Lord Rufford had been quite right about the Duchess. Arabella had only taken off her hat and was drinking her tea when the Duchess came up to her. "Lord Rufford says that you were too tired to come in," said the Duchess.
"I am tired, aunt;—very tired. But there is nothing the matter with me. We had to ride ever so far coming home and it was that knocked me up."
"It was very bad, your coming home with him in a postchaise, Arabella."
"Why was it bad, aunt? I thought it very nice."
"My dear, it shouldn't have been done. You ought to have known that. I certainly wouldn't have had you here had I thought that there would be anything of the kind."
"It is going to be all right," said Arabella laughing.
According to her Grace's view of things it was not and could not be made "all right." It would not have been all right were the girl to become Lady Rufford to-morrow. The scandal, or loud reproach due to evil doings, may be silenced by subsequent conduct. The merited punishment may not come visibly. But nothing happening after could make it right that a young lady should come home from hunting in a postchaise alone with a young unmarried man. When the Duchess first heard it she thought what would have been her feelings if such a thing had been suggested in reference to one of her own daughters! Lord Rufford had come to her in the drawing-room and had told her the story in a quiet pleasant manner,—merely saying that Miss Trefoil was too much fatigued to show herself at the present moment. She had thought from his manner that her niece's story had been true. There was a cordiality and apparent earnestness as to the girl's comfort which seemed to be compatible with the story. But still she could hardly understand that Lord Rufford should wish to have it known that he travelled about the country in such a fashion with the girl he intended to marry. But if it were true, then she must look after her niece. And even if it were not true,—in which case she would never have the girl at Mistletoe again,—yet she could not ignore her presence in the house. It was now the 18th of January. Lord Rufford was to go on the following day, and Arabella on the 20th. The invitation had not been given so as to stretch beyond that. If it could be at once decided,—declared by Lord Rufford to the Duke,—that the match was to be a match, then the invitation should be renewed, Arabella should be advised to put off her other friends, and Lord Rufford should be invited to come back early in the next month and spend a week or two in the proper fashion with his future bride. All that had been settled between the Duke and the Duchess. So much should be done for the sake of the family. But the Duke had not seen his way to asking Lord Rufford any question.
The Duchess must now find out the truth if she could,—so that if the story were false she might get rid of the girl and altogether shake her off from the Mistletoe roof tree. Arabella's manner was certainly free from any appearance of hesitation or fear. "I don't know about being all right," said the Duchess. "It cannot be right that you should have come home with him alone in a hired carriage."
"Is a hired carriage wickeder than a private one?"
"If a carriage had been sent from here for you, it would have been different;—but even then he should not have come with you."
"But he would I'm sure;—and I should have asked him. What;—the man I'm engaged to marry! Mayn't he sit in a carriage with me?"
The Duchess could not explain herself, and thought that she had better drop that topic. "What does he mean to do now, Arabella?"
"What does who mean, aunt?"
"Lord Rufford."
"He means to marry me. And he means to go from here to Mr. Surbiton's to-morrow. I don't quite understand the question."
"And what do you mean to do?"
"I mean to marry him. And I mean to join mamma in London on Wednesday. I believe we are to go to the Connop Green's the next day. Mr. Connop Green is a sort of cousin of mamma;—but they are odious people."
"Who is to see Lord Rufford? However, my dear, if you are very tired, I will leave you now."
"No, aunt. Stay a moment if you will be so very kind. I am tired; but if I were twice as tired I would find strength to talk about this. If my uncle would speak to Lord Rufford at once I should take it as the very kindest thing he could do. I could not send him to my uncle; for, after all, one's uncle and one's father are not the same. I could only refer him to papa. But if the Duke would speak to him!"
"Did he renew his offer to-day?"
"He has done nothing else but renew it ever since he has been in the carriage with me. That's the plain truth. He made his offer at Rufford. He renewed it in the wood yesterday;—and he repeated it over and over again as we came home to-day. It may have been very wrong, but so it was." Miss Trefoil must have thought that kissing and proposing were the same thing. Other young ladies have, perhaps, before now made such a mistake. But this young lady had had much experience and should have known better.
"Lord Rufford had better perhaps speak to your uncle."
"Will you tell him so, aunt?"
The Duchess thought about it for a moment. She certainly could not tell Lord Rufford to speak to the Duke without getting the Duke's leave to tell him so. And then, if all this were done, and Lord Rufford were to assure the Duke that the young lady had made a mistake, how derogatory would all that be to the exalted quiescence of the house of Mayfair! She thoroughly wished that her niece were out of the house; for though she did believe the story, her belief was not thorough. "I will speak to your uncle," she said. "And now you had better go to sleep."
"And, dear aunt, pray excuse me at dinner. I have been so excited, so flurried, and so fatigued, that I fear I should make a fool of myself if I attempted to come down. I should get into a swoon, which would be dreadful. My maid shall bring me a bit of something and a glass of sherry, and you shall find me in the drawing-room when you come out." Then the Duchess went, and Arabella was left alone to take another view of the circumstances of the campaign.
Though there were still infinite dangers, yet she could hardly wish that anything should be altered. Should Lord Rufford disown her, which she knew to be quite possible, there would be a general collapse and the world would crash over her head. But she had known, when she took this business in hand, that as success would open Elysium to her, so would failure involve her in absolute ruin. She was determined that she would mar nothing now by cowardice, and having so resolved, and having fortified herself with perhaps two glasses of sherry, she went down to the drawing-room a little before nine, and laid herself out upon a sofa till the ladies should come in.
