CHAPTER VII.
HOW TITA IS "CAUGHT," BUT BY ONE WHOM SHE DID NOT EXPECT; AND HOW SHE PLAYED WITH FIRE FOR A LITTLE BIT; AND HOW FINALLY SHE RAN AWAY.
Rylton, striding upstairs, makes straight for the picture-gallery. It strikes him as he passes along the corridor that leads to it that a most unearthly silence reigns elsewhere, and yet a sort of silence that with difficulty holds back the sound behind it. A strange feeling that every dark corner contains some hidden thing that could at a second's notice spring out upon him oppresses him, and, indeed, such a feeling is not altogether without justification. Many eyes look out at him at these corners as he goes by, and once the deadly silence is broken by a titter, evidently forcibly suppressed! Rylton takes no notice, however. His wrath is still so warm that he thinks of nothing but the picture-gallery, and that screen at the end of it—where she, his wife, is——
Now, there is a screen just inside the entrance to this gallery, and behind it are Minnie Hescott and Mr. Gower. Randal's eyes are sharp, but Minnie's even sharper. They both note, not only Maurice's abrupt entrance, but the expression on his face.
"Do something—quickly," says Minnie, giving Randal a little energetic push that all but overturns the screen.
"Anything! To half my kingdom; but what?" demands Mr. Gower, in a whisper very low, as befits the occasion.
"Tita is down there with Tom," says Miss Hescott, pointing to the far end of the long, dimly-lit gallery. "Do you want to see murder done?"
"Not much," says Gower. "But—how am I to prevent it?"
"Don't you know what you must do?" says she energetically. "Those idiots downstairs have forsaken us. Run up the room as quick as you can—past Sir Maurice—and pretend you are the one who is hunting. I'll go for Tom. If we make a regular bustle, Sir Maurice won't think so much about our little game as he does now. Did you see his face?"
"I saw fireworks," says Mr. Gower. Then, "I'm off," says he.
He slips out from behind the screen, and galloping up the room comes to the screen very nearly as soon as Rylton. Not soon enough, however. Rylton has turned the corner of it, and found Tita with Tom Hescott crouching behind it, whispering together, and evidently enjoying themselves immensely.
As she sees him, Tita gives a little cry. She had plainly taken him for one of the hunters, and had hoped he would pass by.
"Oh, you!" cries she. "You! Go away. Go at once! They'll find us if——"
She waves him frantically from her. He is too angry to see that there is not a vestige of embarrassment in her air.
Here Gower comes up panting.
"Caught!" cries he, making a pounce of Tita.
"Not a bit of it!" says she, springing away from him to the other side of the screen. "And you, Randal, you are not hunting. Where's Colonel Neilson? Where's Margaret?"
"They changed," says Mr. Gower mendaciously. "Miss Hescott and I are upon the track; we are the bloodhounds—we," making another grab at her soft gown, "have got you!"
"No, you haven't," says Tita, whereupon there ensues a very animated chase round and round the screen, Tita at last finding shelter—of all places—behind her husband—behind Maurice, whose face it is quite as well she cannot see.
He makes a movement as if to go, but she catches him, and unless he were to use violence he could hardly get away.
"There now!" says she, addressing Rylton indignantly. "See how you've given us away. You've told him where we were. Don't stir. You mustn't. If you do he'll catch me."
She laughs defiantly at Gower as she says this. Gower could have laughed too. There could, indeed, be hardly anything stranger than the scene as it stands—comedy and tragedy combined. The husband cold, impassive, stern, and over his shoulder the charming face of his little wife peeping—all mirth and fun and gaiety.
"You must stay," says she, giving Sir Maurice a little shake. "Why, you've betrayed our hiding-place. You've shown him where we were. It isn't fair, Randal—it isn't indeed——"
"You are caught, any way," says Gower, who would willingly bring the scene to a close.
He can see Maurice's face, she cannot. As for Tom Hescott, his sister has chased him out of the gallery long before this, with a promptitude that does her credit.
"Caught! Not I," says Tita. "Caught, indeed!"
"Certainly you're caught," says Gower, making frantic little dabs at her; but she dances away from him, letting her husband go, and rushing once more behind the unfriendly screen that has done her so bad a turn.
"Certainly I'm not," retorts she, nodding her saucy head at him. Slowly and artfully, as she speaks, she moves towards the farther end of the screen, always keeping an eye on her adversary over the top of it until she comes to the far end, when, darting like a little swallow round the corner, she flies down the long, dark gallery. Once only she turns. "Now am I caught?" cries she, laughing defiance at Gower.
"Call that fair, if you like!" says he, in high disgust.
But she is gone.
* * * * *
The house is quiet again. Gower and Marryatt are still lingering in the smoking-room, but for the rest, they have bidden each other "Good-night" and gone to their rooms.
Tita is sitting before her glass having her hair brushed, when a somewhat loud knock comes to her door. The maid opens it, and Sir Maurice walks in.
"You can go," says he to Sarah, who courtesies and withdraws.
"Oh! it is you," says Tita, springing up.
Her hair has just been brushed for the night, and round her forehead some cloudy ringlets are lying. She had thrown on her dressing-gown—a charming creation of white cashmere, almost covered with lace—without a thought of fastening it, and her young and lovely neck shows through the opening of the laces whiter than its surroundings. Her petticoat—all white lace, too, and caught here and there with tiny knots of pale pink ribbons—is naturally shorter than her gown would be, and shows the dainty little feet beneath them.
"When youth and beauty meet together,
There's worke for breath."
And surely here are youth and beauty met together! Rylton, seeing the sweet combination, draws a long breath.
She advances towards him in the friendliest way, as if delighted.
"I haven't had a word with you," says she. "Hardly one. You just told me your mother had not come, and"—she stops, and breaks into a gay little laugh—"you must forgive me, but what I said to myself was, 'Thank goodness!' " She covers her eyes with widened fingers, and peeps at him through them. "What I said to you out loud was, 'Oh, I am sorry!' Do you remember? Now, am I not a hypocrite?"
At this she takes down her hands from her eyes, and holds them out to him in the prettiest way.
He pushes them savagely from him.
"You are!" says he hoarsely; "and one of the very worst of your kind!"