She kept the letter till the Sunday, thinking that she might have an answer to that written from Mistletoe, and that his reply might alter its tone, or induce her to put it aside altogether; but when on Sunday morning none came, her own was sent. The word in it which frightened herself was the word "engaged." She tried various other phrases, but declared to herself at last that it was useless to "beat about the bush." He must know the light in which she was pleased to regard those passages of love which she had permitted so that there might be no mistake. Whether the letter would be to his liking or not, it must be of such a nature that it would certainly draw from him an answer on which she could act. She herself did not like the letter; but, considering her difficulties, we may own that it was not much amiss.
As it happened, Lord Rufford got the two letters together, the cause of which was as follows.
When he ran away from Mistletoe, as he certainly did, he had thought much about that journey home in the carriage, and was quite aware that he had made an ass of himself. As he sat at dinner on that day at Mistletoe his neighbour had said some word to him in joke as to his attachment to Miss Trefoil, and after the ladies had left the room another neighbour of the other sex had hoped that he had had a pleasant time on the road. Again, in the drawing-room it had seemed to him that he was observed. He could not refrain from saying a few words to Arabella as she lay on the sofa. Not to do so after what had occurred would have been in itself peculiar. But when he did so, some other man who was near her made way for him, as though she were acknowledged to be altogether his property. And then the Duchess had striven to catch him, and lead him into special conversation. When this attempt was made he decided that he must at once retreat,—or else make up his mind to marry the young lady. And therefore he retreated.
He breakfasted that morning at the inn at Stamford, and as he smoked his cigar afterwards, he positively resolved that he would under no circumstances marry Arabella Trefoil. He was being hunted and run down, and, with the instinct of all animals that are hunted, he prepared himself for escape. It might be said, no doubt would be said, that he behaved badly. That would be said because it would not be open to him to tell the truth. The lady in such a case can always tell her story, with what exaggeration she may please to give, and can complain. The man never can do so. When inquired into, he cannot say that he has been pursued. He cannot tell her friends that she began it, and in point of fact did it all. "She would fall into my arms; she would embrace me; she persisted in asking me whether I loved her!" Though a man have to be shot for it, or kicked for it, or even though he have to endure perpetual scorn for it, he cannot say that, let it be ever so true. And yet is a man to be forced into a marriage which he despises? He would not be forced into the marriage,—and the sooner he retreated the less would be the metaphorical shooting and kicking and the real scorn. He must get out of it as best he could;—but that he would get out of it he was quite determined.
That afternoon he reached Mr. Surbiton's house, as did also Captain Battersby, and his horses, grooms, and other belongings. When there he received a lot of letters, and among others one from Mr. Runciman, of the Bush, inquiring as to a certain hiring of rooms and preparation for a dinner or dinners which had been spoken of in reference to a final shooting decreed to take place in the neighbourhood of Dillsborough in the last week of January. Such things were often planned by Lord Rufford, and afterwards forgotten or neglected. When he declared his purpose to Runciman, he had not intended to go to Mistletoe, nor to stay so long with his friend Surbiton. But now he almost thought that it would be better for him to be back at Rufford Hall, where at present his sister was staying with her husband, Sir George Penwether.
In the evening of the second or third day his old friend Tom Surbiton said a few words to him which had the effect of sending him back to Rufford. They had sat out the rest of the men who formed the party and were alone in the smoking-room. "So you're going to marry Miss Trefoil," said Tom Surbiton, who perhaps of all his friends was the most intimate.
"Who says so?"
"I am saying so at present."
"You are not saying it on your own authority. You have never seen me and Miss Trefoil in a room together."
"Everybody says so. Of course such a thing cannot be arranged without being talked about."
"It has not been arranged."
"If you don't mean to have it arranged, you had better look to it. I am speaking in earnest, Rufford. I am not going to give up authorities. Indeed if I did I might give up everybody. The very servants suppose that they know it, and there isn't a groom or horseboy about who isn't in his heart congratulating the young lady on her promotion."
"I'll tell you what it is, Tom."
"Well;—what is it?"
"If this had come from any other man than yourself I should quarrel with him. I am not engaged to the young lady, nor have I done anything to warrant anybody in saying so."
"Then I may contradict it."
"I don't want you either to contradict it or affirm it. It would be an impertinence to the young lady if I were to instruct any one to contradict such a report. But as a fact I am not engaged to marry Miss Trefoil, nor is there the slightest chance that I ever shall be so engaged." So saying he took up his candlestick and walked off.
Early on the next morning he saw his friend and made some sort of laughing apology for his heat on the previous evening. "It is sod——hard when these kind of things are said because a man has lent a young lady a horse. However, Tom, between you and me the thing is a lie."
"I am very glad to hear it," said Tom.
"And now I want you to come over to Rufford on the twenty-eighth." Then he explained the details of his proposed party, and got his friend to promise that he would come. He also made it understood that he was going home at once. There were a hundred things, he said, which made it necessary. So the horses and grooms and servant and portmanteaus were again made to move, and Lord Rufford left his friend on that day and went up to London on his road to Rufford.
He was certainly disturbed in his mind, foreseeing that there might be much difficulty in his way. He remembered with fair accuracy all that had occurred during the journey from Stamford to Mistletoe. He felt assured that up to that time he had said nothing which could be taken to mean a real declaration of love. All that at Rufford had been nothing. He had never said a word which could justify the girl in a hope. In the carriage she had asked him whether he loved her, and he had said that he did. He had also declared that he would do anything in his power to make her happy. Was a man to be bound to marry a girl because of such a scene as that? There was, however, nothing for him to do except to keep out of the girl's way. If she took any steps, then he must act. But as he thought of it, he swore to himself that nothing should induce him to marry her.
He remained a couple of days in town and reached Rufford Hall on the Monday,—just a week from the day of that fatal meet at Peltry. There he found Sir George and his sister and Miss Penge, and spent his first evening in quiet. On the Tuesday he hunted with the U. R. U., and made his arrangements with Runciman. He invited Hampton to shoot with him. Surbiton and Battersby were coming, and his brother-in-law. Not wishing to have less than six guns he asked Hampton how he could make up his party. "Morton doesn't shoot," he said, "and is as stiff as a post." Then he was told that John Morton was supposed to be very ill at Bragton. "I'm sick of both the Botseys," continued the lord, thinking more of his party than of Mr. Morton's health. "Purefoy is still sulky with me because he killed poor old Caneback." Then Hampton suggested that if he would ask Lawrence Twentyman it might be the means of saving that unfortunate young man's life. The story of his unrequited love was known to every one at Dillsborough and it was now told to Lord Rufford. "He is not half a bad fellow," said Hampton, "and quite as much like a gentleman as either of the Botseys."
"I shall be delighted to save the life of so good a man on such easy terms," said the lord. Then and there, with a pencil, on the back of an old letter, he wrote a line to Larry asking him to shoot on next Saturday and to dine with him afterwards at the Bush.
