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

coming here."

"Ah, what a lovely answer!" says she, with a glance from under her long lashes, that--whatever her answer may be--certainly _is_ lovely.

Rylton regards her moodily. If she really loved him, would she coquet with him like this--would she so pretend? All in a second, as he stands looking at her, the whole of the past year comes back to him. A strange year, fraught with gladness and deep pain--with fears and joys intense! What had it all meant? If anything, it had meant devotion to her--to his cousin, who, widowed, all but penniless, had been flung by the adverse winds of Fate into his home.

She was the only daughter of Lady Rylton's only brother, and the latter had taken her in, and in a measure adopted her. It was a strange step for her to take--for one so little led by kindly impulses, or rather for one who had so few kindly impulses to be led by; but everyone has a soft spot somewhere in his heart, and Lady Rylton had loved her brother, good-for-nothing as he was. There might have been a touch of remorse, too, in her charity; she had made Marian's marriage!

Grudgingly, coldly, she opened her son's doors to her niece, but still she opened them. She was quite at liberty to do this, as Maurice was seldom at home, and gave her always _carte blanche_ to do as she would with all that belonged to him. She made Marian Bethune's life for the first few months a burden to her, and then Marian Bethune, who had waited, took the reins in a measure; at all events, she made herself so useful to Lady Rylton that the latter could hardly get on without her.

Maurice had fallen in love with her almost at once; insensibly but thoroughly. There had been an hour in which he had flung himself, metaphorically, at her feet (one never does the real thing now, because it spoils one's trousers so), and offered his heart, and all the fortune still left to him after his mother's reign; and Marian had refused it all, very tenderly, very sympathetically, very regretfully--to tell the truth--but she _had_ refused it.

She had sweetened the refusal by declaring that, as she could not marry him--as she could not to be so selfish as to ruin his prospects--she would never marry at all. She had looked lovely in the light of the dying sunset as she said all this to him, and Maurice had believed in her a thousand times more than before, and had loved her a thousand times deeper. And in a sense his belief was justified. She did love him, as she had never loved before, but not well enough to risk poverty again. She had seen enough of that in her first marriage, and in her degradation and misery had sworn a bitter oath to herself never again to marry, unless marriage should sweep her into the broad river of luxury and content. Had Maurice's financial affairs been all they ought to have been but for his mother's extravagances, she undoubtedly would have chosen him before all the world; but Maurice's fortunes were (and are) at a low ebb, and she would risk nothing. His uncle _might_ die, and then Maurice, who was his heir, would be a rich man; but his uncle was only sixty-five, and he might marry again, and---- No, she would refuse!

Rylton had pressed his suit many times, but she had never yielded. It was always the same argument, she would not ruin _him_. But one day--only the other day, indeed--she had said something that made him know she sometimes counted on his uncle's death. She would marry him then! She would not marry a poor man, however much she loved him. The thought that she was waiting for his uncle's death revolted him at the moment, and though he forgave her afterwards, still the thought rankled.

It hurt him, in a sense, that she could _desire_ death--the death of another--to create her own content.

His mother had hinted at it only just now! Marian feared, she said--feared to step aboard his sinking ship. Where, then, was her love, that perfect love that casteth out all fear?

A wave of anger rushes over him as he looks at her now--smiling, fair, with large, deep, gleaming eyes. He tells himself he will know at once what it is she means--what is the worth of her love.

She is leaning towards him, a soft red rosebud crushed against her lips.

"Ah, yes! It is true. I _did_ know you were coming," says she tenderly.

She gives a hasty, an almost imperceptible glance around. Lady Rylton is often a little--just a _little_--prone to prying--especially of late; ever since the arrival of that small impossible heiress, for example; and then very softly she slips her hand into his.

"What an evening!" says she with delicate fervour. "How sweet, how perfect, Maurice!"

"Well?" in a rather cold, uncompromising way.

Mrs. Bethune gives him a quick glance.

"What a tone!" says she; "you frighten me!"

She laughs softly, sweetly. She draws closer to him--closer still;--and, laying her cheek against his arm, rubs it lightly, caressingly, up and down.

"Look here!" says he quickly, catching her by both arms, and holding her a little away from him; "I have a question to ask you."

"There is always a question," says she, smiling still, "between friends and foes, then why not between--_lovers?"_

She lingers over the word, and, stooping her graceful head, runs her lips lightly across the hand that is holding her right arm.

A shiver runs through Rylton. Is she true or false? But, however it goes, how exquisite she is!

"And now your question," says she; "how slow you are to ask it. Now _what_ is it?--what--what?"

