The Hoyden

The windows are all wide open, and through them the warm, lazy summer wind is stealing languidly. The perfume of the seringas from the shrubbery beyond, mingled with all the lesser but more delicate delights of the garden beneath, comes with the wind, and fills the drawing-room of The Place with a vague, almost drowsy sense of sweetness.

Mrs. Bethune, with a face that smiles always, though now her very soul is in revolt, leans back against the cushions of her lounging chair, her fine red hair making a rich contrast with the pale-blue satin behind it.

"You think he will marry her, then?"

"Think, think!" says Lady Rylton pettishly. "I can't afford to think about it. I tell you he must marry her. It has come to the very last ebb with us now, and unless Maurice consents to this arrangement--"

She spreads her beautiful little hands abroad, as if in eloquent description of an end to her sentence.

Mrs. Bethune bursts out laughing. She can always laugh at pleasure.

"It sounds like the old Bible story," says she; "you have an only son, and you must sacrifice him!"

"Don't study to be absurd!" says Lady Rylton, with a click of her fan that always means mischief.

She throws herself back in her chair, and a tiny frown settles upon her brow. She is such a small creation of Nature's that only a frown of the slightest dimensions could settle itself comfortably between her eyes. Still, as a frown, it is worth a good deal! It has cowed a good many people in its day, and had, indeed, helped to make her a widow at an early age. Very few people stood up against Lady Rylton's tempers, and those who did never came off quite unscathed.

"Absurd! Have I been absurd?" asks Mrs. Bethune. "My dear Tessie"-she is Lady Rylton's niece, but Lady Rylton objects to being called aunt-"such a sin has seldom been laid to my charge."

"Well, I lay it," says Lady Rylton with some emphasis.

She leans back in her chair, and, once again unfurling the huge black fan she carries, waves it to and fro.

Marian Bethune leans back in her chair too, and regards her aunt with a gaze that never wavers. The two poses are in their way perfect, but it must be confessed that the palm goes to the younger woman.

It might well have been otherwise, as Lady Rylton is still, even at forty-six, a very graceful woman. Small-very small-a sort of pocket Venus as it were, but so carefully preserved that at forty-six she might easily be called thirty-five. If it were not for her one child, the present Sir Maurice Rylton, this fallacy might have been carried through. But, unfortunately, Sir Maurice is now twenty-eight by the church register. Lady Rylton hates church registers; they tell so much; and truth is always so rude!

She is very fair. Her blue eyes have still retained their azure tint-a strange thing at her age. Her little hands and feet are as tiny now as when years ago they called all London town to look at them on her presentation to her Majesty. She has indeed a charming face, a slight figure, and a temper that would shame the devil.

It isn't a quick temper-one can forgive that. It is a temper that remembers-remembers always, and that in a mild, ladylike sort of way destroys the one it fastens upon. Yet she is a dainty creature; fragile, fair, and pretty, even now. It is generally in these dainty, pretty, soulless creatures that the bitterest venom of all is to be found.

Her companion is different. Marian Bethune is a tall woman, with a face not perhaps strictly handsome, but yet full of a beautiful diablerie that raises it above mere comeliness. Her hair is red-a rich red-magnificent red hair that coils itself round her shapely head, and adds another lustre to the exquisite purity of her skin. Her eyes have a good deal of red in them, too, mixed with a warm brown-wonderful eyes that hold you when they catch you, and are difficult to forget. Some women are born with strange charms; Marian Bethune is one of them. To go through the world with such charms is a risk, for it must mean ruin or salvation, joy or desolation to many. Most of all is it a risk to the possessor of those charms.

There have been some who have denied the right of Marian to the title beautiful. But for the most part they have been women, and with regard to those others-the male minority-well, Mrs. Bethune could sometimes prove unkind, and there are men who do not readily forgive. Her mouth is curious, large and full, but not easily to be understood. Her eyes may speak, but her mouth is a sphinx. Yet it is a lovely mouth, and the little teeth behind it shine like pearls. For the rest, she is a widow. She married very badly; went abroad with her husband; buried him in Montreal; and came home again. Her purse is as slender as her figure, and not half so well worth possessing. She says she is twenty-eight, and to her praise be it acknowledged that she speaks the truth. Even good women sometimes stammer over this question!