That evening on his return home he found both the letters from Arabella. As it happened he read them in the order in which they had been written, first the laughing letter, and then the one that was declared to be serious. The earlier of the two did not annoy him much. It contained hardly more than those former letters which had induced him to go to Mistletoe. But the second letter opened up her entire strategy. She had told the Duchess that she was engaged to him, and the Duchess of course would have told the Duke. And now she wrote to him asking him to acknowledge the engagement in black and white. The first letter he might have ignored. He might have left it unanswered without gross misconduct. But the second letter, which she herself had declared to be a serious epistle, was one which he could not neglect. Now had come his difficulty. What must he do? How should he answer it? Was it imperative on him to write the words with his own hand? Would it be possible that he should get his sister to undertake the commission? He said nothing about it to any one for four and twenty hours; but he passed those hours in much discomfort. It did seem so hard to him that because he had been forced to carry a lady home from hunting in a postchaise, that he should be driven to such straits as this! The girl was evidently prepared to make a fight of it. There would be the Duke and the Duchess and that prig Mistletoe, and that idle ass Lord Augustus, and that venomous old woman her mother, all at him. He almost doubted whether a shooting excursion in Central Africa or a visit to the Pampas would not be the best thing for him. But still, though he should resolve to pass five years among the Andes, he must answer the lady's letter before he went.
Then he made up his mind that he would tell everything to his brother-in-law, as far as everything can be told in such a matter. Sir George was near fifty, full fifteen years older than his wife, who was again older than her brother. He was a man of moderate wealth, very much respected, and supposed to be possessed of almost infinite wisdom. He was one of those few human beings who seem never to make a mistake. Whatever he put his hand to came out well;—and yet everybody liked him His brother-in-law was a little afraid of him, but yet was always glad to see him. He kept an excellent house in London, but having no country house of his own passed much of his time at Rufford Hall when the owner was not there. In spite of the young peer's numerous faults Sir George was much attached to him, and always ready to help him in his difficulties. "Penwether," said the Lord, "I have got myself into an awful scrape."
"I am sorry to hear it. A woman, I suppose."
"Oh, yes. I never gamble, and therefore no other scrape can be awful. A young lady wants to marry me."
"That is not unnatural."
"But I am quite determined, let the result be what it may, that I won't marry the young lady."
"That will be unfortunate for her, and the more so if she has a right to expect it. Is the young lady Miss Trefoil?"
"I did not mean to mention any name,—till I was sure it might be necessary. But it is Miss Trefoil."
"Eleanor had told me something of it."
"Eleanor knows nothing about this, and I do not wish you to tell her. The young lady was here with her mother,—and for the matter of that with a gentleman to whom she was certainly engaged;—but nothing particular occurred here. That unfortunate ball was going on when poor Caneback was dying. But I met her since that at Mistletoe."
"I can hardly advise, you know, unless you tell me everything."
Then Lord Rufford began. "These kind of things are sometimes deuced hard upon a man. Of course if a man were a saint or a philosopher or a Joseph he wouldn't get into such scrapes,—and perhaps every man ought to be something of that sort. But I don't know how a man is to do it, unless it's born with him."
"A little prudence I should say."
"You might as well tell a fellow that it is his duty to be six feet high."
"But what have you said to the young lady,—or what has she said to you?"
"There has been a great deal more of the latter than the former. I say so to you, but of course it is not to be said that I have said so. I cannot go forth to the world complaining of a young lady's conduct to me. It is a matter in which a man must not tell the truth."
"But what is the truth?"
"She writes me word to say that she has told all her friends that I am engaged to her, and kindly presses me to make good her assurances by becoming so."
"And what has passed between you?"
"A fainting fit in a carriage and half-a-dozen kisses."
"Nothing more?"
"Nothing more that is material. Of course one cannot tell it all down to each mawkish word of humbugging sentiment. There are her letters, and what I want you to remember is that I never asked her to be my wife, and that no consideration on earth shall induce me to become her husband. Though all the duchesses in England were to persecute me to the death I mean to stick to that."
Then Sir George read the letters and handed them back. "She seems to me," said he, "to have more wit about her than any of the family that I have had the honour of meeting."
"She has wit enough,—and pluck too."
"You have never said a word to her to encourage these hopes."
"My dear Penwether, don't you know that if a man with a large income says to a girl like that that the sun shines he encourages hope. I understand that well enough. I am a rich man with a title, and a big house, and a great command of luxuries. There are so many young ladies who would also like to be rich, and to have a title, and a big house, and a command of luxuries! One sometimes feels oneself like a carcase in the midst of vultures."
"Marry after a proper fashion, and you'll get rid of all that."
"I'll think about it, but in the meantime what can I say to this young woman? When I acknowledge that I kissed her, of course I encouraged hopes."
"No doubt."
"But St. Anthony would have had to kiss this young woman if she had made her attack upon him as she did on me;—and after all a kiss doesn't go for everything. These are things, Penwether, that must not be inquired into too curiously. But I won't marry her though it were a score of kisses. And now what must I do?" Sir George said that he would take till the next morning to think about it,—meaning to make a draft of the reply which he thought his brother-in-law might best send to the lady.
When Reginald Morton received his aunt's letter he understood from it more than she had intended. Of course the man to whom allusion was made was Mr. Twentyman; and of course the discomfort at home had come from Mrs. Masters' approval of that suitor's claim. Reginald, though he had seen but little of the inside of the attorney's household, thought it very probable that the stepmother would make the girl's home very uncomfortable for her. Though he knew well all the young farmer's qualifications as a husband,—namely that he was well to do in the world and bore a good character for honesty and general conduct,—still he thoroughly, nay heartily approved of Mary's rejection of the man's hand. It seemed to him to be sacrilege that such a one should have given to him such a woman. There was, to his thinking, something about Mary Masters that made it altogether unfit that she should pass her life as the mistress of Chowton Farm, and he honoured her for the persistence of her refusal. He took his pipe and went out into the garden in order that he might think of it all as he strolled round his little domain.
But why should he think so much about it? Why should he take so deep an interest in the matter? What was it to him whether Mary Masters married after her kind, or descended into what he felt to be an inferior manner of life? Then he tried to tell himself what were the gifts in the girl's possession which made her what she was, and he pictured her to himself, running over all her attributes. It was not that she specially excelled in beauty. He had seen Miss Trefoil as she was being driven about the neighbourhood, and having heard much of the young lady as the future wife of his own cousin, had acknowledged to himself that she was very handsome. But he had thought at the same time that under no possible circumstances could he have fallen in love with Miss Trefoil. He believed that he did not care much for female beauty, and yet he felt that he could sit and look at Mary Masters by the hour together. There was a quiet even composure about her, always lightened by the brightness of her modest eyes, which seemed to tell him of some mysterious world within, which was like the unseen loveliness that one fancies to be hidden within the bosom of distant mountains. There was a poem to be read there of surpassing beauty, rhythmical and eloquent as the music of the spheres, if it might only be given to a man to read it. There was an absence, too, of all attempt at feminine self-glorification which he did not analyse but thoroughly appreciated. There was no fussy amplification of hair, no made-up smiles, no affectation either in her good humour or her anger, no attempt at effect in her gait, in her speech, or her looks. She seemed to him to be one who had something within her on which she could feed independently of the grosser details of the world to which it was her duty to lend her hand. And then her colour charmed his eyes. Miss Trefoil was white and red;—white as pearl powder and red as paint. Mary Masters, to tell the truth, was brown. No doubt that was the prevailing colour, if one colour must be named. But there was so rich a tint of young life beneath the surface, so soft but yet so visible an assurance of blood and health and spirit, that no one could describe her complexion by so ugly a word without falsifying her gifts. In all her movements she was tranquil, as a noble woman should be. Even when she had turned from him with some anger at the bridge, she had walked like a princess. There was a certainty of modesty about her which was like a granite wall or a strong fortress. As he thought of it all he did not understand how such a one as Lawrence Twentyman should have dared to ask her to be his wife,—or should even have wished it.
