that is stirring within his heart—"and yet your friend, Miss Knollys, is giving up her life, you say, to the consecration of this myth."

Tita nods.

"Yes; isn't she silly! I told you she was very foolish."

"You assure me honestly that you don't believe in love?"

"Not a bit," says Tita. "It's all nonsense! Now come in—I want to dance. And remember—remember, Tom, you have promised not to breathe a word about what I have told you."

"I promise," says Hescott in a slow sort of way; he is thinking.

When they reach the dancing-room they find it, comparatively speaking, empty, save for a few enthusiastic couples who are still careering round it.

"Supper must be on," says Hescott. "Come and have something."



* * * * *



As they enter the supper-room several people look at them. To Rylton, who is standing near Mrs. Bethune, these glances seem full of impertinent inquiry. In reality they mean nothing, except admiration of his wife. To-night Lady Rylton has been pronounced by most of those present the prettiest woman in the room. Hescott pilots his charming companion to a low lounge in a corner of the room, a place at any of the tables being impossible to get. But Rylton decides that he has taken her to that secluded spot to make more conspicuous his flirtation with her; and she—she seems only too ready to help him in his plan.

The fact that he is frowning heavily is conveyed to him by a voice at his elbow.

"Don't look so intense—so like a thirteenth-century conspirator!" says Mrs. Bethune. Her eyes are full of laughter and mischief—there is something of triumph in them too. "What does it matter, after all?"

"True." He gives her a brilliant smile in return for her rather mocking one. "Nothing matters—except the present moment. Let us consider it. Are you engaged for this dance?"

"Yes; but I can manage to forget my partner."

"That means?"

"You know very well what it means—what it always meant—in the old days."

Her lips part over her beautiful teeth; now there is no mockery in her smile, only love, and a most exquisite delight.

"Ah, Marian!" says he, in a low tone.

He leads her from the room. Her hand tightens on his arm; he feels the pressure, and now in the ball-room his arm goes round her. She—the woman he had loved for so long—is in his arms; he forgets everything. He has sworn to himself in the last minute or two that he will forget. Why, indeed, should he remember?

For the rest of the evening he gives himself up to Marian—devoting himself to her; telling himself he is knowing the old sweet happiness again, but always with a strange unaccountable sting at his heart.



CHAPTER XXVI.

HOW TITA LOOKS AT HERSELF IN THE GLASS AND WONDERS; AND HOW SHE DOES HER HAIR IN QUITE A NEW STYLE, AND GOES TO ASK SIR MAURICE WHAT HE THINKS OF IT; AND HOW HE ANSWERS HER.



"You can go to bed, Sarah; I shan't want you. And any other night when I am out so late you must not stop up for me. Do you hear?"

"Oh! But, my lady——"

"Yes, yes, yes; I know," interrupting her gaily. "But I won't have it. Do you think I can't take off my own frocks? You will lose your beauty sleep, and I shall be responsible for it. There, go; I'm all right now."

Tita waves her gaily out of the room. She is indeed in the merriest mood, having enjoyed her evening immensely, and danced to the very last minute. She had been thoroughly sorry when Sir Maurice had told her that she ought to say "Good-night" to her hostess and come home. She had not noticed the coldness of his manner at all, being so disappointed at his suggestion; but she had said "Good-night" at once to old Lady Warbeck, who would have liked her to stay on, having taken a great fancy to her; and as she had come back in a brougham with Margaret and Colonel Neilson and Minnie Hescott, she had not seen her husband since.

Having at last dismissed her maid, who had insisted on waiting to take off her evening dress, Tita sits down before the glass to look at herself (all women like looking at themselves), and to think over her evening.

How well the men danced, especially Tom!—though, after all, not so well as Maurice. What a pity she could not have had that one dance with him he had asked her for.

She leans forward, and pulling some hairpins out of her short, curly hair, pushes it into another shape, a little lower down on the neck, to see if that would suit her better. No, it wouldn't.

After all, Maurice might have asked her again. He danced a great deal with Mrs. Bethune towards the end of the evening, and how charming he looked when dancing!

She rests her arms—soft, naked arms, round and white as a child's—upon the dressing-table and wonders. Wonders if that old story—the story her mother-in-law had told her of Maurice and Mrs. Bethune—was really true. Maurice did not look like that—like a man who would be dishonest. Oh no! It is not true—that horrid story!

Her eyes light up again; she goes back again to her hair, the arrangement of which, on account of its length, is difficult. She piles it now far up on her head, and sticks little diamond pins into it. She almost laughs aloud. She looks like a Japanese young woman. And it's very pretty, too—she does look nice in this way. What a pity nobody can see her! And with this little new white dressing-gown, too! Such a little dream of a thing!

Where's Maurice? Surely he must have come up by this time. Some of the men had gone into the smoking-room on their return; but it is so late—with the dawn breaking; perhaps Maurice has come up.

She crosses a little passage and goes to the door leading into his room, and knocks lightly; no answer. She knocks again, more impatiently this time, and as still only silence follows her attempt, she opens the door and steps on tiptoe into the room.

It is lit by two or more lamps, and at the end of it, close to a hanging curtain, stands Maurice in his trousers and shirt, having evidently just flung off his evening coat.

"Oh, here you are!" cries she with open delight. "I was afraid you hadn't come up yet, and I wanted to show myself to you. Look at my hair!" She pulls out the skirts of her dainty loose gown and dances merrily up to him. "Don't I look lovely?" cries she, laughing.

Rylton has turned; he is looking at her; his eyes seem to devour her—more with anger than delight, however. And yet the beauty of her, in spite of him, enters into his heart. How sweet she is, standing there with her loose gown in her pretty uplifted hands, and the lace flounces of her petticoat showing in front! She had not fastened this new delight in robes across her neck, and now the whiteness of her throat and neck vies with the purity of the gown itself.

"He looked on her and found her fair, For all he had been told."

Yet a very rage of anger against her still grows within his heart.

"What brought you here?" asks he sharply, brutally.

She drops her pretty gown. She looks at him as if astonished.

"Why—because"—she is moving backwards towards the door, her large eyes fixed on him—"because I wanted you to look at me—to see how nice I am."

"Others have looked too," says he. "There, go. Do you think I am a fool?"

At that Tita's old spirit returns to her. She stands still and gives him a quick glance.

"Well, I never thought so till now," says she. She nods at him. "Good-night."

"No, stop!" says Rylton. "I will have this out with you. You pretend to misunderstand me; but I shall make it clear. Do you think I have not seen your conduct of this evening?"

"Mine?"

"Yes, with your cousin—with Hescott." He draws nearer to her. His eyes are on fire, his face white. "Do you think I saw nothing?"

"I don't know what you saw," says she slowly.

All her lovely mirth has died away, as if killed by a cruel death.

"Don't you?" tauntingly. "Then I will tell you. I saw you"—he pauses as if to watch the changes of her face, to see when fear arises, but none does—"in the arbour"—he pauses again, but again no fear arises—"with your cousin."

He grows silent, studying her with eager eyes, as if expecting something; but nothing comes of all his scrutiny, except surprise. Surprise, indeed, marks all her charming features.

"Well?" says she, as he stops, as if expecting more.

She waits, indeed, as one at a loss.

"Well?" He repeats the word with a wild mockery. Could there be under heaven another woman so dead to all honesty? Does she dare to think she can deceive him to the end? In what a lovely form the evil can dwell! "Well!" He brings down his hand with a little crash upon the table near her. "I was there—near that arbour. I heard—I heard all."

"Well, I'm sorry," says Tita slowly, colouring faintly.

"Sorry! Is that all? Do you know what it means—what I can do?"

"I don't see that you can do anything," says she, thinking of her revelation to Hescott about Margaret. "It is Colonel Neilson who might do something."

"Neilson?"

"Yes, Colonel Neilson."

"Are you mad?" says Sir Maurice, in a low tone, "to think you can thus deceive me over and over again?"

He draws back from her. Disgust is in his heart. Does she dream that she can pass off Neilson as her lover, instead of Hescott? He draws a sharp breath. How she must love Hescott, to seek thus to shield him, when ruin is waiting for herself!

"I am not mad," says Tita, throwing up her head. "And as to deceiving you—Of course I can see that you are very angry with me for betraying Margaret's secret to Tom; but, then, Tom is a great friend, and when he said something about Margaret's being an old maid, I couldn't bear it any longer. You know how I love Margaret!—and I told him all about Colonel Neilson's love for her, and that she needn't be an old maid unless she liked. But as to deceiving you——"

Rylton, standing staring at her, feels that it is the truth—the truth only—to which he is listening. Not for a moment does he disbelieve her. Who could, gazing on that small, earnest face? And yet his silence breathes of disbelief to her. She steps backwards, and raises her little hand—a little hand very tightly clenched.

"What! Do you not believe me?" asks she, her eyes blazing.

"I believe you? Yes," returns her quickly. "But there is this——"

"There is this, too," interrupting him passionately. "You accuse me of deception most wrongfully, and I—I accuse you of the worst thing of all, of listening behind my back—of listening deliberately to what was never meant for you to hear."

