The Hoyden Part 80

"Well, so it would--only he felt no friends.h.i.+p. He felt nothing but his love for that odious woman! I couldn't stand that."

"You stood it for a long time, t.i.ta--if it ever existed."

"Yes; I know. I didn't seem to care much at first, but when he grew rude to me about Tom---- Well, I knew what _that_ meant."

"If you knew, you should have kept your cousin at a greater distance."

"Nonsense, Margaret! what do you mean by that?" t.i.ta has turned a pair of l.u.s.trous eyes upon her--eyes lit by the fire of battle--not battle with Margaret, however, but with memory. "You honestly think that he believed I was in love with Tom?"

"I do. And I think he was jealous."

t.i.ta bursts out laughing. There is little music in her mirth.

"And now I'll tell you what _I_ think. That he was _glad_ to pretend to believe I was in love with Tom, because he hoped to get rid of me, and after that to marry his cousin."

"t.i.ta! I shall not listen to you if you say such things. How dare you even think them? Maurice is incapable of such a design."

"In my opinion, he is capable of anything," retorts Maurice's wife, without a trace of repentance. She looks long at Margaret, and then dropping gracefully upon a _pouf_ at Margaret's feet, says sweetly, "He's a beast!"

"Oh, t.i.ta! I don't know _why_ I love you," says Margaret, with terrible reproach.

At this t.i.ta springs to her feet, and flings her arms round Miss Knollys. Presently she leans back and looks at her again, still, however, holding her with her arms. Her small face, so woeful a while ago, is now wreathed in smiles; it even suggests itself to Margaret that she is with difficulty suppressing a wild outbreak of mirth--a suppression meant, no doubt, as a concession to Margaret's feelings.

"I'll tell you," whispers she. "You love me because you would be the most ungrateful wretch on earth unless you did. You give me _some_ of your love; I give you all mine. I have no one else."

"That is your own fault," says Margaret, still trying to scold her, actually believing she is doing it, whilst with her eyes and mouth she is smiling at her.

"Not another word, not one," says t.i.ta. "And promise me you won't ask me to see him again. I hate him! He sets my nerves on edge. I think he is actually _ugly."_

"I think you must have forgotten what he is like by this time."

"No, I don't. One doesn't forget a nightmare in a hurry."

"t.i.ta, really----"

"There! I'll be good. I'll consign him to the lowest depths and never dig him up again. And so he has left town? What a blessed relief! Now I can go out and enjoy myself. _Let_ us go out, Meg! Let us----_what's that?"_

She stands transfixed in the middle of the room, Margaret opposite her. Both seem stricken into marble.

A knock at the door, loud, sharp, resounding--a knock well known to both.

"And you _said_ he was gone to the country," says t.i.ta, in a low whisper filled with deepest suspicions.

"He said so. I believed it. It must be a mistake," says Margaret.

"He _certainly_ said so."

They have lost some moments over their fear and astonishment. The sound of a rapidly approaching footstep, quite as well known to them as the knock, rouses both to a sense of desperation.

"What on earth shall I do?" says t.i.ta, who is now as white as a sheet.

"Stay and see him," says Margaret, with sudden inspiration.

"Stay! Do you think I should stay for one moment in the room with him? No! I shall go in there," pointing to the next room that opens out of this with folding-doors, "and wait until he goes away."

She has hardly time to reach this seclusion when the door is thrown wide, and Sir Maurice is announced.

"n.o.body with you?" says he, glancing somewhat expectantly around him. "I fancied I heard someone. _So_ glad to find you alone!"

"Yes--yes--perhaps it is better," says Margaret vaguely, absently, thinking always of the little firebrand in that room beyond, but so near, so fatally near.

"Better? You mean----"

"Well, I mean that t.i.ta has only just left the room," says Margaret desperately.

"She--is in there, then?" pointing towards the folding-doors.

"Yes. _Do_ speak low. You know she--I can't disguise from you, Maurice, that she----"

Margaret hesitates.

"Hates me? I'm quite aware of that." A long pause. "She is well, I hope?" frigidly.

"I think so. She looks well, lovely indeed--a little pale, perhaps.

Maurice," leaning across and whispering cautiously, "why don't you try to make a reconciliation of some sort? A beginning might lead to the happiest results, and I am sure you do care for her--and--_do_ try and make up with her."

"You must be out of your mind!" says Maurice, springing to his feet, and to poor Margaret's abject fear speaking at the top of his lungs.

"With _her,_ when she deliberately deserted me of her own accord--when----"

"Oh, hush, hus.h.!.+" says Margaret in an agony. She makes wild signs to him, pointing towards the closed doors as she does so. A nice girl, we all know, would rather _die_ than put her ear to a keyhole, even if by doing so she could save her neck from the scaffold; but the very best of girls might by chance be leaning against a door through the c.h.i.n.ks of which sounds might enter from the room beyond it.

"She'll _hear_ you!" gasps Margaret.

"I don't care if she does," says Maurice indignantly, but he calms down for all that, and consents to sit in a chair as far from the folding-doors as possible. "You have misjudged me all through," says he.

"I think not--I hope not. But I will say, Maurice, that I think you began your marriage badly, and--you should not have----"

"Have what?"

"Asked Marian to stay with you."

"That was"--gloomily--"a mistake. I admit that. But have _I_ nothing to complain of?"

"Nothing, I honestly believe."

Her tone is so honest (Margaret herself is so sweetly honest all through) that he remains silent for a moment. It is, however, a constrained silence. The knowledge that t.i.ta is standing or sitting, laughing or frowning, behind those boards over there, disturbs him in spite of himself.

"Well, I have often thought that, too," says he, "and yet I have often thought--the other thing. At all events, you cannot deny that _he_ was in love with her."

"Why should I deny that? To me"--with a reproachful glance at him--"she seems like one with whom many might be in love."