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 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 mother come between us! That girl—she will make you marry that girl. She has money, whereas I—what am I? A mere castaway on life's sea! Yes, yes." She covers her face with her hands in a little paroxysm of despair. "Yes," faintly, "you will marry that girl."
"Well, why not?" sullenly. He is as white as she is—his face is stern. "If she will deign to accept me. I have not so far," with a bitter laugh, "been very successful in love affairs."
"Oh! How can you say that—and to me?"
She bursts into tears, and in a moment he has her in his arms. His beautiful darling! He soothes her, caresses her, lets her weave the bands of her fascination over him all fresh again.
It is only afterwards he remembers that through all her grief and love she had never so forgotten herself as to promise to exile herself for his sake in a foreign land.
CHAPTER V.
SHOWING HOW, WHEN PEOPLE DO CONGREGATE TOGETHER, MUCH KNOWLEDGE MAY BE FOUND, AND HOW THE LITTLE HOYDEN HAD SOME KIND THINGS SAID ABOUT HER.
"Game and set," cries Tita at the top of her young voice, from the other end the court. It would be useless to pretend she doesn't shout it. She is elated—happy. She has won. She tears off the little soft round cap that, defiant of the sun, she wears, and flings it sky-high, catching it deftly as it descends upon the top of her dainty head, a little sideways. Her pretty, soft, fluffy hair, cut short, and curled all over her head by Mother Nature, is flying a little wildly across her brows, her large gray eyes (that sometimes are so nearly black) are brilliant. Altogether she is just a little, a very little, pronounced in her behaviour. Her opponents, people who have come over to The Place for the day, whisper something to each other, and laugh a little. After all, they have lost—perhaps they are somewhat spiteful. Lady Rylton, sitting on the terrace above, bites her lips. What an impossible girl! and yet how rich! Things must be wrong somewhere, when Fate showers money on such a little ill-bred creature.
"How funny she is!" says Mrs. Chichester, who is sitting near Lady Rylton, a guest at The Place in this house-party, this last big entertainment, that is to make or mar its master. Lady Rylton had organized it, and Sir Maurice, who never contradicted her, and who had not the slightest idea of the real meaning of it, had shrugged his shoulders. After all, let her have her own way to the last. There would be enough to pay the debts and a little over for her; and for him, poverty, a new life, and emancipation. He is tired of his mother's rule. "And how small!" goes on Mrs. Chichester, a tall young woman with light hair and queer eyes, whose husband is abroad with his regiment. "Like a doll. I love dolls; don't you, Captain Marryatt?"
"Are you a doll?" asks Captain Marryatt, who is leaning over her.
He is always leaning over her!
"I never know what I am," says Mrs. Chichester frankly, her queer eyes growing a little queerer. "But Miss Bolton, how delightful she is! so natural, and Nature is always so—so——"
"Natural!" supplies Mr. Gower, who is lying on a rug watching the game below.
"Oh, get out!" says Mrs. Chichester, whose manners are not her strong point.
She is sitting on a garden chair behind him, and she gives him a little dig in the back with her foot as she speaks.
"Don't! I'm bad there!" says he.
"I believe you are bad everywhere," says she, with a pout.
"Then you believe wrong! My heart is a heart of gold," says Mr.
Gower ecstatically.
"I'd like to see it," says Mrs. Chichester, who is not above a flirtation with a man whom she knows is beyond temptation; and truly Randal Gower is hard to get at!
"Does that mean that you would gladly see me dead?" asks he. "Oh, cruel woman!"
"I'm tired of seeing you as you are, any way," says she, tilting her chin. "Why don't you fall in love with somebody, for goodness' sake?"
"Well, I'm trying," says Mr. Gower, "I'm trying hard; but," looking at her, "I don't seem to get on. You don't encourage me, you know, and I'm very shy!"
"There, don't be stupid," says Mrs. Chichester, seeing that Marryatt is growing a little enraged. "We were talking of Miss Bolton. We were saying——"
"That she was Nature's child."
"Give me Nature!" says Captain Marryatt, breaking into the tête-à-tête a little sulkily. "Nothing like it."
"Is that a proposal?" demands Mr. Gower, raising himself on his elbow, and addressing him with deep interest. "It cannot be Mrs. Bolton you refer to, as she is unfortunately dead. Nature's child, however, is still among us. Shall I convey your offer to her?"
"Yes, shall he?" asks Mrs. Chichester.
She casts a teasing glance at her admirer; a little amused light has come into her green-gray eyes.
"I should think you, Randal, would be the fitting person to propose to her, considering how you haunt her footsteps day and night," says a strange voice.
It comes from a tall, gaunt old lady, who, with ringlets flying, advances towards the group. She is a cousin of the late Sir Maurice, and an aunt of Gower's, from whom much is to be expected by the latter at her death. There is therefore, as you see, a cousinship between the Gowers and the Ryltons.
"My dear aunt, is that you?" says Mr. Gower with enthusiasm. "Come and sit here; do, just here beside me!"
