The Hoyden Part 11

"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 t.i.ta's stories of hunts and rides gone and done. "Why, how _long_ have you been hunting?"

"Ever since I was thirteen," says t.i.ta.

"Why, that is about your age now, isn't it?" says Gower.

"We lived at Oakdean then," goes on t.i.ta, 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 t.i.ta 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 t.i.ta has said about her riding.

"Oh, pretty well! Everyone should ride," says t.i.ta 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 t.i.ta.

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 t.i.ta; "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 c.o.c.ked hat!" cries t.i.ta gaily.

"Good heavens! how vulgar she is!" says Mrs. Bethune.

CHAPTER VII.

HOW THE ARGUMENT GROWS HIGHER; AND HOW MARIAN LOSES HER TEMPER, AND HOW MARGARET OBJECTS TO THE RUIN OF ONE YOUNG LIFE.

"She is insufferable--intolerable!" says Lady Rylton, almost hysterically. She is sitting in the drawing-room with Margaret and Mrs. Bethune, near one of the windows that overlook the tennis court. The guests of the afternoon have gone; only the house-party remains, and still, in the dying daylight, the tennis b.a.l.l.s are being tossed to and fro. t.i.ta's little form may be seen darting from side to side; she is playing again with Sir Maurice.

"She is a very young girl, who has been brought up without a mother's care," says Miss Knollys, who has taken a fancy to the poor hoyden, and would defend her.

"Her manners this afternoon!--her actions--her fatal admissions!"

says Lady Rylton, who has not forgiven that word or two about the sugar merchant.

"She spoke only naturally. _She_ saw no reason why she should not speak of----"

"Don't be absurd, Margaret!" Sharply. "You know, as well as I do, that she is detestable."

"I am quite glad you have formed that idea of her," says Miss Knollys, "as it leads me to hope you do not now desire to marry her to Maurice."

After all, there are, perhaps, moments when Margaret is not as perfect as one believes her. She can't, for example, resist this thrust.

"Decidedly I don't _desire _to marry her to Maurice," says Lady Rylton angrily. "I have told you that often enough, I think; but for all that Maurice must marry her. It is his last chance!"

"Tessie," says Margaret sharply, "if you persist in this matter, and bring it to the conclusion you have in view, do you know what will happen? You will make your only child miserable! I warn you of that." Miss Knollys' voice is almost solemn.

"You talk as if Maurice was the only person in the world to be made miserable," says Lady Rylton, leaning back in her chair and bursting into tears--at all events, it must be supposed it is tears that are going on behind the little lace fragment pressed to her eyes. "Am not I ten times more miserable? I, who have to give my only son--as"

(sobbing) "you most admirably describe it, Margaret--to such a girl as that! Good heavens! What can his sufferings be to mine?" She wipes her eyes daintily, and sits up again. "You hurt me so, dear Margaret," she says plaintively, "but I'm _sure_ you do not mean it."

"No, no, of course," says Miss Knollys, as civilly as she can. She is feeling a little disgusted.