Part 38 (2/2)
t.i.ta has disappeared. Once or twice he had caught a glimpse of her floating round the room with her cousin, but for the past five minutes she has not been _en evidence_ at all. Sir Maurice, moving out of the recess, is touched by a hand from behind. He turns.
Marian Bethune, beautiful, more animated than usual, and with her eyes sparkling, smiles up at him.
”How dull you look!” cries she gaily. ”Come out here on the balcony and enjoy the moonlight for awhile.”
She had been standing out there in the shadow, and had heard and seen what had occurred between t.i.ta and her husband, and later on with Tom Hescott. Rylton follows her. The soft chill of the air outside attracts him. It seems to check all at once the bitter anger that is raging in his heart. It surprises himself that he should be so angry. After all, what is t.i.ta to him? A mere name. And yet----
Outside here the night looks exquisite. Star after star one sees decking the heavens with beauty.
”Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising through the mellow shade, Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid.”
Such a night is this, delicate, tender, its charms heightened by a soft low wind that sweeps over the gardens and sends a sigh or two to the balconies above.
”Well!” says Mrs. Bethune.
She had led him to the far end of the balcony, where no seats are, and where, therefore, one may be sure of seclusion--for the moment, at all events. She looks up at him. Some pale pink lamps from behind throw a slight radiance on her--not too deep a radiance. They are too far behind for that, but yet enough to soften her, to idealize her, and to render even more delicate the exquisite flesh tints of her face.
She has waited for her answer some time, but is well satisfied that no answer has been forthcoming. Rylton's eyes are resting upon hers, as if surprised at this new fairness of hers. His glance is full of admiration, yet there is something of sadness--of anger in it, too, that annoys her, in spite of her exultation. For whom is the anger--for that little fool he has married? It seems to her an absurd thing that he should cast a thought, even an angry one, upon his wife when she--Marian--is here.
She has been leaning upon the rails of the balcony, and now draws closer to him.
”Why waste a thought on her?” says she in a low tone that is almost a whisper.
”On her! Who?” asks he quickly, and with an evident start.
”Oh!” with a shrug. ”If you don't wish to go into it.”
”But into what?”
He frowns. He is feeling very irritable still, in spite of his admiration of her beauty.
She makes a little gesture of contempt.
”If you will not acknowledge me as even your friend.”
”You!” says he sharply. ”You! _Are_ you my friend?”
There is a pause. She looks away from him. And then----
”Oh, _more_ than that!” cries she in a low but pa.s.sionate tone.
_”Far_ more!”
She lays her hand upon her throat, and looks up to heaven. The moonlight, striking upon her as she so stands, makes her fairness even greater.
”Marian! You mean----”
The past rushes in upon him. He has turned to her.
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