He pats the rug on which he is reclining as he speaks, beckoning her warmly to it, knowing as he well does that her bones would break if she tried to bring them to so low a level.
"Thank you, Randal, I prefer a more elevated position," replies she austerely.
"Ah, you would! you would!" says Randal, who really ought to be ashamed of himself. "You were meant for high places."
He sighs loudly, and goes back on his rug.
"Miss Gower is right," says Mrs. Bethune gaily, who has just arrived. "Why don't you go in for Miss Bolton?"
"She wouldn't have me!" says Gower tragically. "I've hinted all sorts of lovely things to her during the past week, but she has been apparently blind to the brilliant prospects opened to her. It has been my unhappy lot to learn that she prefers lollipops to lovers."
"You tried her?" asks Mrs. Chichester.
"Well, I believe I did do a good deal in the chocolate-cream business," says Mr. Gower mildly.
"And she preferred the creams?"
"Oh! much, much!" says Gower.
"So artless of her," says Mrs. Bethune, with a shrug. "I do love the nineteenth-century child!"
"If you mean Miss Bolton, so do I," says a young man who has been listening to them, and laughing here and there—a man from the Cavalry Barracks at Ashbridge. "She's quite out-of-the-way charming."
Mrs. Bethune looks at him—he is only a boy and easily to be subdued, and she is glad of the opportunity of giving some little play to the jealous anger that is raging within her.
"She has a hundred thousand charming ways," says she, smiling, but very unpleasantly. "An heiress is always charming."
"Oh no! I didn't look at it in that way at all," says the boy, reddening furiously. "One wouldn't, you know—when looking at her."
"Wouldn't one?" says Mrs. Bethune. She is smiling at him always; but it is a fixed smile now, and even more bitter. "And yet one might," says she.
She speaks almost without knowing it. She is thinking of
Rylton—might he?
"I think not," says the boy, stammering.
It is his first lesson in the book that tells one that to praise a woman to a woman is to bring one to confusion. It is the worst manners possible.
"I agree with you, Woodleigh," says Gower, who is case-hardened and doesn't care about his manners, and who rather dislikes Mrs. Bethune. "She's got lovely little ways. Have you noticed them?"
He looks direct at Marian.
"No," says she, shaking her head, but very sweetly. "But, then, I'm so dull."
"Well, she has," says Gower, in quite a universally conversational tone, looking round him. He turns himself on his rug, pulls a cushion towards him, and lies down again. "And they're all her own, too."
"What a comfort!" says Mrs. Bethune, rather nastily.
Gower looks at her.
"Yes, you're right," says he. "To be original—honestly original—is the thing nowadays. Have you noticed when she laughs? Those little slender shoulders of hers actually shake."
"My dear Mr. Gower," says Mrs. Bethune, "do spare us! I'm sure you must be portraying Miss Bolton wrongly. Emotion—to betray emotion—how vulgar!"
"I like emotion," says Mr. Gower calmly; "I'm a perfect mass of it myself. Have you noticed Miss Bolton's laugh, Rylton?" to Sir Maurice, who had come up a moment ago, and had been listening to Mrs. Bethune's last remark. "It seems to run all through her. Not an inch that doesn't seem to enjoy it."
"Well, there aren't _many _inches," says Sir Maurice, with am amused air.
"And the laugh itself—so gay."
"You are en enthusiast," says Sir Maurice, who is standing near Mrs.
Bethune.
"My dear fellow, who wouldn't be, in such a cause?" says the young cavalryman, with a rather conscious laugh.
"Here she is," says Mrs. Chichester, who is one of those people whom
Nature has supplied with eyes behind and before.
Tita running up the slope at this moment like a young deer—a steep embankment that would have puzzled a good many people—puts an effectual end to the conversation. Mr. Gower graciously deigning to give her half of his rug, she sinks upon it gladly. She likes Gower.
Lady Rylton calls to her.
"Not on the grass, Tita dearest," cries she, in her little shrill, old-young voice. "Come here to me, darling. Next to me on this seat. Marian," to Mrs. Bethune, who has been sitting on the garden-chair with her, "you can make a little room, eh?"
"A great deal," says Marian.
She rises.
"Oh no! don't stir. Not for me," says Tita, making a little gesture to her to reseat herself. "No, thank you, Lady Rylton; I shall stay here. I'm quite happy here. I like sitting on the grass."
She makes herself a little more comfortable where she is, regardless of the honour Lady Rylton would have done her—regardless, too, of the frown with which her hostess now regards her.
Mr. Gower turns upon her a beaming countenance.
"What you really mean is," says he, "that you like sitting near me."
"Indeed I do not," says Tita indignantly.
"My dear girl, think. Am I to understand, then, that you don't like sitting near me?"
"Ah, that's a different thing," says Tita, with a little side-glance at him that shows a disposition to laughter.
"You see! you see!" says Mr. Gower triumphantly—he has a talent for teasing. "Then you do wish to sit beside me! And why not?" He expands his hands amiably. "Could you be beside a more delightful person?"
"Maybe I could," says Tita, with another glance.
Rylton, who is listening, laughs.