Lord Rufford had gone to bed, as was his wont on such occasions, with orders that he should be called to dress for dinner at half-past seven. But as he laid himself down he made up his mind that, instead of sleeping, he would give himself up to thinking about Arabella Trefoil. The matter was going beyond a joke, and would require some thinking. He liked her well enough, but was certainly not in love with her. I doubt whether men ever are in love with girls who throw themselves into their arms. A man's love, till it has been chastened and fastened by the feeling of duty which marriage brings with it, is instigated mainly by the difficulty of pursuit. "It is hardly possible that anything so sweet as that should ever be mine; and yet, because I am a man, and because it is so heavenly sweet, I will try." That is what men say to themselves, but Lord Rufford had had no opportunity of saying that to himself in regard to Miss Trefoil. The thing had been sweet, but not heavenly sweet; and he had never for a moment doubted the possibility. Now at any rate he would make up his mind. But, instead of doing so, he went to sleep, and when he got up he was ten minutes late, and was forced, as he dressed himself, to think of the Duke's dinner instead of Arabella Trefoil.
The Duchess before dinner submitted herself and all her troubles at great length to the Duke, but the Duke could give her no substantial comfort. Of course it had all been wrong. He supposed that they ought not to have been found walking together in the dark on Sunday afternoon. The hunting should not have been arranged without sanction; and the return home in the hired carriage had no doubt been highly improper. But what could he do? If the marriage came off it would be all well. If not, this niece must not be invited to Mistletoe again. As to speaking to Lord Rufford, he did not quite see how he was to set about it. His own girls had been married in so very different a fashion! He could imagine nothing so disagreeable as to have to ask a gentleman his intentions. Parental duty might make it necessary when a daughter had not known how to keep her own position intact;—but here there was no parental duty. If Lord Rufford would speak to him, then indeed there would be no difficulty. At last he told his wife that, if she could find an opportunity of suggesting to the young Lord that he might perhaps say a word to the young lady's uncle without impropriety,—if she could do this in a light easy way, so as to run no peril of a scene,—she might do so.
When the two duchesses and all the other ladies came out into the drawing-room, Arabella was found upon the sofa. Of course she became the centre of a little interest for a few minutes, and the more so, as her aunt went up to her and made some inquiries. Had she had any dinner? Was she less fatigued? The fact of the improper return home in the postchaise had become generally known, and there were some there who would have turned a very cold shoulder to Arabella had not her aunt noticed her. Perhaps there were some who had envied her Jack, and Lord Rufford's admiration, and even the postchaise. But as long as her aunt countenanced her it was not likely that any one at Mistletoe would be unkind to her. The Duchess of Omnium did indeed remark to Lady Chiltern that she remembered something of the same kind happening to the same girl soon after her own marriage. As the Duchess had now been married a great many years this was unkind;—but it was known that when the Duchess of Omnium did dislike any one, she never scrupled to show it. "Lord Rufford is about the silliest man of his day," she said afterwards to the same lady; "but there is one thing which I do not think even he is silly enough to do."
It was nearly ten o'clock when the gentlemen came into the room and then it was that the Duchess,—Arabella's aunt,—must find the opportunity of giving Lord Rufford the hint of which the Duke had spoken. He was to leave Mistletoe on the morrow and might not improbably do so early. Of all women she was the steadiest, the most tranquil, the least abrupt in her movements. She could not pounce upon a man, and nail him down, and say what she had to say, let him be as unwilling as he might to hear it. At last, however, seeing Lord Rufford standing alone,—he had then just left the sofa on which Arabella was still lying,—without any apparent effort she made her way up to his side. "You had rather a long day," she said.
"Not particularly, Duchess."
"You had to come home so far!"
"About the average distance. Did you think it a hard day, Maurice?" Then he called to his aid a certain Lord Maurice St. John, a hard-riding and hard-talking old friend of the Trefoil family who gave the Duchess a very clear account of all the performance, during which Lord Rufford fell into an interesting conversation with Mrs. Mulready, the wife of the neighbouring bishop.
After that the Duchess made another attempt. "Lord Rufford," she said, "we should be so glad if you would come back to us the first week in February. The Prices will be here and the Mackenzies,and—."
"I am pledged to stay with my sister till the fifth, and on the sixth Surbiton and all his lot come to me. Battersby, is it not the sixth that you and Surbiton come to Rufford?"
"I rather think it is," said Battersby.
"I wish it were possible. I like Mistletoe so much. It's so central."
"Very well for hunting,—is it not, Lord Rufford?" But that horrid Captain Battersby did not go out of the way.
"I wonder whether Lady Chiltern would do me a favour," said Lord Rufford stepping across the room in search of that lady. He might be foolish, but when the Duchess of Omnium declared him to be the silliest man of the day I think she used a wrong epithet. The Duchess was very patient and intended to try again, but on that evening she got no opportunity.
Captain Battersby was Lord Rufford's particular friend on this occasion and had come over with him from Mr. Surbiton's house. "Bat," he said as they were sitting close to each other in the smoking-room that night, "I mean to make an early start to-morrow."
"What;—to get to Surbiton's?"
"I've got something to do on the way. I want to look at a horse at Stamford."
"I'll be off with you."
"No;—don't do that. I'll go in my own cart. I'll make my man get hold of my groom and manage it somehow. I can leave my things and you can bring them. Only say to-morrow that I was obliged to go."
"I understand."
"Heard something, you know, and all that kind of thing. Make my apologies to the Duchess. In point of fact I must be in Stamford at ten."
"I'll manage it all," said Captain Battersby, who made a very shrewd guess at the cause which drew his friend to such an uncomfortable proceeding. After that Lord Rufford went to his room and gave a good deal of trouble that night to some of the servants in reference to the steps which would be necessary to take him out of harm's way before the Duchess would be up on the morrow.
