The Hoyden. Duchess

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ 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, СКАЧАТЬ