The Hoyden. Duchess

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

CHAPTER III.

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