Arabella when she heard of the man's departure on the following morning, which she luckily did from her own maid, was for some time overwhelmed by it. Of course the man was running away from her. There could be no doubt of it. She had watched him narrowly on the previous evening, and had seen that her aunt had tried in vain to speak to him. But she did not on that account give up the game. At any rate they had not found her out at Mistletoe. That was something. Of course it would have been infinitely better for her could he have been absolutely caught and nailed down before he left the house; but that was perhaps more than she had a right to expect. She could still pursue him; still write to him;—and at last, if necessary, force her father to do so. But she must trust now chiefly to her own correspondence.
"He told me, aunt, the last thing last night that he was going," she said.
"Why did you not mention it?"
"I thought he would have told you. I saw him speaking to you. He had received some telegram about a horse. He's the most flighty man in the world about such things. I am to write to him before I leave this to-morrow." Then the Duchess did not believe a word of the engagement. She felt at any rate certain that if there was an engagement, Lord Rufford did not mean to keep it.
While these great efforts were being made by Arabella Trefoil at Mistletoe, John Morton was vacillating in an unhappy mood between London and Bragton. It may be remembered that an offer was made to him as to the purchase of Chowton Farm. At that time the Mistletoe party was broken up, and Miss Trefoil was staying with her mother at the Connop Greens. By the morning post on the next day he received a note from the Senator in which Mr. Gotobed stated that business required his presence at Dillsborough and suggested that he should again become a guest at Bragton for a few days. Morton was so sick of his own company and so tired of thinking of his own affairs that he was almost glad to welcome the Senator. At any rate he had no means of escaping, and the Senator came. The two men were alone at the house and the Senator was full of his own wrongs as well as those of Englishmen in general. Mr. Bearside had written to him very cautiously, but pressing for an immediate remittance of £25, and explaining that the great case could not be carried on without that sum of money. This might have been very well as being open to the idea that the Senator had the option of either paying the money or of allowing the great case to be abandoned, but that the attorney in the last paragraph of his letter intimated that the Senator would be of course aware that he was liable for the whole cost of the action be it what it might. He had asked a legal friend in London his opinion, and the legal friend had seemed to think that perhaps he was liable. What orders he had given to Bearside he had given without any witness, and at any rate had already paid a certain sum. The legal friend, when he heard all that Mr. Gotobed was able to tell him about Goarly, had advised the Senator to settle with Bearside,—taking a due receipt and having some person with him when he did so. The legal friend had thought that a small sum of money would suffice. "He went so far as to suggest," said the Senator with indignant energy, "that if I contested my liability to the man's charges, the matter would go against me because I had interfered in such a case on the unpopular side. I should think that in this great country I should find justice administered on other terms than that." Morton attempted to explain to him that his legal friend had not been administering justice but only giving advice. He had, so Morton told him, undoubtedly taken up the case of one blackguard, and in urging it had paid his money to another. He had done so as a foreigner,—loudly proclaiming as his reason for such action that the man he supported would be unfairly treated unless he gave his assistance. Of course he could not expect sympathy. "I want no sympathy," said the Senator;—"I only want justice." Then the two gentlemen had become a little angry with each other. Morton was the last man in the world to have been aggressive on such a matter;—but with the Senator it was necessary either to be prostrate or to fight.
But with Mr. Gotobed such fighting never produced ill blood. It was the condition of his life, and it must be supposed that he liked it. On the next morning he did not scruple to ask his host's advice as to what he had better do, and they agreed to walk across to Goarly's house and to ascertain from the man himself what he thought or might have to say about his own case. On their way they passed up the road leading to Chowton Farm, and at the gate leading into the garden they found Larry Twentyman standing. Morton shook hands with the young farmer and introduced the Senator. Larry was still woe-begone though he endeavoured to shake off his sorrows and to appear to be gay. "I never see much of the man," he said when they told him that they were going across to call upon his neighbour, "and I don't know that I want to."
"He doesn't seem to have much friendship among you all," said the Senator.
"Quite as much as he deserves, Mr. Gotobed," replied Larry. The Senator's name had lately become familiar as a household word in Dillsborough, and was, to tell the truth, odious to such men as Larry Twentyman. "He's a thundering rascal, and the only place fit for him in the county is Rufford gaol. He's like to be there soon, I think."
"That's what provokes me," said the Senator. "You think he's a rascal, Mister."
"I do."
"And because you take upon yourself to think so you'd send him to Rufford gaol! There was one gentleman somewhere about here told me he ought to be hung, and because I would not agree with him he got up and walked away from me at table, carrying his provisions with him. Another man in the next field to this insulted me because I said I was going to see Goarly. The clergyman in Dillsborough and the hotelkeepers were just as hard upon me. But you see, Mister, that what we want to find out is whether Goarly or the Lord has the right of it in this particular case."
"I know which has the right without any more finding out," said Larry. "The shortest way to his house is by the ride through the wood, Mr. Morton. It takes you out on his land on the other side. But I don't think you'll find him there. One of my men told me that he had made himself scarce." Then he added as the two were going on, "I should like to have just a word with you, Mr. Morton. I've been thinking of what you said, and I know it was kind. I'll take a month over it. I won't talk of selling Chowton till the end of February;—but if I feel about it then as I do now I can't stay."
"That's right, Mr. Twentyman;—and work hard, like a man, through the month. Go out hunting, and don't allow yourself a moment for moping."
"I will," said Larry, as he retreated to the house, and then he gave directions that his horse might be ready for the morrow.