His laugh seems to sting Mrs. Bethune to her heart. She turns to him, and lets her dark eyes rest on his.
"What a little flirt!" says she contemptuously.
"Oh no! a mere child," returns he.
"Miss Bolton! What an answer!" Gower is now at the height of his enjoyment. "And after last night, too; you must remember what you said to me last night."
"Last night?" She is staring at him with a small surprised face—a delightful little face, as sweet as early spring. "What did I say to you last night?"
"And have you forgotten?" Mr. Gower has thrown tragedy into his voice. "Already? Do you mean to tell me that you don't recollect saying to me that you preferred me to all the rest of my sex?"
"I never said that!" says Tita, with emphasis; "never! never! Why should I say that?"
She looks at Gower as if demanding an answer.
"I'm not good at conundrums," says he. "Ask me another."
"No; I won't," says she_. "Why?"_
Upon this Mr. Gower rolls himself over in the rug, and covers his head. It is plain that answers are not to be got out of him.
"Did I say that?" says Tita, appealing to Sir Maurice.
"I hope not," returns he, laughing. "Certainly I did not hear it."
"And certainly he didn't either," says Tita with decision.
"After that," says Gower, unrolling himself, "I shall retire from public life; I shall give myself up to"—he pauses and looks round; a favourite ladies' paper is lying on the ground near him—"to literature."
He turns over on his side, and apparently becomes engrosses in it.
"Have you been playing, Maurice?" asks Mrs. Bethune presently.
Her tone is cold. That little speech of his to Tita, uttered some time ago, "I hope not," had angered her.
"No," returns he as coldly.
He is on one of his uncertain moods with regard to her. Distrust, disbelief, a sense of hopelessness—all are troubling him.
"What a shame, Sir Maurice!" says Mrs. Chichester, leaning forward. As I have hinted, she would have flirted with a broomstick. "And you, who are our champion player."
"I'll play now if you will play with me," says Sir Maurice gallantly.
"A safe answer," looking at him with a pout, and through half-closed lids. She finds that sort of glance effective sometimes. "You know I don't play."
"Not that game," says Mr. Gower, who never can resist a thrust.
"I thought you were reading your paper," says Mrs. Chichester sharply. "Come, what's in it? I don't believe," scornfully, "you are reading it at all."
"I am, however," says Mr. Gower. "These ladies' papers are so full of information. I'm quite enthralled just now. I've got on to the Exchange and Mart business, and it's too exciting for words. Just listen to this: 'Two dozen old tooth-brushes (in good preservation) would be exchanged for a gold bangle (unscratched). Would not be sent on approval (mind, it must not be set scratched! good old toothbrushes!) without deposit of ten shillings. Address, 'Chizzler, office of this paper.'"
"It isn't true. I don't believe a word of it," says Tita, making a snatch at the paper.
"My dear girl, why not? Two dozen old toothbrushes. Old toothbrushes, you notice. Everything old now goes for a large sum, except," thoughtfully, "aunts."
He casts a lingering glance round, but providentially Miss Gower has disappeared.
"But toothbrushes! Show me that paper."
"Do you, then, disbelieve in my word?"
"Nobody could want a toothbrush."
"Some people want them awfully," says Mr. Gower. "Haven't you noticed?"
But here Sir Maurice sees it his duty to interfere.
"Miss Bolton, will you play this next set with me?" says he, coming up to Tita.
"Oh, I should love it!" cries she. "You are so good a player. Do get us some decent people to play against, though; I hate a weak game."
"Well, come, we'll try and manage it," says he, amused at her enthusiasm.
They move away together.
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.
There had been no question about it; it had been a walk-over. Even Lord Eshurst and Miss Staines, who are considered quite crack people at tennis in this part of the county, had not had a chance. Tita had been everywhere; she seemed to fly. Every ball caught, and every ball so well planted. Rylton had scarcely been in it, though a good player. That little thing was here and there and everywhere, yet Rylton could not say she poached. Whatever she did, however, she won.
She does not throw up her cap this time—perhaps she had seen a little of that laughter before—but she claps her hands joyfully, and pats Rylton's arm afterwards in a bon camarade fashion that seems to amuse him. And is she tired? There is no sense of fatigue, certainly, in the way she runs up the slope again, and flings herself gracefully upon the rug beside Mr. Gower. Mr. Gower has not stirred from that rug since. He seldom stirs. Perhaps he would not be quite so stout if he did.
"You won your game?" says Margaret Knollys, bending towards Tita, with a smile.
Old Lady Eshurst is smiling at her, too.
"Oh yes; how could I help it? Sir Maurice"—with a glance at the latter as he climbs the slope in turn—"plays like an angel."
"Oh no; it is you who do that," says he, laughing.
"Are you an angel, Miss Bolton?" asks Mrs. Bethune, who is standing next Rylton.
He had gone straight to her, but she had not forgiven his playing with the girl at all, and a sense of hatred towards Tita is warming her breast.
"I don't know," says Tita, with a slight grimace. It is not the answer expected. Marian had expected to see her shy, confused; Tita, on the contrary, is looking at her with calm, inquiring eyes. "Do you?" asks she.
