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

your friend, then?"

"No--no, indeed!"

"Well----"

He pauses and looks at her. All at once it seems to him that perhaps he _is_ her friend--a friend--a mere friend! But could a man who loved another woman be an honest friend to his wife?

"Are you?" asks Tita.

"Yes. Didn't I want to take you down just now?"

At this she gives in and laughs a little. He laughs too.

"You are too clever for me," says she.

"And you--what are you? Too good for me, perhaps."

"I don't think you ought to say things you don't mean," says Tita. "But as you have made that promise--why, you _may_ take me down now."

She leans towards him, holding out her arms. He takes her into his, and brings her slowly, carefully to the grass beside him. Even when safely landed here he still holds her.

"We _are_ friends?" asks he.

His tone is a question.

"Yes, yes, of course," impatiently. "Are they playing tennis? Do you think they want me?"

It is impossible for him to misunderstand her meaning. A longing to get back to the others to play, and win at her favourite game of tennis, has been in part the cause of her ready forgiveness.

"Certainly they want you," says he, surprised at himself for the touch of chagrin he feels. "But," still holding her, "you have quite made it up with me, haven't you?"

"Quite--quite."

"But what a way to make it up!" says Rylton reproachfully.

He is smiling all through, however.

"What's the matter with it?" asks Tita.

"Don't you know? Must I tell you? Last night, Tita, you told me you would never want to kiss me again."

"Well, kissing's a bore," says Tita, with a little grimace. "I never want to kiss anyone really, except----"

She hesitates.

"Except?" asks Rylton, his grasp tighter on her arms.

"Except Margaret."

Rylton bursts out laughing; for the moment he believes her, afterwards--

"What a baby you are!" says he; "and what a cruel baby! Tita, I shan't believe you have forgiven me unless you----"

"I think it is _you_ who are the baby," says she, with a shrug. "What on earth _do_ you want to kiss me for? Well, there," holding up to him the coolest, freshest cheek in the world, "you can kiss me if you like."

"Is that all?" says Rylton, somewhat piqued.

"Yes--all," with decision. "I can't bear people to kiss me on my mouth."

"Perhaps you would prefer that people would not kiss you at all?"

"Well, yes, I should," says she. "But," quickly, "of course, you are not quite like other people. You may kiss my cheek if you like."

"Thank you," says Rylton. "I appreciate the difference."

He kisses her cheek discreetly, but would have liked to shake her as he does so.


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.


Everyone has come now, and old Lady Warbeck, resplendent in pearls and brocade, has dropped into a chair that some charitable person has placed behind her.

It is indeed close upon midnight, and dancing it at its height. Flowers are everywhere, and a band from town has been secured. This latter is quite a flight on the part of Lady Warbeck, who, as a rule, trusts the music to the local geniuses. Altogether everyone acknowledges it is very well done. Very well done _indeed_, and a good deal more than one would expect from the Warbecks!

Old Sir Thomas is marching round, paying senile compliments to all the prettiest girls; his son Gillam, with a diamond stud that you could see a mile off, is beaming on Mrs. Bethune, who is openly encouraging him. Indeed, "The Everlasting," as he is called by his friends (it is always one's friends who give one a bad name), is careering round and about Mrs. Bethune with a vigour hardly to be expected of him. He is looking even younger than usual. Though fully forty-five, he still looks only thirty--the reason of his nickname! Everyone is a little surprised at Mrs. Bethune's civility to him, she having been studiously cold to all men save her cousin Sir Maurice during the past year; but Mrs. Bethune herself is quite aware of what she is doing. Of late--it seems difficult of belief--but of late she has fancied Maurice has avoided her. He was always a little highflown with regard to morals, dear Maurice, but she will reform him! A touch, just a _touch_ of jealousy will put an end to the moral question!

She has thrown aside the dark colours she usually affects, and is to-night all in white. So is Tita. So is Mrs. Chichester, for the matter of that. The latter is all smiles, and is now surrounded by a little court of admirers at the top of the room, Captain Marryatt, fatuous as ever, by her side, and the others encircling her.

"Quite refreshing to see so many men all together," says she in a loud voice, addressing everybody at once. She likes an audience. "As a rule, when one gets into the country, one sticks a glass in one's eye, and ask, 'Where's the MAN?'"

"I never heard anything so unkind in my life," says Mr. Gower, with a deep reproach. "I'm sure ever since _you_ have been in the country you have had a regiment round you, waiting on your lightest word."

"Oh! you git!" says Mrs. Chichester, who is as vulgar as she is well-born. Her glance roams down the room. "Just look at Mrs. Bethune and 'The Everlasting,'" says she. _"Aren't_ they going it? And for once the fair Bethune is well-gowned."

"Yet I hear she is very hard up at present," says a woman near her. "What eyes she has!"

"I was told she made her own gowns," says another, laughing.