They went in through the wood, and the Senator pointed out the spot at which Bean the gamekeeper had been so insolent to him. He could not understand, he said, why he should be treated so roughly, as these men must be aware that he had nothing to gain himself. "If I were to go into Mickewa," said Morton, "and interfere there with the peculiarities of the people as you have done here, it's my belief that they'd have had the eyes out of my head long before this."
"That only shows that you don't know Mickewa," said the Senator. "Its people are the most law-abiding population on the face of the earth."
They passed through the wood, and a couple of fields brought them to Goarly's house. As they approached it by the back the only live thing they saw was the old goose which had been so cruelly deprived of her companions and progeny. The goose was waddling round the dirty pool, and there were to be seen sundry ugly signs of a poor man's habitation, but it was not till they had knocked at the window as well as the door that Mrs. Goarly showed herself. She remembered the Senator at once and curtseyed to him; and when Morton introduced himself she curtseyed again to the Squire of Bragton. When Goarly was asked for she shook her head and declared that she knew nothing about him. He had been gone, she said, for the last week, and had left no word as to whither he was going;—nor had he told her why. "Has he given up his action against Lord Rufford?" asked the Senator.
"Indeed then, sir, I can't tell you a word about it."
"I've been told that he has taken Lord Rufford's money."
"He ain't 'a taken no money as I've seed, sir. I wish he had, for money's sore wanted here, and if the gen'leman has a mind to bekind-hearted—"Then she intimated her own readiness to take any contribution to the good cause which the Senator might be willing to make at that moment. But the Senator buttoned up his breeches pockets with stern resolution. Though he still believed Lord Rufford to be altogether wrong, he was beginning to think that the Goarlys were not worthy his benevolence. As she came to the door with them and accompanied them a few yards across the field she again told the tragic tale of her goose;—but the Senator had not another word to say to her.
On that same day Morton drove Mr. Gotobed into Dillsborough and consented to go with him to Mr. Bearside's office. They found the attorney at home, and before anything was said as to payment they heard his account of the action. If Goarly had consented to take any money from Lord Rufford he knew nothing about it. As far as he was aware the action was going on. Ever so many witnesses must be brought from a distance who had seen the crop standing and who would have no bias against the owner,—as would be the case with neighbours, such as Lawrence Twentyman. Of course it was not easy to oppose such a man as Lord Rufford and a little money must be spent. Indeed such, he said, was his interest in the case that he had already gone further than he ought to have done out of his own pocket. Of course they would be successful,—that is if the matter were carried on with spirit, and then the money would all come back again. But just at present a little money must be spent. "I don't mean to spend it," said the Senator.
"I hope you won't stick to that, Mr. Gotobed."
"But I shall, sir. I understand from your letter that you look to me for funds."
"Certainly I do, Mr. Gotobed;—because you told me to do so."
"I told you nothing of the kind, Mr. Bearside."
"You paid me £15 on account, Mr. Gotobed."
"I paid you £15 certainly."
"And told me that more should be coming as it was wanted. Do you think I should have gone on for such a man as Goarly,—a fellow without a shilling,—unless he had some one like you to back him? It isn't likely. Now, Mr. Morton, I appeal to you."
"I don't suppose that my friend has made himself liable for your bill because he paid you £15 with the view of assisting Goarly," said Morton.
"But he said that he meant to go on, Mr. Morton. He said that plain, and I can swear it. Now, Mr. Gotobed, you just say out like an honest man whether you didn't give me to understand that you meant to go on."
"I never employed you or made myself responsible for your bill."
"You authorized me, distinctly,—most distinctly, and I shall stick to it. When a gentleman comes to a lawyer's office and pays his money and tells that lawyer as how he means to see the case out,—explaining his reasons as you did when you said all that against the landlords and squires and nobility of this here country,—why then that lawyer has a right to think that that gentleman is his mark."
"I thought you were employed by Mr. Scrobby," said Morton, who had heard much of the story by this time.
"Then, Mr. Morton, I must make bold to say that you have heard wrong. I know nothing of Mr. Scrobby and don't want. There ain't nothing about the poisoning of that fox in this case of ours. Scrobby and Goarly may have done that, or Scrobby and Goarly may be as innocent as two babes unborn for aught I know or care. Excuse me, Mr. Morton, but I have to be on my p's and q's I see. This is a case for trespass and damage against Lord Rufford in which we ask for 40s.an acre. Of course there is expenses. There's my own time. I ain't to be kept here talking to you two gentlemen for nothing, I suppose. Well; this gentleman comes to me and pays me £15 to go on. I couldn't have gone on without something. The gentleman saw that plain enough. And he told me he'd see me through the rest of it."
"I said nothing of the kind, sir."
"Very well. Then we must put it to a jury. May I make bold to ask whether you are going out of the country all at once?"
"I shall be here for the next two months, at least."
"Happy to hear it, sir, and have no doubt it will all be settled before that time—amiable or otherwise. But as I am money out of pocket I did hope you would have paid me something on account to-day."
Then Mr. Gotobed made his offer, informing Mr. Bearside that he had brought his friend, Mr. Morton, with him in order that there might be a witness. "I could see that, sir, with half an eye," said the attorney unabashed. He was willing to pay Mr. Bearside a further sum of £10 immediately to be quit of the affair, not because he thought that any such sum was due, but because he wished to free himself from further trouble in the matter. Mr. Bearside hinted in a very cavalier way that £20 might be thought of. A further payment of £20 would cover the money he was out of pocket. But this proposition Mr. Gotobed indignantly refused, and then left the office with his friend. "Wherever there are lawyers there will be rogues," said the Senator, as soon as he found himself in the street. "It is a noble profession, that of the law; the finest perhaps that the work of the world affords; but it gives scope and temptation for roguery. I do not think, however, that you would find anything in America so bad as that."