"I have not gone into it," says Mrs. Bethune, with as distinct a sneer as she can allow herself.
Mr. Gower laughs.
"You're good at games," says he to Tita.
He might have meant her powers at tennis, he might have meant anything.
"That last game you are thinking of?"
"Decidedly, the last game," says Gower, who laughs again immoderately.
"I don't see what there is to laugh at," says Miss Bolton, with some indignation. "'They laugh who win,' is an old proverb. But you didn't win; you weren't in it."
"I expect I never shall be," says Gower. "Yet lookers-on have their advantage ascribed to them by a pitiful Providence. They see most of the game."
"It is I who should laugh," says Tita, who has not been following him. "I won—we"—looking, with an honest desire to be just to all people, at Sir Maurice—"we won."
"No, no; leave it in the singular," says Maurice, making her a little gesture of self-depreciation.
"You seem very active," says Margaret kindly. "I watched you at golf yesterday. You liked it?"
"Yes; there is so little else to like," says Tita, looking at her, "except my horses and my dogs."
"A horse is the best companion of all," says Mr. Woodleigh, his eyes bent on her charming little face.
"I'm not sure, the dogs are so kind, so affectionate; they want one so," says Tita. "And yet a horse—oh, I do love my last mount—a brown mare! She's lying up now."
"You ride, then?" says Sir Maurice.
"Ride! you bet!" says Tita. She rolls over on the rug, and, resting on her elbows, looks up at him; Lady Rylton watching, shudders. "I've been in the saddle all my life. Just before I came here I had a real good run—my uncle's groom had one horse, I had the other; it was over the downs. I won."
She rests her chin upon her hands.
Lady Rylton's face pales with horror. A race with a groom!
"Your uncle must give you good mounts," says Mr. Woodleigh.
"It is all he does give me," says the girl, with a pout. "Yes; I may ride, but that is all. I never see anybody—there is nobody to see; my uncle knows nobody."
Lady Rylton makes an effort. It is growing too dreadful. She turns to Mrs. Chichester.
"Why don't you play?" asks she.
"Tennis? I hate it; it destroys one's clothes so," says Mrs. Chichester. "And those shoes, they are terrible. If I knew any girls—I never do know them, as a rule—I should beg of them not to play tennis; it is destruction so far as feet go."
"Fancy riding so much as that!" says Mr. Woodleigh, who, with Sir Maurice and the others, has been listening to Tita's stories of hunts and rides gone and done. "Why, how long have you been hunting?"
"Ever since I was thirteen," says Tita.
"Why, that is about your age now, isn't it?" says Gower.
"We lived at Oakdean then," goes on Tita, taking, very properly, no notice of him, "and my father liked me to ride. My cousin was with us there, and he taught me. I rode a great deal before"—she pauses, and her lips quiver; she is evidently thinking of some grief that has entered into her young life and saddened it—"before I went to live with my uncle."
"It was your cousin who taught you to ride, then? Is he a son of the—the uncle with whom you now live?" asks Sir Maurice, who is rather ashamed of exhibiting such interest in her.
"No, no, indeed! He is a son of my aunt's—my father's sister. She married a man in Birmingham—a sugar merchant. I did love Uncle Joe," says Tita warmly.
"No wonder!" says Mrs. Bethune. "I wish I had an uncle a sugar merchant. It does sound sweet."
"I'm not sure that _you _would think my uncle Joe sweet!" says Miss Bolton thoughtfully. "He wasn't good to look at. He had the biggest mouth that ever I saw, and his nose was little and turned up, but I loved him. I love him now, even when he is gone. And one does forget, you know! He said such good things to people, and"—covering her little face with her hands, and bursting into an irrepressible laugh—"he told such funny stories!"
Lady Rylton makes a sudden movement.
"Dear Lady Eshurst, wouldn't you like to come and see the houses?" asks she.
"I am afraid I must be going home," says old Lady Eshurst. "It is very late; you must forgive my staying so long, but your little friend—by-the-bye, is she a friend or relation?"
"A friend!" says Lady Rylton sharply.
"Well, she is so entertaining that I could not bear to go away sooner."
"Yes—yes; she is very charming," says Lady Rylton, as she hurries
Lady Eshurst down the steps that lead to the path below.
Good heavens! If she should hear some of Uncle Joe's funny stories!
She takes Lady Eshurst visibly in tow, and walks her out of hearing.
"What a good seat you must have!" says Mr. Woodleigh presently, who has been dwelling on what Tita has said about her riding.
"Oh, pretty well! Everyone should ride," says Tita indifferently. "I despise a man who can't conquer a horse. I," laughing, "never saw the horse that I couldn't conquer."
"You? Look at your hands!" says Gower, laughing.
"Well, what's the matter with them?" says she. "My cousin, when he was riding, used to say they were made of iron."
"Of velvet, rather."