We know what were her feelings in regard to himself,—how she had come to look almost with worship on the walls within which he lived; but he had guessed nothing of this. Even now, when he knew that she had applied to his aunt in order that she might escape from her lover, it did not occur to him that she could care for himself. He was older than she, nearly twenty years older, and even in his younger years, in the hard struggles of his early life, had never regarded himself as a man likely to find favour with women. There was in his character much of that modesty for which he gave her such infinite credit. Though he thought but little of most of those around him, he thought also but little of himself. It would break his heart to ask and be refused;—but he could, he fancied, live very well without Mary Masters. Such, at any rate, had been his own idea of himself hitherto; and now, though he was driven to think much of her, though on the present occasion he was forced to act on her behalf, he would not tell himself that he wanted to take her for his wife. He constantly assured himself that he wanted no wife, that for him a solitary life would be the best. But yet it made him wretched when he reflected that some man would assuredly marry Mary Masters. He had heard of that excellent but empty-headed young man Mr. Surtees. When the idea occurred to him he found himself reviling Mr. Surtees as being of all men the most puny, the most unmanly, and the least worthy of marrying Mary Masters. Now that Mr. Twentyman was certainly disposed of, he almost became jealous of Mr. Surtees.
It was not till three or four o'clock in the afternoon that he went out on his commission to the attorney's house, having made up his mind that he would do everything in his power to facilitate Mary's proposed return to Cheltenham. He asked first for Mr. Masters and then for Miss Masters, and learned that they were both out together. But he had been desired also to see Mrs. Masters, and on inquiring for her was again shown into the grand drawing-room. Here he remained a quarter of an hour while the lady of the house was changing her cap and apron, which he spent in convincing himself that this house was altogether an unfit residence for Mary. In the chamber in which he was standing it was clear enough that no human being ever lived. Mary's drawing-room ought to be a bower in which she at least might pass her time with books and music and pretty things around her. The squalor of the real living room might be conjectured from the untouched cleanliness of this useless sanctum. At last the lady came to him and welcomed him with very grim courtesy. As a client of her husband he was very well;—but as a nephew of Lady Ushant he was injurious. It was he who had carried Mary away to Cheltenham where she had been instigated to throw her bread-and-butter into the fire,—as Mrs. Masters expressed it,—by that pernicious old woman Lady Ushant. "Mr. Masters is out walking," she said. Reginald clearly understood by the contempt which she threw almost unconsciously into her words that she did not approve of her husband going out walking at such an hour.
"I had a message for him—and also for you. My aunt, Lady Ushant, is very anxious that your daughter Mary should return to her at Cheltenham for a while." The proposition to Mrs. Masters' thinking was so monstrous, and was at the same time so unexpected, that it almost took away her breath. At any rate she stood for a moment speechless. "My aunt is very fond of your daughter," he continued, "and if she can be spared would be delighted to have her. Perhaps she has written to Miss Masters, but she has asked me to come over and see if it cannot be arranged."
"It cannot be arranged," said Mrs. Masters. "Nothing of the kind can be arranged."
"I am sorry for that."
"It is only disturbing the girl, and upsetting her, and filling her head full of nonsense. What is she to do at Cheltenham? This is her home and here she had better be." Though things had hitherto gone very badly, though Larry Twentyman had not shown himself since the receipt of the letter, still Mrs. Masters had not abandoned all hope. She was fixed in opinion that if her husband were joined with her they could still, between them, so break the girl's spirit as to force her into a marriage. "As for letters," she continued, "I don't know anything about them. There may have been letters but if so they have been kept from me." She was so angry that she could not even attempt to conceal her wrath.
"Lady Ushant thinks—" began the messenger.
"Oh yes, Lady Ushant is very well of course. Lady Ushant is your aunt, Mr. Morton, and I haven't anything to say against her. But Lady Ushant can't do any good to that girl. She has got her bread to earn, and if she won't do it one way then she must do it another. She's obstinate and pigheaded, that's the truth of it. And her father's just as bad. He has taken her out now merely because she likes to be idle, and to go about thinking herself a fine lady. Lady Ushant doesn't do her any good at all by cockering her up."
"My aunt, you know, saw very much of her when she was young."
"I know she did, Mr. Morton; and all that has to be undone,—and I have got the undoing of it. Lady Ushant is one thing and her papa's business is quite another. At any rate if I have my say she'll not go to Cheltenham any more. I don't mean to be uncivil to you, Mr. Morton, or to say anything as oughtn't to be said of your aunt. But when you can't make people anything but what they are, it's my opinion that it's best to leave them alone. Good day to you, sir, and I hope you understand what it is that I mean."
Then Morton retreated and went down the stairs, leaving the lady in possession of her own grandeur. He had not quite understood what she had meant, and was still wondering at the energy of her opposition when he met Mary herself at the front door. Her father was not with her, but his retreating form was to be seen entering the portal of the Bush. "Oh, Mr. Morton!" exclaimed Mary surprised to have the house-door opened for her by him.
"I have come with a message from my aunt."
"She told me that you would do so."
"Lady Ushant would of course be delighted to have you if it could be arranged."
"Then Lady Ushant will be disappointed," said Mrs. Masters who had descended the stairs. "There has been something going on behind my back."
"I wrote to Lady Ushant," said Mary.
"I call that sly and deceitful;—very sly and very deceitful. If I know it you won't stir out of this house to go to Cheltenham. I wonder Lady Ushant would go to put you up in that way against those you're bound to obey."
"I thought Mrs. Masters had been told," said Reginald.
"Papa did know that I wrote," said Mary.
"Yes;—and in this way a conspiracy is to be made up in the house! If she goes to Cheltenham I won't stay here. You may tell Lady Ushant that I say that. I'm not going to be one thing one day and another another, and to be made a tool of all round." By this time Dolly and Kate had come down from the upper regions and were standing behind their mother. "What do you two do there, standing gaping like fools?" said the angry mother. "I suppose your father has gone over to the public-house again. That, miss, is what comes from your pigheadedness. Didn't I tell you that you were ruining everybody belonging to you?" Before all this was over Reginald Morton had escaped, feeling that he could do no good to either side by remaining a witness to such a scene. He must take some other opportunity of finding the attorney and of learning from him whether he intended that his daughter should be allowed to accept Lady Ushant's invitation.
Poor Mary as she shrunk into the house was nearly heartbroken. That such things should be at all was very dreadful, but that the scene should have taken place in the presence of Reginald Morton was an aggravation of the misery which nearly overwhelmed her. How could she make him understand whence had arisen her stepmother's anger and that she herself had been neither sly nor deceitful nor pigheaded?