"My sin, my sin?" demands she now gaily, smiling at Lady Rylton.

She flings up her lovely arms, and fastens them behind her head. Her smile is full of mockery.

"Of course, my dear Marian, you cannot suppose that I have been blind to the fact that you and Maurice have-for the past year-been-er--"

"Philandering?" suggests Mrs. Bethune lightly.

She leans a little forward, her soft curved chin coming in recognition.

"I beg, Marian, you won't be vulgar," says Lady Rylton, fanning herself petulantly. "It's worse than being immoral."

"Far, far worse!" Mrs. Bethune leans back in her chair, and laughs aloud. "Well, I'm not immoral," says she.

Her laughter rings through the room. The hot sun behind her is lighting the splendid masses of her red hair, and the disdainful gleam that dwells in her handsome eyes.

"Of course not," says Lady Rylton, a little stiffly; "even to mention such a thing seems to be-er-a little--"

"Only a little?" says Mrs. Bethune, arching her brows. "Oh, Tessie!" She pauses, and then with an eloquent gesture goes on again. "After all, why shouldn't I be immoral?" says she. Once again she flings her arms above her head so that her fingers grow clasped behind it. "It pays! It certainly pays. It is only the goody-goodies who go to the wall."

"My dear Marian!" says Lady Rylton, with a delicate pretence at horror; she puts up her hands, but after a second or so bursts out laughing. "I always say you are the one creature who amuses me," cries she, leaning back, and giving full play to her mirth. "I never get at you, somehow. I am never quite sure whether you are very good or very-well, very much the other thing. That is your charm."

The stupid, pretty little woman has reached a truth in spite of herself-that is Mrs. Bethune's charm.

A quick change passes over the latter's face. There is extreme hatred in it. It is gone, however, as soon as born, and remains for ever a secret to her companion.

"Does that amuse you?" says she airily. "I dare say a perpetual riddle is interesting. One can never guess it."

"As for that, I can read you easily enough," says Lady Rylton, with a superior air. "You are original, but-yes-I can read you." She could as easily have read a page of Sanscrit. "It is your originality I like. I have never, in spite of many things, been in the least sorry that I gave you a home on the death of your-er-rather disreputable husband."

Mrs. Bethune looks sweetly at her.

"And such a home!" says she.

"Not a word, not a word," entreats Lady Rylton graciously. "But to return to Maurice. I shall expect you to help me in this matter, Marian."

"Naturally."

"I have quite understood your relations with Maurice during the past year. One, as a matter of course," with a shrug of her dainty shoulders, "lets the nearest man make love to one-- But Maurice must marry for money, and so must you."

"You are all wisdom," says Marian, showing her lovely teeth. "And this girl? She has been here a week now, but as yet you have told me nothing about her."

"I picked her up!" says Lady Rylton. She lays down her fan-looks round her in a little mysterious fashion, as though to make doubly sure of the apparent fact that there is no one in the room but her niece and herself. "It was the most providential thing," she says; "I was staying at the Warburtons' last month, and one day when driving their abominable ponies along the road, suddenly the little beasts took fright and bolted. You know the Warburtons, don't you? They haven't an ounce of manners between them-themselves, or their ponies, or anything else belonging to them. Well! They tore along as if possessed--"

"The Warburtons?"

"No, the ponies; don't be silly?"

"Such a relief!"

"And I really think they would have taken me over a precipice. You can see"-holding out her exquisite little hands-"how inadequate these would be to deal with the Warburton ponies. But for the timely help of an elderly gentleman and a young girl-she looked a mere child--"

"This Miss Bolton?"

"Yes. The old gentleman caught the ponies' heads-so did the girl. You know my slender wrists-they were almost powerless from the strain, but that girl! her wrists seemed made of iron. She held and held, until the little wretches gave way and returned to a sense of decency."

"Perhaps they are made of iron. Her people are in trade, you say?

It is iron, or buttons, or what?"

"I don't know, I'm sure, but at all events she is an heiress to quite a tremendous extent. Two hundred thousand pounds, the Warburtons told me afterwards; even allowing for exaggeration, still, she must be worth a good deal, and poor dear Maurice, what is he worth?"

"Is it another riddle?" asks Mrs. Bethune.

