The Hoyden Part 75

In a moment, however, he has pulled himself together. He tells himself he sees at once the right course to pursue. In other words, he has decided on conquering her.

"You shall certainly not do that," says he icily.

"I shall, however." She almost laughs as she steps back from him, and up to Margaret. There is an air about her as though she had snapped her pretty fingers in his face. "Now you must help me to gain my living," cries she gaily. "'A child of the people' (I quote your mother again)," smiling at Rylton, "I will go back to the people."

"It is not quite so bad as that," says Margaret, who has been studying the fatal letter with a view of tearing _some_ good out of it. "It seems that when these speculations that your uncle made with your money all failed--and these failures have been going on for years--that still he tried to keep up his credit with you by--by sacrificing all his own money, and----"

"Poor old Uncle George," says the girl softly. For the first time she seems sorry for the misfortune that has fallen on her house.

"Perhaps I can go to him, and help him. I dare say, now he is down in the world, he might be a little kinder to me."

"Impossible, t.i.ta. He has gone abroad," says Margaret, who, as she tells herself miserably, is developing into a determined liar!

Uncle George, so runs the letter, has committed suicide. Truly he has gone abroad with a vengeance, and no man knoweth whither.

t.i.ta sighs. It is, to tell truth, a sigh of relief. Uncle George had not been palatable to her.

"Well, I can earn something."

"You need not that," says Margaret. "It seems there is from two to three hundred a year left to you that cannot be disputed. It should be sufficient to----"

"I can live on _half_ that!" cries t.i.ta eagerly.

"You shall live with me," says Rylton, breaking in with cold anger.

"You are my wife. You shall not leave me."

t.i.ta makes a little gesture.

"Why waste time over it?" says she. "I shall leave you as soon as ever I can. To-morrow. I am afraid it is too late to-night. I should have gone any way, after what you said to me just now----"

"After what _he_ said to you, you mean!" bursts in Rylton violently, losing all control over his temper. "You were going with him----"

_"Maurice!"_ Margaret has stepped between them. "How _dare_ you speak to her like that?" says she, her calm, kind face transfigured.

"I hope to see you ashamed of yourself to-morrow. Be quiet, t.i.ta.

_I_ will look after you." She turns again hurriedly to Rylton, who is looking very white and breathing heavily, with his eyes immovably fixed on t.i.ta. "She will come with me--to my house to-morrow," says Margaret. "You will, t.i.ta?"

"Oh yes, to you!" cries t.i.ta, running to her, and flinging herself into her arms. "You are the only one who--of _his_ family"--with a baleful glance at Rylton over her shoulder--"who has been kind to me!"

CHAPTER XVI.

HOW MAURICE TELLS HIS MOTHER OF THE GREAT FIASCO; AND HOW SHE RECEIVES THE NEWS.

The guests have all gone! The morning train had swallowed up the Hescotts, and the eleven o'clock had disposed of the rest. Only the Dowager Lady Rylton and Margaret still remain.

The latter has decided on going by the evening train and taking t.i.ta with her, deeming it best to separate husband and wife for a little while, until the calamity be overpast for a few weeks, at all events. As for Tessie, she had come with a determination to linger on until Christmas with her son and his wife, though asked for three weeks only; and it is her son's pleasing task to be obliged now to explain to her why and wherefore she must go back at once to the old home--to The Place--to the old home partially saved from ruin by his unhappy marriage, and now doomed to a sure destruction because of the loss of the fortune that had been the primary motive in the making of that marriage.

Rylton got through the telling of his lamentable tale more easily than he could have supposed possible. Whilst walking up the stairs to his mother's room, he had tried to compose certain forms of speech that might let the whole affair "down easy," to quote from the modern English language, but had failed utterly. Yet, when on the spot, he had run glibly through it all--coldly--almost without feeling. And his mother had heard him as coldly, until she learned all hope was at an end--as far as t.i.ta's thousands were concerned.

Then she gave way to hysterics!

