The Hoyden, Margaret Wolfe Hungerford [best ereader manga txt] 📗

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