Part 56 (1/2)
”You'll be a reigning wit yet, if you don't look out,” says Mrs.
Chichester.
”As you are a reigning toast,” responds he, quite fired by the late ovation.
”Oh, goodness!” says Mrs. Chichester, shrugging up her thin shoulders and casting a queer glance round her from under her brows; ”let us take him away quickly, before he cuts himself with his own smartness.”
”Yes. Come down to the library, it's warmer there,” says t.i.ta. She leads the way to the door, and when at it looks back over her shoulder at her husband. ”Are you coming, Maurice?”
”In a moment or two. I have a few letters to write first.”
”And you?” says t.i.ta, looking at Mrs. Bethune.
”I, too, have some letters to write,” returns Marian.
Her tone is quite ordinary, but to the young girl gazing at her there seems something defiant in her eyes and her smile. What is it in the smile--a sort of hateful amus.e.m.e.nt.
t.i.ta leaves the room. She goes out and down the spiral stairs quite collectedly, to all appearance, yet she is not aware for a moment that Margaret's hand is on her arm. For the first time--the first time in all her young and most innocent life--a sin has touched her soul. She has learned to hate--she as yet does not know why--but she knows she hates Marian Bethune.
As the door closes behind her and her guests, Rylton turns on Marian.
”Why did you say that? Why didn't you go?” says he.
His face is white as death. He cannot account to himself for the agitation that is consuming him.
”Why should I not say what is the truth?” returns she, her beautiful daring eyes full on his. ”Why should I go? Does Lady Rylton demand that all her guests should be at her beck and call, morning, noon, and night?”
”She demands nothing,” says Rylton.
The terrible truth of what he is saying goes home to him. What has she ever demanded, that poor child, who has given him her fortune, her life? Her little, sweet, half-pathetic face as she looked back at him from the doorway is before him. Her face is often before him now.
”She must be a fool, then,” says Marian insolently. She takes a step nearer to him. ”Don't let us talk of her. What is she to us?” cries she, in a low fierce tone that speaks of words held back for many days, words that have been scorching her, and must find sound at last. ”Maurice! Maurice! how long is this to go on!” She takes a step nearer to him, and then, as if it is impossible to her to hold back any longer, she flings herself suddenly into his arms.
”Maurice, speak to me. My love! My life!” Her words are low, dispirited, broken by little sobs.
Rylton presses her to him. It is an involuntary movement, the action of one who would succour another when in trouble. His face has lost all colour. He is indeed as white as death. He holds her. His arms are round her--round this woman he has loved so long; it is--it must be a supreme moment--and yet--
He lays his hands upon her arms, and putting her gently back from him gazes into her drenched eyes. Those eyes so dear, so l.u.s.trous.
How often has he looked into them, when,
”Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again!”
”Marian,” says he. His tone is tenderness itself, yet there is now a sudden strength in it that astonishes him. _She_ had had all the strength in those old days. She had dominated him, subduing him by her beauty, her charm. The charm is there still--he knows that as he gazes into her deep eyes, but is it quite as potent? A year ago would she have been standing before him, looking at him as she is looking now with this ineffable pa.s.sion in her gaze whilst _he_ stood too? No. He would have been at her feet, her slave, her lover, to do with as she would. ”Marian, is this wise?”
”Ah! one moment!” entreats she sadly. ”It is so seldom I can see you alone, and this blessed chance--will you refuse it? You saw how I dared everything. How I even risked her suspicion. It was because I felt I _should_ see--_should_ speak with you again.”
”You should consider yourself,” says he in a dull tone.
He hardly understands himself. Where is the old, wild longing to be with her, when others are away, to hold her in his arms? To kiss her lips--dear willing lips?
”What do I care about myself?” returns she vehemently. Her pa.s.sion has so carried her with it, that she has failed to see the new wonder in his air, the chill, the lack of warmth, the secret questioning. ”Ah, Maurice, forgive me! It is so like you to think of me before yourself. And I know one _must_ think. But will it be always so? Is there no chance, no hope--of freedom for you and me?