"I did not listen," says Rylton, who is now very white. "It so chanced that I stood near the arbour; but I heard only one word, and it was about some secret. I came away then. I did not stay."

Tita turns to him with a vehemence that arrests him.

"Who brought you to the arbour?" asks she.

"Brought me?"

"Yes. Who brought you?"

"What do you mean?" asks Rylton, calmly enough, but with a change of colour.

"Ah! you will not betray her, but I know. It was Mrs. Bethune. Now"—she goes nearer to him, her pretty, childish face transformed by grief and anger—"now, confess, it was!" She draws back again. "No," says she, sighing disconsolately. "No, of course you would not tell. But I," looking back at him reproachfully, "I—told you—things."

"Many things," returns he coldly—unreasonably angry with her because of her allusion to Mrs. Bethune; "and hardly to your credit. Why should you tell Mr. Hescott your secrets? Why is he to be your confidant?"

"I have known Tom all my life."

"Nevertheless, I object to him as a special friend for you. I don't think married women should have special friends of the other sex. I object to your confiding in him secrets that you never told to me. You said nothing to me of Margaret's love affairs, although she is my cousin."

"You forget, Maurice. I spoke to you several times, but you never seemed to care. And I should not have told Tom, only he called her an old maid, and that hurt me, and I wanted to show him how it was. I love Margaret, and I—I am fond of Tom, and——"

The hesitation, though unmeant, is fatal. Rylton turns upon her furiously.

"It is of no consequence to me whom you love or whom you—care for," says he, imitating her hesitation, with a sneer. "What is of consequence to me, is your conduct as my wife, and that I object to altogether!"

There is a long pause, and then—

"My conduct?" says she slowly. She lifts her hands and runs them softly though her loose hair, and looks at him all the time; so standing, few could vie with her in beauty. She pauses. "And yours?" asks she.

"Mine?"

"Yes, yours! I don't know what you mean about my conduct. But you, you have been dancing all the night with that horrid Mrs. Bethune. Yes!"—letting her hands fall, and coming towards him with a face like a little angry angel—"you may say what you like, but you have been dancing all night with her. And she is horrid."

This is carrying the war into the enemy's camp with a vengeance. There is something in her tone that startles Rylton. Has she heard of that old attachment? His heart grows sick within him. Has it come to this, then? Is there to be concealment—deception on his part? Before his marriage he had thought nothing of his love for Marian in so far as it could touch his wife, but now—now, if she knows! But how can she know? And besides——

Here his wrath grows warm again. Even if she does know, how does that affect her own behaviour? Her sin is of her own making. His sin—— Was it ever a sin? Was it not a true, a loyal love? And when hope of its fulfilment was denied him, when he placed a barrier between it and him, had he not been true to that barrier? Only to-night—to-night when, maddened by the folly of this girl before him—he had let his heart stir again—had given way to the love that had swayed him for two long years and more.

"You forget yourself," says he coldly.

"Oh no, I don't," says Tita, to whom this answer sounds rather overbearing. "Why should I?" She glances at him mischievously from under her long lashes. "I should be the most unselfish person alive if I did that." She hesitates for a moment, and then, "Do you ever forget yourself?" asks she saucily.

She laughs—her little saucy air suits her. She is delighted with herself for having called Mrs. Bethune "horrid," and given him such a delicious tit-for-tat. She looks full of fun and mischief. There is no longer an atom of rancour about her. Rylton, in spite of himself, acknowledges her charm; but what does she mean by this sudden sweetness—this sudden sauciness? Is she holding out the olive-branch to him? If so, he will accept it. After all, he may have wronged her in many ways; and at all events, her faults—her very worst fault—must fall short of crime.

"Sometimes," replies he. He smiles. "I forgot myself just now, perhaps. But you must admit I had provocation. You——"

"Oh, don't begin it all over again," cries she, with delightful verve. "Why should you scold me, or I scold you? Scolding is very nasty, like medicine." She makes a little face. "And, you know, before we married we arranged everything."

"Before?"

"Yes, before, of course. Well—good-night!"

"No; don't go. Tell me what it was we arranged before our marriage?"

Rylton has drawn a chair for her towards the fire that is lighting in his grate, and now sinks into another.

"It's awfully late, isn't it?" says Tita, with a yawn, "but I'll stay a minute or two. Why, what we arranged was, that we should be friends, you and I—eh?"

"Well?"

"Well—that's all. Poke up the fire, and let me see a blaze. Fancy your having a fire so early!"

"Haven't you one?"

"Yes. But then I'm a woman. However, when I see one I want it poked. I want it blazing."

At this Sir Maurice pokes the fire, until it flames well up the chimney.

"Ah! I like that," says Tita. She slips from her chair to the hearthrug—a beautiful white soft Persian one—and sits upon it, as it were, one snowflake on another. "How nice it is!" says she, staring at the sparks roaring up the chimney; "such a companion!" She leans back and rests her head against Rylton's knees. "Now, go on," she says comfortably.

"Go on?"

"Yes. We were saying something about friends. That we should be friends all our lives. So we shall be. Eh?"

"I don't know." Rylton bends over her, and, suddenly laying his hand under her chin, lifts her face so that he can see it. "You mean that I shall be your friend, and you mine."

"Yes. Yes, of course."

"You have other friends, however. And I don't like that."

"What! Is one to have only one friend?" She wriggles her face out of his hands, and moving her body as she reclines upon the white rug, so turns herself that she comes face to face with him. "Only one!" says she, smiling. She flings her arms across his knees, and looks up at him.

"Is not one enough?" He is looking at her very earnestly. How lovely she is! What a strange charm lies in her deep eyes! And her smile—

"The smile that rests to play Upon her lip, foretells That musical array Tricks her sweet syllables."

"Oh, it would be a poor world with only one friend," says she, shaking he head.

"You want two?" His brow is darkening again.

"More than that. I want you, and Margaret, and——"

"Hescott?"

It is not so much that she has hesitated as he has not given her time to speak.

"Well, yes—Tom," says she. "He is my friend!"

"The best of all?" She is not looking at him now, so does not see the expression in his eyes. He is listening breathlessly for her answer, but she knows nothing. She is gazing idly, happily into the fire.

"At present," says she slowly. Then once again she leans across his knees, and looks up at him. "You know Tom is very fond of me—he loves me, I think."

Here Rylton lays his hands upon her wrists, grasping them hard.

"He loves you. He has told you so?"

"No. Why should he?" He lets her hands go. "I know it. He has loved me so many years; and perhaps—in many years"—she comes closer to him, and putting up one soft little hand, lays it on his cheek, and tries to turn his face to hers—"you will love me too!"

Sir Maurice springs to his feet, and, catching her hands, lifts her forcibly to hers.

"There, go," says he, as if choking. "Is that how you speak to him?"

"To him?"

She stands back from him—not trembling, but with a terrible wonder in her eyes.

"To Hescott—— There—go."

"You think——" says she.

"I think you what you are, a finished coquette." He almost pushes her from him.

Tita puts up her hands as if to warn him off.

"I am sorry I ever came here," says she at last. "I am sorry I ever married you. I shall never forgive this—never!"

"And I," says Rylton. "Have I nothing to forgive?"

"Nothing, nothing," passionately. "I came here to-night because I was lonely, and wanted to talk to somebody. I came here to show you my pretty new frock; and how have you received me? You have been hateful to me. And yet you wonder that I didn't think you my best friend! You are not a friend at all. You can't bear me! If I had gone to Tom, instead of you—to show him my frock—do you think he would have treated me like this? No, he——"

"Be silent!" says Sir Maurice. "How dare you talk to me like this!" A dark flush has risen to his brow, his nostrils are dilated. Is she mad—to say such things to him? "Go!" says he, pointing imperiously to the door.

"You have said that twice!" returns she in a low tone. A moment her eyes rest on his, in another moment she is gone.

All that is left him is the memory of a little lovely creature, clad in a white gown, who had come to him with merry, happy eyes, and a smile upon her lips—a smile that he had killed!



CHAPTER XXVII.

HOW SIR MAURICE FEELS UNEASY; AND HOW TITA, FOR ONCE, SHOWS HERSELF IMPLACABLE, AND REFUSES TO ACCEPT THE OVERTURES OF PEACE. AND HOW A LITTLE GOSSIP WARMS THE AIR.



It is the next day, and luncheon is well over, a somewhat badly-attended meal. But now all have managed to scramble downstairs, and the terrace is full of people who are saying "Good-morning" to each other at four o'clock in the afternoon.

"I never felt so tired in my life," says Mrs. Chichester, subsiding into a lounge chair, and trying to look as if her tea-gown isn't quite new. She has selected this evening in especial to spring it upon her women friends. As a rule people look dowdy after being up all night. Mrs. Chichester is determined she won't. She appears as fresh as the proverbial lark, in an exquisite arrangement of white silk and lace, and a heavenly temper. Her eyes are a little greener than usual.

"You don't look it," says Sir Maurice, who is standing near. He is wondering if Tita will come down. Tita has not put in an appearance all day. There had been no necessity to send an apology about her absence from breakfast, as almost every one of the women had taken that meal in her own room, but she had sent a word or two of regret about her inability to appear at luncheon, and, somehow, it has got into Sir Maurice's mind that perhaps she has made up her mind to stay in her own rooms all day. The thought makes him uneasy; but at this moment an end is put to it.