"No, no, indeed! The answer is plain to all the world. The Warburtons didn't know these people, these Boltons (so silly of them, with a third son still unmarried), but when I heard of her money I made inquiries. It appeared that she lived with her uncle. Her father had died early, when she was quite young. Her mother was dead too; this last was a great comfort. And the uncle had kept her in seclusion all her life. They are nobodies, dear Marian! Nobodies at all, but that girl has two hundred thousand pounds, and can redeem the property of all its mortgages-if only Maurice will let her do it."

"But how did you ask her here?"

"How? What is simpler? The moment the Warburtons told me of the wealth that would be that girl's on her marriage (I was careful to make sure of the marriage point), I felt that an overpowering sense of gratitude compelled me to go and call on her. She and her uncle were new-comers in that county, and-it is very exclusive-so that when I did arrive, I was received with open arms. I was charming to the old uncle, a frosty sort of person, but not objectionable in any way, and I at once asked the niece to pay me a visit. They were flattered, the uncle especially so; I expect he had been wanting to get into Society-and as for the girl, she seemed overcome with delight! A very second-class little creature I thought her. No style! No suppression of her real feelings! She said at once how glad she would be to come to me; she gave me the impression that she would be glad to get away from her uncle! No idea of hiding anything! So strange!"

"Strange enough to be almost a fresh fashion. Fancy her saying she would be glad to come to you! No wonder you were startled!"

"Well, she's here," says Lady Rylton, furling her fan. Mrs. Bethune's little sarcasm has been lost upon her. "And now, how to use her? Maurice, though I have thrust the idea upon him, seems averse to it."

"The idea?"

"Of marrying her, of course, and so redeeming himself. She is not what I would have chosen for him, I admit that; but all things must give way before the ruin that threatens us."

"Yes; true-all things," says Mrs. Bethune in a low tone.

"You see that. But how to bring Maurice to the point? He is so very difficult. You, Marian-you have influence with him--"

"I?"

Mrs. Bethune rises in the slow, beautiful fashion that is hers always; she moves towards the window. There is no hurry, no undue haste, to betray the disquietude of her soul.

"You-you, of course," says Lady Rylton peevishly. "I always rely upon you."

"I have no influence!"

"You mean, of course, that you will not use it," says Lady Rylton angrily. "You still think that you will marry him yourself, that perhaps his uncle will die and leave him once more a rich man-the master of The Place, as the old Place's master should be; but that is a distant prospect, Marian."

Mrs. Bethune has swung around, her beautiful figure is drawn up to its most stately height.

"Not another word!" says she imperiously. "What have I to do with your son? Let him marry-let him marry--" She pauses as if choking, but goes on again: "I tell you I have no influence-none! Appeal to Margaret, she may help you!"

"She-no!"

"Hush! here she is. Yes; ask her," says Mrs. Bethune, as if desirous of letting Lady Rylton hear the opinion of the new-comer on this extraordinary subject.

Margaret Knollys, entering the room and seeing the signs of agitation in the two faces before her, stops on the threshold.

"I am disturbing you. I can come again," says she, in her clear, calm voice.

"No," says Mrs. Bethune abruptly.

She makes a gesture as if to keep her.

"Not at all. Not at all, dear Margaret. Pray stay, and give me a little help," says Lady Rylton plaintively.

She pulls forward a little chair near her, as if to show Margaret that she must say, and Miss Knollys comes quickly to her. Marian Bethune is Lady Rylton's real niece. Margaret is her niece by marriage.

A niece to be proud of, in spite of the fact that she is thirty years of age and still unmarried. Her features, taken separately, would debar her for ever from being called either pretty or beautiful; yet there have been many in her life-time who admired her, and three, at all events, who would have gladly given their all to call her theirs. Of these one is dead, and one is married, and one-still hopes.

There had been a fourth. Margaret loved him! Yet he was the only one whom Margaret should not have loved. He was unworthy in all points. Yet, when he went abroad, breaking cruelly and indifferently all ties with her (they had been engaged), Margaret still clung to him, and ever since has refused all comers for his sake. Her face is long and utterly devoid of colour; her nose is too large; her mouth a trifle too firm for beauty; her eyes, dark and earnest, have, however, a singular fascination of their own, and when she smiles one feels that one must love her. She is a very tall woman, and slight, and gracious in her ways. She is, too, a great heiress, and a woman of business, having been left to manage a huge property at the age of twenty-two. Her management up to this has been faultless.