"Pouf!" says Mrs. Chichester. "That's going a trifle too far. One may make the garment that covers one--I'm sure I don't know, but I've heard it--but no one ever made a _gown_ except a regular clothes woman--a modiste."

"And, for the matter of that, hers is beautiful. Do you see how the catch at the side of the dress is? It shows the bit of satin lining admirably."

"Well, but how did she get such a charming gown if she is as you say--well, 'hard up'?"

"Ah! To go into a thing like that! How _rude!"_ says Mrs. Chichester, going off into a little convulsion of laughter behind her fan.

"Talking of clothes," says Captain Marryatt at the moment, "did you ever see anything like Gillam's get up?"

"Gillam? Is that Mrs. Bethune's partner?"

"Yes. Just look at his trousers, his diamonds! How _can_ Mrs. Bethune stand it all?"

"Perhaps she admires it--the diamonds at all events."

"'My love in his attire doth show his wit!'" quotes Marryatt, who likes to pose as a man of letters.

"'When the age is in the wit is out,'" quotes Gower in his turn, who can never resist the longing to take the wind out of somebody's sails; "and, after all, The Everlasting is not a youth! No doubt his intellect is on the wane."

"He's a cad, poor fellow!" says one the cavalry men from the barracks at Merriton.

"Nonsense!" says the girl with him, a tall, heavy creature. "Why, his father is a baronet."

The cavalry man regards her with pity. How _little_ she knows!

"A cad is not always the son of a sweep," says he, giving his information gently; "sometimes--he is the son of a prince."

"Ah! now you are being very funny," says the girl, who thinks he is trying to be clever.

"Yes, really, isn't he?" says Mrs. Chichester, who knows them both; she is a sort of person who always knows everybody. Give her three days in any neighbourhood whatsoever, and she'll post you up in all the affairs of the residents there as well as if she had dwelt amongst them since the beginning of time. _You,_ who have lived with them for a hundred years, will be nowhere; she'll always be able to tell you something about them you never heard before.

"Isn't he?" says she; she is now regarding the heavy girl with suppressed, but keen, amusement. "And to be funny in this serious age is unpardonable. Don't do it again, Captain Warrender, as you value your life."

"I shan't!" says he. "A second attempt might be fatal!"

"How well Mr. Hescott dances!" goes on Mrs. Chichester, who admires Tom Hescott.

"True. The very worst of us, you see, have _one_ good point," says Gower.

"I don't consider Mr. Hescott the worst of you, by a long way," returns she.

"Oh no, neither do I," says a pretty little woman next to her, a bride of a few weeks, who, with her husband, has just come up.

"I have you on my side then, Lady Selton?" says Mrs. Chichester.

Lady Selton nods her reply. She is panting, and fanning herself audibly. Without the slightest ear for music, she has been plunging round the room with her husband, who is still so far infatuated as to half believe she can dance. She is an extremely pretty woman, so one can condone his idiocy.

At this moment Hescott appears. He goes straight to the bride. He has been sent, indeed, by Lady Warbeck.

"Will you give me the pleasure of this dance, Lady Selton?" asks he.

"It? What is it?" nervously.

"A waltz."

He is smiling at her. She has a charming figure. Of course she can dance. Tom Hescott would not have asked the loveliest woman in the land to waltz with him, if he knew her to be a bad dancer.

"I can't waltz at all," says the bride. But her husband comes to the rescue.

"Oh, nonsense!" says he, smilingly. "Hescott dances so well that he will teach you. Go, go with him." He gives her a playful little push towards Hescott, who is looking very blank. "You'll get into it in no time."

"Get into it."

The disgust that is writ so large on Hescott's face, as he leads her away, makes Mrs. Chichester shake with laughter.

"He'll find it a slight difference after Lady Rylton's waltzing," says she to Marryatt.

"He'll find a difference in every way. Lady Selton is devoted to her husband----"

"And Lady Rylton----"

_"Well!"_ He hesitates.

"How vague! But I know, I know! By-the-bye," with a swift change of tone that quite deceives him, "which do you admire most?"

"Oh, Lady Rylton, of course. Lady Selton is pretty--in a way--but----"

"Then you prefer the woman who is _not_ devoted to her husband?"

"I don't see how that argument comes in," says he quickly. "Some husbands are--are----"

"Quite true. They are indeed," interrupts Mrs. Chichester, who seems to be enjoying herself. "But what an aspersion on poor Sir Maurice."

"I wasn't thinking of him," says Marryatt hurriedly.

"Of whom then?"

She fixes her eyes full on his--eyes merry with mischief.

"Oh, I don't know," says he confusedly.

"Of _my_ husband?"

"Mrs. Chichester, I don't think----"

"That's right," says she, rising and slipping her arm into his. "Never think; it's about the most foolish thing anyone can do. _I _never think. I only wait; waiting is full of promise."


CHAPTER XXII.