"I, for one, object to the marriage," says Margaret distinctly. "The child is too young and too rich! She should be given a chance; she should not be coerced and drawn into a mesh, as it were, without her knowledge."
"A mesh? Do you call a marriage with my son a mesh?" asks Lady Rylton angrily. "He of one of the oldest families in England, and she a n.o.body!"
"There is no such thing as a n.o.body," says Miss Knollys calmly.
"This girl has intellect, mind, a _soul!_ She has even money! She _must_ be considered."
"She has no birth!" says Lady Rylton. "If you are going in for Socialistic principles, Margaret, pray do not expect _me_ to follow you. I despise folly of that sort."
"I am not a Socialist," says Margaret slowly, "and yet why cannot this child be accepted as one of ourselves? Where is the great difference? You object to her marrying your son, yet you _want_ to marry her to your son. How do you reconcile it? Surely you are more of Socialist than I am. You would put the son of a baronet and the daughter of heaven knows who on an equality."
"Never!" says Lady Rylton. "You don"t understand. She will always be just as she is, and Maurice----"
"And their children?" asks Margaret.
Here Mrs. Bethune springs to her feet.
"Good heavens! Margaret, have you not gone far enough?" says she. If her face had been pale before, it is livid now. "Why, this marriage--this marriage"--she beats her hand upon a table near her--"one would think it was a fact accomplished!"
"I was only saying," says Miss Knollys, looking with a gentle glance at Marian, "that if Maurice _were_ to marry this girl----"
"It would be an honour to her," interrupts Lady Rylton hotly.
"It would be a degradation to him," says Margaret coldly. "He does not love her."
She might have said more, but that suddenly Marian Bethune stops her. The latter, who is leaning against the curtains of the window, breaks into a wild little laugh.
"Love--what is love?" cries she. "Oh, foolish Margaret! Do not listen to her, Tessie, do not listen."
She folds the soft silken curtains round her slender figure, and, hidden therein, still laughs aloud with a wild pa.s.sion of mirth.
"It is you who are foolish," cries Margaret, with some agitation.
"I?" She lets the curtains go; they fall in a sweep behind her. She looks out at Margaret, still laughing. Her face is like ashes. "You speak too strongly," says she.
"Do _you_ think I could speak too strongly?" asks Margaret, looking intently at her. It is a questioning glance. "You! Do _you_ think Maurice ought to ask this poor, ignorant girl to marry him? Do _you_ advise him to take this step?"
"Why, it appears he must take some step," says Marian. "Why not this?"
Margaret goes close to her and speaks in so low a tone that Lady Rylton cannot hear her.
"His honour, is that nothing to you?" says she.
"To me? What have I got to do with his honour?" says Mrs. Bethune, with a little expressive gesture.
"Oh, Marian!" says Miss Knollys.
She half turns away as if in disgust, but Marian follows her and catches her sleeve.
"You mean----" says she.
"Must I explain? With his heart full of you, do you think he should marry this girl?"
"Oh, _his_ heart!" says Mrs. Bethune. "Has he a heart? Dear Margaret, don"t be an enthusiast; be like everybody else. It is so much more comfortable."
"You can put it off like this," says Miss Knollys in a low tone. "It is very simple; but you should think. I have always thought you--you liked Maurice, but you were a--a friend of his. Save him from this.
Don"t let him marry this child."
"I don"t think he will marry a child!" says Mrs. Bethune, laughing.
"You mean----"
"I mean nothing at all--nothing, really," says Marian. "But that baby! My dear Margaret, how impossible!"
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.
There has been a second scene between Lady Rylton and Sir Maurice--this time a terrible scene. She had sent for him directly after dinner, and had almost commanded him to marry Miss Bolton. She had been very bitter in her anger, and had said strange things of Marian. Sir Maurice had come off triumphant, certainly, if greatly injured, and with his heart on fire. He had, at all events, sworn he would not marry the little Bolton girl. Those perpetual insinuations! What had his mother meant by saying that Marian was laying herself out to catch Lord Dunkerton, an old baron in the neighbourhood, with some money and a damaged reputation? That could not be true--he would not believe it. That old beast! Marian would not so much as look at him. And yet--had she not been very civil to him at that ball last week?
Coming out from his mother"s boudoir, a perfect storm of fury in his heart, he finds himself face to face with Marian. Something in his face warns her. She would have gone by him with a light word or two, but, catching her by the wrist, he draws her into a room on his left.
"You have had another quarrel with your mother," says she sympathetically, ignoring the anger blazing in his eyes. "About that silly girl?"
"No. About you!"
His tone is short--almost violent.
"About me?"
She changes colour.
"Yes, you. She accuses you of encouraging that wretched old man, Dunkerton. Do you _hear?_ Speak! Is it true?"
"This is madness!" says Marian, throwing out her hands. "How _could_ you believe such folly? That old man! Why will you give ear to such gossip?"
"Put an end to it, then," says he savagely.
"I? How can I put an end to it?"
"By marrying _me!"_
He stands opposite to her, almost compelling her gaze in return.
Mrs. Bethune gives it fearlessly.
"Maurice dearest, you are excited now. Your mother--she is _so_ irritating. I know her. Marriage, as we now stand, would mean quite dreadful things. Do be reasonable!"