When Mr. Masters had gone across to the Bush his purpose had certainly been ignoble, but it had had no reference to brandy and water. And the allusion made by Mrs. Masters to the probable ruin which was to come from his tendencies in that direction had been calumnious, for she knew that the man was not given to excess in liquor. But as he approached his own house he bethought himself that it would not lead to domestic comfort if he were seen returning from his walk with Mary, and he had therefore made some excuse as to the expediency of saying a word to Runciman whom he espied at his own door. He said his word to Runciman, and so loitered away perhaps a quarter of an hour, and then went back to his office. But his wife had kept her anger at burning heat and pounced upon him before he had taken his seat. Sundown was there copying, sitting with his eyes intent on the board before him as though he were quite unaware of the sudden entrance of his master's wife. She in her fury did not regard Sundown in the least, but at once commenced her attack. "What is all this, Mr. Masters," she said, "about Lady Ushant and going to Cheltenham? I won't have any going to Cheltenham and that's flat." Now the attorney had altogether made up his mind that his daughter should go to Cheltenham if her friend would receive her. Whatever might be the consequences, they must be borne. But he thought it best to say nothing at the first moment of the attack, and simply turned his sorrowful round face in silence up to the partner of all his cares and the source of so many of them. "There have been letters," continued the lady;—"letters which nobody has told me nothing about. That proud peacock from Hoppet Hall has been here, as though he had nothing to do but carry Mary away about the country just as he pleased. Mary won't go to Cheltenham with him nor yet without him;—not if I am to remain here."
"Where else should you remain, my dear?" asked the attorney.
"I'd sooner go into the workhouse than have all this turmoil. That's where we are all likely to go if you pass your time between walking about with that minx and the public-house opposite." Then the attorney was aware that he had been watched, and his spirit began to rise within him. He looked at Sundown, but the man went on copying quicker than ever.
"My dear," said Mr. Masters, "you shouldn't talk in that way before the clerk. I wanted to speak to Mr. Runciman, and, as to the workhouse, I don't know that there is any more danger now than there has been for the last twenty years."
"It's always off and on as far as I can see. Do you mean to send that girl to Cheltenham?"
"I rather think she had better go—for a time."
"Then I shall leave this house and go with my girls to Norrington." Now this threat, which had been made before, was quite without meaning. Mrs. Masters' parents were both dead, and her brother, who had a large family, certainly would not receive her. "I won't remain here, Mr. Masters, if I ain't to be mistress of my own house. What is she to go to Cheltenham for, I should like to know?"
Then Sundown was desired by his wretched employer to go into the back settlement and the poor man prepared himself for the battle as well as he could. "She is not happy here," he said.
"Whose fault is that? Why shouldn't she be happy? Of course you know what it means. She has got round you because she wants to be a fine lady. What means have you to make her a fine lady? If you was to die to-morrow what would there be for any of 'em? My little bit of money is all gone. Let her stay here and be made to marry Lawrence Twentyman. That's what I say."
"She will never marry Mr. Twentyman."
"Not if you go on like this she won't. If you'd done your duty by her like a real father instead of being afraid of her when she puts on her tantrums, she'd have been at Chowton Farm by this time."
It was clear to him that now was the time not to be afraid of his wife when she put on her tantrums,—or at any rate, to appear not to be afraid. "She has been very unhappy of late."
"Oh, unhappy! She's been made more of than anybody else in this house."
"And a change will do her good. She has my permission to go;—and go she shall!" Then the word had been spoken.
"She shall!"
"It is very much for the best. While she is here the house is made wretched for us all."
"It'll be wretcheder yet; unless it would make you happy to see me dead on the threshold,—which I believe it would. As for her, she's an ungrateful, sly, wicked slut."
"She has done nothing wicked that I know of."
"Not writing to that old woman behind my back?"
"She told me what she was doing and showed me the letter."
"Yes; of course. The two of you were in it. Does that make it any better? I say it was sly and wicked; and you were sly and wicked as well as she. She has got the better of you, and now you are going to send her away from the only chance she'll ever get of having a decent home of her own over her head."
"There's nothing more to be said about it, my dear. She'll go to Lady Ushant." Having thus pronounced his dictum with all the marital authority he was able to assume he took his hat and sallied forth. Mrs. Masters, when she was left alone, stamped her foot and hit the desk with a ruler that was lying there. Then she went up-stairs and threw herself on her bed in a paroxysm of weeping and wailing.
Mr. Masters, when he closed his door, looked up the street and down the street and then again went across to the Bush. Mr. Runciman was still there, and was standing with a letter in his hand, while one of the grooms from Rufford Hall was holding a horse beside him. "Any answer, Mr. Runciman?" said the groom.
"Only to tell his lordship that everything will be ready for him. You'd better go through and give the horse a feed of corn, and get a bit of something to eat and a glass of beer yourself." The man wasn't slow to do as he was bid;—and in this way the Bush had become very popular with the servants of the gentry around the place. "His lordship is to be here from Friday to Sunday with a party, Mr. Masters."
"Oh, indeed."
"For the end of the shooting. And who do you think he has asked to be one of the party?"
"Not Mr. Reginald?"
"I don't think they ever spoke in their lives. Who but Larry Twentyman!"
"No!"
"It'll be the making of Larry. I only hope he won't cock his beaver too high."
"Is he coming?"
"I suppose so. He'll be sure to come. His Lordship only tells me that there are to be six of 'em on Saturday and five on Friday night. But the lad there knew who they all were. There's Mr. Surbiton and Captain Battersby and Sir George are to come over with his lordship from Rufford. And young Mr. Hampton is to join them here, and Larry Twentyman is to shoot with them on Saturday and dine afterwards. Won't those two Botseys be jealous; that's all?"
"It only shows what they think of Larry," said the attorney.
"Larry Twentyman is a very good fellow," said the landlord. "I don't know a better fellow round Dillsborough, or one who is more always on the square. But he's weak. You know him as well as I, Mr. Masters."
"He's not so weak but what he can keep what he's got."
"This'll be the way to try him. He'd melt away like water into sand if he were to live for a few weeks with such men as his Lordship's friends. I suppose there's no chance of his taking a wife home to Chowton with him?" The attorney shook his head. "That'd be the making of him, Mr. Masters; a good girl like that who'd keep him at home. If he takes it to heart he'll burst out somewhere and spend a lot of money."
The attorney declined Mr. Runciman's offer of a glass of beer and slowly made his way round the corner of the inn by Hobb's gate to the front door of Hoppet Hall. Then he passed on to the churchyard, still thinking of the misery of his position. When he reached the church he turned back, still going very slowly, and knocked at the door of Hoppet Hall. He was shown at once by Reginald's old housekeeper up to the library, and there in a few minutes he was joined by the master of the house. "I was over looking for you an hour or two ago," said Reginald.
"I heard you were there, Mr. Morton, and so I thought I would come to you. You didn't see Mary?"
"I just saw her,—but could hardly say much. She had written to my aunt about going to Cheltenham."
"I saw the letter before she sent it, Mr. Morton."
"So she told me. My aunt would be delighted to have her, but it seems that Mrs. Masters does not wish her to go."
