The Hoyden | Page 8

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 passion, "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 nobody! 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 amusement, 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