And even now, when, by the help of a wet sponge and a maid and a bottle of champagne, he has pulled her through, sufficient at all events to be able to talk rationally, she is still in the very lowest depths of despair.

"And to think you should have sacrificed yourself for a mere 'person' like that! A little"--sob--"wretched _n.o.body_. Oh! if your father could only see you now! A creature of no family, no manners, no----"

"Who are you talking of, mother? My father?"

"If you can be frivolous at this moment, Maurice, you can be frivolous for ever," says his mother, weeping (presumably) behind her little lace rag, her voice like a dagger.

"I'm far from that," says Maurice, flinging himself into a chair.

"But the fact is, mother, let us leave t.i.ta out of this affair. I object to hearing her--er--criticised by you--or anyone."

Tessie weeps afresh.

"The soul of honour," breathes she, apostrophizing the ceiling. "But I cannot let you, Maurice, be so deceived by a mere swindler such as she is. Do you for a moment imagine--ah yes!" throwing up her hands and plainly admiring Maurice with great fervour--"you probably do; you have a soul, Maurice, a great soul, inherited from _me!_ But I shall not permit that little vulgar fraud of a girl to demoralize it. Of _course_ she knew all about her uncle's speculations--and married you gladly, knowing what the end would be. Oh! my poor boy!"

Lady Rylton retires again behind her lace rag.

"That will do," says Maurice curtly.

It seems almost funny to him that he, who has been condemning t.i.ta all the night and morning in his heart, can now be so violently angry with another fellow-creature for decrying her.

"Of course, I know. I understand," says Tessie, still weeping, "it is always so painful to know that one has been thoroughly taken in.

No wonder you can't listen even to your own mother with common patience. I excuse you, Maurice. I often had to excuse your dear father. Both you and he were a little weak--a little n.o.ble, perhaps--but well, you required someone to look after you. And I--poor, _poor_ I--what could I do?" Tessie shakes her head mournfully from side to side. "And as for this miserable little deception----"

"Look here, mother----"

"Oh! I know, I know. It is not the nice thing to do, of course, but alone with one's only son one may waive a point and condole with him on the abominable qualities of the woman he has chosen to be his wife---- Dear Maurice, you should be careful. Didn't you _see_ that footstool? I quite thought you kicked it. And her laugh. Do you know it used to hurt me?"

"Not until after our marriage, however," says Rylton, who is now a little strung.

"Oh! no wonder you reproach me," says his mother. "I shall for ever reproach myself. _Such_ a person--without a penny--to fling herself into your arms."

"Ah! she had a penny then," says Maurice.

"Then? Yes! Do you think I should have countenanced your marriage otherwise?"

"My dear mother, of course not. I know you too well for that."

His irony is thrown away upon Tessie, who is not equal to these drags upon her intellect, and as a fact Rylton is scarcely listening to her; his whole soul is in a turmoil. He scarcely knows what he wants or what he does not want--whom he loves or hates. Only t.i.ta--t.i.ta is always before him; and as hate is stronger than love, as some folk have it (though they lie), he believes that all his thoughts grow with a cruel persistence of detestation towards the small, ill-tempered child whom he has married.

"At all events _she_ knew what she was about," says Tessie, flinging down her handkerchief and speaking with a touch of viciousness. "She knew perfectly how she stood with her wretched uncle before she married you. No doubt they arranged it between them. She was fully aware of the state of her finances, and so was the uncle. So glad that miserable old person is out of the way for ever, of making young men of family marry young women of no family, who have not even money to recommend them. I must say your--_I shudder_ to utter the word, Maurice--your wife--is as thoroughly dishonest a person as----" Tessie pauses, and casts a furtive glance at him. "After all, there may be a hope for you, Maurice. That cousin! So _p.r.o.noncee_ the whole thing--so unmistakable. And once a divorce was established----"

She never knew afterwards what really happened. Perhaps, after all, nothing happened--nothing material; but what she does know if that Maurice is standing before her, looking like a demon.

"D----n it!" says he. His temper is _very_ bad sometimes. "Can't you _see_ that I won't have a word said against her?"