The Hoyden by Margaret Wolfe Hungerford (best value ebook reader TXT) 📖

VOL. I.


LEIPZIG

1894.


CONTENTS

OF VOLUME I.


CHAPTER I.

How Diamond cut Diamond, and how the Sparks flew

CHAPTER II.

How Margaret pleads for the little Hoyden, and with what Ill-success

CHAPTER III.

How Lady Rylton says a few Things that would have been better left unsaid. How "The Scheme" is laid before Sir Maurice, and how he refuses to have anything to do with it

CHAPTER IV.

How the Heart of Maurice grew hot within him, and how he put the Question to the Touch, and how he neither lost nor won

CHAPTER V.

Showing how, when People do congregate together much Knowledge may be found, and how the little Hoyden has some kind Things said about her

CHAPTER VI.

How Games were played, "of Sorts"; and how Tita was much harried, but how she bore herself valiantly, and, how, not knowing of her Victories, she won all through

CHAPTER VII.

How the Argument grows higher; and how Marian loses her Temper, and how Margaret objects to the Ruin of one young Life

CHAPTER VIII.

How a Storm raged; and how, when a Man and Woman met Face to Face, the Victory--for a Wonder--went to the Man

CHAPTER IX.

How Maurice places his Life in the Hands of the Hoyden, and how she tells him many Things, and desires many Things of him

CHAPTER X.

How Maurice gives Way to Temper, and how Lady Rylton plants a Shaft or two. And how Margaret says a Word in Season, and how in return Colonel Neilson says a Word to her

CHAPTER XI.

How the last Day comes, and how some strange Words are said before the Marriage is accomplished; and how Marion Bethune scores a Point

CHAPTER XII.

How Tita comes back from her Honeymoon, and how her Husband's Mother tells her of certain Things that should have been left untold

CHAPTER XIII.

How a young and lovely Nature takes a Shock most cruelly administered. And how a Dowager takes a new Name as a direct Insult. And how Tita declines to promise anything

CHAPTER XIV.

How Tita comes to Oakdean, and is glad. And how Maurice calls to her, and she performs an Acrobatic Feat. And how a Discussion arises

CHAPTER XV.

How Tita tells of two strange Dreams, and of how they moved her. And how Maurice sets his Soul on asking a Guest to Oakdean; and how he gains his Desire

CHAPTER XVI.

How a dull Morning gives Birth to a strange Afternoon. And how Rylton's Eyes are widened by a Friend

CHAPTER XVII.

How Tita suggests a Game of Blind Man's Buff, and what comes of it

CHAPTER XVIII.

How Tita gets a Scolding, and how she rebels and accuses Sir Maurice of Breach of Contract

CHAPTER XIX.

How Rylton's Heart condemns him. And how, as he walks, a Serpent stings him. And how he is recovered of his Wound. And how the little Rift is mended--but with too fine Thread

CHAPTER XX.

How Tita takes high Ground, and how she brings her Husband, of all People, to her Feet

CHAPTER XXI.

How everyone goes to Lady Warbeck's Dance, and helps to make it a Success; and how many curious Things are said and done there

CHAPTER XXII.

How Rylton asks his Wife to tread a Measure with him, and how the Fates weave a little Mesh for Tita's pretty Feet

CHAPTER XXIII.

How Marian fights for Mastery; and how the Battle goes; and how Chance befriends the Enemy

CHAPTER XXIV.

How Rylton makes a most dishonourable Bet, and how he repents of it; and how, though he would have withdrawn from it, he finds he cannot

CHAPTER XXV.

How Tita told a Secret to Tom Hescott in the Moonlight; and how he sought to discover many Things, and how he was most innocently baffled

CHAPTER XXVI.

How Tita looks at herself in the Glass, and wonders; and how she does her Hair in quite a new Style, and goes to ask Sir Maurice what he thinks of it; and how he answers her

CHAPTER XXVII.

How Sir Maurice feels uneasy; and how Tita, for once, shows herself implacable, and refuses to accept the Overtures of Peace. And how a little Gossip warms the Air


THE HOYDEN.


CHAPTER I.

HOW DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND, AND HOW THE SPARKS FLEW.


The windows are all wide open, and through them the warm, lazy summer wind is stealing languidly. The perfume of the seringas from the shrubbery beyond, mingled with all the lesser but more delicate delights of the garden beneath, comes with the wind, and fills the drawing-room of The Place with a vague, almost drowsy sense of sweetness.

Mrs. Bethune, with a face that smiles always, though now her very soul is in revolt, leans back against the cushions of her lounging chair, her fine red hair making a rich contrast with the pale-blue satin behind it.

"You think he will marry her, then?"

"Think, think!" says Lady Rylton pettishly. "I can't afford to _think_ about it. I tell you he _must_ marry her. It has come to the very last ebb with us now, and unless Maurice consents to this arrangement----"

She spreads her beautiful little hands abroad, as if in eloquent description of an end to her sentence.