There is a little stir on his left, and, looking up, he sees Tita coming towards him down the terrace, stopping at every step to say a word to somebody. Now she stops as she comes to Margaret, and, laying her hands upon her shoulders, kisses her. She is dressed in the simplest little white frock in the world—a frock that makes her look even younger than usual. Her pretty short air is curling all over her head, and her dark gray eyes are very dark to-day. Do shadows lie in them, or has she been crying? It is Rylton who, watching her, asks himself this question, and as he asks it a strange pang shoots through his heart. Good heavens! why had he married her? To make her unhappy? He must have been possessed of the devil when he did that deed.

"How pretty you look, Tita!" Margaret whispers to her—Margaret, who has the gift of knowing how to soothe and please. She, too, has her misgivings about those lovely eyes; but all girls like to be told they are pretty, and Tita at once brightens.

"Am I? You are a goose, Madge!" But she presses Margaret's hands fondly for all that as she leaves her.

"Lady Rylton, come and sit here," cries Mrs. Chichester. "I have a lovely chair here for you. It's as soft as——" She cannot find a simile.

"As what?" asks Gower, who delights in annoying Mrs. Chichester.

"As you!" returns she, with a contemptuous glance that fills him with joy.

"Come," says Mrs. Chichester, calling again to Tita, and patting the chair in question. "You look tired. This is a perfect lounge."

"She looks as if she had been crying," says old Miss Gower, frowning at Tita over her glasses.

Again that strange pang contracts Rylton's heart. Has she been crying—and because of him?

"Looks! What are looks?" cries Mrs. Chichester gaily. "Looks always belie one."

"Certainly Lady Rylton's must belie her," says Mrs. Bethune, with a slow smile. "What cause has she for tears?"

"Not one!" declares Mrs. Chichester with decision. "It would be 'a sinner above all the Galileans' who would make Lady Rylton cry."

Her queer green eyes smile at Tita, who smiles back at her in her little sweet way, and then all at once bursts out laughing. It is a charming laugh, apparently full of mirth. There are only two present who do not quite believe in it, Margaret and Tom Hescott—but these two love her.

As for Rylton, some instinct causes him at this moment to look at Hescott. Tita's cousin is staring at her, his brows met, his lips somewhat compressed. He has forgotten that people may be staring at him in return, maybe measuring his thoughts on this or that. He has forgotten everything, indeed, except Tita's pale, laughing face and dancing, tear-stained eyes.

"Do you see a ghost?" whispers Mrs. Bethune to him, who has been watching him with cruel amusement.

"I don't know," he answers, hardly hearing her. Is not Tita to-day a ghost of her sweet self? And those words, "A sinner above all the Galileans!" Is there such a sinner?—and if so, surely it is——

Hescott lifts his eyes to meet those of Rylton. For a moment the two men regard each other steadily, and in that moment know that each hates the other with an undying intensity. Mrs. Bethune, who alone sees the working of the little tragedy, leans back in her chair, and lets her lids fall over her eyes. So still she lies that one might think her sleeping, but she is only battling with a fierce joy that threatens every moment to break its bonds, and declare her secret to the world!

During all this, conversation has been going on. Last night's sayings and doings are on the tapis, and everyone is giving his and her experiences. Just now the rather disreputable wife of a decidedly disreputable neighbour is lying on the social dissecting board.

"She gives herself away a good deal, I must say," says Mrs. Chichester, who loves to hear her own voice, and who certainly cannot be called ungenerous on her own account. "The way she dances! And her frock! Good heavens!"

"I hear she makes all her own clothes," says Margaret, who perhaps hopes that this may be one small point in her favour.

Minnie Hescott makes a little moue.

"She may possibly make the things that cover her——"

"That what?" questions Mr. Gower, resting innocent eyes on hers, but Miss Hescott very properly refuses to hear him.

"It must be a matter for regret to all well-minded people," says Miss Gower, shaking her head until all her ringlets are set flying, "that when making that hideous dress, she did not add a yard or two, to——" She pauses.

"The what?" asks Mrs. Chichester, leaning forward.

"The bodice!" replies Miss Gower severely.

"Oh, auntie!" says her nephew, falling back in his chair and covering his face with his hands. "You shouldn't! You really shouldn't! It's—it's not delicate!"

"What do you mean, Randal?" demands his aunt, with a snort that would have done credit to a war-horse. "To whom are you addressing your remarks? Are you calling me indelicate?"

"Oh no—not for worlds!" says Mrs. Chichester, who is choking with laughter, and who only emerges from behind her fan to say this, and go back again. "Who could? But we feared—we thought you were going to say her skirt."

"It is my opinion that you fear nothing," says Miss Gower, with a withering glance at the fan. "And let me tell you that there are other people,"—with awful emphasis—"besides Mrs. Tyneway who would do well to put a tucker round their——"

"Ankles!" puts in Mrs. Chichester sweetly.

"No; their——"

"What was her dress made of?" breaks in Margaret hurriedly, who is afraid of their going too far with the irascible old lady.

"Goodness knows! She was all black and blue, at all events!"

"No! You don't say so?" exclaims Mr. Gower, with a tragic gesture. "So her husband has been at it again!"

At this they all roar, as people will, at anything, when they have nothing else to do. Even Tita, who, though smiling always, is looking rather depressed, gives way to a merry little laugh. Hearing her, Margaret blesses Randal for his silly old joke.

"Oh, Randal! you are too stupid for anything," says Tita, showing all her pretty teeth.

"You have for once lighted on a solemn truth," puts in Randal's aunt grimly. "Let us hope you are getting sense."

"Or a wise tooth," says Colonel Neilson, with a friendly smile at Tita. "Lady Rylton is very nearly old enough to be thinking of that now."

"As for that wretched Mrs. Tyneway," says Miss Gower, taking no notice of him, "if her husband did so far take the law into his own hands as to make her black and blue, I, for one, should not blame him."

"That's funny!" says Mrs. Chichester, giving her a saucy little smile.

"What is funny, may I ask?"

"To hear you defend a man. I thought you despised them in a body."

"I have my own views about them," says Miss Gower, with a sniff. "But I admit they have rights of their own."

"Fancy allowing a man to have rights nowadays!" cries Mrs. Chichester, uplifting her long arms as if in amazement. "Good heavens! What a wife you would have made! Rights?" She looks up suddenly at Captain Marryatt, who is, as usual, hanging over the back of her chair. "Do you think a man has any rights?"

"If you don't, I don't," returns that warrior, with much abasement and perhaps more sense than one would have expected from him.

"Good boy," says she, patting his hand with her fan.

"I suppose husbands have some rights, at all events?" says Sir Maurice.

He says it quite lightly—quite debonnairly, yet he hardly knows why he says it. He had been looking at Tita, and suddenly she had looked back at him. There was something in the cold expression of her face, something defiant, that had driven him to make this foolish speech.

"Husbands? Pouf! They least of all," says Mrs. Chichester, who loves to shock her audience, and now finds Miss Gower ready to her hand.

"Where is your husband now, Mrs. Chichester?" asks Colonel Neilson, quite without malice prepense.

Margaret gives him a warning glance, just a little too late. Though indeed, after all, what is there to warn about Mrs. Chichester? She is only one of a thousand flighty young women one meets every day, and though Captain Marryatt's infatuation for her is beyond dispute, still, her infatuation for him has yet to be proved. Margaret had objected to her, in her own mind, as a companion for Tita—Tita, who seems too young to judge for herself in the matter of friendships.

"I don't know, I'm sure," returns Mrs. Chichester, lifting her shoulders. "Miss Gower will tell you; she knows everything. Miss Gower," raising her voice slightly, and compelling that terrible old woman to look at her, "will you tell Colonel Neilson where my husband is now?"

Poor Colonel Neilson! who is beginning to wish that the earth would open and swallow him up.

"It argues ill for you that you should be obliged to ask such a question," says Miss Gower, with a lowering eye.

"Does it? How dreadful!" says Mrs. Chichester. She looks immensely amused. "Do you know I heard the other day that he was married again! It can't be true—can it?"

She appeals once again to Colonel Neilson, as if enjoying his discomfiture, and being willing to add to it through pure mischief. However, she is disappointed this time. Colonel Neilson does not know what to do with her appeal to him, and remains discreetly silent. He can see she is not in earnest.

"At all events, if true," says Mrs. Chichester, looking now at Miss Gower, and speaking in a confidential tone, "I am sure John will let me know about it."

"John" is Major Chichester.

Marryatt is leaning now so far over her that he is whispering in her ear.

"Is this—is this true?" questions he, in low but vehement tones.

"It—it may be. Who can tell?" returns she, with beautiful hesitation.

She subsides once again behind the invaluable fan. To him she seems to be trembling. To Margaret, who is watching her angrily, she seems to be laughing.

"You have evidently great faith in your husband," says Miss Gower, with what she fondly believes to be the most artful sarcasm.

"Oh, I have—I have!" says Mrs. Chichester, clasping her hands in an enthusiastic fashion.