"Now, how can I help you?" asks she, looking at Lady Rylton. "What is distressing you?"

"Oh! you know," says Mrs. Bethune, breaking impatiently into the conversation. "About Maurice and this girl! This new girl! There," contemptuously, "have been so many of them!"

"You mean Miss Bolton," says Margaret, in her quiet way. "Do you seriously mean," addressing Lady Rylton, "that you desire this marriage?"

"Desire it? No. It is a necessity!" says Lady Rylton. "Who could desire a daughter-in-law of no lineage, and with the most objectionable tastes? But she has money! That throws a cloak over all defects."

"I don't think that poor child has so many defects as you fancy," says Miss Knollys. "But for all that I should not regard her as a suitable wife for Maurice."

Mrs. Bethune leans back in her chair and laughs.

"A suitable wife for Maurice!" repeats she. "Where is she to be found?"

"Here! In this girl!" declares Lady Rylton solemnly. "Margaret, you know how we are situated. You know how low we have fallen-you can understand that in this marriage lies our last hope. If Maurice can be induced to marry Miss Bolton--"

A sound of merry laughter interrupts her here. There comes the sound of steps upon the terrace-running steps. Instinctively the three women within the room grow silent and draw back a little. Barely in time; a tiny, vivacious figure springs into view, followed by a young man of rather stout proportions.

"No, no, no!" cries the little figure, "you couldn't beat me. I bet you anything you like you couldn't. You may play me again if you will, and then," smiling and shaking her head at him, "we shall see!"

The windows are open and every word can be heard.

"Your future daughter-in-law," says Mrs. Bethune, in a low voice, nodding her beautiful head at Lady Rylton.

"Oh, it is detestable! A hoyden-a mere hoyden," says Lady Rylton pettishly. "Look at her hair!"

And, indeed, it must be confessed that the hoyden's hair is not all it ought to be. It is in effect "all over the place"-it is straight here, and wandering there; but perhaps its wildness helps to make more charming the naughty childish little face that peeps out of it.

"She has no manners-none!" says Lady Rylton. "She--"

"Ah, is that you, Lady Rylton?" cries the small creature on the terrace, having caught a glimpse of her hostess through the window.

"Yes, come in-come in!" cries Lady Rylton, changing her tone at once, and smiling and beckoning to the girl with long fingers. "I hope you have not been fatiguing yourself on the tennis-courts, you dearest child!"

Her tones are cooing.

"I have won, at all events!" says Tita, jumping in over the window-sill. "Though Mr. Gower," glancing back at her companion, "won't acknowledge it."

"Why should I acknowledge it?" says the stout young man. "It's folly to acknowledge anything."

"But the truth is the truth!" says the girl, facing him.

"Oh, no; on the contrary, it's generally a lie," says he.

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself," says Miss Bolton, turning her back on him, which proceeding seems to fill the stout young man's soul with delight.

"Do come and sit down, dear child; you look exhausted," says Lady

Rylton, still cooing.

"I'm not," says Tita, shaking her head. "Tennis is not so very exhausting-is it, Mrs. Bethune?"

"I don't know, I'm sure. It seems to have exhausted your hair, at all events," says Mrs. Bethune, with her quick smile. "I think you had better go upstairs and settle it; it is very untidy."

"Is it? Is it?" says Tita.

She runs her little fingers through her pretty short locks, and gazes round. Her eyes meet Margaret's.

"No, no," says the latter, laughing. "It looks like the hair of a little girl. You," smiling, "are a little girl. Go away and finish your fight with Mr. Gower."

"Yes. Come! Miss Knollys is on my side. She knows I shall win," says the stout young man; and, whilst disputing with him at every step, Tita disappears.

"What a girl! No style, no manners," says Lady Rylton; "and yet I must receive her as a daughter. Fancy living with that girl! A silly child, with her hair always untidy, and a laugh that one can hear a mile off. Yet it must be done."

"After all, it is Maurice who will have to live with her," says Mrs.

Bethune.

"Oh, I hope not," says Margaret quickly.

"Why?" asks Lady Rylton, turning to her with sharp inquiry.

"It would never do," says Margaret with decision. "They are not suited to each other. Maurice! and that baby! It is absurd! I should certainly not counsel Maurice to take such a step as that!"