"Why did you go to him without asking any questions?"
"Of whom was I to ask questions? When I took up Goarly's case he had already put it into this man's hands."
"I am sorry you should be troubled, Mr. Gotobed; but, upon my word, I cannot say but what it serves you right."
"That is because you are offended with me. I endeavoured to protect a poor man against a rich man, and that in this country is cause of offence."
After leaving the attorney's office they called on Mr. Mainwaring the rector, and found that he knew, or professed to know, a great deal more about Goarly, than they had learned from Bearside. According to his story Nickem, who was clerk to Mr. Masters, had Goarly in safe keeping somewhere. The rector indeed was acquainted with all the details. Scrobby had purchased the red herrings and strychnine, and had employed Goarly to walk over by night to Rufford and fetch them. The poison at that time had been duly packed in the herrings. Goarly had done this and had, at Scrobby's instigation, laid the bait down in Dillsborough Wood. Nickem was now at work trying to learn where Scrobby had purchased the poison, as it was feared that Goarly's evidence alone would not suffice to convict the man. But if the strychnine could be traced and the herrings, then there would be almost a certainty of punishing Scrobby.
"And what about Goarly?" asked the Senator.
"He would escape of course," said the rector. "He would get a little money and after such an experience would probably become a good friend to fox-hunting."
"And quite a respectable man!" The rector did not guarantee this but seemed to think that there would at any rate be promise of improved conduct. "The place ought to be too hot to hold him!" exclaimed the Senator indignantly. The rector seemed to think it possible that he might find it uncomfortable at first, in which case he would sell the land at a good price to Lord Rufford and every one concerned would have been benefited by the transaction,—except Scrobby for whom no one would feel any pity.
The two gentlemen then promised to come and dine with the rector on the following day. He feared he said that he could not make up a party as there was,—he declared,—nobody in Dillsborough. "I never knew such a place," said the rector. "Except old Nupper, who is there? Masters is a very decent fellow himself, but he has got out of that kind of thing;—and you can't ask a man without asking his wife. As for clergymen, I'm sick of dining with my own cloth and discussing the troubles of sermons. There never was such a place as Dillsborough." Then he whispered a word to the Squire. Was the Squire unwilling to meet his cousin Reginald Morton? Things were said and people never knew what was true and what was false. Then John Morton declared that he would be very happy to meet his cousin.
The company at the rector's house consisted of the Senator, the two Mortons, Mr. Surtees the curate, and old Doctor Nupper. Mrs. Mainwaring was not well enough to appear, and the rector therefore was able to indulge himself in what he called a bachelor party. As a rule he disliked clergymen, but at the last had been driven to invite his curate because he thought six a better number than five for joviality. He began by asking questions as to the Trefoils which were not very fortunate. Of course he had heard that Morton was to marry Arabella Trefoil, and though he made no direct allusion to the fact, as Reginald had done, he spoke in that bland eulogistic tone which clearly showed his purpose. "They went with you to Lord Rufford's, I was told."
"Yes;—they did."
"And now they have left the neighbourhood. A very clever young lady, Miss Trefoil;—and so is her mother, a very clever woman." The Senator, to whom a sort of appeal was made, nodded his assent. "Lord Augustus, I believe, is a brother of the Duke of Mayfair?"
"Yes, he is," said Morton. "I am afraid we are going to have frost again." Then Reginald Morton was sure that the marriage would never take place.
"The Trefoils are a very distinguished family," continued the rector. "I remember the present Duke's father when he was in the cabinet, and knew this man almost intimately when we were at Christchurch together. I don't think this Duke ever took a prominent part in politics."
"I don't know that he ever did," said Morton.
"Dear, dear, how tipsy he was once driving back to Oxford with me in a gig. But he has the reputation of being one of the best landlords in the country now."
"I wonder what it is that gives a man the reputation of being a good landlord. Is it foxes?" asked the Senator. The rector acknowledged with a smile that foxes helped. "Or does it mean that he lets his land below the value? If so, he certainly does more harm than good, though he may like the popularity which he is rich enough to buy."
"It means that he does not exact more than his due," said the rector indiscreetly.
"When I hear a man so highly praised for common honesty I am of course led to suppose that dishonesty in his particular trade is the common rule. The body of English landlords must be exorbitant tyrants when one among them is so highly eulogised for taking no more than his own." Luckily at that moment dinner was announced, and the exceptional character of the Duke of Mayfair was allowed to drop.
Mr. Mainwaring's dinner was very good and his wines were excellent,—a fact of which Mr. Mainwaring himself was much better aware than any of his guests. There is a difficulty in the giving of dinners of which Mr. Mainwaring and some other hosts have become painfully aware. What service do you do to any one in pouring your best claret down his throat, when he knows no difference between that and a much more humble vintage,—your best claret which you feel so sure you cannot replace? Why import canvas-back ducks for appetites which would be quite as well satisfied with those out of the next farm-yard? Your soup, which has been a care since yesterday, your fish, got down with so great trouble from Bond Street on that very day, your saddle of mutton, in selecting which you have affronted every butcher in the neighbourhood, are all plainly thrown away! And yet the hospitable hero who would fain treat his friends as he would be treated himself can hardly arrange his dinners according to the palates of his different guests; nor will he like, when strangers sit at his board, to put nothing better on his table than that cheaper wine with which needful economy induces him to solace himself when alone. I,—I who write this,—have myself seen an honoured guest deluge with the pump my, ah! so hardly earned, most scarce and most peculiar vintage! There is a pang in such usage which some will not understand, but which cut Mr. Mainwaring to the very soul. There was not one among them there who appreciated the fact that the claret on his dinner table was almost the best that its year had produced. It was impossible not to say a word on such a subject at such a moment;—though our rector was not a man who usually lauded his own viands. "I think you will find that claret what you like, Mr. Gotobed," he said. "It's a '57 Mouton, and judges say that it is good."
