The Hoyden Part 52

"Margaret!" says he. "Are you bent on dying an old maid?"

Miss Knollys flushes; she turns aside.

"What an odious word!" says she.

She walks deliberately into the drawing-room behind her. Neilson still stands leaning over the balcony--a slow and distinctly satisfied smile crosses his features.

CHAPTER II.

HOW t.i.tA COMMITS A GREAT FOLLY, THOUGH LITTLE IS THE SIN THAT LIES THEREIN. AND HOW MARGARET TRIES TO MAKE PEACE, AND WHAT COMES OF IT.

Breakfast is nearly over--an uncomfortable breakfast, with only a host to guide it--the hostess had put in no appearance. This would be nothing if the plea of headache had been urged, but headache had been out of it altogether. In fact, Lady Rylton had gone out riding at eight o'clock with her cousin, Mr. Hescott, and has not yet come back, though the clock points at ten-thirty.

Sir Maurice had made very light of it. He had asked Mrs. Bethune to pour out the tea, and had said that t.i.ta would be back presently.

But everyone can see that he is upset and angry, and Margaret, noting it all, feels her heart grow cold within her.

As a fact, Rylton is feeling something more than anger. Something akin to fear. Where is she--the girl he had married, meaning to be true to her if nothing else? He had questioned her maid very casually, very unconcernedly, and she had told him that her mistress had gone out riding this morning about eight o'clock with Mr.

Hescott. His questions had been so clever, so altogether without anxiety, that the maid had believed in him, and saw nothing in his words to dwell upon later.

Yet Rylton's heart had seemed to cease beating as she answered him.

She had gone riding with Hescott. With Hescott! Will she ever come back?

t.i.ta's face, when she had left him that last night, is before him now. t.i.ta's determination not to accept the olive branch he offered her yesterday is before him too. What if she----

And, in truth, t.i.ta _had_ been angry. Her spirit had been roused.

His open declaration that he believed her capable of carrying on a flirtation with her cousin had hurt her more than she cared to confess even to herself. It was so silly--so unjust! She--_she!_

And he! What of him? Everything that his mother had told her of his affection for Marian grew, all at once, fresh in her mind. How did he then _dare _to speak to _her_ of inconstancy? He--who had been false to her from the very beginning. When he had spoken to her to-day, as she pa.s.sed him on her way to the garden, she had felt as though she could hardly bring herself to answer him--and always revenge was in her mind. Revenge--to show him how little she cared for his censures.

When, therefore, Hescott during the evening asked her to go for a ride with him before breakfast next morning, she had said yes quickly--so quickly, that Hescott foolishly believed she meant more than a readiness to ride in the early morning. Did she wish to be _with_ him? A mad hope made his heart warm.

As for t.i.ta--she thought only of that small revenge. She would go for a ride with Tom, without telling Maurice one word about it. She could easily be back in time for breakfast, and no one, therefore, would be annoyed, except Maurice! It seemed _delightful_ to annoy Maurice!

The little revenge hardly seems so delightful now, however, as she springs from her horse, and running into the hall, followed by Hescott, sees by the clock there that it is just half-past ten.

"Oh! you should have _told_ me," cries she, most unjustly turning upon Tom.

"Good heavens! How could I? I didn't know myself. I told you I had left my watch on my dressing-table."

"Well, we are in for it now, any way," says she, with a little nervous laugh.

She walks straight to the breakfast-room, and, throwing open the door, goes in.

"I'm so sorry!" says she at once.

She gives a little general, beaming smile all round. Only Margaret can see the nervousness of it. She had taken off her hat in the hall, and her pretty, short air is lying loosely on her forehead.

There is a tiny dab of mud on her cheek, close to the eye. It is distinctly becoming, and looks more like a Queen Anne patch than anything else.

All the men rise as she enters, except Rylton, who is reading a letter of such deep importance, evidently, that he seems hardly to note his wife's entrance. t.i.ta beckons to them all to resume their seats.

"I'm dreadfully sorry--dreadfully," says she, in a quick little way.

"I had no idea it was so late. So _good_ of you," turning to Mrs.

Bethune, who is sitting at the head of the table, "to take my place!

You see," looking once again round her, "when I started I did not mean to go so far."

"Ah! that is what so often happens," says Mrs. Bethune, with a queer little glance from under her lids.

There is something so insolent both in her meaning and her voice, that Margaret's face flushes, and she makes a slight movement as if to rise; but Colonel Neilson, who is next her, by a slight gesture restrains her. She looks at Maurice, however, as if wondering why he does not interfere--does not _say_ something; but Maurice seems more than ever buried in his letter. Indeed, beyond one brief glance at his wife, he has taken no notice of her.

Margaret's eyes go back to t.i.ta. Everyone is offering her a seat here or there, and she is shaking her head in refusal. Evidently Mrs. Bethune's remark has gone by her, like the wind unheard; it had not been understood.

"Come and sit here, and have a hot cup of coffee," says Captain Marryatt.

"No, thank you. I couldn't really. See how muddy I am," glancing down at her skirt. "It must have rained a great deal last night. Tom and I ran a race, and this is the result. I must go upstairs and change my things."

"Certainly, a change would be desirable in many ways," says old Miss Gower, in her most conscious tone, on which her nephew, who is helping himself to cold pie on the sideboard, turns and looks at her as if he would like to rend her.

"Yes, run away, t.i.ta; I'll be up with you in a moment," says Margaret gently, fondly. "I am afraid you must feel very damp."

"I feel very uncomfortable, any way," says t.i.ta, though without _arriere pensee_. Mrs. Chichester, dropping her handkerchief, gets her laugh over before she picks it up again. t.i.ta moves towards the door, and then looks back. "Maurice," says she, with a courage born of defiance, "will you send me up some breakfast to my room?"

Sir Maurice turns at once to the butler.

"See that breakfast is sent up to Lady Rylton," says he calmly.

A faint colour rises to t.i.ta's forehead. She goes straight to the door. Randal Gower, who is still at the sideboard, hurries to open it for her.

"There's a regular ta-ra-ra waiting for _you,"_ says he, "in the near bimeby."

t.i.ta gives him an indignant glance as she goes by, which that youth accepts with a beaming smile.

t.i.ta has hardly been in her room twenty minutes, has hardly, indeed, had time to change her clothes, when Margaret knocks at the door.

"May I come in?" asks she.

"Oh! come in. Come in!" cries t.i.ta, who has just dismissed her maid.

She runs to Margaret and kisses her on both cheeks. "Good-morning,"

says she. And then saucily, "You have come to read me a lecture?"