Duchess

“ She recovers herself and smiles at him, but her face is still white. "A thought, a mere thought—it cannot be only Tita and her cousin who have old associations, who have—memories."
Her eyes are full of tears. She leans toward him. This time her lips do touch him—softly her lips touch his cheek. The curtains hide them.
"Have you no memories?" says she.
"Marian! This is madness," says Rylton, turning suddenly to her. In a sense, though without a gesture, he repulses her. She looks back at him; rage is in her heart at first, but, seeing him as he is, rage gives place to triumph. ”

“ Am I to understand, then, that you don't like sitting near me?"
"Ah, that's a different thing," says Tita, with a little side-glance at him that shows a disposition to laughter.
"You see! you see!" says Mr. Gower triumphantly—he has a talent for teasing. "Then you do wish to sit beside me! And why not?" He expands his hands amiably. "Could you be beside a more delightful person?"
"Maybe I could," says Tita, with another glance.
Rylton, who is listening, laughs.
His laugh seems to sting Mrs. Bethune to her heart. She turns to him, and lets her dark eyes rest on his. ”

“ Let Maurice marry as he will."
"As he will!" Lady Rylton repeats her words, and, rising, comes towards her. "Why don't you answer?" says she. "We want your answer. Give it!"
"I have no answer," says Mrs. Bethune slowly. "Why should he not marry Miss Bolton?—and again, why should he? Marriage, as we have been told all our lives, is but a lottery—they should have said a mockery," with a little bitter smile. "One could have understood that."
"Then you advise Maurice to marry this girl?" asks Lady Rylton eagerly.
"Oh, no, no! I advise nothing," says Marian, with a little wave of her arms. ”

“ Why should we not be as brother and sister to each other? Yes, yes," vehemently; "tell me it shall be so. You will ask me to your new house, Maurice, won't you?"
She is looking up into his face, her hand still pressing his arm.
"My wife's house."
"Your wife's house is yours, is it not? You owe yourself something from this marriage. You will ask me there now and then?"
"She will ask her own guests, I suppose."
"She will ask whom you choose. Pah! what is she but a child in your hands?"
"Tita is not the cipher you describe her," says Rylton coldly. ”

“ And this girl! If Maurice can be persuaded to have her——"
"My dear Tessie, what a word!" says Margaret, rising, with a distinct frown. "Has he only to ask, then, and have?"
"Beyond doubt," says Lady Rylton insolently, waving her fan to and fro, "if he does it in the right way. In all my experience, my dear Margaret, I have never known a woman to frown upon a man who was as handsome, as well-born, as chic as Maurice! Even though the man might be a—well"—smiling and lifting her shoulders—"it's a rude word, but—well, a very devil!" ”

“ Oh, Margaret! Oh! what shall I do? If I go out there I shall meet him face to face. Oh! why do people build rooms with only one door in them? I'm undone." She glances wildly round her, and in the far distance of this big drawing-room espies a screen. "That," gasps she, "that will do! I'll hide myself behind that. Don't keep him long, Meg darling! Hurry him off. Say you've got the cholera—any little thing like that—and get rid of him."
"Tita—you can't. It is impossible. ”

“ The moonlight, striking upon her as she so stands, makes her fairness even greater.
"Marian! You mean——"
The past rushes in upon him. He has turned to her.
"No! no! It is nothing," says she, with a little laugh that is full of pain. She makes a movement that almost repulses him. "But I am your friend, if nothing else; and the world—the world is beginning to talk about you, Maurice!"
"About me!"
He has drawn back with a sharp pang. She sees that this new idea that touches him, or that little fool (as she has designated Tita in her mind) , has destroyed his interest in her for the moment. ”

“ Tita's feet are beyond argument, and there is not a woman in this world, any way, who has beautiful feet, who doesn't want everyone to tell her all about them.
"No, no; they're nothing," says she, making a pretence of tucking up the much-maligned feet in question under her frock, which basely fails to help her.
But even as she says this she smiles—reluctantly, no doubt; but, still, she does smile—and casts a glance at Rylton from under her long lashes. It is a delightful look—half pleased, half defiant, wholly sweet.
"Forgive me, Tita!" says her husband quickly. ”

