The Hoyden. Duchess

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

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