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.