"No. He said my heart was made of that." She laughs gaily, and suddenly looking up at Rylton, who is looking down at her, she fixes her eyes on his. She spreads her little hands abroad, brown as berries though they are with exposure to all sorts of weather. They are small brown hands, and very delicately shaped. "They are not so bad after all, are they?" says she.
"They are very pretty," smiles Rylton, returning her gaze.
Suddenly for the first time it occurs to him that she has a beauty that is all her own.
"Oh no! there is nothing pretty about me," says Tita.
She gives a sudden shrug of her shoulders. She is still lying on the rug, her face resting on the palms of her hands. Again she lifts her eyes slowly to Rylton; it is an entirely inconsequent glance—a purely idle glance—and yet it suddenly occurs to Mrs. Bethune, watching her narrowly, that there is coquetry in it; undeveloped, certainly, but there. She is now a child; but later on?
Maurice is smiling back at the child as if amused. Mrs. Bethune lays her hands upon his arm—Lady Rylton has gone away with old Lady Eshurst.
"Maurice! there will be just time for a walk before tea," says she in a whisper, her beautiful face uplifted very near to his. Her eyes are full of promise.
He turns with her.
"Sir Maurice! Sir Maurice!" cries Tita; "remember our match at golf to-morrow!" Sir Maurice looks back. "Mr. Gower and I, against you and Mrs. Bethune. You do remember?"
"Yes, and we shall win," says Mrs. Bethune, with a cold smile.
"Oh no! don't think it. We shall beat you into a cocked hat!" cries
Tita gaily.
"Good heavens! how vulgar she is!" says Mrs. Bethune.
CHAPTER VII.
HOW THE ARGUMENT GROWS HIGHER; AND HOW MARIAN LOSES HER TEMPER, AND HOW MARGARET OBJECTS TO THE RUIN OF ONE YOUNG LIFE.
"She is insufferable—intolerable!" says Lady Rylton, almost hysterically. She is sitting in the drawing-room with Margaret and Mrs. Bethune, near one of the windows that overlook the tennis court. The guests of the afternoon have gone; only the house-party remains, and still, in the dying daylight, the tennis balls are being tossed to and fro. Tita's little form may be seen darting from side to side; she is playing again with Sir Maurice.
"She is a very young girl, who has been brought up without a mother's care," says Miss Knollys, who has taken a fancy to the poor hoyden, and would defend her.
"Her manners this afternoon!—her actions—her fatal admissions!" says Lady Rylton, who has not forgiven that word or two about the sugar merchant.
"She spoke only naturally. She saw no reason why she should not speak of——"
"Don't be absurd, Margaret!" Sharply. "You know, as well as I do, that she is detestable."
"I am quite glad you have formed that idea of her," says Miss Knollys, "as it leads me to hope you do not now desire to marry her to Maurice."
After all, there are, perhaps, moments when Margaret is not as perfect as one believes her. She can't, for example, resist this thrust.
"Decidedly I don't _desire _to marry her to Maurice," says Lady Rylton angrily. "I have told you that often enough, I think; but for all that Maurice must marry her. It is his last chance!"
"Tessie," says Margaret sharply, "if you persist in this matter, and bring it to the conclusion you have in view, do you know what will happen? You will make your only child miserable! I warn you of that." Miss Knollys' voice is almost solemn.
"You talk as if Maurice was the only person in the world to be made miserable," says Lady Rylton, leaning back in her chair and bursting into tears—at all events, it must be supposed it is tears that are going on behind the little lace fragment pressed to her eyes. "Am not I ten times more miserable? I, who have to give my only son—as" (sobbing) "you most admirably describe it, Margaret—to such a girl as that! Good heavens! What can his sufferings be to mine?" She wipes her eyes daintily, and sits up again. "You hurt me so, dear Margaret," she says plaintively, "but I'm sure you do not mean it."
"No, no, of course," says Miss Knollys, as civilly as she can. She is feeling a little disgusted.
"And as for this affair—objectionable as the girl is, still one must give and take a little when one's fortunes are at the ebb. And I will save my dearest Maurice at all risks if I can, no matter what grief it costs me. Who am I"—with a picturesque sigh—"that I should interfere with the prospects of my child? And this girl! If Maurice can be persuaded to have her——"
"My dear Tessie, what a word!" says Margaret, rising, with a distinct frown. "Has he only to ask, then, and have?"
"Beyond doubt," says Lady Rylton insolently, waving her fan to and fro, "if he does it in the right way. In all my experience, my dear Margaret, I have never known a woman to frown upon a man who was as handsome, as well-born, as chic as Maurice! Even though the man might be a—well"—smiling and lifting her shoulders—"it's a rude word, but—well, a very devil!"
She looks deliberately at Margaret over her fan, who really appears in this dull light nearly as young as she is. The look is a cruel one, hideously cruel. Even Marian Bethune, whose bowels of compassion are extraordinary small, changes colour, and lets her red-brown eyes rest on the small woman lounging in the deep chair with a rather murderous gaze.
Yet Lady Rylton smiles on, enjoying the changes in Margaret's face.
It is a terrible smile, coming from so fragile a creature.
