The Hoyden Part 15

"You have been playing tennis all day," says Rylton. "You must be tired. It is bad for you to fatigue yourself so much. You have had enough dancing for awhile. Come and sit with me. I, too, am tired."

"Well, for awhile," says she reluctantly.

It is with evident regret that she takes every step that leads her away from the dancing-room.

The larger conservatory is but dimly lit with lamps covered with pale pink shades. The soft musical tinkling of a fountain, hidden somewhere amongst the flowering shrubs, adds a delicious sense of coolness to the air. The delicate perfume of heliotrope mingles with the breath of the roses, yellow and red and amber, that, standing in their pots, nod their heads drowsily. The begonias, too, seem half dead with sleep. The drawing-room beyond is deserted.

"Now, is not this worth a moment's contemplation?" says Rylton, pressing her gently into a deep lounging chair that seems to swallow up her little figure. "It has its own charm, hasn't it?"

He has flung himself into another chair beside her, and is beginning to wonder if he might have a cigarette. He might almost have believed himself content, but for that hateful monotonous voice at his ear.

"Oh, it _is_ pretty," says t.i.ta, glancing round her. "It is lovely.

It reminds me of Oakdean."

"Oakdean?"

"My old home," says she softly--"where I lived with my father."

"Ah, tell me something of your life," says Rylton kindly.

No idea of making himself charming to her is in his thoughts. He has, indeed, but one idea, and that is to encourage her to talk, so that he himself may enjoy the bliss of silence.

"There is nothing," says she quickly. "It has been a stupid life. I was very happy at Oakdean, when," hesitating, "papa was alive; but now I have to live at Rickfort, with Uncle George, and," simply, "I'm not happy."

"What's the matter with Rickfort?"

"Nothing. It's Uncle George that there is something the matter with.

Rickfort is my house, too, but I hate it; it is so gloomy. I'm sure," with a shrug of her shoulders, "Uncle George might have it, and welcome, if only he wouldn't ask _me_ to live there with him."

"Uncle George seems to make a poor show," says Rylton.

"He's horrid!" says Miss Bolton, without reservation. "He's a _beast!_ He hates me, and I hate him."

"Oh, no!" says Rylton, roused a little.

The child's face is so earnest. He feels a little amused, and somewhat surprised. She seems the last person in the world capable of hatred.

"Yes, I do," says she, nodding her delightful little head, "and he knows it. People say a lot about family resemblances, but it seems wicked to think Uncle George is papa's brother. For my part,"

recklessly, "I don't believe it."

"Perhaps he's a changeling," says Sir Maurice.

"Oh, don't be silly," says Miss Bolton. "Now, listen to this." She leans forward, her elbows on her knees, her eyes glistening with wrath. "I had a terrier, a _lovely_ one, and she had six puppies, and, would you believe it! he drowned every one of them--said they were ill-bred, or something. And they weren't, they _couldn't_ have been; they were perfectly beautiful, and my darling Scrub fretted herself nearly to death after them. I begged almost on my knees that he would leave her _one_, and he wouldn't." Her eyes are now full of tears. "He is a beast!" says she. This last word seems almost comic, coming from her pretty childish lips.

"Well, but you see," says Rylton, "some men pride themselves on the pedigree of their dogs, and perhaps your uncle----"

"Oh, if you are going to defend him!" says she, rising with a stiff little air.

"I'm not--I'm not, indeed," says Rylton. "Nothing could excuse his refusing you that one puppy. But in other ways he is not unkind to you?"

"Yes, he is; he won't let me go anywhere."

"He has let you come here."

"Just because your mother is _Lady_ Rylton!" says the girl, with infinite scorn. She looks straight at him. "My uncle is ashamed because we are n.o.bodies--because his father earned his money by trade. He hates everyone because of that. My father," proudly, "was above it all."

"I think I should like to have known your father," says Rylton, admiring the pride in her gray eyes.

"It would have done you good," returns she thoughtfully. She pauses, as if still thinking, and then, "As for me, I have not been good at all since I lost him."

"One can see that," says Rylton. "Crime sits rampant in your eyes."

At this she laughs too; but presently she stops short, and turns to him.

"It is all very well for you to laugh!" says she ruefully. "You have not to go home next week to live again with Uncle George!"

"I begin to hate Uncle George!" says Rylton. "You see how you are demoralizing me! But, surely, if you cannot live in peace with him, there must be others--other relations--who would be glad to chaperone you!"

"No," says the girl, shaking her head sadly. "For one thing, I have _no_ relations--at least, none who could look after me; and, for another, by my father's will, I must stay with Uncle George until my marriage."

"Until your marriage!" Sir Maurice laughs. "Forgive me! I should not have laughed," says he, "especially as your emanc.i.p.ation seems a long way off."

Really, looking at her in the subdued lights of those pink lamps, she seems a mere baby.

"I don't see why it _should_ be so far off," says t.i.ta, evidently affronted. "Lots of girls get married at seventeen; I've heard of people who were married at sixteen! But _they_ must have been fools.

No? I don't want to be married, though, if I did, I should be able to get rid of Uncle George. But what I should like to do would be to run away!"

"Where?" asks Rylton, rather abominably, it must be confessed.

"Oh, I don't know," confusedly. "I haven't thought it out."

"Well, _don't,"_ says he kindly.

"That is what everyone would say," impatiently. "In the meantime, I _cannot go_ on living with my uncle. No; I can't." She leans back, and, flinging her arms behind her neck, looks with a little laughing pout at Rylton. "Some day I shall do something dreadful," says she.

She is charming, posing so. Rylton looks at her. How pretty she is!

How guileless! How far removed from worldly considerations! His affair with Marian is at an end. Never to be renewed! That is settled. He had given her a last word, and she had spurned it.

After all, why should he _not _marry this charming child? The marriage would please his mother, and restore the old name to something of its ancient grandeur. And as for himself--why, it matters nothing to him.

"It is all over. It is all over."

Again that teasing voice in his ear.

Well, if it _is_ all over, so much to the good. But as for this girl sitting near him, if he must take her to be his wife, it shall be at least in good faith. She shall know all. Probably she will refuse him. For one thing, because he is ten years older than she is--a century in the eyes of a child of seventeen; and, for another, because she may not like him at all. For all he knows, she may hate him as she hates her uncle George, in certain ways.

However it is, he will tell her that he has no love for her. It shall be all fair and above-board between them. He can give her a t.i.tle. She can give him money, without which the t.i.tle would be useless.