"And he in you, doubtless?"

"Oh, such faith!" with a considerable increase in the enthusiasm.

Miss Gower looks at her over her spectacles. It is an awful look.

"I shall pray for you to-night!" says she, in a piously vindictive tone.

"Oh, thanks! Thanks! How kind of you!" says Mrs. Chichester, with extreme pathos.

There is an explosion on her left. Mrs. Chichester looks mournfully in that direction to see the cause of it. There is only Mr. Gower to be seen! He, as usual, is misconducting himself to quite a remarkable degree. He is now, in fact, laughing so hard but so silently that the tears are running down his cheeks. To laugh out loud with his aunt listening, might mean the loss of seven hundred a year to him.

"What's the matter with you? Aren't you well?" asks Mrs. Chichester, in a loud voice, calculated to draw attention to him.

She feels that here is an opportunity given her to pay off old scores.

"Oh, don't," gasps Gower, frantically struggling still with his laughter. "If she hears you, she'll be down on me like a shot. As you are strong, be merciful!"

"Very well; remember you are in my debt," says she, who au fond is not ill-natured. At this moment Tita passes down the balcony to where her husband is standing on the top of the steps that lead to the gardens beneath.

As she draws closer to him, he fixes his eyes upon her as if to compel a glance from her in return; but Tita, who is accompanied by Minnie Hescott, does not so much as once let her gaze wander in his direction. She comes nearer—ever nearer, laughing and talking gaily, and passes him, still without recognition of any sort. As her skirt sweeps against him, he speaks.

"Are you going out, Tita?"

It is the first word that has passed between them since last night—since she left his room. A sudden angry determination to make her speak to him, induces him now to get before her, and bar her passage to the steps.

"Yes," returns she coldly, graciously, briefly.

She leans back a little, as if to catch up the tail of her white gown—in reality, to avoid looking at him.

"Just here there is shelter," says Rylton, speaking hurriedly, as if to gain time, and keep her from gliding past him. "But outside—— And you have a very thin frock on. Shall I get you a shawl?"

"No, thank you."

Her manner is still perfectly gracious, but still she refuses to look at him. The gathering up of her frock is evidently causing her a great deal of trouble.

"Shall I take you out some cushions, then?"

"No, thank you."

She has conquered the frock now, but still she does not look at him. In fact, she turns to Minnie, and, as though forgetful of his presence, murmurs some little thing or other to her.

"If you are going to the gardens," says Rylton, with Heaven knows what intention—perhaps a desire to show her how little he cares for her childish anger, perhaps to bring matters to their worst—to know what she means—"may I come with you?"

Tita gives him a glance—the fleetest; a smile—the briefest.

"No, thank you," says she, a faint emphasis upon the "No" being the only change in her even tone.

As she speaks she goes down the steps, Minnie Hescott following her.



END OF VOL. I.



COLLECTION

OF

BRITISH AUTHORS



TAUCHNITZ EDITION.



VOL. 2957.



THE HOYDEN. BY MRS. HUNGERFORD.



IN TWO VOLUMES.



VOL. II.



THE HOYDEN



A NOVEL



BY MRS. HUNGERFORD



AUTHOR OF

"MOLLY BAWN," "PHYLLIS," "A CONQUERING HEROINE,"

ETC. ETC.



COPYRIGHT EDITION.



IN TWO VOLUMES.



VOL. II.



LEIPZIG

BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ

1894.



CONTENTS

OF VOLUME II.



CHAPTER I.

How Minnie Hescott gives Tita a Hint; and learns that Hints may be thrown away; and how Margaret's Soul is grieved

CHAPTER II.

How Tita commits a great Folly, though little is the Sin that lies therein. And how Margaret tries to make Peace, and what comes of it

CHAPTER III.

How Mr. Gower grows darkly mysterious; and how Tita hears of the Arrival of another Guest

CHAPTER IV.

How Tita's Soul at last is stirred; and how her Happiness is threatened and herself set at naught; and how Minnie Hescott speaks

CHAPTER V.

How Miss Gower goes for a pleasant Row upon the Lake with her Nephew; and how she admires the Sky and Water; and how presently Fear falls on her; and how Death threatens her; and how by a mere Scratch of a Pen she regains Shore and Life

CHAPTER VI.

How all the House Party at Oakdean grow frivolous in the Absence of the Lord and Master; and how Mrs. Bethune encourages a Game of Hide-and-seek; and how, after many Escapes, Tita is caught at last

CHAPTER VII.

How Tita is "caught," but by one whom she did not expect; and how she played with Fire for a little Bit; and how finally she ran away

CHAPTER VIII.

How Tita, having been repulsed, grows angry; and how a very pretty Battle is fought out; and how Tita gains a Present; and how Sir Maurice loses his Temper

CHAPTER IX.

How Mrs. Bethune is brought before the Bar; and how she gives her Evidence against Tita; and how Maurice's Mother desires an Interview with Maurice's Wife

CHAPTER X.

How "that Girl" was "seen" by the Dowager Lady Rylton; and how Tita held her small Head very high, and fought a good Fight with the Enemy

CHAPTER XI.

How Tita goes for a Walk with two sad Companions—Anger and Despair; and how she meets Sir Maurice; and how she introduces him to Anger

CHAPTER XII.

How Tita, running from the Enemy, suddenly finds herself Face to Face with another Foe; and how she fights a second Battle, and comes off victorious

CHAPTER XIII.

How a little Sparring is done amongst the Guests at Oakdean; and how Tom Hescott tells a Story

CHAPTER XIV.

How Tita flings herself upon Margaret's Breast; and how Margaret comforts her; and how Tita promises to be good; and how she has a Meeting "by Lamplight alone"

CHAPTER XV.

How Jealousy runs Riot in Oakdean; and how Margaret tries to throw Oil upon the Waters; and how a great Crash comes, with many Words and one Surprise

CHAPTER XVI.

How Maurice tells his Mother of the great Fiasco; and how she receives the News

CHAPTER XVII.

How Matters come to a Climax; and how Tita tells Maurice many Things that sting him sharply; and how he lays Hands upon her; and how the last Adieux are said

CHAPTER XVIII.

How Margaret steps into the Breach, and learns that all Peacemakers are not blessed

CHAPTER XIX.

How Margaret and Tita tread many Paths; and how Fortune, having turned her Back on Tita, shows a smiling Front to Maurice

CHAPTER XX.

How Margaret starts as a special Pleader, and is much worsted in her Argument; and how a simple Knock at the Hall Door scatters one Being who delights in War

CHAPTER XXI.

How Margaret makes a fearful Discovery; how she rushes to the Rescue, but is far from well received; and how Tita gives herself away, not once, but twice

CHAPTER XXII.

How Maurice smokes a Cigar, and muses on many Things; how he laments his Solitude; and how an unexpected Visitor comes to him

CHAPTER XXIII.

How Rylton's evil Genius comes to him and speaks sweet Treacheries within his Ear; and how he renounces her and all her Deeds

CHAPTER XXIV.

How Tita pleads her Cause with Margaret; and how Margaret rebukes her; and how Steps are heard, and Tita seeks Seclusion behind a Japanese Screen; and what comes of it

CHAPTER XXV.

How Tita wages War with Margaret and Maurice; and how Margaret suffers ignominious Treatment on both Hands; and how Maurice at the last gains one small Victory

CHAPTER XXVI.

How some old Friends reappear again; and how some News is told; and how Maurice makes another Effort to win his Cause

CHAPTER XXVII.

How Maurice gains another Point; and how Tita consents to think about it; and how Margaret tells a Lie

CHAPTER XXVIII.

How Tita receives a Basket of Flowers and an Entreaty; and how she ceases to fight against her destiny

CHAPTER XXIX.

How a Journey is begun as the Day dies down; and how that Journey ends; and how a great Secret is discovered—the Secret of Tita's Heart



THE HOYDEN.



CHAPTER I.

HOW MINNIE HESCOTT GIVES TITA A HINT; AND LEARNS THAT HINTS MAY BE THROWN AWAY; AND HOW MARGARET'S SOUL IS GRIEVED.



Minnie Hescott, during the time it takes her to go down the terrace steps behind Tita, comes to a resolution. She will give Tita a hint! It will be a gift of no mean order, and whether it be well received or not, will always be a gift to be remembered, perhaps with gratitude.

And Minnie, who is strictly practical if nothing else, sees a fair hope of return in her present plan. She likes Tita in her way—likes her perhaps better than she likes most people, and Tita may be useful to her as Sir Maurice Rylton's wife. But Tita, dismantled of her honours, would be no help at all, and therefore to keep Tita enthroned is now a very special object with her astute cousin.

In and between all this is Minnie's detestation of Mrs. Bethune, who has occasionally been rude to her in the small ways that make up the sum of life.

Minnie, who is not sensitive, takes the bull by the horns.

"Mrs. Bethune," says she, as they go by a bed of hollyhocks now hastening to their death, "is a friend of yours?"

It is a question.

"Mrs. Bethune!" says Tita, stopping and looking at her as if wondering.

What does she mean?

"Yes," says Minnie pleasantly. "A friend. An old friend!"