Margaret's face has grown white, but she answers coldly and with deliberation. All that past horrible time—her lover, his unworthiness, his desertion—all her young, young life lies once more massacred before her.
"The women who give in to such fascination, such mere outward charms, are fools!" says she with a strength that adorns her.
"Oh, come! Come now, dearest Margaret," says her aunt, with the gayest of little laughs, "would you call yourself a fool? Why, remember, your own dear Harold was——"
"Pray spare me!" says Miss Knollys, in so cold, so haughty, so commanding a tone, that even Lady Rylton sinks beneath it. She makes an effort to sustain her position and laughs lightly, but for all that she lets her last sentence remain a fragment.
"You think Maurice will propose to this Miss Bolton?" says Marian
Bethune, leaning forward. There is something sarcastic in her smile.
"He must. It is detestable, of course. One would like a girl in his own rank, but there are so few of them with money, and when there is one, her people want her to marry a Duke or a foreign Prince—so tiresome of them!"
"It is all such folly," says Margaret, knitting her brows.
"Utter folly," says Lady Rylton. "That is what makes it so wise! It would be folly to marry a satyr—satyrs are horrid—but if the satyr had millions! Oh, the wisdom of it!"
"You go too far!" says Margaret. "Money is not everything."
"And Maurice is not a satyr," says Mrs. Bethune, a trifle unwisely. She has been watching the players on the ground below. Lady Rylton looks at her.
"Of course you object to it," says she.
"I!" says Marian. "Why should I object to it? I talk of marriage only in the abstract."
"I am glad of that!" Lady Rylton's eyes are still fixed on hers. "This will be a veritable marriage, I assure you; I have set my mind on it. It is terrible to contemplate, but one must give way sometimes; yet the thought of throwing that girl into the arms of darling Maurice——"
She breaks off, evidently overcome, yet behind the cobweb she presses to her cheeks she has an eye on Marian.
"I don't think Maurice's arms could hold her," says Mrs. Bethune, with a low laugh. It is a strange laugh. Lady Rylton's glance grows keener. "Such a mere doll of a thing. A mite!" She laughs again, but this time (having caught Lady Rylton's concentrated gaze) in a very ordinary manner—the passion, the anger has died out of it.
"Yes, she's a mere mite," says Lady Rylton. "She is positively trivial! She is in effect a perfect idiot in some ways. You know I have tried to impress her—to show her that she is not altogether below our level—as she certainly is—but she has refused to see my kindness. She—she's very fatiguing," says Lady Rylton, with a long-suffering sigh. "But one gets accustomed to grievances. This girl, just because she is hateful to me, is the one I must take into my bosom. She is going to give her fortune to Maurice!"
"And Maurice?" asks Margaret.
"Is going to take it," returns his mother airily. "And is going to give her, what she has never had—a name!"
"A cruel compact," says Margaret slowly, but with decision. "I think this marriage should not be so much as thought of! That child! and Maurice, who cares nothing for her. Marian"—Miss Knollys turns suddenly to Marian, who has withdrawn behind the curtains, as if determined to have nothing to say further to the discussion— "Marian, come here. Say you think Maurice should not marry this silly child—this baby."
"Oh! as for me," says Mrs. Bethune, coming out from behind the curtains, her face a little pale, "what is my weight in this matter? Nothing! nothing! Let Maurice marry as he will."
"As he will!" Lady Rylton repeats her words, and, rising, comes towards her. "Why don't you answer?" says she. "We want your answer. Give it!"
"I have no answer," says Mrs. Bethune slowly. "Why should he not marry Miss Bolton?—and again, why should he? Marriage, as we have been told all our lives, is but a lottery—they should have said a mockery," with a little bitter smile. "One could have understood that."
"Then you advise Maurice to marry this girl?" asks Lady Rylton eagerly.
"Oh, no, no! I advise nothing," says Marian, with a little wave of her arms.
"But why?" demands Lady Rylton angrily.
She had depended upon Marian to support her against Margaret.
"Simply because I won't," says Mrs. Bethune, her strange eyes beginning to blaze.
"Because you daren't?" questions Lady Rylton, with a sneer.
"I don't understand you," says Marian coldly.
"Don't you?" Lady Rylton's soft, little, fair face grows diabolical. "Then let me explain." Margaret makes a movement towards her, but she waves her back. "Pray let me explain, Margaret. Our dear Marian is so intensely dull that she wants a word in season. We all know why she objects to a marriage of any sort. She made a fiasco of her own first marriage, and now hopes——"
She would have continued her cruel speech but that Mrs. Bethune, who has risen, breaks into it. She comes forward in a wild, tempestuous fashion, her eyes afire, her nostrils dilated! Her beautiful red hair seems alight as she descends upon Lady Rylton.
"And that marriage!" says she, in a suffocating tone. "Who made it? Who?" She looks like a fury. There is hatred, an almost murderous hatred, in the glance she casts at the little, languid, pretty woman before her, who looks back at her with uplifted shoulders, and an all-round air of surprise and disapprobation. "You to taunt me!" says she, in a low, condensed tone. "You, who hurried, who forced me into a marriage with a man I detested! You, who gave me to understand, when I resisted, that I had no place on this big earth except a pauper's place—a place in a workhouse!"
