The Hoyden Part 41

"And she is----"

"Always with him!" Mrs. Bethune laughs again--always that low, sweet, cruel laughter. _"Could_ attention farther go?"

"Always? Surely that is an exaggeration."

Rylton speaks with comparative calmness. It is plain that his one outbreak of pa.s.sion has horrified himself, and he is determined not to give way to another whatever provocation may lie in his path.

"Is it?" tauntingly. "Come"--gaily--"I will make a bet with you--a fair one, certainly. Of course, I know as little of your wife's movements at present as you do. I could not possibly know more, as I have been here with you all this time."

"Well--your bet?" darkly.

"That she is now with her old--with Mr. Hescott."

"I take it," says he coldly.

Something in his air that is full of anger, of suppressed fury, gives her pause for thought. Her heart sinks. Is she to win or lose in this great game, the game of her life? Why should he look like that, when only the honour of that little upstart is in question?

"Come, then," says she.

She moves impulsively towards the stairs that lead to the garden--an impulsive step that costs her dear.

"But why this way?" asks Rylton. "Why not here?" pointing towards the ballroom. "Or _here?"_ contemptuously pointing to a window further on that leads to a conservatory.

For a moment Mrs. Bethune loses herself--only for a moment, however.

That first foolish movement that betrayed her knowledge of where t.i.ta really is has to be overcome.

"The dance is over," says she, "and the gardens are exquisitely lit.

Lady Warbeck has great taste. After all, Maurice," slipping her hand into his arm, "our bet is a purely imaginary one. We know nothing.

And perhaps I have been a little severe; but as it _is_ a bet, I am willing to lose it to you. Let us take one turn down this walk that leads to the dahlias, and after that----"

"After that----"

"Why, _you_ win, perhaps."

"As you will," says he listlessly.

His heart is still on fire. Not a word pa.s.ses his lips as they go down the path. His eyes feel strained, hurt; they are staring--staring always towards the end of this path, where a seat is, so hedged round with creepers that one can scarcely see it. Will she be there? He turns abruptly to his companion.

"I am sick of this," says he; "I shall go no farther."

"But your bet?"

"It is a d.a.m.nable bet!" exclaims he fiercely. "I ought to be ashamed of myself for having made it. You win it, of course, in a sense, as I decline to go on with it; but, still, I believe that _I_ win it in fact."

"You are afraid," says she, with a daring that astonishes even herself.

"I am afraid of forgetting that once I was a gentleman," says he curtly.

"You are afraid of what is in that arbour," returns she mercilessly.

Rylton hesitates. To draw back is to betray disbelief in his wife; to go on is to join in a conspiracy against her. He had started on that conspiracy in a moment of intense pa.s.sion, but now his very soul revolts from it. And yet if he draws back it will show. . . .

It will give this woman beside him the victory over the woman he has married. And then a sudden thought comes to him. Why not go on? Why not put it to be proof? Why not win his wager? t.i.ta is thoughtless; but it would be madness in anyone to think her vile. It was madness in _him_ a moment since to dream of her being alone in that small, isolated arbour with Hescott. Much as he may revolt--as he does revolt--from this abominable wager he has entered into, surely it is better to go on with it and bring it to a satisfactory end for t.i.ta than to "cry off," and subject her to scoffs and jeers from her adversary.

"Let us go on," says he quietly. "I shall win my bet. But that is nothing! What really matters is, that I should have entered into such a wager with you or anyone. That is a debt I shall never be able to repay--Lady Rylton."

His tone is bitterly self-condemnatory, but Marian has scarcely caught that. The "Lady Rylton" has struck upon her ears, and hurt her to her heart's core! Oh, that she could destroy--blot out that small usurper!

"You have regained your courage? Come, then," says she, in a low tone that is full of a strange mirth.

He follows her along the gra.s.sy path--a path noiseless--until presently, having skirted a few low bushes, he finds himself, with Marian beside him, at the southern side of the arbour.

Marian, laying her hand silently upon his arm, points through the evergreens that veil the seat within; a mocking, triumphant smile is on her lips.

There is no need for any indication on her part, however--Rylton can see for himself. On the low, rustic seat within the arbour is t.i.ta--with Hescott beside her. The two young heads are close together. t.i.ta is whispering to Hescott--something very secret, undoubtedly. Her small face is upturned to his, and very earnest.

_His_ face.

Rylton never forgets his face!

t.i.ta is speaking--she is smiling--she leans toward her companion; her voice is full of a delicious confidence.

"Well, remember it is a secret--a secret between us."

Rylton draws back as if stabbed. He would have given his soul to hear the end of this terrible beginning--this beginning that, at all events, sounds so terrible to _him;_ but the fact that he _is_ longing to hear, that he has been listening, makes him cold from head to heel.

He moves away silently. Mrs. Bethune, catching his arm, says quickly:

"You heard--a secret--a secret between those two--_you heard!"_

There is something delirious in her tone--something that speaks of revenge perfected, that through all his agitation is understood by him. He flings her hand aside, and goes swiftly onwards alone into the dense darkness of the trees beyond, d.a.m.ning himself as he goes.

A very rage of hatred, of horror of his own conduct, is the first misery that a.s.sails him, and after that----

After that he sees only t.i.ta sitting there with Hescott beside her--he whispering to her, and she to him.

He stops in his rapid walk, and pulls himself together: he must have time--time to think, to control himself, to work it all out.

Things seem to come back to him with a strange clearness. He remembers how t.i.ta had once said to him that she never cared to kiss anyone except--Margaret. Her hesitation returns to him now; was Margaret the name she would have said had not fear, mixed with prudence, prompted her words? He remembers, too, that she had once refused to let _him_ kiss her lips--him, her husband! Why? He trembles with rage as he asks himself this question. Was it to keep them sacred for someone else--for that "old lover" of hers, for example?

Who had called him that? Marian, was it not? Old lover!

He had laughed at the name then. That child to have a lover! Why, he had believed she did not know the meaning of the word "love." What a baby she had always seemed to him--a careless, troublesome baby. And now!

Great heavens! Who is to be trusted? Is anyone to be trusted? He had put his faith in t.i.ta; he had thought her wild, perhaps a little unmanageable, but--yes, he had thought her lovable; there had been moments when----

And now it had all come to this, that she had deceived him--is wilfully deceiving him.

He does not even in this, his angry hour, accuse her of more than a well-developed flirtation with her cousin; but that is the beginning of an end that he will put a stop to at once, and for ever. He will show her who is her master. If she cannot respect herself, he will, at all events, take care that she respects his name; she shall not disgrace _that_.

He has hardly known where his feet have taken him, but now he finds himself on a lighted path, with two or three couples coming towards him; evidently they have just left the dancing-room. He has therefore described a circle, and come back to the place from which he started. One of the men pa.s.sing him looks into his face.