"Why not? Good heavens, Margaret, I hope you are not in love with him, too!" says Lady Rylton.

"Too?"

Margaret looks blank.

"She means me," says Mrs. Bethune, with a slight, insolent smile.

"You know, don't you, how desperately in love with Maurice I am?"

"I know nothing," says Miss Knollys, a little curtly.

"Ah, you will!" says Mrs. Bethune, with her queer smile.

"The fact is, Margaret," says Lady Rylton, with some agitation, "that if Maurice doesn't marry this girl, there-there will be an end of us all. He must marry her."

"But he doesn't love-he barely knows her-and a marriage without love--"

"Is the safest thing known."

"Under given circumstances! I grant you that if two people well on in life, old enough to know their own minds, and what they are doing, were to marry, it might be different. They might risk a few years of mere friendship together, and be glad of the venture later on. But for two young people to set out on life's journey with nothing to steer by-that would be madness!"

"Ah! yes. Margaret speaks like a book," says Mrs. Bethune, with an amused air; "Maurice, you see, is so young, so inexperienced--"

"At all events, Tita is only a child."

"Tita! Is that her name?"

"A pet name, I fancy. Short for Titania; she is such a little thing."

"Titania-Queen of the Fairies; I wonder if the original Titania's father dealt in buttons! Is it buttons, or soap, or tar? You didn't say," says Mrs. Bethune, turning to Lady Rylton.

"I really don't know-and as it has to be trade, I can't see that it matters," says Lady Rylton, frowning.

"Nothing matters, if you come to think of it," says Mrs. Bethune. "Go on, Margaret-you were in the middle of a sermon; I dare say we shall endure to the end."

"I was saying that Miss Bolton is only a child."

"She is seventeen. She told us about it last night at dinner. Gave us month and day. It was very clever of her. We ought to give her birthday-gifts, don't you think? And yet you call her a child!"

"At seventeen, what else?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Margaret," says Lady Rylton pettishly; "and, above all things, don't be old-fashioned. There is no such product nowadays as a child of seventeen. There isn't time for it. It has gone out! The idea is entirely exploded. Perhaps there were children aged seventeen long ago-one reads of them, I admit, but it is too long ago for one to remember. Why, I was only eighteen when I married your uncle."

"Pour uncle!" says Mrs. Bethune; her tone is full of feeling.

Lady Rylton accepts the feeling as grief for the uncle's death; but Margaret, casting a swift glance at Mrs. Bethune, wonders if it was meant for grief for the uncle's life-with Lady Rylton.

"He was the ugliest man I ever saw, without exception," says Lady Rylton placidly; "and I was never for a moment blind to the fact, but he was well off at that time, and, of course, I married him. I wasn't in love with him." She pauses, and makes a little apologetic gesture with her fan and shoulders. "Horrid expression, isn't it?" says she. "In love! So terribly bourgeois. It ought to be done away with. However, to go on, you see how admirably my marriage turned out. Not a hitch anywhere. Your poor dear uncle and I never had a quarrel. I had only to express a wish, and it was gratified."

"Poor dear uncle was so clever," says Mrs. Bethune, with lowered lids.

Again Margaret looks at her, but is hardly sure whether sarcasm is really meant.

"Clever? Hardly, perhaps," says Lady Rylton meditatively. "Clever is scarcely the word."

"No, wise-wise is the word," says Mrs. Bethune.

Her eyes are still downcast. It seems to Margaret that she is inwardly convulsed with laughter.

"Well, wise or not, we lived in harmony," says Lady Rylton with a sigh and a prolonged sniff at her scent-bottle. "With us it was peace to the end."

"Certainly; it was peace at the end," says Mrs. Bethune solemnly.

It was, indeed, a notorious thing that the late Sir Maurice had lived in hourly fear of his wife, and had never dared to contradict her on any subject, though he was a man of many inches, and she one of the smallest creatures on record.

"True! true! You knew him so well!" says Lady Rylton, hiding her eyes behind the web of a handkerchief she is holding. One tear would have reduced it to pulp. "And when he was--" She pauses.

"Was dead?" says Margaret kindly, softly.

"Oh, don't, dear Margaret, don't!" says Lady Rylton, with a tragical start. "That dreadful word! One should never mention death! It is so rude! He, your poor uncle-he left us with the sweetest resignation on the 18th of February, 1887."