"Very good indeed," said the Senator. "In the States we haven't got into the way yet of using dinner clarets." It was as good as a play to see the rector wince under the ignominious word. "Your great statesman added much to your national comfort when he took the duty off the lighter kinds of French wines."
The rector could not stand it. He hated light wines. He hated cheap things in general. And he hated Gladstone in particular. "Nothing," said he, "that the statesman you speak of ever did could make such wine as that any cheaper. I am sorry, sir, that you don't perceive the difference."
"In the matter of wine," said the Senator, "I don't think that I have happened to come across anything so good in this country as our old Madeiras. But then, sir, we have been fortunate in our climate. The English atmosphere is not one in which wine seems to reach its full perfection." The rector heaved a deep sigh as he looked up to the ceiling with his hands in his trowsers-pockets. He knew, or thought that he knew, that no one could ever get a glass of good wine in the United States. He knew, or thought that he knew, that the best wine in the world was brought to England. He knew, or thought he knew, that in no other country was wine so well understood, so diligently sought for, and so truly enjoyed as in England. And he imagined that it was less understood and less sought for and less enjoyed in the States than in any other country. He did not as yet know the Senator well enough to fight with him at his own table, and could only groan and moan and look up at the ceiling. Doctor Nupper endeavoured to take away the sting by smacking his lips, and Reginald Morton, who did not in truth care a straw what he drank, was moved to pity and declared the claret to be very fine. "I have nothing to say against it," said the Senator, who was not in the least abashed.
But when the cloth was drawn,—for the rector clung so lovingly to old habits that he delighted to see his mahogany beneath the wine glasses,—a more serious subject of dispute arose suddenly, though perhaps hardly more disagreeable. "The thing in England," said the Senator, "which I find most difficult to understand, is the matter of what you call Church patronage."
"If you'll pass half an hour with Mr. Surtees to-morrow morning, he'll explain it all to you," said the rector, who did not like that any subject connected with his profession should be mooted after dinner.
"I should be delighted," said Mr. Surtees.
"Nothing would give me more pleasure," said the Senator; "but what I mean is this;—the question is, of course, one of paramount importance."
"No doubt it is," said the deluded rector.
"It is very necessary to get good doctors."
"Well, yes, rather;—considering that all men wish to live." That observation, of course, came from Doctor Nupper.
"And care is taken in employing a lawyer,—though, after my experience of yesterday, not always, I should say, so much care as is needful. The man who wants such aid looks about him and gets the best doctor he can for his money, or the best lawyer. But here in England he must take the clergyman provided for him."
"It would be very much better for him if he did," said the rector.
"A clergyman at any rate is supposed to be appointed; and that clergyman he must pay."
"Not at all," said the rector. "The clergy are paid by the wise provision of former ages."
"We will let that pass for the present," said the Senator. "There he is, however he may be paid. How does he get there?" Now it was the fact that Mr. Mainwaring's living had been bought for him with his wife's money,—a fact of which Mr. Gotobed was not aware, but which he would hardly have regarded had he known it. "How does he get there?"
"In the majority of cases the bishop puts him there," said Mr. Surtees.
"And how is the bishop governed in his choice? As far as I can learn the stipends are absurdly various, one man getting £100 a year for working like a horse in a big town, and another £1000 for living an idle life in a luxurious country house. But the bishop of course gives the bigger plums to the best men. How is it then that the big plums find their way so often to the sons and sons-in-law and nephews of the bishops?"
"Because the bishop has looked after their education and principles," said the rector.
"And taught them how to choose their wives," said the Senator with imperturbable gravity.
"I am not the son of a bishop, sir," exclaimed the rector.
"I wish you had been, sir, if it would have done you any good. A general can't make his son a colonel at the age of twenty-five, or an admiral his son a first lieutenant, or a judge his a Queen's Counsellor,—nor can the head of an office promote his to be a chief secretary. It is only a bishop can do this;—I suppose because a cure of souls is so much less important than the charge of a ship or the discipline of twenty or thirty clerks."
"The bishops don't do it," said the rector fiercely.
"Then the statistics which have been put into my hands belie them. But how is it with those the bishops don't appoint? There seems to me to be such a complication of absurdities as to defy explanation."
"I think I could explain them all," said Mr. Surtees mildly.
"If you can do so satisfactorily, I shall be very glad to hear it," continued the Senator, who seemed in truth to be glad to hear no one but himself. "A lad of one-and-twenty learns his lessons so well that he has to be rewarded at his college, and a part of his reward consists in his having a parish entrusted to him when he is forty years old, to which he can maintain his right whether he be in any way trained for such work or no. Is that true?"
"His collegiate education is the best training he can have," said the rector.
"I came across a young fellow the other day," continued the Senator, "in a very nice house, with £700 a year, and learned that he had inherited the living because he was his father's second son. Some poor clergyman had been keeping it ready for him for the last fifteen years and had to turn out as soon as this young spark could be made a clergyman."
"It was his father's property," said the rector, "and the poor man had had great kindness shown him for those fifteen years."
