Part 33 (1/2)

”With Mr. Hescott.”

”I have known Tom all my life,” defiantly.

”I don't care about that. One may know people all one's life, and yet have very unpleasant things said about one.”

_ ”Can_ one----” She stops suddenly, facing him, her eyes fixed on his; her lips part, her slight little frame quivers as if with eagerness. It grows quite plain that there is something she desires pa.s.sionately to say to him--something terrible-- but all at once she controls herself; she makes a little gesture with her right hand, as if throwing something from her, and goes on quickly, excitedly: ”What do you mean? Who has been talking about me?”

”I didn't say anyone had been talking about you.”

”Yes, you did! You hinted it, at all events. Go on. Tell me who it was.”

”Even if I knew I should not tell you,” says Rylton, who is now white with anger.

He had understood her hesitation of a moment since. He had known exactly what she wanted to say to him, and unfortunately the p.r.i.c.king of is conscience had only served to add fuel to the fire of his discontent towards her.

”Well, _I'll_ tell _you,”_ says t.i.ta, coming a step closer to him, her eyes blazing. ”It was Mrs. Bethune. I know that she is no friend of mine. And I may as well say at once that I detest her. _You_ may like her, but I don't, and I never shall. She's a _beast!”_

”t.i.ta!”

Her husband stares at her aghast. The small form seems transfigured.

Has she grown?

”Yes--a _beast!_ I don't care what you think. I'm not afraid of you--remember that! I was not even afraid of Uncle George. I shall never be afraid of anyone in all this wide, wide world!”

Suddenly her pa.s.sion breaks down. Her arms fall to her sides, and she leans back against the end of her bed like a broken lily.

”t.i.ta--if you would let me explain,” says Rylton, who is overcome by her forlorn att.i.tude, ”I----”

”No.” He would have laid his hands gently upon her pretty bare shoulders, but she repulses him. ”I want no explanation; there _isn't_ one.”

Then, to his surprise and misery, she covers her face with both her hands and bursts into tears.

”You are unkind,” sobs she wildly. ”And you are not _true_. You don't tell the truth. You said--you _said,”_ pa.s.sionately, ”that you would be good to me. That you would let me do as I liked--that I should be happy! That was why I married you! That I might be happy!

And now--now----”

”But to do as you liked! t.i.ta, be reasonable.”

”Oh, _reasonable!_ 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 a.s.sails 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 t.i.ta slowly, as if remembering things. ”He said I ought not to have had all that money. That if I had not been born, he would have had it. But one can't help being born. One isn't asked about it! If”--she pauses, and the tears well up into her eyes again--”if _I_ had been asked, I should have said no, _no_, NO!”