"I never saw such resignation," says Mrs. Bethune, with deep emphasis.

She casts a glance at Margaret, who, however, refuses to have anything to do with it. But, for all that, Mrs. Bethune is clearly enjoying herself. She can never, indeed, refrain from sarcasm, even when her audience is unsympathetic.

"Yes, yes; he was resigned," says Lady Rylton, pressing her handkerchief to her nose.

"So much so, that one might almost think he was glad to go," says

Mrs. Bethune, nodding her head with beautiful sympathy.

She is now shaking with suppressed laughter.

"Yes; glad. It is such a comfort to dwell on it," says Lady Rylton, still dabbing her eyes. "He was happy-quite happy when he left me."

"I never saw anyone so happy," says Mrs. Bethune.

Her voice sounds choking; no doubt it is emotion. She rises and goes to the window. The emotion seems to have got into her shoulders.

"All which proves," goes on Lady Rylton, turning to Margaret, "that a marriage based on friendship, even between two young people, is often successful."

"But surely in your case there was love on one side," says Miss

Knollys, a little impatiently. "My uncle--"

"Oh, he adored me!" cries she ecstatically, throwing up her pretty hands, her vanity so far overcoming her argument that she grows inconsistent. "You know," with a little simper, "I was a belle in my day."

"I have heard it," says Margaret hastily, who, indeed, has heard it ad nauseam. "But with regard to this marriage, Tessie, I don't believe you will get Maurice to even think of it."

"If I don't, then he is ruined!" Lady Rylton gets up from her chair, and takes a step or two towards Margaret. "This house-party that I have arranged, with this girl in it, is a last effort," says she in a low voice, but rather hysterically. She clasps her hands together. "He must-he must marry her. If he refuses--"

"But she may refuse him," says Margaret gently; "you should think of that."

"She-she refuse? You are mad!" says Lady Rylton. "A girl-a girl called Bolton."

"It is certainly an ugly name," says Margaret in a conciliatory way.

"And yet you blame me because I desire to give her Rylton instead, a name as old as England itself. I tell you, Margaret," with a little delicate burst of passion, "that it goes to my very soul to accept this girl as a daughter. She-she is hateful to me, not only because of her birth, but in every way. She is antagonistic to me. She-would you believe it?-she has had the audacity to argue with me about little things, as if she-she," imperiously, "should have an opinion when I was present."

"My dear Tessie, we all have opinions, and you know you said yourself that at seventeen nowadays one is no longer a child."

"I wish, Margaret, you would cure yourself of that detestable habit of repeating one's self to one's self," says Lady Rylton resentfully. "There," sinking back in her chair, and saturating her handkerchief with some delicate essence from a little Louis Quatorze bottle beside her, "it isn't worth so much worry. But to say that she would refuse Maurice--"

"Why should she not? She looks to me like a girl who would not care to risk all her future life for mere position. I mean," says Margaret a little sadly, "that she looks to me as if she would be like that when she is older, and understands."

"Then she must look to you like a fool," says Lady Rylton petulantly.

"Hardly that. Like a girl, rather, with sense, and with a heart."

"My dear girl, we know how romantic you are, we know that old story of yours," says Lady Rylton, who can be singularly nasty at times. "Such an old story, too. I think you might try to forget it."

"Does one ever forget?" says Margaret coldly. A swift flush has dyed her pale face. "And story or no story, I shall always think that the woman who marries a man without caring for him is a far greater fool than the woman who marries a man for whom she does care."

"After all, I am not thinking of a woman," says Lady Rylton with a shrug. "I am thinking of Maurice. This girl has money; and, of course, she will accept him if I can only induce him to ask her."

"It is not altogether of course!"

"I think it is," says Lady Rylton obstinately.

Miss Knollys shrugs her shoulders.

All at once Mrs. Bethune turns from the window and advances towards

Margaret. There is a sudden fury in her eyes.

"What do you mean?" says she, stopping short before Miss Knollys, and speaking with ill-suppressed rage. "Who is she, that she should refuse him? That little, contemptible child! That nobody! I tell you, she would not dare refuse him if she asked her! It would be too great an honour for her."