“ The knowledge that she has grown very thin during their estrangement goes to his heart like a knife. Oh, dear little, darling girl!
"You must love me—you must," says he, holding her to him, as if he could never let her go. "Try to love me, Tita."
Slowly, very slowly, she stirs within his arms. She looks up at him. It is such a strange look. It transfigures the beautiful little face, making it even more beautiful than it was before. But Maurice, who is hanging on it, to whom it means life or death, does not dare translate the expression. ”

“ Hescott raises his right hand, pretends to feel blindly in the air for a moment, then his hand falls on Tita's sunny little head. It wanders on her short curls—it is a very slow wandering.
Mrs. Bethune looks up at Rylton, who is standing beside her.
"Do you still doubt?" asks she, in a low whisper.
"Doubt! I am a past master at it," says he bitterly. "I should be! You taught me!"
"I! Oh, Maurice!"
"Yes—you! Yesterday, as it seems to me, I believed in everyone.
To-day I doubt every soul I meet."
At this point Hescott's "doubts," at all events, seem to be set at rest. ”

“ She might have said more, but that suddenly Marian Bethune stops her. The latter, who is leaning against the curtains of the window, breaks into a wild little laugh.
"Love—what is love?" cries she. "Oh, foolish Margaret! Do not listen to her, Tessie, do not listen."
She folds the soft silken curtains round her slender figure, and, hidden therein, still laughs aloud with a wild passion of mirth.
"It is you who are foolish," cries Margaret, with some agitation.
"I?" She lets the curtains go; they fall in a sweep behind her. She looks out at Margaret, still laughing. Her face is like ashes. ”

“ For a full minute Rylton remains silent. The mind is a strange thing, not to be controlled, full of vagaries, and now, for no reason whatever, as it seems to him, it has run back to his wedding morning. Is this the careless, idle, little tomboy who had stood before the altar—the little girl he had assured himself he could mould to his will?
"You forget," says he coldly, "that you are married to me. It is not so simple a matter as you seem to imagine for a wife to throw off her marriage yoke."
"Yoke! What a good word that is!" says Tita, with the air of one making a discovery. ”

“ 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. ”

“ What are looks?" cries Mrs. Chichester gaily. "Looks always belie one."
"Certainly Lady Rylton's must belie her," says Mrs. Bethune, with a slow smile. "What cause has she for tears?"
"Not one!" declares Mrs. Chichester with decision. "It would be 'a sinner above all the Galileans' who would make Lady Rylton cry."
Her queer green eyes smile at Tita, who smiles back at her in her little sweet way, and then all at once bursts out laughing. It is a charming laugh, apparently full of mirth. There are only two present who do not quite believe in it, Margaret and Tom Hescott—but these two love her. ”

“ Margaret is conscious of a vague sensation of faintness. Maurice turns to her.
"You were saying that Tita——"
Here Margaret rebels.
"Once for all, Maurice, I decline to discuss your wife," says she quickly. "Talk of anything else on earth you like—of Mr. Gladstone, the Irish question, poor Lord Tennyson, the mice in Hungary, anything—but not of Tita!"
"But why?" asks Rylton. "Has she forbidden you to mention her to me?"
"Certainly not! Why should she?"
"Why indeed? A man more barbarously treated by her than I have been—has seldom——"
Margaret's unhappy eyes once more glance towards the screen. ”

“ She is not what I would have chosen for him, I admit that; but all things must give way before the ruin that threatens us."
"Yes; true—all things," says Mrs. Bethune in a low tone.
"You see that. But how to bring Maurice to the point? He is so very difficult. You, Marian—you have influence with him——"
"I?" Mrs. Bethune rises in the slow, beautiful fashion that is hers always; she moves towards the window. There is no hurry, no undue haste, to betray the disquietude of her soul.
"You—you, of course," says Lady Rylton peevishly. "I always rely upon you." ”

“ Bethune, arching her brows. "Oh, Tessie!" She pauses, and then with an eloquent gesture goes on again. "After all, why shouldn't I be immoral?" says she. Once again she flings her arms above her head so that her fingers grow clasped behind it. "It pays! It certainly pays. It is only the goody-goodies who go to the wall."
"My dear Marian!" says Lady Rylton, with a delicate pretence at horror; she puts up her hands, but after a second or so bursts out laughing. "I always say you are the one creature who amuses me," cries she, leaning back, and giving full play to her mirth. ”