"There is some trouble about it, Mr. Morton;—but I may as well tell you at once that I wish her to go. She would be better for awhile at Cheltenham with such a lady as your aunt than she can be at home. Her stepmother and she cannot agree on a certain point. I dare say you know what it is, Mr. Morton?"
"In regard, I suppose, to Mr. Twentyman?"
"Just that. Mrs. Masters thinks that Mr. Twentyman would make an excellent husband. And so do I. There's nothing in the world against him, and as compared with me he's a rich man. I couldn't give the poor girl any fortune, and he wouldn't want any. But money isn't everything."
"No indeed."
"He's an industrious steady young man too, and he has had my word with him all through. But I can't compel my girl to marry him if she don't like him. I can't even try to compel her. She's as good a girl as ever stirred about a house."
"I can well believe that."
"And nothing would take such a load off me as to know that she was going to be well married. But as she don't like the young man well enough, I won't have her hardly used."
"Mrs. Masters perhaps is—hard to her."
"God forbid I should say anything against my wife. I never did, and I won't now. But Mary will be better away; and if Lady Ushant will be good enough to take her, she shall go."
"When will she be ready, Mr. Masters?"
"I must ask her about that;—in a week perhaps, or ten days."
"She is quite decided against the young man?"
"Quite. At the bidding of all of us she said she'd take two months to think of it. But before the time was up she wrote to him to say it could never be. It quite upset my wife; because it would have been such an excellent arrangement."
Reginald wished to learn more but hardly knew how to ask the father questions. Yet, as he had been trusted so far, he thought that he might be trusted altogether. "I must own," he said, "that I think that Mr. Twentyman would hardly be a fit husband for your daughter."
"He is a very good young man."
"Very likely;—but she is something more than a very good young woman. A young lady with her gifts will be sure to settle well in life some day." The attorney shook his head. He had lived long enough to see many young ladies with good gifts find it difficult to settle in life; and perhaps that mysterious poem which Reginald found in Mary's eyes was neither visible nor audible to Mary's father. "I did hear," said Reginald, "that Mr.Surtees—"
"There's nothing in that."
"Oh, indeed. I thought that perhaps as she is so determined not to do as her friends would wish, that there might be something else." He said this almost as a question, looking close into the attorney's eyes as he spoke.
"It is always possible," said Mr. Masters.
"But you don't think there is anybody?"
"It is very hard to say, Mr. Morton."
"You don't expect anything of that sort?"
Then the attorney broke forth into sudden confidence. "To tell the truth then, Mr. Morton, I think there is somebody, though who it is I know as little as the baby unborn. She sees nobody here at Dillsborough to be intimate with. She isn't one of those who would write letters or do anything on the sly."
"But there is some one?"
"She told me as much herself. That is, when I asked her she would not deny it. Then I thought that perhaps it might be somebody at Cheltenham."
"I think not."
"She was there so short a time, Mr. Morton; and Lady Ushant would be the last person in the world to let such a thing as that go on without telling her parents."
"I don't think there was any one at Cheltenham. She was only there a month."
"I did fancy that perhaps that was one reason why she should want to go back."
"I don't believe it. I don't in the least believe it," said Reginald enthusiastically. "My aunt would have been sure to have seen it. It would have been impossible without her knowledge. But there is somebody?"
"I think so, Mr. Morton;—and if she does go to Cheltenham perhaps Lady Ushant had better know." To this Reginald agreed, or half agreed. It did not seem to him to be of much consequence what might be done at Cheltenham. He felt certain that the lover was not there. And yet who was there at Dillsborough? He had seen those young Botseys about. Could it possibly be one of them? And during the Christmas vacation the rector's scamp of a son had been home from Oxford,—to whom Mary Masters had barely spoken. Was it young Mainwaring? Or could it be possible that she had turned an eye of favour on Dr. Nupper's elegantly-dressed assistant. There was nothing too monstrous for him to suggest to himself as soon as the attorney had left him.
But there was a young man in Dillsborough,—one man at any rate young enough to be a lover,—of whom Reginald did not think; as to whom, had his name been suggested as that of the young man to whom Mary's heart had been given, he would have repudiated such a suggestion with astonishment and anger. But now, having heard this from the girl's father, he was again vexed, and almost as much disgusted as when he had first become aware that Larry Twentyman was a suitor for her hand. Why should he trouble himself about a girl who was ready to fall in love with the first man that she saw about the place? He tried to pacify himself by some such question as this, but tried in vain.
Here is the letter which at his brother-in-law's advice Lord Rufford wrote to Arabella:
Rufford, 3 February, 1875.My dear Miss Trefoil,It is a great grief to me that I should have to answer your letter in a manner that will I fear not be satisfactory to you. I can only say that you have altogether mistaken me if you think that I have said anything which was intended as an offer of marriage. I cannot but be much flattered by your good opinion. I have had much pleasure from our acquaintance, and I should have been glad if it could have been continued. But I have had no thoughts of marriage. If I have said a word which has, unintentionally on my part, given rise to such an idea I can only beg your pardon heartily. If I were to add more after what I have now said perhaps you would take it as an impertinence.Yours most sincerely,Rufford.
Rufford, 3 February, 1875.
My dear Miss Trefoil,
It is a great grief to me that I should have to answer your letter in a manner that will I fear not be satisfactory to you. I can only say that you have altogether mistaken me if you think that I have said anything which was intended as an offer of marriage. I cannot but be much flattered by your good opinion. I have had much pleasure from our acquaintance, and I should have been glad if it could have been continued. But I have had no thoughts of marriage. If I have said a word which has, unintentionally on my part, given rise to such an idea I can only beg your pardon heartily. If I were to add more after what I have now said perhaps you would take it as an impertinence.
Yours most sincerely,
Rufford.
He had desired to make various additions and suggestions which however had all been disallowed by Sir George Penwether. He had proposed among other things to ask her whether he should keep Jack for her for the remainder of the season or whether he should send the horse elsewhere, but Sir George would not allow a word in the letter about Jack. "You did give her the horse then?" he asked.
"I had hardly any alternative as the things went. She would have been quite welcome to the horse if she would have let me alone afterwards."
"No doubt; but when young gentlemen give young ladieshorses—"
"I know all about it, my dear fellow. Pray don't preach more than you can help. Of course I have been an infernal ass. I know all that. But as the horse ishers—"
"Say nothing about the horse. Were she to ask for it of course she could have it; but that is not likely."
"And you think I had better say nothing else."
"Not a word. Of course it will be shown to all her friends and may possibly find its way into print. I don't know what steps such a young lady may be advised to take. Her uncle is a man of honour. Her father is an ass and careless about everything. Mistletoe will not improbably feel himself bound to act as though he were her brother. They will, of course, all think you to be a rascal,—and will say so."
"If Mistletoe says so I'll horsewhip him."
"No you won't, Rufford. You will remember that this woman is a woman, and that a woman's friends are bound to stand up for her. After all your hands are not quite clean in the matter."
"I am heavy enough on myself, Penwether. I have been a fool and I own it. But I have done nothing unbecoming a gentleman." He was almost tempted to quarrel with his brother-in-law, but at last he allowed the letter to be sent just as Sir George had written it, and then tried to banish the affair from his mind for the present so that he might enjoy his life till the next hostile step should be taken by the Trefoil clan.