"Exactly;—his father's property! And this is what you call a cure of souls! And another man had absolutely had his living bought for him by his uncle,—just as he might have bought him a farm. He couldn't have bought him the command of a regiment or a small judgeship. In those matters you require capacity. It is only when you deal with the Church that you throw to the winds all ideas of fitness. 'Sir,' or 'Madam,' or perhaps, 'my little dear,' you are bound to come to your places in Church and hear me expound the Word of God because I have paid a heavy sum of money for the privilege of teaching you, at the moderate salary of £600 a year!'"
Mr. Surtees sat aghast, with his mouth open, and knew not how to say a word. Doctor Nupper rubbed his red nose. Reginald Morton attempted some suggestion about the wine which fell wretchedly flat. John Morton ventured to tell his friend that he did not understand the subject. "I shall be most happy to be instructed," said the Senator.
"Understand it!" said the rector, almost rising in his chair to rebuke the insolence of his guest—"He understands nothing about it, and yet he ventures to fall foul with unmeasured terms on an establishment which has been brought to its present condition by the fostering care of perhaps the most pious set of divines that ever lived, and which has produced results with which those of no other Church can compare!"
"Have I represented anything untruly?" asked the Senator.
"A great deal, sir."
"Only put me right, and no man will recall his words more readily. Is it not the case that livings in the Church of England can be bought and sold?"
"The matter is one, sir," said the rector, "which cannot be discussed in this manner. There are two clergymen present to whom such language is distasteful; as it is also I hope to the others who are all members of the Church of England. Perhaps you will allow me to request that the subject may be changed." After that conversation flagged and the evening was by no means joyous. The rector certainly regretted that his "'57" claret should have been expended on such a man. "I don't think," said he when John Morton had taken the Senator away, "that in my whole life before I ever met such a brute as that American Senator."
There was great consternation in the attorney's house after the writing of the letter to Lawrence Twentyman. For twenty-four hours Mrs. Masters did not speak to Mary, not at all intending to let her sin pass with such moderate punishment as that, but thinking during that period that as she might perhaps induce Larry to ignore the letter and look upon it as though it were not written, it would be best to say nothing till the time should come in which the lover might again urge his suit. But when she found on the evening of the second day that Larry did not come near the place she could control herself no longer, and accused her step-daughter of ruining herself, her father, and the whole family. "That is very unfair, mamma," Mary said. "I have done nothing. I have only not done that which nobody had a right to ask me to do."
"Right indeed! And who are you with your rights? A decent well-behaved young man with five or six hundred a year has no right to ask you to be his wife! All this comes of you staying with an old woman with a handle to her name."
It was in vain that Mary endeavoured to explain that she had not alluded to Larry when she declared that no one had a right to ask her to do it. She had, she said, always thanked him for his good opinion of her, and had spoken well of him whenever his name was mentioned. But it was a matter on which a young woman was entitled to judge for herself, and no one had a right to scold her because she could not love him. Mrs. Masters hated such arguments, despised this rodomontade about love, and would have crushed the girl into obedience could it have been possible. "You are an idiot," she said, "an ungrateful idiot; and unless you think better of it you'll repent your folly to your dying day. Who do you think is to come running after a moping slut like you?" Then Mary gathered herself up and left the room, feeling that she could not live in the house if she were to be called a slut.
Soon after this Larry came to the attorney and got him to come out into the street and to walk with him round the churchyard. It was the spot in Dillsborough in which they would most certainly be left undisturbed. This took place on the day before his proposition for the sale of Chowton Farm. When he got the attorney into the churchyard he took out Mary's letter and in speechless agony handed it to the attorney. "I saw it before it went," said Masters putting it back with his hand.
"I suppose she means it?" asked Larry.
"I can't say to you but what she does, Twentyman. As far as I know her she isn't a girl that would ever say anything that she didn't mean."
"I was sure of that. When I got it and read it, it was just as though some one had come behind me and hit me over the head with a wheel-spoke. I couldn't have ate a morsel of breakfast if I knew I wasn't to see another bit of food for four-and-twenty hours."
"I knew you would feel it, Larry."
"Feel it! Till it came to this I didn't think of myself but what I had more strength. It has knocked me about till I feel all over like drinking."
"Don't do that, Larry."
"I won't answer for myself what I'll do. A man sets his heart on a thing,—just on one thing,—and has grit enough in him to be sure of himself that if he can get that nothing shall knock him over. When that thoroughbred mare of mine slipped her foal who can say I ever whimpered. When I got pleuro among the cattle I killed a'most the lot of 'em out of hand, and never laid awake a night about it. But I've got it so heavy this time I can't stand it. You don't think I have any chance, Mr. Masters?"
"You can try of course. You're welcome to the house."
"But what do you think? You must know her."
"Girls do change their minds."
"But she isn't like other girls. Is she now? I come to you because I sometimes think Mrs. Masters is a little hard on her. Mrs. Masters is about the best friend I have. There isn't anybody more on my side than she is. But I feel sure of this;—Mary will never be drove."
"I don't think she will, Larry."
"She's got a will of her own as well as another."
"No man alive ever had a better daughter."
"I'm sure of that, Mr. Masters; and no man alive 'll ever have a better wife. But she won't be drove. I might ask her again, you think?"
"You certainly have my leave."
"But would it be any good? I'd rather cut my throat and have done with it than go about teasing her because her parents let me come to her." Then there was a pause during which they walked on, the attorney feeling that he had nothing more to say. "What I want to know," said Larry, "is this. Is there anybody else?"