"Not an old friend," says Tita quietly. "She is a cousin of Maurice's."

"Yes. But not a friend of yours?"

"No," coldly.

"I'm glad of that," says Minnie, with hilarity. "I hate old friends, don't you? They always cost one such a lot. They tell one such horrid news about one's self. They do such nasty things. Give me a stranger for choice. And as for Mrs. Bethune, now you have told me she is not a friend of yours, I suppose I may speak freely. Do you know, Tita, I'd keep my eye on her if I were you. You have given me a free hand, so I can tell you what is in my mind. That woman—she means——"

"What?" asks Tita, turning upon her with some haughtiness.

"Business!" says Minnie Hescott, with an emphatic nod. "Mischief all through. She's up to mischief of some sort. I tell you what," says Minnie, with her old young look, "you've got to keep your eye on her."

"I could never keep my eye on anyone," says Tita, with a sudden, irrepressible little laugh. "And why should I keep my eye on Mrs. Bethune? To tell you a solemn truth, Minnie, I can't bear to look at her. She's beautiful, so they say, but to me she is hideous. Therefore, why should I keep my eye on her? It," with a whimsical little glance, "would hurt me so."

"Nevertheless, you should!" says Minnie solemnly. "She's a viper!"

"Vipers are ugly."

"And dangerous."

"Then why look at them?"

"To avoid them—lest they sting you," says Minnie, feeling quite pleased with herself for this flight of fancy.

"You think," says Tita, stopping and looking at her, "that Mrs. Bethune will sting me?"

"I think nothing," says Minnie Hescott, throwing out her hands in an airy fashion; "only, get rid of her—get rid of her, Tita, as soon as ever you can!"

"To get rid of a guest! No," says Tita. "She may stay here, and I shall make her welcome for ever——" She pauses and looks full at her cousin. There is great courage and great pride in her look. "For ever!" repeats she.

"There is always a fool somewhere!" says Minnie Hescott, with a sigh. "Well," abandoning the discussion for the present, "let us go for our walk round the garden."

As they pass beneath the balcony, Margaret, who is leaning over it, with Colonel Neilson beside her, makes a little irrepressible movement.

"What is it now?" asks he, who knows every mood of hers.

"Nothing. I was only thinking about Tita."

"A charming subject."

"Oh! too charming," says Margaret, with a sigh. "That child troubles me."

"But why? She seems to be getting on all right, in spite of your evil prognostications before her marriage. She and Rylton seem on very good terms."

"Not to-day, at all events," shaking her head.

"No? I confess I did think there was a little rift somewhere."

"Oh yes! There is something," says Margaret somewhat impatiently. "Did you see the poor child's eyes, and her whole air? Her pretty little attempts at unconcern?"

"I thought Rylton looked rather put out, too."

"I didn't look at him. I have no patience with him. It is a mad marriage for any man to make." She pauses. "I am afraid there was some disagreeableness last night." She hesitates again. Though quite determined never to marry Colonel Neilson or any other man, she permits herself the luxury of retaining Neilson as a confidential friend. "I wish her cousin, Mr. Hescott, was not quite so attentive to her. She is very young, of course, but I don't think she ought to have danced so much with him last night."

"And what of Rylton?" asks the Colonel, pulling the glass out of his eye and sticking it in again in an angry fashion. "Who did he dance with?"

"Yes. I saw," sadly.

"Well, why should he complain, then?" says Neilson, who can see the right and the wrong so much better because it is not his own case. "To tell you the truth, Margaret, I think Mrs. Bethune should not be here."

"I think that, too. But it appears it was Tita who invited her."

"My dear girl, who else? But there is such a thing as coercion."

"It was the prettiest, the most cordial letter. I read it."

"Then you think she knows nothing of that old affair?"

"Old?" She looks quickly at Neilson. "Do you think it is old—worn out, I mean?"

"No, I don't," says Neilson promptly. "And in my opinion, the sooner Mrs. Bethune terminates her visit the better for everyone."

"What an unhappy marriage!" says Margaret, with a sigh. "All marriages are unhappy, I think."

"Not a bit of it. Most of the married people we know would not separate even were the power given them to do so."

"That is merely because they have grown necessary to each other."

"Well, what is love?" says Neilson, who is always defending his great cause against Margaret's attacks. "Was there ever a lover yet, who did not think the woman he loved necessary to him?"

"It is not the higher form of love," says Margaret, who still dreams of an ideal, born of her first attachment—an ideal that never in this practical world could have been realized, and if it could, would have been condemned at once as tiresome to the last degree.

"It is high enough for most people," says Neilson. "Don't grow pessimistic, Margaret. There is a great deal of light and joy and laughter in the world, and I know no one so framed to enjoy it as yourself, if only you would give yourself full sway. You condemn marriage, yet how can you speak of it with authority—you who have not tried it?"

"Oh, do, do stop," says Margaret, lifting her hand. "You are getting on that—that wretched old tack again."

"So I am. I know it. I shall be on that tack to the end of my life. And I think it so unfair of you to condemn anybody without even a hearing."

"Why, I must," says she, laughing in spite of herself.

"No, you needn't. Marry me, and then give judgment!"

"I shall never marry," says Margaret, with cold decision; then, as if ashamed of her tone, she looks up at him. It is rather a shy look, and makes her even more admirable in the eyes of the man watching her. "Why will you persist?" asks she.

"I must. I must."

"It sounds like a doom," says she lightly, though tears are gathering in her eyes. "Don't waste your life. Don't!"

"I am not wasting it. I am spending it on you," says the Colonel, who is really a delightful lover.

"Ah! but that is so dreadful—for me!"

"Do I worry you, then?"

"No! no! A thousand times no!" cries she eagerly. "It is only that I must always reproach myself?"

"Why always? Give in, Margaret, and let me change my place from lover to husband."

"It is often a fatal change."

"You mistrust me?"

"You! No, indeed! You least of all. I believe in you from my very soul! Don't think that, Harry. But," impatiently, "why go over it again and again?"

Colonel Neilson turns a solemn face to hers.

"Margaret!" says he. "Are you bent on dying an old maid?"

Miss Knollys flushes; she turns aside.

"What an odious word!" says she.

She walks deliberately into the drawing-room behind her. Neilson still stands leaning over the balcony—a slow and distinctly satisfied smile crosses his features.



CHAPTER II.

HOW TITA COMMITS A GREAT FOLLY, THOUGH LITTLE IS THE SIN THAT LIES THEREIN. AND HOW MARGARET TRIES TO MAKE PEACE, AND WHAT COMES OF IT.



Breakfast is nearly over—an uncomfortable breakfast, with only a host to guide it—the hostess had put in no appearance. This would be nothing if the plea of headache had been urged, but headache had been out of it altogether. In fact, Lady Rylton had gone out riding at eight o'clock with her cousin, Mr. Hescott, and has not yet come back, though the clock points at ten-thirty.

Sir Maurice had made very light of it. He had asked Mrs. Bethune to pour out the tea, and had said that Tita would be back presently. But everyone can see that he is upset and angry, and Margaret, noting it all, feels her heart grow cold within her.

As a fact, Rylton is feeling something more than anger. Something akin to fear. Where is she—the girl he had married, meaning to be true to her if nothing else? He had questioned her maid very casually, very unconcernedly, and she had told him that her mistress had gone out riding this morning about eight o'clock with Mr. Hescott. His questions had been so clever, so altogether without anxiety, that the maid had believed in him, and saw nothing in his words to dwell upon later.

Yet Rylton's heart had seemed to cease beating as she answered him. She had gone riding with Hescott. With Hescott! Will she ever come back?

Tita's face, when she had left him that last night, is before him now. Tita's determination not to accept the olive branch he offered her yesterday is before him too. What if she——

And, in truth, Tita had been angry. Her spirit had been roused. His open declaration that he believed her capable of carrying on a flirtation with her cousin had hurt her more than she cared to confess even to herself. It was so silly—so unjust! She—she!

And he! What of him? Everything that his mother had told her of his affection for Marian grew, all at once, fresh in her mind. How did he then dare to speak to her of inconstancy? He—who had been false to her from the very beginning. When he had spoken to her to-day, as she passed him on her way to the garden, she had felt as though she could hardly bring herself to answer him—and always revenge was in her mind. Revenge—to show him how little she cared for his censures.

When, therefore, Hescott during the evening asked her to go for a ride with him before breakfast next morning, she had said yes quickly—so quickly, that Hescott foolishly believed she meant more than a readiness to ride in the early morning. Did she wish to be with him? A mad hope made his heart warm.

As for Tita—she thought only of that small revenge. She would go for a ride with Tom, without telling Maurice one word about it. She could easily be back in time for breakfast, and no one, therefore, would be annoyed, except Maurice! It seemed delightful to annoy Maurice!



* * * * *



The little revenge hardly seems so delightful now, however, as she springs from her horse, and running into the hall, followed by Hescott, sees by the clock there that it is just half-past ten.

"Oh! you should have told me," cries she, most unjustly turning upon Tom.

"Good heavens! How could I? I didn't know myself. I told you I had left my watch on my dressing-table."