When Larry Twentyman received the lord's note, which was left at Chowton Farm by Hampton's groom, he was in the lowest depth of desolation. He had intended to hunt that day in compliance with John Morton's advice, but had felt himself quite unable to make the effort. It was not only that he had been thrown over by Mary Masters, but that everybody knew that he had been thrown over. If he had kept the matter secret, perhaps he might have borne it;—but it is so hard to bear a sorrow of which all one's neighbours are conscious. When a man is reduced by poverty to the drinking of beer instead of wine, it is not the loss of the wine that is so heavy on him as the consciousness that those around him are aware of the reason. And he is apt to extend his idea of this consciousness to a circle that is altogether indifferent of the fact. That a man should fail in his love seems to him to be of all failures the most contemptible, and Larry thought that there would not be one in the field unaware of his miserable rejection. In spite of his mother's prayers he had refused to go, and had hung about the farm all day.
Then there came to him Lord Rufford's note. It had been quite unexpected, and a month or two before, when his hopes had still been high in regard to Mary Masters, would have filled him with delight. It was the foible of his life to be esteemed a gentleman, and his poor ambition to be allowed to live among men of higher social standing than himself. Those dinners of Lord Rufford's at the Bush had been a special grief to him. The young lord had been always courteous to him in the field, and he had been able, as he thought, to requite such courtesy by little attentions in the way of game preserving. If pheasants from Dillsborough Wood ate Goarly's wheat, so did they eat Larry Twentyman's barley. He had a sportsman's heart, above complaint as to such matters, and had always been neighbourly to the lord. No doubt pheasants and hares were left at his house whenever there was shooting in the neighbourhood,—which to his mother afforded great consolation. But Larry did not care for the pheasants and hares. Had he so pleased he could have shot them on his own land; but he did not preserve, and, as a good neighbour, he regarded the pheasants and hares as Lord Rufford's property. He felt that he was behaving as a gentleman as well as a neighbour, and that he should be treated as such. Fred Botsey had dined at the Bush with Lord Rufford, and Larry looked on Fred as in no way better than himself.
Now at last the invitation had come. He was asked to a day's shooting and to dine with the lord and his party at the inn. How pleasant would it be to give a friendly nod to Runciman as he went into the room, and to assert afterwards in Botsey's hearing something of the joviality of the evening. Of course Hampton would be there as Hampton's servant had brought the note, and he was very anxious to be on friendly terms with Mr. Hampton. Next to the lord himself there was no one in the hunt who carried his head so high as young Hampton.
But there arose to him the question whether all this had not arrived too late! Of what good is it to open up the true delights of life to a man when you have so scotched and wounded him that he has no capability left of enjoying anything? As he sat lonely with his pipe in his mouth he thought for a while that he would decline the invitation. The idea of selling Chowton Farm and of establishing himself at some Antipodes in which the name of Mary Masters should never have been heard, was growing upon him. Of what use would the friendship of Lord Rufford be to him at the other side of the globe?
At last, however, the hope of giving that friendly nod to Runciman overcame him, and he determined to go. He wrote a note, which caused him no little thought, presenting his compliments to Lord Rufford and promising to meet his lordship's party at Dillsborough Wood.
The shooting went off very well and Larry behaved himself with propriety. He wanted the party to come in and lunch, and had given sundry instructions to his mother on that head. But they did not remain near to his place throughout the day, and his efforts in that direction were not successful. Between five and six he went home, and at half-past seven appeared at the Bush attired in his best. He never yet had sat down with a lord, and his mind misgave him a little; but he had spirit enough to look about for Runciman,—who, however, was not to be seen.
Sir George was not there, but the party had been made up, as regarded the dinner, by the addition of Captain Glomax, who had returned from hunting. Captain Glomax was in high glee, having had,—as he declared,—the run of the season. When a Master has been deserted on any day by the choice spirits of his hunt he is always apt to boast to them that he had on that occasion the run of the season. He had taken a fox from Impington right across to Hogsborough, which, as every one knows, is just on the borders of the U. R. U., had then run him for five miles into Lord Chiltern's country, and had killed him in the centre of the Brake Hunt, after an hour and a half, almost without a check. "It was one of those straight things that one doesn't often see now-a-days," said Glomax.
"Any pace?" asked Lord Rufford.
"Very good, indeed, for the first forty minutes. I wish you had all been there. It was better fun I take it than shooting rabbits."
Then Hampton put the Captain through his facings as to time and distance and exact places that had been passed, and ended by expressing an opinion that he could have kicked his hat as fast on foot. Whereupon the Captain begged him to try, and hinted that he did not know the country. In answer to which Hampton offered to bet a five-pound note that young Jack Runce would say that the pace had been slow. Jack was the son of the old farmer whom the Senator had so disgusted, and was supposed to know what he was about on a horse. But Glomax declined the bet saying that he did not care a——for Jack Runce. He knew as much about pace as any farmer, or for the matter of that any gentleman, in Ufford or Rufford, and the pace for forty minutes had been very good. Nevertheless all the party were convinced that the "thing" had been so slow that it had not been worth riding to;—a conviction which is not uncommon with gentlemen when they have missed a run. In all this discussion poor Larry took no great part though he knew the country as well as any one. Larry had not as yet got over the awe inspired by the lord in his black coat.
Perhaps Larry's happiest moment in the evening was when Runciman himself brought in the soup, for at that moment Lord Rufford put his hand on his shoulder and desired him to sit down,—and Runciman both heard and saw it. And at dinner, when the champagne had been twice round, he became more comfortable. The conversation got upon Goarly, and in reference to that matter he was quite at home. "It's not my doing," said Lord Rufford. "I have instructed no one to keep him locked up."
"It's a very good job from all that I can hear," said Tom Surbiton.
"All I did was to get Mr. Masters here to take up the case for me, and I learned from him to-day that the rascal had already agreed to take the money I offered. He only bargains that it shall be paid into his own hands,—no doubt desiring to sell the attorney he has employed."
"Bearside has got his money from the American Senator, my lord," said Larry.
"They may fight it out among them. I don't care who gets the money or who pays it as long as I'm not imposed upon."
"We must proceed against that man Scrobby," said Glomax with all the authority of a Master.
"You'll never convict him on Goarly's evidence," said the Lord.
Then Larry could give them further information. Nickem had positively traced the purchase of the red herrings. An old woman in Rufford was ready to swear that she herself had sold them to Mrs. Scrobby. Tom Surbiton suggested that the possession of red herrings was not of itself a crime. Hampton thought that it was corroborative. Captain Battersby wanted to know whether any of the herrings were still in existence, so that they could be sworn to. Glomax was of opinion that villainy of so deep a dye could not have taken place in any other hunting country in England.
"There's been strychnine put down in the Brake too," said Hampton.
"But not in cartloads," said the Master.
"I rather think," said Larry, "that Nickem knows where the strychnine was bought. That'll make a clear case of it. Hanging would be too good for such a scoundrel." This was said after the third glass of champagne, but the opinion was one which was well received by the whole company. After that the Senator's conduct was discussed, and they all agreed that in the whole affair that was the most marvellous circumstance. "They must be queer people over there," said Larry.
