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

her husband."

"You could teach her."

"I doubt it. They have taken that duty off nowadays, haven't they?" He is still looking at Tita through the window; her gay little laugh comes up to him again. "Do you know, she is very pretty," says he dispassionately; "and what a little thing! She always makes me think of a bird, or a mouse, or a----"

"Think of her as a girl," says his mother impatiently.

"Certainly. After all, it would be impossible to think of her as a boy; she's too small."

"I don't know about that," said Lady Rylton, shrugging her shoulders. "She's much more a boy than a girl, where her manners are concerned."

"Poor little hoyden! That's what you call her, isn't it--a hoyden?"

"Did Marian tell you that?"

"Marian? Certainly not!" says Sir Maurice, telling his lie beautifully. "Marian thinks her beneath notion. So would you, if----" He pauses. "If she hadn't a penny you wouldn't know her," he says presently; "and you admit she has no manners, yet you ask me to marry her. Now, if I did marry her, what should I do with her?"

"Educate her! Control her! Says his mother, a little viciously.

"I confess I am not equal to the occasion. I could not manage a baby. The situation doesn't suit me."

"Maurice--it _must!"_ Lady Rylton rises, and, standing near him with her hand on the table, looks at him with a pale face. "You find fault with her; so do I, and frankly admit she is the last woman in the world I should have chosen for you if I could help it, but she is one of the richest girls in England. And after all, though I detest the very sound of it, Trade is now our master. You object to the girl's youth; that, however, is in her favour. You can mould her to your own designs, and"--she casts a bitter glance at him that will not be suppressed--"all women cannot be widows. Then, as for her being so little a creature, she is surely quite as tall as I am, and your father--you know, Maurice, how devoted he was to me."

"Oh yes, poor old Dad!" says Maurice, with a movement that might mean pain. He seldom speaks of his father--_never_ to his mother. He had certainly loved his father. He moves quickly to the further end of the room.

"You will think of this girl, Maurice?"

"Oh, if that's all," laughing shortly, "you have arranged for that. One can't help thinking of the thing that is thrust under one's eyes morning, noon, and night. I shall think of her certainly until she goes away." He stops, and then says abruptly, "When is she going?"

"When her engagement to you is an accomplished fact."

"My dear mother, how absurd it all is! Poor little girl, and what a shame too! She doesn't even like me! We shouldn't be taking her name in vain like this. By-the-bye, what queer eyes she has!--have you noticed?"

"She has two hundred thousand pounds," says Lady Rylton solemnly. "That is of far greater consequence. You know how it is with us, Maurice. We can hold on very little longer. If you persist in refusing this last chance, the old home will have to go. We shall be beggars!" She sinks back in her chair, and sobs softly but bitterly.

"Don't go on like that--don't!" says Rylton, coming over to her and patting her shoulder tenderly. "There must be some other way out of it. I know we are in a hole more or less, but----"

"How lightly you speak of it! Who is to pay your debts? You know how your gambling on the turf has ruined us--brought us to the very verge of disgrace and penury, and now, when you _can _help to set the old name straight again, you refuse--refuse!" She stops as if choking.

"I don't think my gambling debts are the actual cause of our worries," says her son, rather coldly. "If I have wasted a few hundred on a race here and there, it is all I have done. When the property came into my hands it was dipped very deeply."

"You would accuse your father----" begins she hotly.

Rylton pauses. "No; not my father," says he distinctly, if gently.

"You mean, then, that you accuse _me!"_ cries she, flashing round at him.

All at once her singularly youthful face grows as old as it ought to be--a vindictive curve round the mouth makes that usually charming feature almost repulsive.

"My dear mother, let us avoid a scene," says her son sternly. "To tell you the truth, I have had too many of them of late."

Something in his manner warns her to go no farther in the late direction. If she is to win the cause so close to her heart, she had better refrain from recrimination--from an accusation of any sort.

"Dearest Maurice," says she, going to him and taking his hand in hers, "you know it is for your sake only I press this dreadful matter. She is so rich, and you--we--are so poor! She has a house in Surrey, and one in the North--delightful places, I have been told--and, of course, she would like you to keep up your own house in town. As for me, all I ask is this old house--bare and uncomfortable as it is."

"Nonsense, mother," letting her hand go and turning away impatiently. "You speak as if it were all settled."

"Why should it _not_ be settled?"

"You talk without thinking!" He is frowning now, and his tone is growing angry. "Am I the only one to be consulted?"