"Well, we are in for it now, any way," says she, with a little nervous laugh.

She walks straight to the breakfast-room, and, throwing open the door, goes in.

"I'm so sorry!" says she at once.

She gives a little general, beaming smile all round. Only Margaret can see the nervousness of it. She had taken off her hat in the hall, and her pretty, short air is lying loosely on her forehead. There is a tiny dab of mud on her cheek, close to the eye. It is distinctly becoming, and looks more like a Queen Anne patch than anything else.

All the men rise as she enters, except Rylton, who is reading a letter of such deep importance, evidently, that he seems hardly to note his wife's entrance. Tita beckons to them all to resume their seats.

"I'm dreadfully sorry—dreadfully," says she, in a quick little way. "I had no idea it was so late. So good of you," turning to Mrs. Bethune, who is sitting at the head of the table, "to take my place! You see," looking once again round her, "when I started I did not mean to go so far."

"Ah! that is what so often happens," says Mrs. Bethune, with a queer little glance from under her lids.

There is something so insolent both in her meaning and her voice, that Margaret's face flushes, and she makes a slight movement as if to rise; but Colonel Neilson, who is next her, by a slight gesture restrains her. She looks at Maurice, however, as if wondering why he does not interfere—does not say something; but Maurice seems more than ever buried in his letter. Indeed, beyond one brief glance at his wife, he has taken no notice of her.

Margaret's eyes go back to Tita. Everyone is offering her a seat here or there, and she is shaking her head in refusal. Evidently Mrs. Bethune's remark has gone by her, like the wind unheard; it had not been understood.

"Come and sit here, and have a hot cup of coffee," says Captain Marryatt.

"No, thank you. I couldn't really. See how muddy I am," glancing down at her skirt. "It must have rained a great deal last night. Tom and I ran a race, and this is the result. I must go upstairs and change my things."

"Certainly, a change would be desirable in many ways," says old Miss Gower, in her most conscious tone, on which her nephew, who is helping himself to cold pie on the sideboard, turns and looks at her as if he would like to rend her.

"Yes, run away, Tita; I'll be up with you in a moment," says Margaret gently, fondly. "I am afraid you must feel very damp."

"I feel very uncomfortable, any way," says Tita, though without arrire pense. Mrs. Chichester, dropping her handkerchief, gets her laugh over before she picks it up again. Tita moves towards the door, and then looks back. "Maurice," says she, with a courage born of defiance, "will you send me up some breakfast to my room?"

Sir Maurice turns at once to the butler.

"See that breakfast is sent up to Lady Rylton," says he calmly.

A faint colour rises to Tita's forehead. She goes straight to the door. Randal Gower, who is still at the sideboard, hurries to open it for her.

"There's a regular ta-ra-ra waiting for you," says he, "in the near bimeby."

Tita gives him an indignant glance as she goes by, which that youth accepts with a beaming smile.

Tita has hardly been in her room twenty minutes, has hardly, indeed, had time to change her clothes, when Margaret knocks at the door.

"May I come in?" asks she.

"Oh! come in. Come in!" cries Tita, who has just dismissed her maid. She runs to Margaret and kisses her on both cheeks. "Good-morning," says she. And then saucily, "You have come to read me a lecture?"

"No. No, indeed," replies Margaret earnestly. She had perhaps, but the sight of the child's small, pretty, entreating face has done away with everything condemnatory that was in her mind. Still, there is such a thing as a word in season. "But, Tita dearest," says she, "is it wise, the way you are going on?"

"Ah! I knew I should not escape," says Tita whimsically.

"I am not going to scold you, really," says Margaret, smiling; "but consider, dear child! To begin with——"

"Oh, this is worse than I thought," interrupts Tita, covering her face with her hands, and blinking at her through her fingers. "Is it going to be firstly, secondly, thirdly? Come to the thirdly at once."

"Do you know what you want?" says Margaret, who feels fonder of her every moment. "A good slap! I shall deliver it some day. But, seriously now, Tita, you ought to have considered your guests, at all events. If you had stayed in your room it would have been nothing—but——"

"But because I stayed in the open air it was something!" Tita bursts out laughing. "Oh, isn't it funny?" says she. "It would have been all right if I had had a bad headache. Either way they wouldn't have seen me at breakfast, and what it amounts to is, that they are very angry because I hadn't a bad headache."

"No one is angry at all."

"No one?"

"Except Maurice, and surely he has some right on his side. You know your conduct was a little—just a little—er——"

"Rude," says Tita, helping her out. "Well, I know that, and I am sorry to my heart's core, Margaret, if I was rude—to you!"

The climax is very sweet. Margaret tells herself that Tita is too much for her. The girl by this time has her arms round her neck.

"Don't mind me," says Margaret, holding the little form closely to her. "Think of yourself, my dearest. As if I should misunderstand you! But you should study conventionality a little; you should——"

She breaks off; it almost seems to her that she is preaching deception to this baby.

"Now, I'll tell you," says Tita, leaning back a little from her, and pointing each word by a tap on her shoulder, "I'm not so bad as I seem! I really meant to be in, in time for breakfast—but Tom——"

"Tom," impatiently, "is a bad adviser!"

"It wasn't his fault, any way. The fact is, I took it into my head to run a race with him. He is always lauding that old horse of his, you know——"

"I don't know. All I do know is, that Mr. Hescott must have had a watch about him."

"Well," triumphantly, "he hadn't. So you don't know anything after all, you darling old Madge! He had forgotten it. He had left it at home! That was just what put us out! Not that I care. Well, I was going to tell you about our race. We started for Clumber's Hill—to get there and back again, and all went well until my mare ran away with me!"

"Ran away——"

"Don't look like that. I love a horse to run away with me; and there were no sandpits or precipices of any sort; it was a real good run away. Oh!" throwing out her arms, "how I enjoyed it!" She pauses. "But I don't think Tom did. He was like an egg when he came up with me. So white!"

"Never mind Mr. Hescott, go on."

"Well, that's all. By the time I had the mare well in hand again, we were a good many miles farther from here than we meant to be, and, of course, I was late." She puts Margaret away from her a little, and looks at her. "After all," says she, "why should Maurice be so angry about it? Everyone makes mistakes now and then. I suppose," lightly, "even the immaculate Maurice can make his?"

"No doubt," says Margaret, in a low tone.

Is he not making a mistake now—a dreadful one?

"And, for the matter of that, so can you," says Tita audaciously, but so lovingly that no one could be angry with her.

"Don't waste time over me," says Margaret, growing very red, but laughing. "Come back to your naughty little self. Now what are you going to do about this, Tita?"

"Do?"

"Yes. Couldn't you go down and say something pretty to Maurice?"

"Go down—to Maurice? Go and beg his pardon. Is that what you mean? No, thank you!"

"But, my dear, he is your husband?"

"Is that all?" Tita tilts her chin airily. "One would think I was his daughter, the way you speak, or his slave! No. I shan't apologize to him, Margaret, is that is what you mean. I'm hanged if I do!"

"Tita—my dear!" Margaret looks shocked. "I don't think you ought to use such expressions. You make me very unhappy when you do."

"Do I?" Tita gives her a little sidelong glance, meant to be contrite, but too full of mischief to be anything but incorrigible. "Then I'm hanged if I say it again," says she.

"Tita, you will come to grief yet," says Margaret, laughing in spite of herself. "Now to return to our argument. I tell you, you owe Maurice something for this escapade of yours, innocent as it is. Fancy in what an awkward position you placed him with your guests! A man doesn't like to feel awkward; and he is, naturally, a little annoyed with you about it. And——"

"Nonsense!" says Tita; "the guests have nothing to do with it! As if I didn't know! Maurice is just in a bad temper because I have been riding with Tom. He hates poor old Tom. If I had gone riding with Randal or any of the others, and hadn't been in till luncheon, he would have said nothing—he would have treated it as a joke, I dare say."

"Well—but, Tita, is there nothing in his objection to Mr. Hescott? You must admit, dearest, that your cousin is a little—well, attentive to you."

"Why, of course he is attentive to me. He is quite like a brother to me."

"Brothers, as a rule, are not so very attentive to their sisters. The fact is, Tita," says Margaret desperately, "that I think—er—that Maurice thinks—that Mr. Hescott is——"

"In love with me? I know that," says Tita, without the faintest embarrassment. "Isn't it absurd? Fancy Tom being in love with me!"

Margaret tells herself that she could fancy it very easily, but refrains from saying so.

"How do you know he isn't?" asks she slowly.

"Why, if he was, I suppose he would tell me so," says Tita, after which Miss Knollys feels that further argument would be useless.

Suddenly Tita turns to her.

"You think me entirely in the wrong," says she, "and Maurice altogether in the right. But there are things about Maurice I do not understand. Is he true or is he false? I never seem to know. I don't ask much of him—not half as much as he asks of me—and still——"

"What do you mean, Tita?" asks Margaret, a nervous feeling contracting her throat.

Has she heard, then?—does she know?

"I mean that he is unfair to me," says Tita, standing back from Margaret, her eyes lighting. "For one thing, why did he ask Mrs. Bethune to pour out tea this morning in my absence? Was there," petulantly, "no one else to ask?"