"Brutes!" said Glomax. "They once tried a pack of hounds somewhere in one of the States, but they never could run a yard."
There was a good deal of wine drank, which was not unusual at Lord Rufford's dinners. Most of the company were seasoned vessels, and none of them were much the worse for what they drank. But the generous wine got to Larry's heart, and perhaps made his brain a little soft. Lord Rufford remembering what had been said about the young man's misery tried to console him by attention; and as the evening wore on, and when the second cigars had been lit all round, the two were seated together in confidential conversation at a corner of the table. "Yes, my lord; I think I shall hook it," said Larry. "Something has occurred that has made the place not quite so comfortable to me; and as it is all my own I think I shall sell it."
"We should miss you immensely in the hunt," said Lord Rufford, who of course knew what the something was.
"It's very kind of you to say so, my lord. But there are things which may make a man go."
"Nothing serious, I hope."
"Just a young woman, my lord. I don't want it talked about, but I don't mind mentioning it to you."
"You should never let those troubles touch you so closely," said his lordship, whose own withers at this moment were by no means unwrung.
"I dare say not. But if you feel it, how are you to help it? I shall do very well when I get away. Chowton Farm is not the only spot in the world."
"But a man so fond of hunting as you are!"
"Well;—yes. I shall miss the hunting, my lord,—shan't I? If Mr. Morton don't buy the place I should like it to go to your lordship. I offered it to him first because it came from them."
"Quite right. By-the-bye, I hear that Mr. Morton is very ill."
"So I heard," said Larry. "Nupper has been with him, I know, and I fancy they have sent for somebody from London. I don't know that he cares much about the land. He thinks more of the foreign parts he's always in. I don't believe we should fall out about the price, my lord." Then Lord Rufford explained that he would not go into that matter just at present, but that if the place were in the market he would certainly like to buy it. He, however, did as John Morton had done before, and endeavoured to persuade the poor fellow that he should not alter the whole tenor of his life because a young lady would not look at him.
"Good night, Mr. Runciman," said Larry as he made his way down-stairs to the yard. "We've had an uncommon pleasant evening."
"I'm glad you've enjoyed yourself, Larry." Larry thought that his Christian name from the hotel keeper's lips had never sounded so offensively as on the present occasion.
Lord Rufford's letter reached Arabella at her cousin's house, in due course, and was handed to her in the morning as she came down to breakfast. The envelope bore his crest and coronet, and she was sure that more than one pair of eyes had already seen it. Her mother had been in the room some time before her, and would of course know that the letter was from Lord Rufford. An indiscreet word or two had been said in the hearing of Mrs. Connop Green,—as to which Arabella had already scolded her mother most vehemently, and Mrs. Connop Green too would probably have seen the letter, and would know that it had come from the lover of whom boasts had been made. The Connop Greens would be ready to worship Arabella down to the very soles of her feet if she were certainly,—without a vestige of doubt,—engaged to be the wife of Lord Rufford. But there had been so many previous mistakes! And they, too, had heard of Mr. John Morton. They too were a little afraid of Arabella though she was undoubtedly the niece of a Duke.
She was aware now,—as always,—how much depended on her personal bearing; but this was a moment of moments! She would fain have kept the letter, and have opened it in the retirement of her own room. She knew its terrible importance, and was afraid of her own countenance when she should read it. All the hopes of her life were contained in that letter. But were she to put it in her pocket she would betray her anxiety by doing so. She found herself bound to open it and read it at once,—and she did open it and read it.
After all it was what she had expected. It was very decided, very short, very cold, and carrying with it no sign of weakness. But it was of such a letter that she had thought when she resolved that she would apply to Lord Mistletoe, and endeavour to put the whole family of Trefoil in arms. She had been,—so she had assured herself,—quite sure that that kind, loving response which she had solicited, would not be given to her. But yet the stern fact, now that it was absolutely in her hands, almost overwhelmed her. She could not restrain the dull dead look of heart-breaking sorrow which for a few moments clouded her face,—a look which took away all her beauty, lengthening her cheeks, and robbing her eyes of that vivacity which it was the task of her life to assume. "Is anything the matter, my dear?" asked Mrs. Connop Green.
Then she made a final effort,—an heroic effort. "What do you think, mamma?" she said, paying no attention to her cousin's inquiry.
"What is it, Arabella?"
"Jack got some injury that day at Peltry, and is so lame that they don't know whether he'll ever put his foot to the ground again."
"Poor fellow," said Mr. Green. "Who is Jack?"
"Jack is a horse, Mr. Green;—and such a horse that one cannot but be sorry for him. Poor Jack! I don't know any Christian whose lameness would be such a nuisance."
"Does Lord Rufford write about his horses?" asked Mrs. Connop Green, thus betraying that knowledge as to the letter which she had obtained from the envelope.
"If you must know all the truth about it," said Arabella, "the horse is my horse, and not Lord Rufford's. And as he is the only horse I have got, and as he's the dearest horse in all the world, you must excuse my being a little sorry about him. Poor Jack!" After that the breakfast was eaten and everybody in the room believed the story of the horse's lameness—except Lady Augustus.
When breakfast and the loitering after breakfast were well over, so that she could escape without exciting any notice, she made her way up to her bedroom. In a few minutes,—so that again there should be nothing noticeable,—her mother followed her. But her door was locked. "It is I, Arabella," said her mother.
"You can't come in at present, mamma. I am busy."
"But Arabella."
"You can't come in at present, mamma." Then Lady Augustus slowly glided away to her own room and there waited for tidings.
The whole form of the girl's face was altered when she was alone. Her features in themselves were not lovely. Her cheeks and chin were heavy. Her brow was too low, and her upper lip too long. Her nose and teeth were good, and would have been very handsome had they belonged to a man. Her complexion had always been good till it had been injured by being improved,—and so was the carriage of her head and the outside lines of her bust and figure, and her large eyes, though never soft, could be bright and sparkle. Skill had done much for her and continued effort almost more. But now the effort was dropped and that which skill had done turned against her. She was haggard, lumpy, and almost hideous in her bewildered grief.
Had there been a word of weakness in the short letter she might have founded upon it some hope. It did not occur to her that he had had the letter written for him, and she was astonished at its curt strength. How could he dare to say that she had mistaken him? Had she not lain in his arms while he embraced her? How could he have found the courage to say that he had had no thought of marriage when he had declared to her that he loved her? She must have known that she had hunted him as a fox is hunted;—and yet she believed that she was being cruelly ill-used. For a time all that dependence on Lord Mistletoe and her uncle deserted her. What effect could they have on a man who would write such a letter as that? Had she known that the words were the words of his brother-in-law, even that would have given her some hope.
But what should she do? Whatever steps she took she must take at once. And she must tell her mother. Her mother's help would be necessary to her now in whatever direction she might turn her mind. She almost thought that she would abandon him without another word. She had been strong in her reliance on family aid till the time for invoking it had come; but now she believed that it would be useless. Could it be that such a man as this would be driven into marriage by the interference of Lord Mistletoe! She would much like to bring down some punishment on his head;—but in doing so she would cut all other ground from under her own feet. There were still open to her Patagonia and the Paragon.
