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Mrs. Hungerford (Margaret Wolfe Hamilton) (1855?-1897)

The Hoyden (1894)
Tauchnitz edition






_The Hoyden_ reviewed in the _Scotsman_ :

"A clever, sprightly story... Fresh, sunshiny, and delightful"









COLLECTION

OF

BRITISH AUTHORS



TAUCHNITZ EDITION.



VOL. 2956.



THE HOYDEN.
BY MRS. HUNGERFORD.


IN TWO VOLUMES.



VOL. I.



TAUCHNITZ EDITION.



By the same Author.



MOLLY BAWN 2 vols.

MRS. GEOFFREY 2 vols.

FAITH AND UNFAITH 2 vols.

PORTIA 2 vols.

LOYS, LORD BERRESFORD, ETC. 1 vol.

HER FIRST APPEARANCE, ETC. 1 vol.

PHYLLIS 2 vols.

ROSSMOYNE 2 vols.

DORIS 2 vols.

A MAIDEN ALL FORLORN, ETC. 1 vol.

A PASSIVE CRIME, ETC. 1 vol.

GREEN PLEASURE AND GREY GRIEF 2 vols.

A MENTAL STRUGGLE 2 vols.

HER WEEK'S AMUSEMENT, ETC. 1 vol.

LADY BRANKSMERE 2 vols.

LADY VALWORTH'S DIAMONDS 1 vol.

A MODERN CIRCE 2 vols.

MARVEL 2 vols.

THE HON. MRS. VEREKER 1 vol.

UNDER-CURRENTS 2 vols.

IN DURANCE VILE, ETC. 1 vol.

A TROUBLESOME GIRL, ETC. 1 vol.

A LIFE'S REMORSE 2 vols.

A BORN COQUETTE 2 vols.

THE DUCHESS 1 vol.

LADY VERNER'S FLIGHT 1 vol.

A CONQUERING HEROINE, ETC. 1 vol.

NORA CREINA 2 vols.

A MAD PRANK, ETC. 1 vol.





THE HOYDEN



A NOVEL



BY MRS. HUNGERFORD



AUTHOR OF

"MOLLY BAWN," "PHYLLIS," "A CONQUERING
HEROINE,"

ETC. ETC.



_COPYRIGHT EDITION._



IN TWO VOLUMES.



VOL. I.



LEIPZIG

BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ

1894.







CONTENTS

OF VOLUME I.



CHAPTER I.

How Diamond cut Diamond, and how the Sparks flew

CHAPTER II.

How Margaret pleads for the little Hoyden, and with what Ill-success

CHAPTER III.

How Lady Rylton says a few Things that would have been better left
unsaid. How "The Scheme" is laid before Sir Maurice, and how he
refuses to have anything to do with it

CHAPTER IV.

How the Heart of Maurice grew hot within him, and how he put the
Question to the Touch, and how he neither lost nor won

CHAPTER V.

Showing how, when People do congregate together much Knowledge may
be found, and how the little Hoyden has some kind Things said about
her

CHAPTER VI.

How Games were played, "of Sorts"; and how Tita was much harried,
but how she bore herself valiantly, and, how, not knowing of her
Victories, she won all through

CHAPTER VII.

How the Argument grows higher; and how Marian loses her Temper, and
how Margaret objects to the Ruin of one young Life

CHAPTER VIII.

How a Storm raged; and how, when a Man and Woman met Face to Face,
the Victory--for a Wonder--went to the Man

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

CHAPTER X.

How Maurice gives Way to Temper, and how Lady Rylton plants a Shaft
or two. And how Margaret says a Word in Season, and how in return
Colonel Neilson says a Word to her

CHAPTER XI.

How the last Day comes, and how some strange Words are said before
the Marriage is accomplished; and how Marion Bethune scores a Point

CHAPTER XII.

How Tita comes back from her Honeymoon, and how her Husband's Mother
tells her of certain Things that should have been left untold

CHAPTER XIII.

How a young and lovely Nature takes a Shock most cruelly
administered. And how a Dowager takes a new Name as a direct Insult.
And how Tita declines to promise anything

CHAPTER XIV.

