The Hoyden Part 3

"He was the ugliest man I ever saw, without exception," says Lady Rylton placidly; "and I was never for a moment blind to the fact, but he was well off at that time, and, of course, I married him. I wasn't in love with him." She pauses, and makes a little apologetic gesture with her fan and shoulders. "Horrid expression, isn't it?"

says she. "In love! So terribly _bourgeois_. It ought to be done away with. However, to go on, you see how admirably my marriage turned out. Not a hitch anywhere. Your poor dear uncle and I never had a quarrel. I had only to express a wish, and it was gratified."

"Poor dear uncle was so clever," says Mrs. Bethune, with lowered lids.

Again Margaret looks at her, but is hardly sure whether sarcasm is really meant.

"Clever? Hardly, perhaps," says Lady Rylton meditatively. "Clever is scarcely the word."

"No, wise--wise is the word," says Mrs. Bethune.

Her eyes are still downcast. It seems to Margaret that she is inwardly convulsed with laughter.

"Well, wise or not, we lived in harmony," says Lady Rylton with a sigh and a prolonged sniff at her scent-bottle. "With us it was peace to the end."

"Certainly; it was peace _at_ the end," says Mrs. Bethune solemnly.

It was, indeed, a notorious thing that the late Sir Maurice had lived in hourly fear of his wife, and had never dared to contradict her on any subject, though he was a man of many inches, and she one of the smallest creatures on record.

"True! true! _You_ knew him so well!" says Lady Rylton, hiding her eyes behind the web of a handkerchief she is holding. One tear would have reduced it to pulp. "And when he was----" She pauses.

"Was dead?" says Margaret kindly, softly.

"Oh, _don't,_ dear Margaret, _don't!"_ says Lady Rylton, with a tragical start. "That dreadful word! One should never mention death!

It is so rude! He, your poor uncle--he _left_ us with the sweetest resignation on the 18th of February, 1887."

"I never _saw_ such resignation," says Mrs. Bethune, with deep emphasis.

She casts a glance at Margaret, who, however, refuses to have anything to do with it. But, for all that, Mrs. Bethune is clearly enjoying herself. She can never, indeed, refrain from sarcasm, even when her audience is unsympathetic.

"Yes, 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 friends.h.i.+p, 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 pa.s.sion, "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 n.o.body! 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 amus.e.m.e.nt, 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.