The Hoyden

by Duchess

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!