How Tita comes to Oakdean, and is glad. And how Maurice calls to
her, and she performs an Acrobatic Feat. And how a Discussion arises

CHAPTER XV.

How Tita tells of two strange Dreams, and of how they moved her. And
how Maurice sets his Soul on asking a Guest to Oakdean; and how he
gains his Desire

CHAPTER XVI.

How a dull Morning gives Birth to a strange Afternoon. And how
Rylton's Eyes are widened by a Friend

CHAPTER XVII.

How Tita suggests a Game of Blind Man's Buff, and what comes of it

CHAPTER XVIII.

How Tita gets a Scolding, and how she rebels and accuses Sir Maurice
of Breach of Contract

CHAPTER XIX.

How Rylton's Heart condemns him. And how, as he walks, a Serpent
stings him. And how he is recovered of his Wound. And how the little
Rift is mended--but with too fine Thread

CHAPTER XX.

How Tita takes high Ground, and how she brings her Husband, of all
People, to her Feet

CHAPTER XXI.

How everyone goes to Lady Warbeck's Dance, and helps to make it a
Success; and how many curious Things are said and done there

CHAPTER XXII.

How Rylton asks his Wife to tread a Measure with him, and how the
Fates weave a little Mesh for Tita's pretty Feet

CHAPTER XXIII.

How Marian fights for Mastery; and how the Battle goes; and how
Chance befriends the Enemy

CHAPTER XXIV.

How Rylton makes a most dishonourable Bet, and how he repents of it;
and how, though he would have withdrawn from it, he finds he cannot

CHAPTER XXV.

How Tita told a Secret to Tom Hescott in the Moonlight; and how he
sought to discover many Things, and how he was most innocently
baffled

CHAPTER XXVI.

How Tita looks at herself in the Glass, and wonders; and how she
does her Hair in quite a new Style, and goes to ask Sir Maurice what
he thinks of it; and how he answers her

CHAPTER XXVII.

How Sir Maurice feels uneasy; and how Tita, for once, shows herself
implacable, and refuses to accept the Overtures of Peace. And how a
little Gossip warms the Air







THE HOYDEN.



CHAPTER I.

HOW DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND, AND HOW THE SPARKS FLEW.



The windows are all wide open, and through them the warm, lazy
summer wind is stealing languidly. The perfume of the seringas from
the shrubbery beyond, mingled with all the lesser but more delicate
delights of the garden beneath, comes with the wind, and fills the
drawing-room of The Place with a vague, almost drowsy sense of
sweetness.

Mrs. Bethune, with a face that smiles always, though now her very
soul is in revolt, leans back against the cushions of her lounging
chair, her fine red hair making a rich contrast with the pale-blue
satin behind it.

"You think he will marry her, then?"

"Think, think!" says Lady Rylton pettishly. "I can't afford to
_think_ about it. I tell you he _must_ marry her. It has come to the
very last ebb with us now, and unless Maurice consents to this
arrangement----"

She spreads her beautiful little hands abroad, as if in eloquent
description of an end to her sentence.

Mrs. Bethune bursts out laughing. She can always laugh at pleasure.

"It sounds like the old Bible story," says she; "you have an only
son, and you must sacrifice him!"

"Don't study to be absurd!" says Lady Rylton, with a click of her
fan that always means mischief.

She throws herself back in her chair, and a tiny frown settles upon
her brow. She is such a small creation of Nature's that only a frown
of the slightest dimensions _could_ settle itself comfortably
between her eyes. Still, as a frown, it is worth a good deal! It has
cowed a good many people in its day, and had, indeed, helped to make
her a widow at an early age. Very few people stood up against Lady
Rylton's tempers, and those who did never came off quite unscathed.

"Absurd! Have I been absurd?" asks Mrs. Bethune. "My dear
Tessie"--she is Lady Rylton's niece, but Lady Rylton objects to
being called aunt--"such a sin has seldom been laid to my charge."

"Well, _I_ lay it," says Lady Rylton with some emphasis.

She leans back in her chair, and, once again unfurling the huge
black fan she carries, waves it to and fro.

