Part 21 (2/2)

”Maurice! Maurice!” calls somebody.

Marian sinks upon a couch near her, and buries her face in her hands. Sir Maurice goes into the hall to meet his bride.

The partings are very brief. t.i.ta, who is in the gayest spirits, says good-bye to everybody with a light heart. Has not her freedom been accomplished? She receives Lady Rylton's effusive embrace calmly. There are some, indeed, who say that the little bride did not return her kiss. Just at the very last, with her foot almost on the carriage step, t.i.ta looks back, and seeing Margaret at a little distance, runs to her, and flings herself into her embrace.

”You are mine now, my own cousin!” whispers she joyfully.

”G.o.d bless you, t.i.ta,” says Margaret in a whisper, too, but very earnestly, ”and preserve to you your happy heart!”

”Oh, I shall always be happy,” says t.i.ta; ”and I shall hurry back to see _you,”_ giving her another hug.

Then somebody puts her into the carriage, and, still smiling and waving her hands, she is driven away.

”Really, Margaret, you should be flattered,” says Lady Rylton, with a sneer. ”She seems to think more of you than of her husband.”

”I hope her husband will think of her,” returns Margaret coldly. ”As I told you before, I consider this marriage ill done.”

CHAPTER XII.

HOW t.i.tA COMES BACK FROM HER HONEYMOON, AND HOW HER HUSBAND'S MOTHER TELLS HER OF CERTAIN THINGS THAT SHOULD HAVE BEEN LEFT UNTOLD.

”And the weather--the weather was the most marvellous thing!” says t.i.ta, with enthusiasm. ”Perpetual suns.h.i.+ne! Here, in September, it often pelts rain all day long!”

_ ”Pelts!_ My dear t.i.ta, _what_ a word!” says Lady Rylton.

She sinks back in her chair as if overcome, and presses her perfumed handkerchief to her face.

”What's the matter with it?” asks t.i.ta, a little smartly, perhaps.

”It's a right-down good word, in my opinion. I've heard lots of people use it.”

”No doubt _you_ have,” says her mother-in-law.

”Well, so have you, I dare say!” says t.i.ta.

”I expect we all have,” says Margaret Knollys, laughing. ”Still, you know, t.i.ta, it's not a pretty word.”

”Very good; I shan't say it again,” says t.i.ta, the mutinous little face of a moment ago now lovely with love.

She has come back from her honeymoon quite as fond of Margaret as when she started.

It is now the middle of September; outside on the lawn the shadows are wandering merrily from tree to tree. The sun is high, but little clouds running across it now and again speak of sharp rains to come.

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