The Hoyden

by Duchess

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.

Escaping from her mother-in-law's room, Tita goes hurriedly, carefully downstairs. There is no one in the smaller hall; she runs through it, and into one of the conservatories that has a door leading to the gardens outside. Its is a small conservatory, little frequented; and when one gets to the end of the two steps, one finds one's self at the part of the garden that leads directly into the woods beyond.

Tita, flinging open the little rustic gate that opens a way to these woods, hastens through it as though all the furies are at her back, and never ceases running until she finds herself a good half-mile from home.

And now she throws herself upon a sort mossy bank, and, clasping her hands in front of her, gives herself up to thought. Most women when in grief make direct for their bedrooms; Tita, a mere child of Nature, has turned to her mother in her great extremity. Her heart seems on fire, her eyes dry and burning. Her quick, angry run has left her tired and panting, and like one at bay.

She lays her flushed cheek against the cold, sweet mosses.

How good, how eternally good is the exquisite heart of the earth! A very balm from it seems now to arise and take this young creature into its embrace. The coolness, the softness of it! Who shall describe it? The girl lying on the ground, not understanding, feels the great light hand of the All-Mother on her head, and suddenly the first great pang dies. Nature, the supreme Hypnotizer, has come to her rescue, not dulling or destroying the senses, but soothing them, and showing a way out of the darkness, flinging a lamp into the dim, winding ways of her misery.

The cool mosses have brought her to herself again. She sits up, and, taking her knees into her embrace, looks out upon the world. To her it seems a cruel world, full of nothing but injustice. She has a long talk with herself, poor child!—a most bitter conversation. And the end of it is this: If only she could see Maurice and tell him—tell him what she thinks of him; and if only—— But it seems so impossible.

And here is where Mother Nature's doings come in. She has driven Maurice from his house almost as Tita left it, and has sent him here; for does he not know that Tita loves this solitary spot, and——

He has sprung upon the wall, and it is quite suddenly he sees her. Her attitude makes his heart stand still. Has it come to this? Has he brought her to this? What a child she was when he married her!—light-hearted, free——

Free! Was she free? This word spoils all his sympathy. Was she really free? Did she not love her cousin even then, when she consented to marry him? He springs lightly to the ground; his gun is on his shoulder, but he lays that against a tree, and goes lightly towards her.

How still she is! How tightly her small hands are clasped! How _very _small they are! Is that the first ring he had given her, shining on her third finger? She had not flung that back in his face, at all events! He hardly understands the wild, quick thrill of joy that this knowledge affords him. And how pale she is!

"In all her face was not one drop of blood."

She is staring before her, as if into the future—as if demanding happiness from it for her youth. He goes quickly to her.

"I was just getting over that fence there," says he, in a rather stammering sort of way, the new strange pallor on that small, erstwhile happy face having disarranged his nerves a little, "when I saw you. I am glad I saw you, as I wanted to say that perhaps I spoke to you too—roughly last night."

Tita remains silent. Something in her whole air seems to him changed. Her eyes—her mouth—what has happened to them? Such a change! And all since last night! Had he indeed been so rough with her as to cause all this?

"How bitter and winterly waxed last night
The air that was mild!
How nipped with frost were the flowers last night
That at dawning smiled!
How the bird lost the tune of the song last night
That the spring beguiled!"

Did it all happen last night? He breaks through his wonder to hear her.

"I don't know how you dared speak to me at all," says she at last slowly, deliberately.

Where is the childish anger now that used to irritate—and amuse him? It is all gone. This is hardly Tita, this girl, cold, repellent; it is an absurd thought, but it seems to him that she has grown!

"I spoke—because—— I think I explained," says he, somewhat incoherently, upset not so much by her words (which are strange, too) as by the strange look that accompanies them.

"Ah, explained!" says she. Her lips curl slightly, and her eyes (always fastened upon his) seem to grow darker. "If you are coming to explanations——" says she softly, but with some intensity. "Have you explained things? And when? Was it before our marriage? It _should _have been, I think!"

Rylton changes colour. It is such a sudden change that the girl goes over to him and lays her hand upon his chest.

"Did you think—all this time—that I did not know?" says she, raising her eyes to his—such solemn young eyes. "I have known it a long, long time. Always, I think! Your mother told me when we went to the Hall after our—trip abroad."

"She told you what?"

It is a last effort to spare—— To spare whom? Marian or himself—or—— All at once he knows it is Tita whom he would spare.

"Ah, that is useless," says Tita, with a slight gesture. "She told me a great deal then; she has told me more to-day."

"To-day?"

"A few last items," says the girl, her eyes burning into his as she stands before him, her hand upon his breast. "Shall I tell them to you? You married me for my money! You ruined your life"—she seems to be looking back and repeating things that had been said to her—"by doing that. Your mother" slowly, "seemed sorry that your life was ruined!"