She stands tall, grave, magnificent, in her fury before Lady Rylton, who, in spite of the courage born of want of feeling, now shrinks from her as if affrighted.
"If you persist in going on like this," says she, pressing her smelling-bottle to her nose, "I must ask you to go away—to go at once. I hate scenes. You must go!"
"I went away once," says Mrs. Bethune, standing pale and cold before her, "at your command—I went to the home of the man you selected for me. What devil's life I led with him you may guess at. You knew him, I did not. I was seventeen then." She pauses; the breath she draws seems to rive her body in twain. "I came back——" she says presently.
"A widow?"
"A widow—thank God!"
A silence follows; something of tragedy seems to have fallen into the air—with that young lovely creature standing there, upright, passionate, her arms clasped behind her head, as the heroine of it. The sunlight from the dying day lights up the red, rich beauty of her hair, the deadly pallor of her skin. Through it all the sound of the tennis-balls from below, as they hurry to and fro through the hair, can be heard. Perhaps it reaches her. She flings herself suddenly into a chair, and bursts out laughing.
"Let us come back to common-sense," cries she. "What were we talking of? The marriage of Maurice to this little plebeian—this little female Croesus. Well, what of the argument—what?"
Her manner is a little excited.
"I, for one, object to the marriage," says Margaret distinctly. "The child is too young and too rich! She should be given a chance; she should not be coerced and drawn into a mesh, as it were, without her knowledge."
"A mesh? Do you call a marriage with my son a mesh?" asks Lady Rylton angrily. "He of one of the oldest families in England, and she a nobody!"
"There is no such thing as a nobody," says Miss Knollys calmly. "This girl has intellect, mind, a soul! She has even money! She must be considered."
"She has no birth!" says Lady Rylton. "If you are going in for Socialistic principles, Margaret, pray do not expect me to follow you. I despise folly of that sort."
"I am not a Socialist," says Margaret slowly, "and yet why cannot this child be accepted as one of ourselves? Where is the great difference? You object to her marrying your son, yet you want to marry her to your son. How do you reconcile it? Surely you are more of Socialist than I am. You would put the son of a baronet and the daughter of heaven knows who on an equality."
"Never!" says Lady Rylton. "You don't understand. She will always be just as she is, and Maurice——"
"And their children?" asks Margaret.
Here Mrs. Bethune springs to her feet.
"Good heavens! Margaret, have you not gone far enough?" says she. If her face had been pale before, it is livid now. "Why, this marriage—this marriage"—she beats her hand upon a table near her—"one would think it was a fact accomplished!"
"I was only saying," says Miss Knollys, looking with a gentle glance at Marian, "that if Maurice were to marry this girl——"
"It would be an honour to her," interrupts Lady Rylton hotly.
"It would be a degradation to him," says Margaret coldly. "He does not love her."
She might have said more, but that suddenly Marian Bethune stops her. The latter, who is leaning against the curtains of the window, breaks into a wild little laugh.
"Love—what is love?" cries she. "Oh, foolish Margaret! Do not listen to her, Tessie, do not listen."
She folds the soft silken curtains round her slender figure, and, hidden therein, still laughs aloud with a wild passion of mirth.
"It is you who are foolish," cries Margaret, with some agitation.
"I?" She lets the curtains go; they fall in a sweep behind her. She looks out at Margaret, still laughing. Her face is like ashes. "You speak too strongly," says she.
"Do you think I could speak too strongly?" asks Margaret, looking intently at her. It is a questioning glance. "You! Do you think Maurice ought to ask this poor, ignorant girl to marry him? Do you advise him to take this step?"
"Why, it appears he must take some step," says Marian. "Why not this?"
Margaret goes close to her and speaks in so low a tone that Lady
Rylton cannot hear her.
"His honour, is that nothing to you?" says she.
"To me? What have I got to do with his honour?" says Mrs. Bethune, with a little expressive gesture.
"Oh, Marian!" says Miss Knollys.
She half turns away as if in disgust, but Marian follows her and catches her sleeve.
"You mean——" says she.
"Must I explain? With his heart full of you, do you think he should marry this girl?"
"Oh, his heart!" says Mrs. Bethune. "Has he a heart? Dear Margaret, don't be an enthusiast; be like everybody else. It is so much more comfortable."
"You can put it off like this," says Miss Knollys in a low tone. "It is very simple; but you should think. I have always thought you—you liked Maurice, but you were a—a friend of his. Save him from this. Don't let him marry this child."
"I don't think he will marry a child!" says Mrs. Bethune, laughing.
"You mean——"
"I mean nothing at all—nothing, really," says Marian. "But that baby! My dear Margaret, how impossible!"
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.
