The Hoyden

by Duchess

CHAPTER IX.

HOW MAURICE PLACES HIS LIFE IN THE HANDS OF THE HOYDEN, AND HOW SHE TELLS HIM MANY THINGS, AND DESIRES MANY THINGS OF HIM.

Maurice had said it was his last word. He goes straight from Marian Bethune to one of the reception-rooms, called the lesser ballroom, where some dancing is going on. His face is a little white, but beyond that he betrays no emotion whatever. He feels even surprised at himself. Has he lost all feeling? Passing Randal Gower he whispers a gay word or two to him. He feels in brilliant spirits.

Tita Bolton is dancing, but when her dance comes to an end he goes to her and asks her for the next. Yes; he can have it. She dances like a little fairy, and when the waltz is at an end he goes with her, half mechanically, towards the conservatory at the end of the room.

His is calm now, quite calm; the chatter of the child has soothed him. It had been a pleasure to dance with her, to laugh when she laughed, to listen to her nonsense. As he walks with her towards the flowers, he tells himself he is not in the least unhappy, though always quite close to him, at his side, someone seems to be whispering:

"It is all over! it is all over!"

Well, so much the better. She has fooled him too long.

The conservatory at the end of the lesser ballroom leads on to the balcony outside, and at the end of that is another and larger conservatory, connected with the drawing-room. Towards this he would have led her, but Tita, in the middle of the balcony, stops short.

"But I want to dance," says she.

That far-off house, full of flowers, seems very much removed from the music.

"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 Tita, 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 nobodies—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 emancipation 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 Tita, 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 title. She can give him money, without which the title would be useless.

On the instant he makes up his mind to risk the proposal. In all probability she will say "No" to it. But if not—if she accepts him—he swears to himself he will be true to her.

"The most dreadful thing you could do," says he, "would be to marry a man who did not love you."

"Eh?" says she.

She seems surprised.

"To marry a man, then, with whom you weren't in love!"

"Oh, that, that's nothing," says she grandly. "I'd do a great deal more than that to get away from my uncle. But"—sorrowfully— "nobody's asked me."

She says it so innocently, so sweetly, that Rylton's heart grows cold within him. To ask her! To tempt this child——

"But," says he, looking away from her religiously, "would you marry a man who was not in love with you?"

"Not in love with me?"

"No. Not actually in love, but who admired—liked you?"

"But a man who wasn't in love with me wouldn't want to marry me," says Tita. "At least, that's what the novels say."

"He might," says Rylton deliberately. He leans forward. "Will you marry me?"

He almost laughs aloud as he makes his extraordinary proposal. If it fails, as it certainly must, he will throw up the remnant of his life here and go abroad. And, at all events, he can so far satisfy his mother as to assure her that he had placed his all at this little heiress's feet.

"You! You!" says she.

She stares at him.

"Even me! You said a moment ago that no man would ask you to marry him for any reason less than love; but I—I am not in love with you, and yet I ask you to marry me."

He pauses here, shocked at his own words, his brutal audacity.

"But why?" asks the girl slowly.

She is looking at him, deep inquiry and wonder in her great gray eyes.

"Because I am poor and you are rich," says he honestly. "Your money could redeem this old place, and I could give you a title—a small thing, no doubt."

"You could take me away from my uncle," says the girl thoughtfully. There is silence for awhile, and then—"I should be able to do as I liked," says she, as if communing with herself.

"That certainly," says Rylton, who feels as if all things should be allowed her at this juncture, considering how little it is in his power to allow.

"And you?" She looks up at him. "You could do as you liked, too!"

"Thank you!" says Rylton.

He smiles in spite of himself, but the girl continues very grave.

"You say you have nothing," says she, "but this house?"

"It is useless arguing about it," returns Rylton; "this house will go shortly with all the rest. For myself, I don't care much really, but my mother—she would feel it. That's why I say you can help us, if you will."

"I should like to help you!" says Tita, still very slowly.

She lays a stress upon the word "you."

"Well, will you trust yourself to me?"

"Trust myself!"

"Will you marry me? Consider how it is. I lay it all before you. I am not in love with you, and I have not a penny in the world. Literally, I have nothing."

"You have a mother," says Tita. "I," pathetically, "have nothing."
It is plain to him that she had set great store by her dead father.
"I have nothing, really. But you say this house must go?"

"Not if you will help me to keep it."

"I should not like to live here," says Tita, with some haste. And then in a low tone, "Your mother would live here?"

"Yes, certainly."

"Well, and I—I have been very unhappy with Uncle George," says she. Her air is so naïve that Rylton bursts out laughing. After all, the last thing he would desire either would be to live here with his mother.

"You would not have to make this place your home," says he. It had never been a home to him since his father's death. "You shall command me in this matter; I shall live at Oakdean if that is your desire." Indeed, it seems to him it would be a great relief to get away from the Hall, from his mother, from——

"To live at Oakdean!" The girl's face grows transfigured. She stares at him as if hardly seeing him, however; her thoughts have carried her back to past delights in which he has had no part. "To live there again!" She sighs quickly, excitedly. "You haven't seen it, you don't know," says she. "But it is the most beautiful place on earth." She puts out her hand and lays it on his. "If I marry you, will you promise that I shall live at Oakdean?"

"If you will do me the honour to marry me, you shall live just where you like," returns he. Indeed, to him it is now a matter of indifference where life may be dragged out to its weary end. But Tita fails to see the apathy in his manner.

"Then, it is settled," cries she joyfully. She clasps her hands. "Oh, how good of you!" says she. "What a blessing I came here! Fancy getting rid of Uncle George and getting back to Oakdean all in one stroke!" Suddenly she looks round at him; there is almost terror in her gaze. "You are sure you mean it?" says she.

