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