There has been a second scene between Lady Rylton and Sir Maurice—this time a terrible scene. She had sent for him directly after dinner, and had almost commanded him to marry Miss Bolton. She had been very bitter in her anger, and had said strange things of Marian. Sir Maurice had come off triumphant, certainly, if greatly injured, and with his heart on fire. He had, at all events, sworn he would not marry the little Bolton girl. Those perpetual insinuations! What had his mother meant by saying that Marian was laying herself out to catch Lord Dunkerton, an old baron in the neighbourhood, with some money and a damaged reputation? That could not be true—he would not believe it. That old beast! Marian would not so much as look at him. And yet—had she not been very civil to him at that ball last week?
Coming out from his mother's boudoir, a perfect storm of fury in his heart, he finds himself face to face with Marian. Something in his face warns her. She would have gone by him with a light word or two, but, catching her by the wrist, he draws her into a room on his left.
"You have had another quarrel with your mother," says she sympathetically, ignoring the anger blazing in his eyes. "About that silly girl?"
"No. About you!"
His tone is short—almost violent.
"About me?"
She changes colour.
"Yes, you. She accuses you of encouraging that wretched old man,
Dunkerton. Do you hear? Speak! Is it true?"
"This is madness!" says Marian, throwing out her hands. "How could you believe such folly? That old man! Why will you give ear to such gossip?"
"Put an end to it, then," says he savagely.
"I? How can I put an end to it?"
"By marrying me!"
He stands opposite to her, almost compelling her gaze in return.
Mrs. Bethune gives it fearlessly.
"Maurice dearest, you are excited now. Your mother—she is so irritating. I know her. Marriage, as we now stand, would mean quite dreadful things. Do be reasonable!"
"You talk of reason," says he passionately. "Does love reason? No! I will hear your last word now."
"Are you condemning me, then, to death?" asks she, smiling delicately, and laying two large but delicate hands upon his arms.
He shakes her off.
"Answer me. Will you marry me, or will you not?"
"This is too sudden, Maurice!"
A little fire is kindling in her own eyes; she had objected to that last repulsion.
"Sudden! After all these months!" He pauses. "Is it to be Dunkerton or me?" asks he violently.
"Please do not bring Lord Dunkerton into this discussion," says she coldly.
"I certainly shall."
"You mean that I——"
"Have encouraged him. So I hear, at all events, and—there are things I remember."
"For the matter of that," says she, throwing up her beautiful head, "there are things I remember too! You—you dare to come here and accuse me of falsity when I have watched you all day making steady court to that wretched little plebeian, playing tennis with her all the day long, and far into the evening! No! I may have said half a dozen words to Lord Dunkerton, but you—how many half-dozen words have you said to Miss Bolton? Come, answer me that, as we seem bent on riddles."
"All this is as nothing," says Rylton. "You know, as well as I do, that Miss Bolton has not a thought of mine! I want only one thing, the assurance that you love me, and I put it at marriage. Will you link your fate with mine, low down though it is at present? If you will, Marian"—he comes closer to her and lays his hands upon her shoulders, and gazes at her with eyes full filled with honest love—"I shall work for you to the last day of my life. If you will not——"
He pauses—he looks at her—he waits. But no answer comes from her.
"Marian, take courage," says he softly—very softly. "My darling, is money everything?"
She suddenly leans back from him, and looks fair in his eyes.
"It is, it is," says she hoarsely. "I can't again go through what I suffered before. Wait, do wait—something—something will happen——"
"You refuse me?" says he, in a lifeless tone.
"Not that. Don't speak like that. Don't leave me, Maurice."
"It is our last hour," says he deliberately. "Be sure of that. If money is so much to you—if money counts so far beyond all that a man can give you of his heart and soul—then take it."
"And you," says she, "are you not seeking money, too? This girl, this little fool; your mother has led you to think of her. You will marry her!"
"I will marry you," says he coldly, "if you will marry me."
"I have told you that it is impossible"—she draws a deep breath—"at present."
"You will not trust me, then, to make a fortune for you?"
"A fortune! It takes so long to make; and," smiling, and drawing nearer to him, and suddenly flinging her arms around his neck, "are we not happy as we are?"
"No." He loosens her arms lightly, and, still holding them, looks at her. How fair she is, how desirable! "Marian," says he hoarsely, "think! It is indeed my last word. Will you trust yourself to me as things are, or will you reject me? Marian, say you will marry me as I now am—poor, ruined."
He holds her, gazing at her despairingly. She would have spoken, perhaps, but no words come to her; no words to soften her grim determination. She will not marry him poor—and yet she loves him.
Rylton, with a stifled oath, pushes her from him.
"This is the end," says he.
He goes to the door.
"Maurice!" says she faintly.
He turns.
"Well, will you marry me to-morrow?" asks he mockingly.
"No. But——"
"There is no time for 'buts,'" says he.
He opens the door and closes it sharply behind him.
Mrs. Bethune flings herself back into a chair, and presses her handkerchief to her face.
"Oh, it is nothing, nothing," says she presently. She gets up, and, standing before a glass, arranges her hair and presses her eyebrows into shape. "He gets impatient, that is all. He will never be able to live without me. As for that absurd child, Maurice would not look at her. No, I am sure of him, quite, quite sure; to-morrow he will come back to me, repentant."