The Hoyden. Duchess

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СКАЧАТЬ Lily, or whatever her name is, to everyone at her age)—to me she seems nothing but a baby—and—I hate babies!"

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

      "I am sure I can keep myself alive."

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

      "Oh, don't speak to me as if I were in the cradle!" says Maurice, with a shrug.

      "Do you never think?"

      "Sometimes".

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

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

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

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

      "Then why make yourself so unhappy about nothing?"

      "Because——"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER IV.

       Table of Contents

      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 СКАЧАТЬ