"I mean it. But, Tita,"—he takes one of her hands and holds it between his own, and regards her with some anxiety—"have you thought it all out? I have told you the truth, you know. I have told you that I am not in love with you."

"In love with me! I'm sure I hope not," says Tita with a disgusted air. "Don't put yourself out about that. I should hate you if you were in love with me. Fancy a person following me about always, and saying silly things to me, and perhaps wanting to kiss me! You," anxiously looking at him with searching eyes, "you wouldn't want to kiss me, would you?"

She looks so pretty as she puts this startling question, that Rylton loses himself a little.

"I don't know."

"Then you had better know, and at once," says Miss Bolton, with decision.

The whole affair seems to be trembling in the balance. A sense of amusement has most unfortunately seized on Rylton, and is shaking him to his very heart's core. To marry a girl who even objected to a kiss! It sounds like a French play. He subdues his untimely mirth by an effort, and says gravely, "How can I promise you that I shall never want to kiss you? I may grow very fond of you in time, and you—but, of course, that is far more improbable—may grow fond of me."

"Even so," begins she hotly. She pauses, however, as if some thought had struck her. "Well, let it stay so," says she. "If ever I do grow to like you as much as you fancy, why, then you may kiss me—sometimes."

"That's a bargain," says he.

Again he suppresses a desire to laugh. It seems to him that she is intensely interesting in some way.

"In the meantime," says he, with quite a polite air, "may I not kiss you now?"

"No!" says she. It is the lightest monosyllable, but fraught with much energy. She tilts the shoulder nearest to him, and peeps at him over it, with a half-merry little air.

She sets Rylton's mind at work. Is she only a silly charming child, or an embryo flirt of the first water? Whatever she is, at all events, she is very new, very fresh—an innovation! He continues to look at her.

"Really no?" questions he.

She nods her head.

"And yet you have said 'Yes' to everything else?"

She nods her head again. She nods it even twice.

"Yes, I shall marry you," says she.

"I may tell my mother?"

Miss Bolton sits up. A little troubled expression grows within her eyes.

"Oh! must you?" cried she. "She will be mad. She won't let you marry me—I know she won't. She—hates me."

"My dear child, why?" Rylton's tone is shocked. The very truth in her declaration makes it the more shocking. And how does she know? His mother has been sweetness itself to her before the curtain.

"Never mind, I know," says Tita. "I feel things. They come to me. I don't blame her. I'm sure I'm often horrid. I know that, when I look at other people. When I look at——"

She pauses.

"Look at whom?"

"At your cousin."

"My cousin!"

"Yes! You love her, don't you?"

"Love her!" He has turned suddenly as pale as death. "What do you mean?" asks he in a low voice.

"I love her, any way," says Tita. "I think Miss Knollys is the nicest person in all the world."

"Oh, Margaret?" says he. He says it involuntarily. The relief is so great that it compels him to give himself away.

"Why, who else?" says Tita. "Who did you think I meant?"

"Who could I think?" says he, recovering. "Even now I am surprised. Margaret, though very superior in most ways, is not always beloved."

"But you love her?"

"Oh yes, I do!"

"I am glad of that," says Tita. "Because I love her more than anyone I know. And I have been thinking"—she looks at him quickly—"I have been thinking that"—nervously—"that when I marry you, Miss Knollys will be my cousin, too, in a sort of way, and that perhaps she will let me call her by her name. Do you," anxiously, "think she will?"

"I know she will." His answer is terse. He has barely yet recovered from the shock she had innocently given him.

"And your mother?" asks she, going back to the first question. "Do you think she will like you to marry me? Oh, do persuade her!"

"Make no mistake about my mother, Tita; she will receive you with open arms." He feels as if he were lying when he says this, yet is it not the truth? "She will be glad to receive you as a daughter."

"Will she? She doesn't look like it," says Tita, "not sometimes when I—look back at her!"

She rises, and makes a step towards the door of the conservatory that will lead her to the balcony, and so back to the dancing-room.

"Tita? Bear with my mother," says he gently, and in a low voice.

The girl turns to him, her whole young, generous heart in her voice.
"Oh, I shall! I shall indeed!"

They traverse the long balcony in silence. The moon is flooding it with brilliant light. Here and there are groups in twos or threes—the twos are most popular. Just as they come to the entrance to the dancing-room, an alcove now deserted, Tita stops short and looks at him.

"You have promised to be kind to me!" says she, her voice trembling. For the first time the solemnity of this marriage arrangement of hers seems to have dawned upon her.

"I have," says Rylton earnestly.

"I am often very troublesome," says the poor child. "Uncle George says so. But you——" She hesitates, looking at him always. Her gaze is intense. He feels as if she is watching him, taking his mental temperature, as it were.

"Be kind to me in turn, Tita," says he. "Don't mistrust me. Try to know that I like you."

"I wish," says she, a little forlornly, "that you could be fond of me. I'm—you don't know it—nobody knows it—but I'm often very lonely. I've been lonely all the time since pappy died."

"You shall never be lonely again," says Rylton. "I'm your friend from this hour—your friend for ever." He is touched to his very heart by her words and her small face. He stoops over her, and in spite of all that has been said against kissing, presses his lips to her soft cheek!

"Ah! You are kind. I do like you," says she, gazing at him with earnest eyes. "Yes, I know I shall be happy with you." She is evidently comparing him most favourably with Uncle George. "And you will be fond of me, won't you? You will be good to me?"

"I will, so help me God!" says Rylton very solemnly.

To her it seems an oath of allegiance—kindly, tender, reassuring.
To him it is a solemn abjuration of all his devotion to—the other.