"She is his cousin."

"So are you."

"My dear, I am not married."

"More shame on you," says Tita, with the ghost of a smile. "Well, there was Miss Gower!"

"She is not married, either."

"And no shame to anyone." Here Tita, in spite of her wrath, cannot help laughing. "But really, Margaret, the blame should not be entirely on my side. If I have to accuse Maurice——"

"Accuse him! Of what?"

Tita looks full at her.

"You are a good friend," says she; "but his mother told me."



CHAPTER III.

HOW MR. GOWER GROWS DARKLY MYSTERIOUS; AND HOW TITA HEARS OF THE ARRIVAL OF ANOTHER GUEST.



Tita, going down the stairs after her interview with Margaret, meets Randal in the hall below.

"You look rather down on your luck!" says he.

"My looks belie me, then," says she stoutly. "But you—what is the matter with you?"

"Ruin!" says Mr. Gower tragically. "My looks do not belie me."

"Good gracious, Randal!"

"Ruin stares me in the face," says he, "look where I will."

"Very rude of it," says Tita, with an irrepressible laugh. "One should never stare people out of countenance. You should speak to Ruin."

"Oh, it's all very fine making a joke of it!" says Mr. Gower, who is, however, laughing too.

"Where are you going now?" asks Tita, as he moves away from her towards the hall door.

"'Anywhere—anywhere out of the world,'" quotes he, with a dismal shake of the head.

"Is it so serious as all that?" cries Tita. "Look here, Randal, wait a moment, can't you? I have a last request to make. If you are bent on dying, do it; but do it nicely—be picturesque: something original, and no blood. Promise me there will be no blood!"

"'So young, and so untender!'" says Gower, gazing at her with deep reproach.

He seems full of quotations.

"But where are you going, really?"

"Out."

He pauses.

"Not out of your mind, I hope?"

"Don't be too sure."

"Well, wait, and I'll go with you," says she, glancing at the stand in the hall where her garden hat is generally to be found.

"Not to-day," says Gower; "you mustn't come with me to-day. I'm going out on business."

"Business!"

Mr. Gower and business seem so very far apart.

"Gruesome business," repeats he, dropping his voice to a whisper. "I'm going with my aunt—'my dear, unmarried aunt.' It's my last chance. I shall do or die to-day, or else"—an afterthought striking him—"she will."

"Where are you going with her?"

"I am taking her," says Mr. Gower, looking darkly round him, "for a row on the lake. She says she dotes on lakes. I don't think she will dote on your lake when she returns, if"—with a murderous eye—"she ever does."

"Are you going to drown her?" asks Tita, catching him by the arm.

She is laughing still.

"I hope not—I hope not," says Gower gloomily. "Circumstances may be favourable. We must pray for the best."

He tears himself away from her with a profound sigh, and she is still standing, laughing in the hall, when the library door opens, and Rylton comes into the hall.

Her laughter dies quickly. Rylton, after a swift, careless glance at her, goes towards the letter-rack and places a letter in it, then goes back to the library. As he reaches the door, however, he hears little running feet behind him.

"Don't go—don't go," says Tita. She has laid one hand upon his arm, and is looking up at him. "You are angry with me, and——"

"Angry? No!"

"You are—you know you are! And you want to scold me, and——"

"You are quite mistaken," says Rylton, shaking off her hand gently, but with decision. "I have no desire whatever to scold you. Why should I?"

He goes past her into the library, but she follows him—a lovely little penitent—with lowered eyes.

"Do scold me!" says she. "I was wrong; and I did it on purpose, too."

"On purpose?"

"Yes," hanging her pretty head; "I did it to annoy you! You were so—so nasty about Tom the other night—do you remember? So I wanted to make you really mad this time—just for revenge, you know; but, honestly, I didn't mean to be late for breakfast."

"Didn't you?" drearily.

"No, I didn't; you must believe that." She goes nearer to him, and slips her hand through his arm. "Maurice!" whispers she. He makes her no answer. She moves even closer to him, and, leaning her little head against his shoulder, looks up at him. "Do scold me!" says she again. The tender, childish voice touches him; it goes home to his heart—the heart that is so full of another. He looks down at her, and, stooping, lays his lips on hers. It can hardly be called a kiss; yet it satisfies her, to whom, as yet, kissing means so little. "Now I am forgiven," cries she triumphantly. "Is that your scolding?"

"I told you I couldn't scold you," says he.

As he says this he sighs heavily.

"What a sigh!" She pushes him from her with both hands. "After all, I believe you hate me!"

"No, I don't," says Rylton.

He smiles. After all, why not be friends with her? Had he explained that indifference was the word she should have used for hate, would she be any the wiser?

"No—really?" She has flung herself into a chair, and is looking at him with her hands clasped behind her head. "Well," thoughtfully, "I don't hate you, either. That's a blessing, isn't it?"

"A great one."

He feels a little piqued, however, at the nonchalance of her manner. Why should it occur to her that she might hate him? She has, unknowingly certainly, but unquestionably, blocked his way to the fulfilment of his desires, but he—— He changes colour; is he standing in her way, then?

"What was the letter you were reading this morning when I came in?"

"A letter?"

He brings himself back to the present with an effort.

"Yes. It was so interesting," says she, making him a little malicious grimace, "that you could not spare a moment from the reading of it to acknowledge my presence."

"It was from my mother."

"No wonder it was so engrossing," says Tita naughtily. "Well——"

"It isn't well; it is ill," returns he, laughing. "She says she is coming to stay with us for a week or so on her way to Lady Sarah's."

"Why is she coming?"

"For our sins, I suppose. I really don't know any other reason." He casts an anxious glance at her. "I am afraid that you won't care about it."

"Well, I shan't," says Tita frankly; "but if she wants to come, there is nothing more to be said. What I am afraid of is that Marian won't like it."

"Marian?"

"Yes, Marian. It struck me that she was not very fond of your mother. Was I right?"

"I could not possibly answer for Marian."

"No?"

"Certainly not."

"Yet I thought," with a swift glance, "that you were the one person in the world who could have told me all about her."

"You were wrong, then. I have known Marian, and—liked her; but I think no human being can answer for another's likes and dislikes."

"Perhaps so." She looks down thoughtfully. "When is your mother coming?"

"To-morrow. I shall run up to town and meet her, and bring her on."

"You will be back to-morrow night?"

"Well, she seems to think so; but I expect she will be tired, and stay in town until next morning. In the meantime," smiling at her, "I leave the house and the guests and everything in your charge."

"How delightful!" cries Tita, clapping her hands.

Rylton turns away.



CHAPTER IV.

HOW TITA'S SOUL AT LAST IS STIRRED; AND HOW HER HAPPINESS IS THREATENED AND HERSELF SET AT NAUGHT; AND HOW MINNIE HESCOTT SPEAKS.



"Such a day to go out on the lake!" says Mrs. Bethune, with a contemptuous curve of her lip. "Really, that old woman must be as mad as she is disagreeable."

"Well, she could hardly be more so," says Mrs. Chichester.

They are all in the oriel chamber, the windows of which look upon the lake, and now they can see Randall and Miss Gower rowing apparently in the utmost peace across it.

"She has a perfect passion for boating," says Margaret.

"So I should say. I dare say it seems to her pretty and idyllic."

"Her passions ought to be at a low ebb by this time," says Mrs. Bethune with a sneer. She has suffered many things at the old maid's hands.

"Well, let us pray Randal will bring her home in safety," says Tita, laughing.

"My dear Lady Rylton!"

"Heavens—what a prayer!" exclaims Mrs. Chichester.

"Let us say it backwards," says captain Marryatt, which is considered such a wonderful departure for him, such a stroke of wit on his part, that everyone laughs in the most encouraging fashion.

"You'll be a reigning wit yet, if you don't look out," says Mrs. Chichester.

"As you are a reigning toast," responds he, quite fired by the late ovation.

"Oh, goodness!" says Mrs. Chichester, shrugging up her thin shoulders and casting a queer glance round her from under her brows; "let us take him away quickly, before he cuts himself with his own smartness."

"Yes. Come down to the library, it's warmer there," says Tita. She leads the way to the door, and when at it looks back over her shoulder at her husband. "Are you coming, Maurice?"

"In a moment or two. I have a few letters to write first."

"And you?" says Tita, looking at Mrs. Bethune.

"I, too, have some letters to write," returns Marian.

Her tone is quite ordinary, but to the young girl gazing at her there seems something defiant in her eyes and her smile. What is it in the smile—a sort of hateful amusement.

Tita leaves the room. She goes out and down the spiral stairs quite collectedly, to all appearance, yet she is not aware for a moment that Margaret's hand is on her arm. For the first time—the first time in all her young and most innocent life—a sin has touched her soul. She has learned to hate—she as yet does not know why—but she knows she hates Marian Bethune.

As the door closes behind her and her guests, Rylton turns on Marian.

"Why did you say that? Why didn't you go?" says he.

His face is white as death. He cannot account to himself for the agitation that is consuming him.

"Why should I not say what is the truth?" returns she, her beautiful daring eyes full on his. "Why should I go? Does Lady Rylton demand that all her guests should be at her beck and call, morning, noon, and night?"