Marian Bethune leans back in her chair too, and regards her aunt
with a gaze that never wavers. The two poses are in their way
perfect, but it must be confessed that the palm goes to the younger
woman.

It might well have been otherwise, as Lady Rylton is still, even at
forty-six, a very graceful woman. Small--very small--a sort of
pocket Venus as it were, but so carefully preserved that at
forty-six she might easily be called thirty-five. If it were not for
her one child, the present Sir Maurice Rylton, this fallacy might
have been carried through. But, unfortunately, Sir Maurice is now
twenty-eight by the church register. Lady Rylton hates church
registers; they tell so much; and truth is always so rude!

She is very fair. Her blue eyes have still retained their azure
tint--a strange thing at her age. Her little hands and feet are as
tiny now as when years ago they called all London town to look at
them 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 _such_ a home!" says she.

"Not a word, not a word," entreats Lady Rylton graciously. "But to
return to Maurice. I shall expect you to help me in this matter,
Marian."

"Naturally."

"I have quite understood your relations with Maurice during the past
year. One, as a matter of course," with a shrug of her dainty
shoulders, "lets the nearest man make love to one---- But Maurice
must marry for money, and so must you."

"You are all wisdom," says Marian, showing her lovely teeth. "And
this girl? She has been here a week now, but as yet you have told me
nothing about her."

"I picked her up!" says Lady Rylton. She lays down her fan--looks
round her in a little mysterious fashion, as though to make doubly
sure of the apparent fact that there is no one in the room but her
niece and herself. "It was the most providential thing," she says;
"I was staying at the Warburtons' last month, and one day when
driving their abominable ponies along the road, suddenly the little
beasts took fright and bolted. You know the Warburtons, don't you?
They haven't an ounce of manners between them--themselves, or their
ponies, or anything else belonging to them. Well! They tore along as
if possessed----"

"The Warburtons?"

"No, the ponies; don't be silly?"

"_Such_ a relief!"

"And I really think they would have taken me over a precipice. You
can see"--holding out her exquisite little hands--"how inadequate
these would be to deal with the Warburton ponies. But for the timely
help of an elderly gentleman and a young girl--she looked a mere
child----"

"This Miss Bolton?"

"Yes. The old gentleman caught the ponies' heads--so did the girl.
You know my slender wrists--they were almost powerless from the
strain, but that _girl!_ her wrists seemed made of iron. She held
and held, until the little wretches gave way and returned to a sense
of decency."

"Perhaps they _are_ made of iron. Her people are in trade, you say?
It is iron, or buttons, or what?"

"I don't know, I'm sure, but at all events she is an heiress to
quite a tremendous extent. Two hundred thousand pounds, the
Warburtons told me afterwards; even allowing for exaggeration,
still, she must be worth a good deal, and poor dear Maurice, what is
_he_ worth?"

"Is it another riddle?" asks Mrs. Bethune.

"No, no, indeed! The answer is plain to all the world. The
Warburtons didn't know these people, these Boltons (so silly of
them, with a third son still unmarried), but when I heard of her
money I made inquiries. It appeared that she lived with her uncle.
Her father had died early, when she was quite young. Her mother was
dead too; this last was a _great_ comfort. And the uncle had kept
her in seclusion all her life. They are nobodies, dear Marian!
Nobodies at all, but that girl has two hundred thousand pounds, and
can redeem the property of all its mortgages--if only Maurice will
let her do it."

"But how did you ask her here?"

"How? What is simpler? The moment the Warburtons told me of the
wealth that would be that girl's on her marriage (I was careful to
make sure of the marriage point), I felt that an overpowering sense
of gratitude compelled me to go and call on her. She and her uncle
were new-comers in that county, and--it is very exclusive--so that
when I _did_ arrive, I was received with open arms. I was charming
to the old uncle, a frosty sort of person, but not objectionable in
any way, and I at once asked the niece to pay me a visit. They were
flattered, the uncle especially so; I expect he had been wanting to
get into Society--and as for the girl, she seemed overcome with
delight! A very second-class little creature I thought her. No
style! No suppression of her real feelings! She said at once how
glad she would be to come to me; she gave me the impression that she
would be glad to get away from her uncle! No idea of _hiding_
anything! So strange!"

