Part 5 (1/2)
”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?”