CHAPTER IX.
HOW MRS. BETHUNE IS BROUGHT BEFORE THE BAR; AND HOW SHE GIVES HER EVIDENCE AGAINST TITA; AND HOW MAURICE'S MOTHER DESIRES AN INTERVIEW WITH MAURICE'S WIFE.
"And now for the news," says the elder Lady Rylton, next morning, leaning back in her chair; she objects to the word "Dowager."
Contrary to all expectations, she had arrived to-day at half-past eight, and is now, at one o'clock, sitting in her room with Mrs. Bethune before her. She had seen Tita, of course; but only for a moment or so, as she had been in a hurry to get to her bedroom and her maid, and have the ravages that travel had laid upon her old-young face obliterated. She had, indeed, been furious (secretly) with Tita for having come out of her room to bid her welcome—such bad taste, obtruding one's self upon a person in the early hours of the morning, when one has only just left a train. But what can one expect from a plebeian!
"News?" says Marian, lifting her brows.
"Well," testily, "I suppose there is some! How is the ménage going on? How is it being managed, eh? You have a tongue, my dear—speak! I suppose you can tell me something!"
"Something! Yes."
"What does that mean?"
"A great deal," says Mrs. Bethune.
"Then you can tell me a great deal. Begin—begin!" says Lady Rylton, waving her hand in her airiest style. "I guessed as much! I always hated that girl! Well—and so—— Do go on!"
"I hardly know what you expect me to say," says Mrs. Bethune coldly, and with a hatred very badly suppressed.
"You know perfectly well," says her aunt. "I wish to know how
Maurice and his wife are getting on."
"How can I answer that?" says Marian, turning upon her like one brought to bay.
It is too bitter to her, this cross-examination; it savours of a servitude that she must either endure or—starve!
"It is quite simple," says Lady Rylton. She looks at Marian with a certain delight in her eyes—the delight that tyrants know. She has this creature at her heels, and she will drag her to her death. "I am waiting," says she. "My good girl, why don't you answer? What of Maurice and his wife?"
"They are not on good terms, I think," says Mrs. Bethune sullenly.
"No? And whose fault is that?" Lady Rylton catches the tip of Marian's gown, and draws her to her. When she has made her turn, so that she can study and gloat over the rapid changes of her face, she says, "Yours?" in a light, questioning way.
She smiles as she asks her question—a hateful smile. There is something in it almost devilish—a compelling of the woman before her to remember days that should be dead, and a secret that should have been hers alone.
"Not mine, certainly," says Marian, clearing her throat as though it is a little dry, but otherwise defying the scrutiny of the other.
"And yet you say they are not on good terms!" Lady Rylton pauses as if thinking, and then goes on. "No wonder, too," says she, with a shrug. "Two people with two such tempers!"
"Has Tita a temper?" asks Marian indifferently.
Lady Rylton regards her curiously.
"Have you not found that out yet?" asks she.
"No," coldly.
"It argues badly for you," says her aunt, with a small, malicious smile. "She has shown you none of it, then?"
"None," distinctly.
"My dear Marian, I am afraid Maurice is proving false," says Lady
Rylton, leaning back in her chair, and giving way to soft, delicate
mirth—the mirth that suits her Dresden china sort of beauty.
"Evidently our dear Tita is not afraid of you."
"You take a wrong reading of it, perhaps," says Mrs. Bethune, who is now, in spite of all her efforts to be emotionless, a little pale. "She is simply so indifferent to Maurice, that she does not care whom he likes or dislikes—with whom he spends—or wastes his time. Or with whom he——"
"Flirts?" puts in Lady Rylton, lifting her brows; there is most insolent meaning in her tone.
For the first time Mrs. Bethune loses herself; she turns upon her aunt, her eyes flashing.
"Maurice does not flirt with me," says she.
It seems horrible—horrible, that thought. Maurice—his love—it surely is hers! And to talk of it as a mere flirtation! Oh no! Her very soul seems to sink within her.
"My good child, who was speaking of you?" says Lady Rylton, with a burst of amusement. "You should control yourself, my dear Marian. To give yourself away like that is to suffer defeat at any moment. One would think you were a girl in your first season, instead of being a mature married woman. Well, and if not with you, with whom does Maurice flirt?"
"With no one." Marian has so far commanded herself as to be able now to speak collectedly. "If you will keep to the word 'flirtation,' you must think of Tita, though perhaps 'flirtation' is too mild a word to——"
"Tita!"
Tita's mother-in-law grows immediately interested.
"Yes, Tita. What I was going to say when you interrupted me was, that she refuses to take me into consideration—or anyone else for the matter of that—because——"
She stops—she feels choking; she honestly believes that Tita likes Tom Hescott far more than she likes her husband. But that the girl is guilty, even in thought guilty, she does not believe; and now she speaks—and to this woman of all others—— And yet if she does speak, ruin will probably come out of it—to Tita. She hesitates; she is lost!
"Oh, go on!" says Lady Rylton, who can be a little vulgar at times—where the soul is coarse, the manner will be coarse too.
"There is a cousin!" says Marian slowly.
"A cousin? You grow interesting!" says Lady Rylton. There is a silence for a moment, and then: "Do you mean to tell me that this girl," with a scornful intonation, "has a—Really" with a shrug, "considering her birth, one may be excused for calling it—a follower?"
"Yes."
"And so l'ingénue has awakened at last!"
"If you mean Tita," icily, "I think she is in love with her cousin; and, beyond all doubt, her cousin is in love with her."
"Birds of a feather!" says Lady Rylton. It has been plain to Marian for the past five minutes that her aunt has been keeping back her temper with some difficulty. Now it flames forth. "The insolence!" cries she, between her teeth. "That little half-bred creature! Fancy—just _fancy—_her daring to be unfaithful to my son! To marry a Rylton, and then bring a low intrigue into his family!" She turns furiously on Marian. "Where is she?"
"Tita?"
"Yes. I must see her this moment—this moment; do you hear?" The tyrannical nature of her breaks out now in a furious outburst. She would have liked to get Tita in her grasp and crush her. She rises. "I wish to speak to her."
"I should advise you to do no such foolish thing," says Mrs.
Bethune, rising too.
"You advise!—you! Who are you?" says Lady Rylton insolently. "When did I ask for your advice, or take it? Send that girl here—directly."
"Surely you forget that 'that girl' is at this moment your hostess!" says Marian Bethune, who has some sense of decency left. "This is her house; I could not deliver such a message to her."
"Then take another! Say——"
"Nor any other. She dislikes me, as I dislike her. If you wish to see her, send a message through her maid, or," a happy thought coming to her, "through Margaret; she cares for Tita as a cat might care for her kitten!"
"Poor Margaret," says Lady Rylton, with a sneer. "I fear she will always have to care for other cats' kittens!"
"Do you? I don't," says Marian, who, though she detests most people, has always a strange tenderness for Margaret.
"What do you mean?" asks Lady Rylton sharply.
"I think she will marry Colonel Neilson."
"Don't make yourself more absurd than you need be!" says her aunt contemptuously. "An old maid like that! What could Colonel Neilson see in her? I don't believe a word of that ridiculous story. Why, she is nearly as bad—worse, indeed," with a short laugh, "than a widow——like you!"
"I think she will marry him, for all that," says Mrs. Bethune calmly, with supreme self-control. She takes no notice of her insult.
"You can think as you like," says her aunt. "There, go away; I must arrange about seeing that girl."