"Oh! as for her--that child! Of course you can influence her."

"I don't want to," wearily.

"You can do more than that. You are very good-looking, Maurice. You can----" She hesitates.

"Can what?" coldly.

"Fascinate her."

"I shall certainly not even try to do that. Good heavens! what do you mean?" says her son, colouring a dark red with very shame. "Are you asking me to make love to this girl--to pretend an admiration for her that I do not feel? To--to--_lie_ to her?"

"I am only asking you to be sensible," says his mother sullenly. She has gone back to her chair, and now, with lowered lids and compressed lips, is fanning herself angrily.

"I shan't be sensible in that way," says her son, very hotly. "Put it out of your head. To me Miss Bolton (it is really ridiculous to call her Miss anything; she ought to be Betty, or Lizzie, or Lily, or whatever her name is, to everyone at her age)--to me she seems nothing but a baby--and--I _hate_ babies!"

"Marian has taught you!" Says his mother, with a sneer. "_She_ certainly is not a baby, whatever else she may be. But I tell you this, Maurice, that you will hate far more being left a beggar in the world, without enough money to keep yourself alive."

"I am sure I can keep myself alive."

"Yes, but how? _You_, who have been petted and pampered all your life?"

"Oh, _don't_ speak to me as if I were in the cradle!" says Maurice, with a shrug.

"Do you never think?"

"Sometimes".

"Oh yes, of Marian. That designing woman! Do you believe _I_ haven't read her, if you are still blind? She will hold you on and on and on. And if your uncle _should_ chance to die, why, then she will marry you; but if in the meantime she meets anyone with money who will marry her, why, good-bye to _you_. But you must not marry! Mind that! You must be held in chains whilst she goes free. Really, Maurice," rising and regarding him with extreme contempt, "your folly is so great over this absurd infatuation for Marian, that sometimes I wonder if you can be my own son."

"I am my father's son also," says Maurice. "He, I believe, did sometimes believe in somebody. He believed in you."

He turns away abruptly, and an inward laugh troubles him. Was that last gibe not an argument against himself, his judgment? Like his father; _is_ he like his father? Can he, too, see only gold where dross lies deep? Sometimes, of late he has doubted. The laughter dies away, he sighs heavily.

"He was wise," says Lady Rylton coolly. "He had no cause to regret his belief. But you, you sit in a corner, as it were, and see nothing but Marian smiling. You never see Marian frowning. Your corner suits you. It would trouble you too much to come out into the middle of the room and look around Marian. And in the end what will it all come to? _Nothing!"_

"Then why make yourself so unhappy about nothing?"

"Because----"

"My dear mother," turning rather fiercely on her, "let us have an end of this. Marian would not marry me. She has refused me many times."

"I am quite aware of that," says Lady Rylton calmly. "She has taken care to tell me so. She will never marry you unless you get your uncle's money (and he is as likely to live to be a Methuselah as anyone I ever saw; the scandalous way in which he takes care of his health is really a byword!), but she will hold you on until----"

"I asked you not to go on with this," says Rylton, interrupting he again. "If you have nothing better to say to me than the abuse of Marian, I----"

"But I have. What is Marian, what is _anything_ to me except your marriage with Tita Bolton? Maurice, think of it. Promise me you will think of it. Maurice, don't go."

She runs to him, lays her hand on his arm, and tries to hold him.

"I must." He lifts her hand from his arm, presses it, and drops it deliberately. "My dear mother, I can't; I can't, really," says he.

She stands quite still. As he reaches the door, he looks back. She is evidently crying. A pang shoots through his heart. But it is all so utterly impossible. To marry that absurd child! It is out of question. Still, her tears trouble him. He can see her crying as he crosses the hall, and then her words begin to trouble him even more. What was it she had said about Marian? It was a hint, a very broad one. It meant that Marian might love him if he were a poor man, but could love him much more if he were a rich one. As a fact, she would marry him if he had money, but not if he were penniless. After all, why not? She, Marian, had often said all that to him, or at least some of it. But that other word, of her marrying some other man should he appear----


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.


Mrs. Bethune, sauntering slowly between the bushes laden with exquisite blooms, all white and red and yellow, looks up as he approaches her with a charming start.

"You!" she says, smiling, and holding out her hand--a large hand but beautiful. "It is my favourite spot. But that _you_ should have come here too!"

"You knew I should come!" returns he gravely. Something in her charming air of surprise jars upon him at this moment. Why should she pretend?--and to him!

"I knew?"

"You told me you were