Part 28 (1/2)

CHAPTER XVI.

HOW A DULL MORNING GIVES BIRTH TO A STRANGE AFTERNOON. AND HOW RYLTON'S EYES ARE WIDENED BY A FRIEND.

”Good old day!” says Mrs. Chichester disgustedly. She is sitting near the window in the small drawing-room at Oakdean, watching the raindrops race each other down the panes.

”What's the matter with it?” asks Mr. Gower, who is standing beside her, much to the annoyance of Captain Marryatt, who is anxious to engage her for some waltzes at the dance old Lady Warbeck is giving in the near future.

”What _isn't_ the matter with it?” asks Mrs. Chichester, turning her thin shoulders, that always have some queer sort of fascination in them, on Gower. She gives him a glance out of her blue-green eyes.

She is enjoying herself immensely, in spite of the day, being quite alive to the fact that Captain Marryatt is growing desperate, and that old Miss Gower, whom t.i.ta has insisted on asking to her house party, is thinking dark things of her from the ottoman over there.

”What's it good for, any way?”

”For the ducks,” says Mr. Gower, who is always there. An answer to any question under the sun comes as naturally to him as sighing to the sad.

”Oh, well, I'm not a duck,” says she prettily; whereupon Mr. Gower whispers something to her that makes her laugh, and drives Captain Marryatt to frenzy.

He comes forward.

”Lady Rylton is talking of getting up something to pa.s.s the time;”

says he, regarding Mrs. Chichester with a frowning brow--a contortion that fills that frivolous young woman's breast with pure joy.

”May the heavens be her bed!” says Mr. Gower, who has spent some years in Ireland, and has succeeded in studying the lower orders with immense advantage to himself, but not very much to others. He has, at all events, carried off from them a good deal of the pleasant small-talk, whereas they had only carried off from him a wild wonder as to what he was and where born, and whether he ought or ought not to be inside a lunatic asylum. They had carried off also, I am bound to add, a considerable amount of s.h.i.+llings. ”Lady Rylton!” to t.i.ta, who has just come up, ”is this a reality or a mere snare? Did you say you thought you could put us successfully through this afternoon without reducing us to the necessity of coming to bloodshed?” Here he looks, first at Captain Marryatt, who providentially does not see the glance, and then at Mrs. Chichester, who laughs.

”I'm not sure. I haven't quite thought it out,” says t.i.ta. ”What would _you_ suggest, Margaret?” to Miss Knollys. ”Or you, Tom?” to a tall young man who has followed in her quick little progress across the room.

He is her cousin, Tom Hescott. He is so very much taller than she is, that she has to look up at him--the top of her head coming barely to a level with his shoulder. She smiles as she asks her question, and the cousin smiles back at her. It suddenly occurs to Sir Maurice, who has strolled into the room (and in answer to a glance from Mrs. Bethune is going to where she stands), that Tom Hescott is extraordinarily handsome.

And not handsome in any common way, either. If his father had been a duke, he could not have shown more breeding in look and gesture and voice. The fact that ”Uncle Joe,” the sugar merchant, _was_ his actual father, does not do away with his charm; and his sister, Minnie Hescott, is almost as handsome as he is! All at once Rylton seems to remember what his wife had said to him a few weeks ago, when they were discussing the question of their guests. She had told him he need not be afraid of her relations; they were presentable enough, or something like that. Looking at Tom Hescott at this moment, Sir Maurice tells himself, with a grim smile, that he is, perhaps, a little _too_ presentable--a sort of man that women always smile upon. His grim smile fades into a distinct frown as he watches t.i.ta smiling now on the too presentable cousin.

”What is it?” asks Mrs. Bethune, making room for him in the recess of the window that is so cosily cus.h.i.+oned. ”The cousin?”

”What cousin?” demands Sir Maurice, making a bad fight, however; his glance is still concentrated on the upper part of the room.

”Why, _her_ cousin,” says Mrs. Bethune, laughing. She is looking younger than ever and radiant. She is looking, indeed, beautiful.

There is not a woman in the room to compare with her; and few in all England outside it.

The past week has opened out to her a little path that she feels she may tread with light feet. The cousin, the handsome, the admirable cousin! What a chance he affords for--vengeance! vengeance on that little fool over there, who has _dared_ to step in and rob her--Marian Bethune--of her prey!

”Haven't you noticed?” says she, laughing lightly, and bending so close to Rylton as almost to touch his ear with her lips. ”No? Oh, silly boy!”

”What do you mean?” asks Rylton a little warmly.

”And after so many days! Why, we _all_ have guessed it long ago.”

”I'm not good at conundrums,” coldly.