She hated the Paragon, and she recoiled with shuddering from the idea of Patagonia. But as for hating,—she hated Lord Rufford most. And what was there that she loved? She tried to ask herself some question even as to that. There certainly was no man for whom she cared a straw; nor had there been for the last six or eight years. Even when he was kissing her she was thinking of her built-up hair, of her pearl powder, her paint, and of possible accidents and untoward revelations. The loan of her lips had been for use only, and not for any pleasure which she had even in pleasing him. In her very swoon she had felt the need of being careful at all points. It was all labour, and all care,—and, alas, alas, all disappointment!
But there was a future through which she must live. How might she best avoid the misfortune of poverty for the twenty, thirty, or forty years which might be accorded to her? What did it matter whom or what she hated? The housemaid probably did not like cleaning grates; nor the butcher killing sheep; nor the sempstress stitching silks. She must live. And if she could only get away from her mother that in itself would be something. Most people were distasteful to her, but no one so much as her mother. Here in England she knew that she was despised among the people with whom she lived. And now she would be more despised than ever. Her uncle and aunt, though she disliked them, had been much to her. It was something,—that annual visit to Mistletoe, though she never enjoyed it when she was there. But she could well understand that after such a failure as this, after such a game, played before their own eyes in their own house, her uncle and her aunt would drop her altogether. She had played this game so boldly that there was no retreat. Would it not therefore be better that she should fly altogether?
There was a time on that morning in which she had made up her mind that she would write a most affectionate letter to Morton, telling him that her people had now agreed to his propositions as to settlement, and assuring him that from henceforward she would be all his own. She did think that were she to do so she might still go with him to Patagonia. But, if so, she must do it at once. The delay had already been almost too long. In that case she would not say a word in reply to Lord Rufford, and would allow all that to be as though it had never been. Then again there arose to her mind the remembrance of Rufford Hall, of all the glories, of the triumph over everybody. Then again there was the idea of a "forlorn hope." She thought that she could have brought herself to do it, if only death would have been the alternative of success when she had resolved to make the rush.
It was nearly one when she went to her mother and even then she was undecided. But the joint agony of the solitude and the doubts had been too much for her and she found herself constrained to seek a counsellor. "He has thrown you over," said Lady Augustus as soon as the door was closed.
"Of course he has," said Arabella walking up the room, and again playing her part even before her mother.
"I knew it would be so."
"You knew nothing of the kind, mamma, and your saying so is simply an untruth. It was you who put me up to it."
"Arabella, that is false."
"It wasn't you, I suppose, who made me throw over Mr. Morton and Bragton."
"Certainly not."
"That is so like you, mamma. There isn't a single thing that you do or say that you don't deny afterwards." These little compliments were so usual among them that at the present moment they excited no great danger. "There's his letter. I suppose you had better read it." And she chucked the document to her mother.
"It is very decided," said Lady Augustus.
"It is the falsest, the most impudent, and the most scandalous letter that a man ever wrote to a woman. I could horsewhip him for it myself if I could get near him."
"Is it all over, Arabella?"
"All over! What questions you do ask, mamma! No. It is not all over. I'll stick to him like a leech. He proposed to me as plainly as any man ever did to any woman. I don't care what people may say or think. He hasn't heard the last of me; and so he'll find." And thus in her passion she made up her mind that she would not yet abandon the hunt.
"What will you do, my dear?"
"What will I do? How am I to say what I will do? If I were standing near him with a knife in my hand I would stick it into his heart. I would! Mistaken him! Liar! They talk of girls lying; but what girl would lie like that?"
"But something must be done."
"If papa were not such a fool as he is, he could manage it all for me," said Arabella dutifully. "I must see my father and I must dictate a letter for him. Where is papa?"
"In London, I suppose."
"You must come up to London with me to-morrow. We shall have to go to his club and get him out. It must be done immediately; and then I must see Lord Mistletoe, and I will write to the Duke."
"Would it not be better to write to your papa?" said Lady Augustus, not liking the idea of being dragged away so quickly from comfortable quarters.
"No; it wouldn't. If you won't go I shall, and you must give me some money. I shall write to Lord Rufford too."
And so it was at last decided, the wretched old woman being dragged away up to London on some excuse which the Connop Greens were not sorry to accept. But on that same afternoon Arabella wrote to Lord Rufford.
Your letter has amazed me. I cannot understand it. It seems to be almost impossible that it should really have come from you. How can you say that I have mistaken you? There has been no mistake. Surely that letter cannot have been written by you.Of course I have been obliged to tell my father everything.Arabella.
Your letter has amazed me. I cannot understand it. It seems to be almost impossible that it should really have come from you. How can you say that I have mistaken you? There has been no mistake. Surely that letter cannot have been written by you.
Of course I have been obliged to tell my father everything.
Arabella.
On the following day at about four in the afternoon the mother and daughter drove up to the door of Graham's Club in Bond Street, and there they found Lord Augustus. With considerable difficulty he was induced to come down from the whist room, and was forced into the brougham. He was a handsome fat man, with a long grey beard, who passed his whole life in eating, drinking, and playing whist, and was troubled by no scruples and no principles. He would not cheat at cards because it was dangerous and ungentlemanlike, and if discovered would lead to his social annihilation; but as to paying money that he owed to tradesmen, it never occurred to him as being a desirable thing as long as he could get what he wanted without doing so. He had expended his own patrimony and his wife's fortune, and now lived on an allowance made to him by his brother. Whatever funds his wife might have not a shilling of them ever came from him. When he began to understand something of the nature of the business on hand, he suggested that his brother, the Duke, could do what was desirable infinitely better than he could. "He won't think anything of me," said Lord Augustus.
"We'll make him think something," said Arabella sternly. "You must do it, papa. They'd turn you out of the club if they knew that you had refused." Then he looked up in the brougham and snarled at her. "Papa, you must copy the letter and sign it."
"How am I to know the truth of it all?" he asked.
"It is quite true," said Lady Augustus. There was very much more of it, but at last he was carried away bodily, and in his daughter's presence he did write and sign the followingletter;—
My Lord,I have heard from my daughter a story which has surprised me very much. It appears that she has been staying with you at Rufford Hall, and again at Mistletoe, and that while at the latter place you proposed marriage to her. She tells me with heart-breaking concern that you have now repudiated your own proposition,—not only once made but repeated. Her condition is most distressing. She is in all respects your Lordship's equal. As her father I am driven to ask you what excuse you have to make, or whether she has interpreted you aright.I have the honour to be,Your very humble servant,Augustus Trefoil.
My Lord,
I have heard from my daughter a story which has surprised me very much. It appears that she has been staying with you at Rufford Hall, and again at Mistletoe, and that while at the latter place you proposed marriage to her. She tells me with heart-breaking concern that you have now repudiated your own proposition,—not only once made but repeated. Her condition is most distressing. She is in all respects your Lordship's equal. As her father I am driven to ask you what excuse you have to make, or whether she has interpreted you aright.
I have the honour to be,Your very humble servant,
Augustus Trefoil.