The Hoyden | Page 3

on her
presentation to her Majesty. She has indeed a charming face, a slight
figure, and a temper that would shame the devil.
It isn't a quick temper--one can forgive that. It is a temper that
remembers--remembers always, and that in a mild, ladylike sort of way
destroys the one it fastens upon. Yet she is a dainty creature; fragile,
fair, and pretty, even now. It is generally in these dainty, pretty,
soulless creatures that the bitterest venom of all is to be found.
Her companion is different. Marian Bethune is a tall woman, with a
face not perhaps strictly handsome, but yet full of a beautiful diablerie
that raises it above mere comeliness. Her hair is red--a rich
red--magnificent red hair that coils itself round her shapely head, and
adds another lustre to the exquisite purity of her skin. Her eyes have a
good deal of red in them, too, mixed with a warm brown--wonderful
eyes that hold you when they catch you, and are difficult to forget.
Some women are born with strange charms; Marian Bethune is one of
them. To go through the world with such charms is a risk, for it must
mean ruin or salvation, joy or desolation to many. Most of all is it a risk
to the possessor of those charms.
There have been some who have denied the right of Marian to the title

beautiful. But for the most part they have been women, and with regard
to those others--the male minority--well, Mrs. Bethune could
sometimes prove unkind, and there are men who do not readily forgive.
Her mouth is curious, large and full, but not easily to be understood.
Her eyes may speak, but her mouth is a sphinx. Yet it is a lovely mouth,
and the little teeth behind it shine like pearls. For the rest, she is a
widow. She married very badly; went abroad with her husband; buried
him in Montreal; and came home again. Her purse is as slender as her
figure, and not half so well worth possessing. She says she is
twenty-eight, and to her praise be it acknowledged that she speaks the
truth. Even good women sometimes stammer over this question!
"My sin, my sin?" demands she now gaily, smiling at Lady Rylton.
She flings up her lovely arms, and fastens them behind her head. Her
smile is full of mockery.
"Of course, my dear Marian, you cannot suppose that I have been blind
to the fact that you and Maurice have--for the past year--been--er----"
"Philandering?" suggests Mrs. Bethune lightly.
She leans a little forward, her soft curved chin coming in recognition.
"I beg, Marian, you won't be vulgar," says Lady Rylton, fanning herself
petulantly. "It's worse than being immoral."
"Far, far worse!" Mrs. Bethune leans back in her chair, and laughs
aloud. "Well, I'm not immoral," says she.
Her laughter rings through the room. The hot sun behind her is lighting
the splendid masses of her red hair, and the disdainful gleam that
dwells in her handsome eyes.
"Of course not," says Lady Rylton, a little stiffly; "even to mention
such a thing seems to be--er--a little----"
"Only a little?" says Mrs. Bethune, arching her brows. "Oh, Tessie!"
She pauses, and then with an eloquent gesture goes on again. "After all,
why shouldn't I be immoral?" says she. Once again she flings her arms
above her head so that her fingers grow clasped behind it. "It pays! It
certainly pays. It is only the goody-goodies who go to the wall."
"My dear Marian!" says Lady Rylton, with a delicate pretence at horror;
she puts up her hands, but after a second or so bursts out laughing. "I
always say you are the one creature who amuses me," cries she, leaning
back, and giving full play to her mirth. "I never get at you, somehow. I
am never quite sure whether you are very good or very--well, very

much the other thing. That is your charm."
The stupid, pretty little woman has reached a truth in spite of
herself--that is Mrs. Bethune's charm.
A quick change passes over the latter's face. There is extreme hatred in
it. It is gone, however, as soon as born, and remains for ever a secret to
her companion.
"Does that amuse you?" says she airily. "I dare say a perpetual riddle is
interesting. One can never guess it."
"As for that, I can read you easily enough," says Lady Rylton, with a
superior air. "You are original, but--yes--I can read you." She could as
easily have read a page of Sanscrit. "It is your originality I like. I have
never, in spite of many things, been in the least sorry that I gave you a
home on the death of your--er--rather disreputable husband."
Mrs. Bethune looks sweetly at her.
"And