She stops. Her fingers tighten on her gown. Then, as suddenly as it grew, her ungovernable fit of anger seems to die checked, killed by her own will. She sinks into the chair behind her, and looks deliberately at Margaret with an air that, if not altogether smiling, is certainly altogether calm. It must have cost her a good deal to do it.

"It is beyond argument," says she; "he will not ask her."

"He shall," says Lady Rylton in a low tone.

Margaret rises, and moves slowly towards one of the open windows; she pauses there a moment, then steps out on to the balcony, and so escapes. These incessant discussions are abhorrent to her, and just now her heart is sad for the poor child who has been brought down here ostensibly for amusement, in reality for business. Of course, Maurice will not marry her-she knows Maurice, he is far above all that sort of thing; but the very attempt at the marriage seems to cover the poor child with insult. And she is such a pretty child.

At this moment the pretty child, with Randal Gower, comes round the corner; she has her skirt caught up at one side, and Miss Knollys can see it is full of broken biscuits. The pulling up of the skirt conduces a good deal to the showing of a lovely little foot and ankle, and Margaret, who has the word "hoyden" still ringing in her ears, and can see Lady Rylton's cold, aristocratic, disdainful face, wishes the girl had had the biscuit in a basket.

"Oh, here is Miss Knollys!" cries Tita, running to her. "We are going to feed the swans" (she looks back at her companion). "He has got some more biscuits in his pockets."

"It's quite true," says Mr. Gower; "I'm nothing but biscuits. Every pocket's full of 'em, and they've gone to dust. I tried to blow my nose a moment ago, but I couldn't. One can't blow one's nose in biscuit."

"Come with us, Miss Knollys-do," says Tita coaxingly.

"I can't. Not now. I can't," says Margaret, who is a little troubled at heart. "Go, dear child, and feed the swans, and take care of her, Randy-take care of her."

"I'll do my best," says Mr. Gower, with much solemnity; "but it's small-very small. As a rule, Miss Bolton takes care of me."

Margaret gives him a last admonitory glance and turns away. In truth, Mr. Gower is but a broken reed to lean upon.

In the meantime the conversation in the drawing-room has been going on.

"Of course, if you think you can persuade him," says Mrs. Bethune presently.

"I know I shall. One can always persuade a man where his interests lie. Besides, I have great weight with him. I tell you I shall manage him. I could always manage his father."

A curious expression crosses Mrs. Bethune's face. The present

Baronet may not prove so easy of management as his father!

"Well, I can only wish you success," says she, with a shrug. "By the way, Margaret did not back you up in this scheme as cordially as I deemed possible."

"Margaret is troublesome," says Lady Rylton. "Just when you expect her to sympathize with you, she starts off at a tangent on some other absurd idea. She is full of fads. After all, it would be rash to depend on her. But you, Marian-you owe me much."

"How much? My life's blood?"

Mrs. Bethune lets her hands fall clasped upon her knees, and, leaning over them, looks at her aunt-such a wonderfully young aunt, with her yellow hair and her sparkling eyes! Marian's lips have taken a cynical turn; her smile now is unpleasant.

"What a hideous expression!" says Lady Rylton, shuddering. "You spoil yourself, Marian; you do indeed. You will never make a good marriage if you talk like that. 'Life's blood'!-detestable!"

"I don't desire a good marriage, as you regard it."

Lady Rylton sits suddenly quite upright.

"If you mean marriage with Maurice," says she, "put that out of your head. You must be mad to cherish such a hope. You are both paupers, for one thing, and for the rest, I assure you, my dear, Maurice is not as infatuated about you as you are about him!"

Mrs. Bethune makes a sudden movement; it is slight. Her face darkens. One reading between the lines might at this moment see that she could have killed Lady Rylton with a wondrous joy. Killing has its consequences, however, and she only stands quite quiet, looking at her foe. What a look it is!

"It is you who are mad," says she calmly. "What I meant was that I should probably marry some rich nobody for the sake of his wealth. It would be quite in my line. I should arrange him, form him, bring him into Society, even against Society's will! There is a certain excitement in the adventure. As for Maurice, he is no doubt in your eyes a demigod-in mine," with infinite contempt, "he is a man."

"Well, I hope you will keep to all that," says Lady Rylton, who is shrewd as she is cruel, "and that you will not interfere with this marriage I have arranged for Maurice."