“ CHAPTER XIX. HOW MARGARET AND TITA TREAD MANY PATHS; AND HOW FORTUNE, HAVING TURNED HER BACK ON TITA, SHOWS A SMILING FRONT TO MAURICE. It is six months later, and now fair May has come to us on young and eager feet. On young feet barely born, and with a smile so slight that one dare hardly call it sunshine. At this moment a little gleam of it, just strong enough to make one dream of summer, but not enough to warm one, is stealing timidly though the windows of Margaret's smaller drawing-room in Park Lane. ”

“ Uncle George used to talk to me like that. He was a reasonable person, I suppose; and so are you. And he—hated me!" She grows silent as one might when some dreadful thought assails one. "Perhaps," says the poor child, in a quick, frightened sort of way, "you hate me too. Perhaps everyone hates me. There are people whom everyone hates, aren't there?"
"Are there?" asks Rylton drearily.
At this moment, at all events, he feels himself to be hateful. What a pitiful little face he is looking at!
"Yes, my uncle detested me," says Tita slowly, as if remembering things. ”

“ Oh, Meg! there is one, one thing—I love you, and love you, and love you!" She slips her soft arms round Margaret's neck, and presses her cheek to hers. There is moisture on Margaret's face when this little burst of gratitude has been accomplished. "I never loved anyone as I love you," says Tita.
"There is someone else you ought to love better, Tita."
"There is someone else I hate," returns Tita, with really astonishing promptitude.
"Well, about Oakdean," says Margaret quickly, appalled by this outbreak of wrath. ”

“ What a look it is!
"It is you who are mad," says she calmly. "What I meant was that I should probably marry some rich nobody for the sake of his wealth. It would be quite in my line. I should arrange him, form him, bring him into Society, even against Society's will! There is a certain excitement in the adventure. As for Maurice, he is no doubt in your eyes a demigod—in mine," with infinite contempt, "he is a man."
"Well, I hope you will keep to all that," says Lady Rylton, who is shrewd as she is cruel, "and that you will not interfere with this marriage I have arranged for Maurice." ”

“ Tessie gets up from her chair and stares at her opponent, who remains seated, looking back at her. "I see you have made up your mind to ruin my son," says she, changing her tone to one of tearful indignation. "You accepted him, you married him, but you have never made even an effort to love him."
Here Tessie sinks back in her chair and covers her eyes with her handkerchief. This is her way of telling people she is crying; it saves the rouge and the powder, and leaves the eye-lashes as black as before.
"It is not always easy to love someone who is in love with someone else," says Tita. ”

“ 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. ”

“ Give it the new name and be done with it."
"There can be no new name for a mere imagination. I don't believe she ever had any—any love affair with Mr. Hescott. I don't really, and," boldly, "in your heart I don't think you believe it either. No, don't turn away, don't. It is for your sake I speak, because I have always your interest at heart; Maurice, I entreat you to pause, to think. Is all the fault on Tita's side? Have you loved her as she should be loved?—that little, quick, enthusiastic creature. Where has your heart been since your marriage!"
"You go very far," says Rylton, pale, cold. ”

“ Marian Bethune is a tall woman, with a face not perhaps strictly handsome, but yet full of a beautiful diablerie that raises it above mere comeliness. Her hair is red—a rich red—magnificent red hair that coils itself round her shapely head, and adds another lustre to the exquisite purity of her skin. Her eyes have a good deal of red in them, too, mixed with a warm brown—wonderful eyes that hold you when they catch you, and are difficult to forget. Some women are born with strange charms; Marian Bethune is one of them. ”

“ Tita lifts her eyes to Rylton—such eyes.
"He will tell you," says she, and with a little scornful lifting of her chin she turns away.
"Now for your story, Tom," cries she gaily, merrily.
"You take me very short," says Hescott, who seems, in his present mood, which is of the darkest, to be the last man in Europe to tell an amusing tale. "But one occurs to me, and, of course," looking round him, "you all know it. Everyone nowadays knows every story that has and has not been told since the world began. ”