"Shall I ask it, Marian? I have asked it too often before."

He is holding her arms very tightly now, and his eyes are bent on hers. Once again he is under the spell of her beauty.

"Ask--ask what you will!" cries she. She laughs gaily, and throws back her head. The last rays of the sunlight catch her hair, and lift it to a very glory round her beautiful face. "Go on, go on," she says lightly. There is, perhaps, some defiance in her tone, but, if so, it only strengthens her for the fight. "I am your captive!" She gives a little expressive downward glance at his hands, as he holds her arms. "Speak, my lord! and your slave answers." She has thrown some mockery into her tone.

"I am not your lord," says Rylton. He drops her arms, and lets her go, and stands well back from her. "That is the last part assigned to me."

Mrs. Bethune's gaze grows concentrated. It is fixed on him. What does he mean? What is the object of this flat rebellion--this receding from her authority? Strength is hers, as well as charm, and she comes to the front bravely.

"Now what _is_ it?" asks she, creeping up to him again, and now slipping her arm around his neck. "How have I vexed you? Who has been saying nasty little things about me? The dear mother, eh?"

"I want no one to tell me anything, but you."

"Speak, then; did I not tell you I should answer?"

"I want an answer to one question, and one only," says Rylton slowly.

"That is modesty itself."

"Will you marry me?"

"Marry you?" She repeats his words almost in a whisper, her eyes on the ground, then suddenly she uplifts her graceful form, and, lazily clasping her arms behind her head, looks at him. "Surely we have been through this before," says she, with a touch of reproach.

"Many times!" His lips have grown into a rather straight line. "Still I repeat my question."

"Am I so selfish as this in your eyes?" asks she. "Is it thus you regard me?" Her large eyes have grown quite full of tears. "Is my own happiness so much to me that for the sake of it I would deliberately ruin yours?"

"It would not ruin mine! Marry me, Marian, if--you love me!"

"You know I love you." Her voice is tremulous now and her face very pale. "But _how_ can we marry? I am a beggar, and you----"

"The same!" returns he shortly. "We are in the same boat."

"Still, one must think."

"And you are the one. Do you know, Marian"--he pauses, and then goes on deliberately--"I have been thinking, too, and I have come to the conclusion that when one truly loves, one never calculates."

"Not even for the one beloved?"

"For no one!"

"Is love, then, only selfishness incarnate?"

"I cannot answer that. It is a great mixture; but, whatever it is, it rules the world, or should rule it. It rules _me_. You tell me--you are for ever telling me--that marriage with you, who are penniless, would be my ruin, and yet I would marry you. Is _that _selfishness?"

"No; it is only folly," says she in a low, curious tone.

Maurice regards her curiously.

"Marian," says he quickly, impulsively, "there are other places. If you would come abroad with me, I could carve out a fresh life for us--I could work for you, live for you, endure all things for you. Come! come!"

He holds out his hands to her.

"But why--why not wait?" exclaims she with deep agitation. "Your uncle--he _cannot_ live for ever."

"I detest dead men's shoes," returns he coldly. Her last words have chilled him to his heart's core. "And besides, my uncle has as good a life as my own."

To this she makes no answer; her eyes are downbent. Rylton's face is growing hard and cold.

"You refuse, then?" says he at last.

"I refuse nothing, but----" She breaks off. "Maurice," cries she passionately, "why do you talk to me like this? What has changed you? Your mother? Ah, I know it! She has set her heart on your marriage with this--this little _nobody_, and she is poisoning your mind against me. But you--_you_--you will not forsake me for her!"

"It is you who are forsaking me," returns he violently. "Am I nothing to you, except as a medium by which you may acquire all the luxuries that women seem ready to sell their very souls for? Come, Marian, rose above it all. I am a poor man, but I am young, and I can work. Marry me as I am, and for what I am in your sight, and seek a new life with me abroad."

"It is madness," says she, in a voice so low as to be almost inaudible. For a short, _short_ minute the plan held out to her had tempted her, but something stronger than her love prevailed. She could wait--she _would;_ and she is so sure of him. He is her own, her special property. Yes! she can afford to wait. Something must occur shortly to change the state of his affairs, and even if things come to the very worst--there are others. "I tell you," says she, "that I will not spoil your life. Your uncle--he would be furious if you married me, and----"

Rylton put her somewhat roughly from him.

"I am tired of that old excuse," says he, his tone even rougher than his gesture. He turns away.

"Maurice!" says she sharply--there is real anguish in her tone, her face has grown white as death--"Maurice, come back." She holds out her arms to him. "Oh--darling, do not let your