"Why would I interfere?"

"Because you interfere always. You can't bear to see any man love any woman but yourself."

Mrs. Bethune smiles. "A common fault. It belongs to most women. But this girl-you like her?"

"On the contrary, as I have told you, I detest her. Once Maurice has her money safely in his hands, I shall know how to deal with her. A little, ignorant, detestable child! I tell you, Marian, that the time will come when I shall pay her out for her silly insolence towards me."

"She is evidently going to have a good time if Maurice proposes to her."

"He shall propose. Why--" She breaks off suddenly. "Not another word," says she, putting up her hand. "Here is Maurice. I shall speak to him now."

"Shall I stay and help you?"

"No, thank you," says Lady Rylton, with a little knowing grimace.

Seeing it, Marian's detestation grows apace. She rises-and calmly, yet swiftly, leaves the room. Sir Maurice is only crossing the lawn now, and by running through the hall outside, and getting on to the veranda outside the dining-room window, she can see him before he enters the drawing-room.

Gaining the veranda, she leans over the railings and makes a signal to him; it is an old signal. Rylton responds to it, and in a second is by her side.

"Oh no, you must not stay; your mother is waiting for you in the south drawing-room. She saw you coming; she wants you."

"Well, but about what?" asks Rylton, naturally bewildered.

"Nothing-only-she is going to advise you for your good. Shall I," smiling at him in her beautiful way, and laying one hand upon his breast-"shall I advise you, too?"

"Yes, yes," says Rylton; he takes the hand lying on his breast and lifts it to his lips. "Advise me."

"Ah, no!" She pauses, a most eloquent pause, filled with a long deep glance from her dark eyes. "There, go!" she says, suddenly pushing him from her.

"But your advice?" asks he, holding her.

"Pouf! as if that was worth anything." She looks up at him from under her lowered lids. "Well, take it. My advice to you is to come to the rose-garden as soon as possible, and see the roses before they fade out of all recognition! I am going there now. You know how I love that rose-garden; I almost live there nowadays."

"I wish I could live there too," says Rylton, laughing.

He lifts her hand again and presses it fondly to his lips. Something, however, in his air, though it had breathed devotion, troubles Mrs. Bethune; she frowns as he leaves her, and, turning into a side-path the leads to the rose-garden, gives herself up a prey to thought.

* * * * *

Rylton, with a shrug, goes toward the room where Marian had told him his mother was awaiting him. He could very readily (as Lady Rylton had not formally requested his presence) have stayed away, but long experience has driven into him the knowledge that when his mother wants anything, all the delays and subterfuges and evasions in the world will not prevent her having it. To get it over, then, as soon as possible is the chief thing. And, after all, he is so far happy in that he knows what the immediate interview is to be about. That little ridiculous girl-not half a bad little girl-but--

It is with quite a resigned air that he seats himself on the lounge, and agrees with himself to make his mother happy by letting her talk to him uninterruptedly for ten minutes.

"Women like to talk," says Sir Maurice to himself, as he sits on the lounge where Marian had just now sat. He finds consolation in his mother's poodle, who climbs on his knees, giving herself up a willing prey to his teasing.

"Maurice, you are not attending," says Lady Rylton at last, with a touch of serious anger.

"I am indeed-I am, I assure you," says Maurice, looking up. "If I'm not, it's your poodle's fault; she is such a fascinating creature."

As he says this he makes a little attack on the poodle, who snaps back at him, barking vigorously, and evidently enjoying herself immensely.

"I want a decisive answer from you," says his mother.

"A decisive answer! How can I give that?"

He is still laughing, but even as he laughs a sound from without checks him. It is another laugh-happy, young, joyous. Instinctively both he and Lady Rylton look towards the open window. There below, still attended by Mr. Gower, and coming back from her charitable visit to the swans, is Tita, her little head upheld, her bright eyes smiling, her lips parted. There is a sense of picturesque youth about the child that catches Rylton's attention, and holds it for the moment.

"There she is," says he at last, looking back over his shoulder at his mother. "Is that the wife you have meted out for me-that baby?"

"Be serious about it, Maurice; it is a serious latter, I assure you."

"Fancy being serious with a baby! She's too young, my dear mother. She couldn't know her duty to her neighbours yet, to say nothing of her duty to 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--