"She demands nothing," says Rylton.

The terrible truth of what he is saying goes home to him. What has she ever demanded, that poor child, who has given him her fortune, her life? Her little, sweet, half-pathetic face as she looked back at him from the doorway is before him. Her face is often before him now.

"She must be a fool, then," says Marian insolently. She takes a step nearer to him. "Don't let us talk of her. What is she to us?" cries she, in a low fierce tone that speaks of words held back for many days, words that have been scorching her, and must find sound at last. "Maurice! Maurice! how long is this to go on!" She takes a step nearer to him, and then, as if it is impossible to her to hold back any longer, she flings herself suddenly into his arms. "Maurice, speak to me. My love! My life!" Her words are low, dispirited, broken by little sobs.

Rylton presses her to him. It is an involuntary movement, the action of one who would succour another when in trouble. His face has lost all colour. He is indeed as white as death. He holds her. His arms are round her—round this woman he has loved so long; it is—it must be a supreme moment—and yet—

He lays his hands upon her arms, and putting her gently back from him gazes into her drenched eyes. Those eyes so dear, so lustrous. How often has he looked into them, when,

"Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again!"

"Marian," says he. His tone is tenderness itself, yet there is now a sudden strength in it that astonishes him. She had had all the strength in those old days. She had dominated him, subduing him by her beauty, her charm. The charm is there still—he knows that as he gazes into her deep eyes, but is it quite as potent? A year ago would she have been standing before him, looking at him as she is looking now with this ineffable passion in her gaze whilst he stood too? No. He would have been at her feet, her slave, her lover, to do with as she would. "Marian, is this wise?"

"Ah! one moment!" entreats she sadly. "It is so seldom I can see you alone, and this blessed chance—will you refuse it? You saw how I dared everything. How I even risked her suspicion. It was because I felt I should see—should speak with you again."

"You should consider yourself," says he in a dull tone.

He hardly understands himself. Where is the old, wild longing to be with her, when others are away, to hold her in his arms? To kiss her lips—dear willing lips?

"What do I care about myself?" returns she vehemently. Her passion has so carried her with it, that she has failed to see the new wonder in his air, the chill, the lack of warmth, the secret questioning. "Ah, Maurice, forgive me! It is so like you to think of me before yourself. And I know one must think. But will it be always so? Is there no chance, no hope—of freedom for you and me? You are rich now, and if—if——"

"Don't," says he, in a choked tone.

He almost pushes her from him, but she clings to him.

"I know—I know," says she. "It is a dishonourable thought, but thoughts will come. And you——" She catches him by both arms, and swaying her little body a little, compels his gaze to meet hers. "They come to you, too," cries she in a low tone, soft as velvet, but quick with fervour. "You, too, long for freedom. Do I not know you, Maurice? Do I not believe in you? You are mine—mine! Oh how I honour you, for your honour to her! I think you are the one good man I ever met. If I loved you before your marriage, I love you a thousand times better since. You are mine, and I am yours. And we must wait—wait—but not for long. That girl——"

He releases himself from her by a quick, almost infuriated gesture. At the very instant of his doing so the sound of footsteps coming along the corridor without can be heard. Mrs. Bethune steps quickly to a side-door, and passes noiselessly into a passage that leads her to a back staircase. As she runs along it softly, noiselessly, a great swell of delight lifts her bosom.

He loves her. He loves her still. He had not repulsed her when she had flung herself into his embrace, and this last moment when he had flung her out of it, that spoke more than all. He had heard those coming footsteps. He had thought of her—her reputation. That was dear to him. She gains her own room by a circuitous round, breathless, unseen, secure in her belief of her power over him. The insatiable vanity of the woman had prevented her from reading between the lines.

Rylton, detesting himself for the necessity for deception, has just seated himself at a writing-table, when Minnie Hescott enters the room. That astute young woman refrains from a glance round the room.

"Still writing?" says she.

She had told herself when she escaped from the others that she would do a good turn to Tita. She decided upon not caring what Rylton would think of her. Men were more easily appeased than women. She would square him later on, even if her plain speaking offended him now; and, at all events, Tita would be on her side—would acknowledge she had meant kindly towards her, and even if all failed still something would be gained. She would have "been even" with Mrs. Bethune.

Miss Hescott's vocabulary is filled with choice sayings, expressive if scarcely elegant. Beyond her dislike to Mrs. Bethune, personally—she might have conquered that—Minnie is clever—there is always the fact that Mrs. Bethune is poor, and poor people, as Minnie has learned through a hard philosophy, are never of any use at all. Mrs. Bethune, therefore, could never advance her one inch on the road to social success; whereas Tita, though she is a mere nobody in herself, and not of half as good birth as Mrs. Bethune, can be of the utmost use as a propeller.

Tita, by happy circumstances, is the wife of a real live Baronet, and Tita is her cousin. Tita has money, and is very likely to go to town every year in the season, and what more likely than that Tita should take her (Minnie) under her wing next season, present her and marry her? Delightful prospect. Her step is quite buoyant as she approaches Rylton and says:

"Still writing?"

"Yes," returns Rylton leisurely, to whom Minnie is not dear.

"I'm sorry. I wanted to say something to you," says Minnie, who has decided on adopting the unadorned style of conversation, that belongs as a rule to the young—the unsophisticated.

"If I can be of the slightest use to you," says Rylton, wheeling round on his chair, "I shall be delighted." He had knocked off the blotting paper as he turned, and now stoops to pick it up, a moment that Minnie takes to see that he has no letter half begun before him, and no letter finished either, as the rack on the side of the wall testifies. Minnie would have done well as a female detective!

"Oh no—no. On the contrary, I wanted to be of use to you."

"To me?"

"Yes. You mustn't be angry with me," says Minnie, still with the air of the ingnue full about her; "but I felt ever since the night before last that I should speak to you."

"The night before last!"

Rylton's astonishment is so immense that he can do nothing but repeat her words. And now it must be told that Minnie, who had seen that vindictive look on Mrs. Bethune's face as she went down the terrace steps on the night of Lady Warbeck's dance, and had augured ill from it for Tita and her brother, had cross-examined Tom very cleverly, and had elicited from him the fact that he had heard footsteps behind the arbour where he and somebody—he refused to give the name—had sat that night, and that he—Tom—had glanced round, and had seen and known, but that he had said nothing of it to his companion. A mutual hatred for Mrs. Bethune, born in the breast of Tom as well as in his sister, had alone compelled Tom to declare even this much. Minnie had probed and probed about his companion, as to who she was, but Tom would not speak. Yet he might as well have spoken. Minnie knew!

"Yes, that night at Lady Warbeck's. I know you will think me horrid to say what I am going to say, and really there is nothing—only—I am so fond of Tita."

"It is not horrid of you to say that," says Rylton, smiling.

"No. I know that. But that isn't all. I—am afraid Tita has an enemy in this house."

"Impossible," says Rylton.

He rises, smiling always, but as if to put a termination to the interview.

"No, but listen," says Minnie, who, now she has entered upon her plan, would be difficult to beat. "Do you remember when you and Mrs. Bethune were standing on the balcony at Warbeck Towers—that night?"

Rylton starts, but in a second collects himself.

"Yes," returns he calmly.

He feels it would be madness to deny it.

"Very well," says Minnie, "I was there too, and I went down the steps—to the garden. Your wife went down before me."

Rylton grows suddenly interested. He had seen Minnie go down those steps—but the other!

"Then?" asks he; his tone is breathless.

"Oh, yes—just then," says Minnie, "and that is what I wanted to talk to you about. You and Mrs. Bethune were on the balcony above, and Tita passed just beneath, and I saw Mrs. Bethune lean over for a second as it were—it seemed to me a most evil second, and she saw Tita—and her eyes!" Minnie pauses. "Her eyes were awful! I felt frightened for Tita."

"You mean to tell me that Mrs. Bethune saw Tita that night passing beneath the balcony?"

The memory of his bet with Marian, that strange bet, so strangely begun, comes back to him—and other things too! He loses himself a little. Once again he is back on that balcony; the lights are low, the stars are over his head. Marian is whispering to him, and all at once she grows silent. He remembers it; she takes a step forward. He remembers that too—a step as though she would have checked something, and then thought better of it.

Is this girl speaking the truth? Had Marian seen and then made her bet, and then deliberately drawn him step by step to that accursed arbour? And all so quietly—so secretly—without a thought of pity, of remorse!

No, it is not true! This girl is false—— And yet—that quick step Marian had taken; it had somehow, in some queer way, planted itself upon his memory.

Had she seen Tita go by with Hescott? She had called it a fair bet! Was it fair? Was there any truth anywhere? If she had seen them—if she had deliberately led him to spy upon them——

A very rage of anger swells up within his heart, and with it a first doubt—a first suspicion of the honour of her on whom he had set his soul! Perhaps the ground was ready for the sowing.

"Saw her? Yes, indeed," says Minnie, still with the air of childish candour. "It was because I saw her that I was so frightened about Tita. Do you know, Sir Maurice,"—most ingenuously this—"I don't think Mrs. Bethune likes Tita."