"Strange enough to be almost a fresh fashion. Fancy her saying she
would be glad to come to _you!_ No wonder you were startled!"

"Well, she's here," says Lady Rylton, furling her fan. Mrs.
Bethune's little sarcasm has been lost upon her. "And now, how to
_use_ her? Maurice, though I have thrust the idea upon him, seems
averse to it."

"The idea?"

"Of marrying her, of course, and so redeeming himself. She is not
what I would have chosen for him, I admit that; but all things must
give way before the ruin that threatens us."

"Yes; true--all things," says Mrs. Bethune in a low tone.

"You see that. But how to bring Maurice to the point? He is so very
difficult. _You,_ Marian--you have influence with him----"

"I?"

Mrs. Bethune rises in the slow, beautiful fashion that is hers
always; she moves towards the window. There is no hurry, no undue
haste, to betray the disquietude of her soul.

"You--you, of course," says Lady Rylton peevishly. "I always rely
upon you."

"I have no influence!"

"You mean, of course, that you will not use it," says Lady Rylton
angrily. "You still think that you will marry him yourself, that
perhaps his uncle will die and leave him once more a rich man--the
master of The Place, as the old Place's master should be; but that
is a distant prospect, Marian."

Mrs. Bethune has swung around, her beautiful figure is drawn up to
its most stately height.

"Not another word!" says she imperiously. "What have I to do with
your son? Let him marry--let him marry----" She pauses as if
choking, but goes on again: "I tell you I have no influence--_none!_
Appeal to Margaret, she may help you!"

"She--no!"

"Hush! here she is. Yes; ask her," says Mrs. Bethune, as if desirous
of letting Lady Rylton hear the opinion of the new-comer on this
extraordinary subject.



CHAPTER II.

HOW MARGARET PLEADS FOR THE LITTLE HOYDEN, AND WITH WHAT
ILL-SUCCESS.



Margaret Knollys, entering the room and seeing the signs of
agitation in the two faces before her, stops on the threshold.

"I am disturbing you. I can come again," says she, in her clear,
calm voice.

"No," says Mrs. Bethune abruptly.

She makes a gesture as if to keep her.

"Not at all. Not at all, dear Margaret. Pray stay, and give me a
little help," says Lady Rylton plaintively.

She pulls forward a little chair near her, as if to show Margaret
that she must say, and Miss Knollys comes quickly to her. Marian
Bethune is Lady Rylton's real niece. Margaret is her niece by
marriage.

A niece to be proud of, in spite of the fact that she is thirty
years of age and still unmarried. Her features, taken separately,
would debar her for ever from being called either pretty or
beautiful; yet there have been many in her life-time who admired
her, and three, at all events, who would have gladly given their all
to call her theirs. Of these one is dead, and one is married, and
one--still hopes.

There had been a fourth. Margaret loved him! Yet he was the only one
whom Margaret should not have loved. He was unworthy in all points.
Yet, when he went abroad, breaking cruelly and indifferently all
ties with her (they had been engaged), Margaret still clung to him,
and ever since has refused all comers for his sake. Her face is long
and utterly devoid of colour; her nose is too large; her mouth a
trifle too firm for beauty; her eyes, dark and earnest, have,
however, a singular fascination of their own, and when she smiles
one feels that one _must_ love her. She is a very tall woman, and
slight, and gracious in her ways. She is, too, a great heiress, and
a woman of business, having been left to manage a huge property at
the age of twenty-two. Her management up to this has been faultless.

"Now, how can I help you?" asks she, looking at Lady Rylton. "What
is distressing you?"

"Oh! you know," says Mrs. Bethune, breaking impatiently into the
conversation. "About Maurice and this girl! This new girl! There,"
contemptuously, "have been so many of them!"

"You mean Miss Bolton," says Margaret, in her quiet way. "Do you
seriously mean," addressing Lady Rylton, "that you desire this
marriage?"

