A carriage is waiting for them, and Rylton, putting her into it, goes away to see to their luggage. t.i.ta, sitting drearily within, her heart sad with recollections of the past, is suddenly struck by a sound that comes to her through the shut windows of the carriage.
She opens the one nearest to her and listens.
It is only a poor vagrant on the pavement without, singing for a penny or two. But the song goes to her very heart:
"It"s hame, and its hame--hame fain wad I be, O! hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree."
A sob rises in her throat. So near to her own dear home, and yet so far. She finds her purse, and hastily flings half a crown to the poor wretch outside, who never guesses why she got so large a dole.
And now Rylton returns. He gets in. The carriage drives away through the well-remembered town, over the old bridge, and into the sweetness of the sleeping country.
Already the stars are out. Through the warm bank of dying sunset over there a pale little dot is glimmering. Steel-gray are the heavens, fast deepening into darkest blue, and over the hills, far, far away, the faint suggestion of a "young May moon" is growing. A last faint twittering of birds is in the air, and now it ceases, and darkness falls and grows, and shadows fill the land and hide the edges of the moors, and blacken the sides of the walls as they drive past them.
t.i.ta is always peering out of the window. At a sudden turn in the road she draws back as if hurt.
"This is the turn to Oakdean!" says she sharply.
"Yes; we are going this road."
"It must be near, then, this new place--_quite_ near?"
"It is near."
She looks at him for a moment, her face fraught with great grief.
"Oh, how _could_ you?" says she. "How _could_ you have bought a place so close to it?"
She leans back into her corner, and it is his misery at this moment that he cannot know whether she is crying or not. Presently she starts forward again.
"Why, we are going down the road!" cries she. "We shall go past the gates!" She waits as if for an answer, but he makes her none. "Oh, you _should_ have told me," says she faintly.
He puts out his hand and takes hers. She does not repulse him, and he holds it in a close clasp. Is there some magnetic influence at work that tells her all the truth--that betrays to her his secret?
She turns suddenly and looks at him, but he refuses to meet her glance. He can feel that she is trembling violently. Her hand is still in his, and her eyes are fixed intently on the open window near her.
And now they are nearing Oakdean. She can see the pillars of the gates. A little cry escapes her. And now, _now_ they are _at_ the gate--soon they will be past----
_But what is this?_ The coachman has drawn up! They stop! The groom springs down--someone from the lodge rushes quickly out. The gates are flung wide. The horses dash down the avenue!
Presently they draw up at the hall door--the door of Oakdean!
Rylton, getting out, takes her in his arms, and places her on the first step of the stones that lead to the hall.
Not one word has pa.s.sed between them since that last reproach of hers.
And now they have reached the library. It is brilliantly lit. t.i.ta, flinging off her wraps in a mechanical sort of way, looks round her.
Nothing is changed--nothing! It is _home_. Home really--home as it always had been!
She is pale as a little ghost! Though she has looked at the room, she has not once looked at _him!_ And, with a sort of feeling that he has made a bid for her favour, Rylton makes no attempt to go to her or say a word.
She is so silent, so calm, that doubts arise within him as to the success of his experiment--for experiment it must be called. He had bought in the old house expressly to please her the moment he was in a position to do so; had bought it, indeed, when she was showing a most settled determination to have nothing to do with him--directly after her refusal to accept a competence at his hands.
And now, how will it be? Her eyes are wandering round the room, noting each dear familiar object; at last they come to Rylton.
He is looking back at her--a little sad, a little hopeless. Their eyes meet.
Then all at once she gives way. She runs to him, and flings herself into his open arms.
"To do this for me! _This!_" cries she.
She clings to him. Her voice dies away.
She is lying on his breast. He can feel her heart beating against his. His arms tighten round her.
"t.i.ta, you love me!" whispers he, in a low tone, pa.s.sionately.
She feels so small a thing in his embrace--a mere child of fourteen might be a bigger thing than she is. The knowledge that she has grown very thin during their estrangement goes to his heart like a knife. Oh, dear little, _darling_ girl!
"You must love me--you _must,"_ says he, holding her to him, as if he could never let her go. _"Try_ to love me, t.i.ta."
Slowly, very slowly, she stirs within his arms. She looks up at him.
It is such a strange look. It transfigures the beautiful little face, making it even more beautiful than it was before. But Maurice, who is hanging on it, to whom it means life or death, does not dare translate the expression. It seems to him that she is going into all that intolerable past and reading his very soul. G.o.d grant she may read it aright!
The strain grows too terrible; he breaks it.
"My darling, speak!" entreats he.
She wakes as if from a dream.
"Oh, I love you--I do love you!" cries she. She lays her hands against his breast, and leans back from him. "I have loved you always, I think; but now I know it. Oh, Maurice, love me too, and not _her_--_not her!"_
It is half an hour later. He has induced her to eat something; and at her request has eaten something himself--as a fact, being both young, they were both extremely hungry, and are now feeling infinitely better.
"I want a fresh handkerchief," says t.i.ta, looking up at him shyly, but with a smile that shows all her pretty teeth. _"See_ how you have made me cry!" She holds up the little damp rag that she has been using since her arrival. "Give me one out of my bag."
Opening her bag to get the handkerchief desired, something else falls to the floor--a small thing. He picks it up.
"Why, what is this?" says he.