Mrs. Bethune bursts out laughing. She can always laugh at pleasure.

"It sounds like the old Bible story," says she; "you have an only son, and you must sacrifice him!"

"Don't study to be absurd!" says Lady Rylton, with a click of her fan that always means mischief.

She throws herself back in her chair, and a tiny frown settles upon her brow. She is such a small creation of Nature's that only a frown of the slightest dimensions _could_ settle itself comfortably between her eyes. Still, as a frown, it is worth a good deal! It has cowed a good many people in its day, and had, indeed, helped to make her a widow at an early age. Very few people stood up against Lady Rylton's tempers, and those who did never came off quite unscathed.

"Absurd! Have I been absurd?" asks Mrs. Bethune. "My dear Tessie"--she is Lady Rylton's niece, but Lady Rylton objects to being called aunt--"such a sin has seldom been laid to my charge."

"Well, _I_ lay it," says Lady Rylton with some emphasis.

She leans back in her chair, and, once again unfurling the huge black fan she carries, waves it to and fro.

Marian Bethune leans back in her chair too, and regards her aunt with a gaze that never wavers. The two poses are in their way perfect, but it must be confessed that the palm goes to the younger woman.

It might well have been otherwise, as Lady Rylton is still, even at forty-six, a very graceful woman. Small--very small--a sort of pocket Venus as it were, but so carefully preserved that at forty-six she might easily be called thirty-five. If it were not for her one child, the present Sir Maurice Rylton, this fallacy might have been carried through. But, unfortunately, Sir Maurice is now twenty-eight by the church register. Lady Rylton hates church registers; they tell so much; and truth is always so rude!

She is very fair. Her blue eyes have still retained their azure tint--a strange thing at her age. Her little hands and feet are as tiny now as when years ago they called all London town to look at them on her presentation to her Majesty. She has indeed a charming face, a slight figure, and a temper that would shame the devil.

It isn't a quick temper--one can forgive that. It is a temper that remembers--remembers always, and that in a mild, ladylike sort of way destroys the one it fastens upon. Yet she is a dainty creature; fragile, fair, and pretty, even now. It is generally in these dainty, pretty, soulless creatures that the bitterest venom of all is to be found.

Her companion is different. Marian Bethune is a tall woman, with a face not perhaps strictly handsome, but yet full of a beautiful _diablerie_ that raises it above mere comeliness. Her hair is red--a rich red--magnificent red hair that coils itself round her shapely head, and adds another lustre to the exquisite purity of her skin. Her eyes have a good deal of red in them, too, mixed with a warm brown--wonderful eyes that hold you when they catch you, and are difficult to forget. Some women are born with strange charms; Marian Bethune is one of them. To go through the world with such charms is a risk, for it must mean ruin or salvation, joy or desolation to many. Most of all is it a risk to the possessor of those charms.

There have been some who have denied the right of Marian to the title beautiful. But for the most part they have been women, and with regard to those others--the male minority--well, Mrs. Bethune could sometimes prove unkind, and there are men who do not readily forgive. Her mouth is curious, large and full, but not easily to be understood. Her eyes may speak, but her mouth is a sphinx. Yet it is a lovely mouth, and the little teeth behind it shine like pearls. For the rest, she is a widow. She married very badly; went abroad with her husband; buried him in Montreal; and came home again. Her purse is as slender as her figure, and not half so well worth possessing. She says she is twenty-eight, and to her praise be it acknowledged that she speaks the truth. Even _good_ women sometimes stammer over this question!

"My sin, my sin?" demands she now gaily, smiling at Lady Rylton.

She flings up her lovely arms, and fastens them behind her head. Her smile is full of mockery.

"Of course, my dear Marian, you cannot suppose that I have been blind to the fact that you and Maurice have--for the past year--been--er----"

"Philandering?" suggests Mrs. Bethune lightly.

She leans a little forward, her soft curved chin coming in recognition.

"I beg, Marian, you won't be vulgar," says Lady Rylton, fanning herself petulantly. "It's worse than being immoral."

"Far, _far_ worse!" Mrs. Bethune leans back in her chair, and laughs aloud. "Well, I'm not immoral," says she.

Her laughter rings through the room. The hot sun behind her is lighting the splendid masses of her red hair, and the disdainful gleam that dwells in her handsome eyes.

"Of course not," says Lady Rylton, a little stiffly; "even to _mention_ such a thing seems to be--er--a little----"

"_Only_ a little?" says Mrs. Bethune, arching her brows. "Oh, Tessie!" She pauses, and then with an eloquent gesture goes on again. "After all, why shouldn't I be immoral?" says she. Once again she flings her arms above her head so that her fingers grow clasped behind it. "It pays! It certainly pays. It is only the goody-goodies who go to the wall."

"My _dear_ Marian!" says Lady Rylton, with a delicate pretence at horror; she puts up her hands, but after a second or so bursts out laughing. "I always say you are the one creature who amuses me,"