_ "Desire_ it? No. It is a necessity!" says Lady Rylton. "Who could
desire a daughter-in-law of no lineage, and with the most
objectionable tastes? But she has money! That throws a cloak over
all defects."

"I don't think that poor child has so many defects as you fancy,"
says Miss Knollys. "But for all that I should not regard her as a
suitable wife for Maurice."

Mrs. Bethune leans back in her chair and laughs.

"A suitable wife for Maurice!" repeats she. "Where is _she_ to be
found?"

"Here! In this girl!" declares Lady Rylton solemnly. "Margaret, you
know how we are situated. You know how low we have fallen--_you_ can
understand that in this marriage lies our last hope. If Maurice can
be induced to marry Miss Bolton----"

A sound of merry laughter interrupts her here. There comes the sound
of steps upon the terrace--running steps. Instinctively the three
women within the room grow silent and draw back a little. Barely in
time; a tiny, vivacious figure springs into view, followed by a
young man of rather stout proportions.

"No, no, no!" cries the little figure, "you couldn't beat me. I bet
you anything you like you couldn't. You may play me again if you
will, and then," smiling and shaking her head at him, "we shall
see!"

The windows are open and every word can be heard.

"Your future daughter-in-law," says Mrs. Bethune, in a low voice,
nodding her beautiful head at Lady Rylton.

"Oh, it is detestable! A hoyden--a mere _hoyden_," says Lady Rylton
pettishly. "Look at her hair!"

And, indeed, it must be confessed that the hoyden's hair is not all
it ought to be. It is in effect "all over the place"--it is straight
here, and wandering there; but perhaps its wildness helps to make
more charming the naughty childish little face that peeps out of it.

"She has no manners--_none!"_ says Lady Rylton. "She----"

"Ah, is that you, Lady Rylton?" cries the small creature on the
terrace, having caught a glimpse of her hostess through the window.

"Yes, come in--come in!" cries Lady Rylton, changing her tone at
once, and smiling and beckoning to the girl with long fingers. "I
hope you have not been fatiguing yourself on the tennis-courts, you
dearest child!"

Her tones are cooing.

"I have won, at all events!" says Tita, jumping in over the
window-sill. "Though Mr. Gower," glancing back at her companion,
"won't acknowledge it."

"Why should I acknowledge it?" says the stout young man. "It's folly
to acknowledge anything."

"But the truth is the truth!" says the girl, facing him.

"Oh, no; on the contrary, it's generally a lie," says he.

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself," says Miss Bolton, turning her
back on him, which proceeding seems to fill the stout young man's
soul with delight.

"Do come and sit down, dear child; you look exhausted," says Lady
Rylton, still cooing.

"I'm not," says Tita, shaking her head. "Tennis is not so very
exhausting--is it, Mrs. Bethune?"

"I don't know, I'm sure. It seems to have exhausted your hair, at
all events," says Mrs. Bethune, with her quick smile. "I think you
had better go upstairs and settle it; it is very untidy."

"Is it? Is it?" says Tita.

She runs her little fingers through her pretty short locks, and
gazes round. Her eyes meet Margaret's.

"No, no," says the latter, laughing. "It looks like the hair of a
little girl. You," smiling, _"are_ a little girl. Go away and finish
your fight with Mr. Gower."

"Yes. Come! Miss Knollys is on my side. She knows I shall win," says
the stout young man; and, whilst disputing with him at every step,
Tita disappears.

"What a girl! No style, no manners," says Lady Rylton; "and yet I
must receive her as a daughter. Fancy living with that girl! A silly
child, with her hair always untidy, and a laugh that one can hear a
mile off. Yet it must be done."

"After all, it is Maurice who will have to live with her," says Mrs.
Bethune.

"Oh, I hope not," says Margaret quickly.

"Why?" asks Lady Rylton, turning to her with sharp inquiry.

"It would never do," says Margaret with decision. "They are not
suited to each other. Maurice! and that _baby!_ It is absurd! I
should certainly not counsel Maurice to take such a step as that!"

"Why not? Good heavens, Margaret, I hope you are not in love with
him, too!" says Lady Rylton.

"Too?"

Margaret looks blank.

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