"Tita!"

"No, listen; there is a little more. You only consented to make me your wife when you found Mrs. Bethune would not have you."

"You shall hear me," says he.

His face is as white as death now, but she silences him. She lifts her small, cold hand from his breast, and lays it on his lips that are nearly as cold.

"You proposed to her four times! All your love was hers! And it was only when hope was dead—when life seemed worthless—that you—married me."

"She told you that—all that?" asks Rylton; he has caught her hand.

"All that—and more." Tita is smiling now, but very pitifully. "But that was enough. Why take it to heart? It is nothing, really. It does not concern us. Of course, I always knew. You told me—that you did not love me."

"I shall not forgive her," says Rylton fiercely.

There is anguish as well as rage in his tone. He is holding her hand tightly clenched between both his own.

"I don't care whether you do or not," says Tita suddenly, almost violently. "You can forgive her or not, as you choose. The whole thing," dragging her hand forcibly from his, "is a matter of no consequence whatever to me!"

"You mean that you don't care?" says Rylton, in a suffocating voice.

"Care!" contemptuously. "No! Why should I care, or wonder, or waste one thought upon your love affairs?"

This insolent answer rouses Rylton from his remorse.

"Why, indeed!" says he, stung by her scorn. "You have your own to think of!"

And now a terrible thing happens—swift as lightning she lifts her hand, and gives him a little stinging blow across his face.

A second afterwards she has her hands upon her breast, and is crying affrightedly.

"I'm sorry—I'm sorry—I'm sorry!"

Yet through all the fright he can hear there is not an atom of real sorrow in her voice.

"Let that alone," says he, smiling grimly. "I dare say I deserved it. I take it meekly, as you see. But now—how is it to be between us?"

"You know. You ought to know. We agreed before our marriage that you were to go your way, and I—mine!"

"Very well," says Rylton slowly. "Let it be so. Remember always, however," looking fixedly at her, "that it was you who insisted on it."

"I shall remember," says Tita.

She turns and walks quickly on the path that leads to the house. Rylton turns to accompany her. But she, stopping short, looks up at him with a frowning brow.

"We have been talking about ways," says she. "This," with a little significant gesture to the right, "is my way."

He lifts his brows and laughs, a very sad and dismal laugh, however.

"And therefore not mine," says he. "You are right so far. I meant to go on to Upsall Farm, but I should like to see you safely back to the avenue, at all events—if you will allow me?"

"No!" Tita has turned upon him like a little fury. All her rage and grief and misery has at last overpowered her. "I shall not allow you! I shall go nowhere with you! Our ways, as you say, are separate."

"As I say——"

"It doesn't matter," says she vehemently; "words are nothing. There is only meaning left, and what I mean is that I want never to go anywhere with you again."

"As you will, of course," says he, drawing back. Evidently it is to be war to the knife.

He could have laughed at himself as he leans back against a huge oak-tree and lights a cigar. Truly he is no Don Juan! The woman he loved did not love him to any measurable extent; the woman he married cares for him even less!

A very rage of anger against Tita is filling his breast, but now, standing here in the cold soft shades of the silent wood, his anger gives place to thought. By what right is he angry with her? By what right does he upbraid her? She knows all—everything. His mother had seen to that. Yes, his wife knows——

And yet, after all, what is there to condemn him for? What man under heaven has been so scrupulous, so careful as he? There had been that one night at the Warbeck's dance—but beyond that, never by word or look had he been unfaithful!

He is beginning almost to pride himself upon his good behaviour, when all at once it comes to him that it has been easy to be faithful, that there has been no trouble at all about being scrupulous.

It is like a dagger in his heart. Is it all at the end then? Must it be regarded as a thing that was told—that old, sweet story! Dead, withered, with the life, the meaning, gone from it. And if so, what remains?

Nothing but the face of a small, angry little girl defying him—defying him always.

Pouf! He thrusts it from him. He lights another cigar. Again the old anger breaks out. Tita's words come back to him. Plainly she would be as glad to get rid of him as he—— She had spoken of her own way. Why not let her go that way? It leads to her cousin. All the finger-posts point in that direction. Well—— If so—— There might be a divorce, and a divorce would mean marriage with Marian, and——

He stands staring stupidly at the ground before him. What is the matter with him? Only three months, three little months ago, and such a thought would have raised ecstasy within his heart, and now——

How flat it all seems, how unprofitable! Nothing seems alive within him save a desire for vengeance on this child who has dared to drag his name into the dust.

This child!

Again her face rises before him. Pale, determined, scorning him! He had read hatred in her glance, and behind that hatred—bred of it, perhaps—love for her cousin.

He flings his cigar into a bush near him, and goes back to the house, taking the path his wife had chosen.