The Hoyden Part 5

"Women like to talk," says Sir Maurice to himself, as he sits on the lounge where Marian had just now sat. He finds consolation in his mother's poodle, who climbs on his knees, giving herself up a willing prey to his teasing.

"Maurice, you are not attending," says Lady Rylton at last, with a touch of serious anger.

"I am indeed--I am, I a.s.sure you," says Maurice, looking up. "If I'm not, it's your poodle's fault; she is such a fascinating creature."

As he says this he makes a little attack on the poodle, who snaps back at him, barking vigorously, and evidently enjoying herself immensely.

"I want a decisive answer from you," says his mother.

"A decisive answer! How can I give that?"

He is still laughing, but even as he laughs a sound from without checks him. It is another laugh--happy, young, joyous. Instinctively both he and Lady Rylton look towards the open window. There below, still attended by Mr. Gower, and coming back from her charitable visit to the swans, is t.i.ta, her little head upheld, her bright eyes smiling, her lips parted. There is a sense of picturesque youth about the child that catches Rylton's attention, and holds it for the moment.

"There she is," says he at last, looking back over his shoulder at his mother. "Is _that_ the wife you have meted out for me--that baby?"

"Be serious about it, Maurice; it is a serious latter, I a.s.sure you."

"Fancy being serious with a baby! She's too young, my dear mother.

She couldn't know her duty to her neighbours yet, to say nothing of her duty to her husband."

"You could teach her."

"I doubt it. They have taken that duty off nowadays, haven't they?"

He is still looking at t.i.ta through the window; her gay little laugh comes up to him again. "Do you know, she is very pretty," says he dispa.s.sionately; "and what a little thing! She always makes me think of a bird, or a mouse, or a----"

"Think of her as a girl," says his mother impatiently.

"Certainly. After all, it would be impossible to think of her as a boy; she's too small."

"I don't know about that," said Lady Rylton, shrugging her shoulders. "She's much more a boy than a girl, where her manners are concerned."

"Poor little hoyden! That's what you call her, isn't it--a hoyden?"

"Did Marian tell you that?"

"Marian? Certainly not!" says Sir Maurice, telling his lie beautifully. "Marian thinks her beneath notion. So would you, if----" He pauses. "If she hadn't a penny you wouldn't know her," he says presently; "and you admit she has no manners, yet you ask me to marry her. Now, if I did marry her, what should I do with her?"

"Educate her! Control her! Says his mother, a little viciously.

"I confess I am not equal to the occasion. I could not manage a baby. The situation doesn't suit me."

"Maurice--it _must!"_ Lady Rylton rises, and, standing near him with her hand on the table, looks at him with a pale face. "You find fault with her; so do I, and frankly admit she is the last woman in the world I should have chosen for you if I could help it, but she is one of the richest girls in England. And after all, though I detest the very sound of it, Trade is now our master. You object to the girl's youth; that, however, is in her favour. You can mould her to your own designs, and"--she casts a bitter glance at him that will not be suppressed--"all women cannot be widows. Then, as for her being so little a creature, she is surely quite as tall as I am, and your father--you know, Maurice, how devoted he was to me."

"Oh yes, poor old Dad!" says Maurice, with a movement that might mean pain. He seldom speaks of his father--_never_ to his mother. He had certainly loved his father. He moves quickly to the further end of the room.

"You will think of this girl, Maurice?"

"Oh, if that's all," laughing shortly, "you have arranged for that.

One can't help thinking of the thing that is thrust under one's eyes morning, noon, and night. I shall think of her certainly until she goes away." He stops, and then says abruptly, "When is she going?"

"When her engagement to you is an accomplished fact."

"My dear mother, how absurd it all is! Poor little girl, and what a shame too! She doesn't even like me! We shouldn't be taking her name in vain like this. By-the-bye, what queer eyes she has!--have you noticed?"

"She has two hundred thousand pounds," says Lady Rylton solemnly.

"That is of far greater consequence. You know how it is with us, Maurice. We can hold on very little longer. If you persist in refusing this last chance, the old home will have to go. We shall be beggars!" She sinks back in her chair, and sobs softly but bitterly.

"Don't go on like that--don't!" says Rylton, coming over to her and patting her shoulder tenderly. "There must be some other way out of it. I know we are in a hole more or less, but----"

"How lightly you speak of it! Who is to pay your debts? You know how your gambling on the turf has ruined us--brought us to the very verge of disgrace and penury, and now, when you _can _help to set the old name straight again, you refuse--refuse!" She stops as if choking.

"I don't think my gambling debts are the actual cause of our worries," says her son, rather coldly. "If I have wasted a few hundred on a race here and there, it is all I have done. When the property came into my hands it was dipped very deeply."

"You would accuse your father----" begins she hotly.

Rylton pauses. "No; not my father," says he distinctly, if gently.

"You mean, then, that you accuse _me!"_ cries she, flashing round at him.

All at once her singularly youthful face grows as old as it ought to be--a vindictive curve round the mouth makes that usually charming feature almost repulsive.

"My dear mother, let us avoid a scene," says her son sternly. "To tell you the truth, I have had too many of them of late."

Something in his manner warns her to go no farther in the late direction. If she is to win the cause so close to her heart, she had better refrain from recrimination--from an accusation of any sort.

"Dearest Maurice," says she, going to him and taking his hand in hers, "you know it is for your sake only I press this dreadful matter. She is so rich, and you--we--are so poor! She has a house in Surrey, and one in the North--delightful places, I have been told--and, of course, she would like you to keep up your own house in town. As for me, all I ask is this old house--bare and uncomfortable as it is."

"Nonsense, mother," letting her hand go and turning away impatiently. "You speak as if it were all settled."

"Why should it _not_ be settled?"

"You talk without thinking!" He is frowning now, and his tone is growing angry. "Am I the only one to be consulted?"

"Oh! as for her--that child! Of course you can influence her."

"I don't want to," wearily.

"You can do more than that. You are very good-looking, Maurice. You can----" She hesitates.

"Can what?" coldly.

"Fascinate her."

"I shall certainly not even try to do that. Good heavens! what do you mean?" says her son, colouring a dark red with very shame. "Are you asking me to make love to this girl--to pretend an admiration for her that I do not feel? To--to--_lie_ to her?"

"I am only asking you to be sensible," says his mother sullenly. She has gone back to her chair, and now, with lowered lids and compressed lips, is fanning herself angrily.

"I shan't be sensible in that way," says her son, very hotly. "Put it out of your head. To me Miss Bolton (it is really ridiculous to call her Miss anything; she ought to be Betty, or Lizzie, or Lily, or whatever her name is, to everyone at her age)--to me she seems nothing but a baby--and--I _hate_ babies!"