HOW TITA IS "CAUGHT," BUT BY ONE WHOM SHE DID NOT EXPECT; AND HOW
SHE PLAYED WITH FIRE FOR A LITTLE BIT; AND HOW FINALLY SHE RAN AWAY.
Rylton, striding upstairs, makes straight for the picture-gallery.
It strikes him as he passes along the corridor that leads to it that
a most unearthly silence reigns elsewhere, and yet a sort of silence
that with difficulty holds back the sound behind it. A strange
feeling that every dark corner contains some hidden thing that could
at a second's notice spring out upon him oppresses him, and, indeed,
such a feeling is not altogether without justification. Many eyes
look out at him at these corners as he goes by, and once the deadly
silence is broken by a titter, evidently forcibly suppressed! Rylton
takes no notice, however. His wrath is still so warm that he thinks
of nothing but the picture-gallery, and that screen at the end of
it--where _she,_ his wife, is----
Now, there is a screen just inside the entrance to this gallery, and
behind it are Minnie Hescott and Mr. Gower. Randal's eyes are sharp,
but Minnie's even sharper. They both note, not only Maurice's abrupt
entrance, but the expression on his face.
"Do something--quickly," says Minnie, giving Randal a little
energetic push that all but overturns the screen.
"Anything! To half my kingdom; but what?" demands Mr. Gower, in a
whisper very low, as befits the occasion.
"Tita is down there with Tom," says Miss Hescott, pointing to the
far end of the long, dimly-lit gallery. "Do you want to see _murder_
done?"
"Not much," says Gower. "But--how am I to prevent it?"
"Don't you know what you must do?" says she energetically. "Those
idiots downstairs have forsaken us. Run up the room as quick as you
can--past Sir Maurice--and pretend you are the one who is hunting.
_I'll_ go for Tom. If we make a regular bustle, Sir Maurice won't
think so much about our little game as he does now. Did you see his
face?"
"I saw fireworks," says Mr. Gower. Then, "I'm off," says he.
He slips out from behind the screen, and galloping up the room comes
to the screen very nearly as soon as Rylton. Not soon enough,
however. Rylton has turned the corner of it, and found Tita with Tom
Hescott crouching behind it, whispering together, and evidently
enjoying themselves immensely.
As she sees him, Tita gives a little cry. She had plainly taken him
for one of the hunters, and had hoped he would pass by.
"Oh, you!" cries she. "You! Go away. Go _at once!_ They'll find us
if----"
She waves him frantically from her. He is too angry to see that
there is not a vestige of embarrassment in her air.
Here Gower comes up panting.
"Caught!" cries he, making a pounce of Tita.
"Not a bit of it!" says she, springing away from him to the other
side of the screen. "And _you,_ Randal, you are not hunting. Where's
Colonel Neilson? Where's Margaret?"
"They changed," says Mr. Gower mendaciously. "Miss Hescott and I are
upon the track; we are the bloodhounds--we," making another grab at
her soft gown, "have _got_ you!"
"No, you haven't," says Tita, whereupon there ensues a very animated
chase round and round the screen, Tita at last finding shelter--of
_all_ places--behind her husband--behind Maurice, whose face it is
quite as well she cannot see.
He makes a movement as if to go, but she catches him, and unless he
were to use violence he could hardly get away.
"There now!" says she, addressing Rylton indignantly. "See how
you've given us away. You've told him where we were. Don't stir. You
mustn't. If you do he'll catch me."
She laughs defiantly at Gower as she says this. Gower could have
laughed too. There could, indeed, be hardly anything stranger than
the scene as it stands--comedy and tragedy combined. The husband
cold, impassive, stern, and over his shoulder the charming face of
his little wife peeping--all mirth and fun and gaiety.
"You _must_ stay," says she, giving Sir Maurice a little shake.
"Why, you've betrayed our hiding-place. You've shown him where we
were. It isn't fair, Randal--it isn't indeed----"
"You are caught, any way," says Gower, who would willingly bring the
scene to a close.
_He_ can see Maurice's face, she cannot. As for Tom Hescott, his
sister has chased him out of the gallery long before this, with a
promptitude that does her credit.
"Caught! Not I," says Tita. "Caught, indeed!"
"Certainly you're caught," says Gower, making frantic little dabs at
her; but she dances away from him, letting her husband go, and
rushing once more behind the unfriendly screen that has done her so
bad a turn.
"Certainly I'm _not,"_ retorts she, nodding her saucy head at him.
Slowly and artfully, as she speaks, she moves towards the farther
end of the screen, always keeping an eye on her adversary over the
top of it until she comes to the far end, when, darting like a
little swallow round the corner, she flies down the long, dark
gallery. Once only she turns. _"Now_ am I caught?" cries she,
laughing defiance at Gower.
"Call _that_ fair, if you like!" says he, in high disgust.
But she is gone.
* * * * *
The house is quiet again. Gower and Marryatt are still lingering in
the smoking-room, but for the rest, they have bidden each other
"Good-night" and gone to their rooms.
Tita is sitting before her glass having her hair brushed, when a
somewhat loud knock comes to her door. The maid opens it, and Sir
Maurice walks in.
"You can go," says he to Sarah, who courtesies and withdraws.
"Oh! it is you," says Tita, springing up.
Her hair has just been brushed for the night, and round her forehead
some cloudy ringlets are lying. She had thrown on her
dressing-gown--a charming creation of white cashmere, almost covered
with lace--without a thought of fastening it, and her young and
lovely neck shows through the opening of the laces whiter than its
surroundings. Her petticoat--all white lace, too, and caught here
and there with tiny knots of pale pink ribbons--is naturally shorter
than her gown would be, and shows the dainty little feet beneath
them.
"When youth and beauty meet together,
There's worke for breath."
And surely here are youth and beauty met together! Rylton, seeing
the sweet combination, draws a long breath.
She advances towards him in the friendliest way, as if delighted.
"I haven't had a word with you," says she. "Hardly one. You just
told me your mother had not come, and"--she stops, and breaks into a
gay little laugh--"you must forgive me, but what I said to myself
was, _'Thank goodness!' "_ She covers her eyes with widened fingers,
and peeps at him through them. "What I said to you out loud was,
'Oh, I _am_ sorry!' Do you remember? Now, am I not a hypocrite?"
At this she takes down her hands from her eyes, and holds them out
to him in the prettiest way.
He pushes them savagely from him.
"You are!" says he hoarsely; "and one of the very worst of your
kind!"