That was just the point on which the attorney himself was perplexed. He had asked Mary that question, and her silence had assured him that it was so. Then he had suggested to her the name of the only probable suitor that occurred to him, and she had repelled the idea in a manner that had convinced him at once. There was some one, but Mr. Surtees was not the man. There was some one, he was sure, but he had not been able to cross-examine her on the subject. He had, since that, cudgelled his brain to think who that some one might be, but had not succeeded in suggesting a name even to himself. That of Reginald Morton, who hardly ever came to the house and whom he regarded as a silent, severe, unapproachable man, did not come into his mind. Among the young ladies of Dillsborough Reginald Morton was never regarded as even a possible lover. And yet there was assuredly some one. "If there is any one else I think you ought to tell me," continued Larry.
"It is quite possible."
"Young Surtees, I suppose."
"I do not say there is anybody; but if there be anybody I do not think it is Surtees."
"Who else then?"
"I cannot say, Larry. I know nothing about it."
"But there is some one?"
"I do not say so. You ask me and I tell you all I know."
Again they walked round the churchyard in silence and the attorney began to be anxious that the interview might be over. He hardly liked to be interrogated about the state of his daughter's heart, and yet he had felt himself bound to tell what he knew to the man who had in all respects behaved well to him. When they had returned for the third or fourth time to the gate by which they had entered Larry spoke again. "I suppose I may as well give it up."
"What can I say?"
"You have been fair enough, Mr. Masters. And so has she. And so has everybody. I shall just get away as quick as I can, and go and hang myself. I feel above bothering her any more. When she sat down to write a letter like that she must have been in earnest."
"She certainly was in earnest, Larry."
"What's the use of going on after that? Only it is so hard for a fellow to feel that everything is gone. It is just as though the house was burnt down, or I was to wake in the morning and find that the land didn't belong to me."
"Not so bad as that, Larry."
"Not so bad, Mr. Masters! Then you don't know what it is I'm feeling. I'd let his lordship or Squire Morton have it all, and go in upon it as a tenant at 30s.an acre, so that I could take her along with me. I would, and sell the horses and set to and work in my shirt-sleeves. A man could stand that. Nobody wouldn't laugh at me then. But there's an emptiness now here that makes me sick all through, as though I hadn't got stomach left for anything." Then poor Larry put his hand upon his heart and hid his face upon the churchyard wall. The attorney made some attempt to say a kind word to him, and then, leaving him there, slowly made his way back to his office.
We already know what first step Larry took with the intention of running away from his cares. In the house at Dillsborough things were almost as bad as they were with him. Over and over again Mrs. Masters told her husband that it was all his fault, and that if he had torn the letter when it was showed to him, everything would have been right by the end of the two months. This he bore with what equanimity he could, shutting himself up very much in his office, occasionally escaping for a quarter of an hour of ease to his friends at the Bush, and eating his meals in silence. But when he became aware that his girl was being treated with cruelty,—that she was never spoken to by her stepmother without harsh words, and that her sisters were encouraged to be disdainful to her, then his heart rose within him and he rebelled. He declared aloud that Mary should not be persecuted, and if this kind of thing were continued he would defend his girl let the consequences be what they might.
"What are you going to defend her against?" asked his wife.
"I won't have her ill-used because she refuses to marry at your bidding."
"Bah! You know as much how to manage a girl as though you were an old maid yourself. Cocker her up and make her think that nothing is good enough for her! Break her spirit, and make her come round, and teach her to know what it is to have an honest man's house offered to her. If she don't take Larry Twentyman's she's like to have none of her own before long." But Mr. Masters would not assent to this plan of breaking his girl's spirit, and so there was continual war in the place and every one there was miserable.
Mary herself was so unhappy that she convinced herself that it was necessary that some change should be made. Then she remembered Lady Ushant's offer of a home, and not only the offer, but the old lady's assurance that to herself such an arrangement, if possible, would be very comfortable. She did not suggest to herself that she would leave her father's home for ever and always; but it might be that an absence of some months might relieve the absolute misery of their present mode of living. The effect on her father was so sad that she was almost driven to regret that he should have taken her own part. Her stepmother was not a bad woman; nor did Mary even now think her to be bad. She was a hardworking, painstaking wife, with a good general idea of justice. In the division of puddings and pies and other material comforts of the household she would deal evenly between her own children and her step-daughter. She had not desired to send Mary away to an inadequate home, or with a worthless husband. But when the proper home and the proper man were there she was prepared to use any amount of hardship to secure these good things to the family generally. This hardship Mary could not endure, nor could Mary's father on her behalf, and therefore Mary prepared a letter to Lady Ushant in which, at great length, she told her old friend the whole story. She spoke as tenderly as was possible of all concerned, but declared that her stepmother's feelings on the subject were so strong that every one in the house was made wretched. Under these circumstances,—for her father's sake if only for that,—she thought herself bound to leave the house. "It is quite impossible," she said, "that I should do as they wish me. That is a matter on which a young woman must judge for herself. If you could have me for a few months it would perhaps all pass by. I should not dare to ask this but for what you said yourself; and, dear Lady Ushant, pray remember that I do not want to be idle. There are a great many things I can do; and though I know that nothing can pay for kindness, I might perhaps be able not to be a burden." Then she added in a postscript—"Papa is everything that is kind;—but then all this makes him so miserable!"
When she had kept the letter by her for a day she showed it to her father, and by his consent it was sent. After much consultation it was agreed between them that nothing should be said about it to Mrs. Masters till the answer should come; and that, should the answer be favourable, the plan should be carried out in spite of any domestic opposition. In this letter Mary told as accurately as she could the whole story of Larry's courtship, and was very clear in declaring that under no possible circumstances could she encourage any hope. But of course she said not a word as to any other man or as to any love on her side. "Have you told her everything?" said her father as he closed the letter.
"Yes, papa;—everything that there is to be told." Then there arose within his own bosom an immense desire to know that secret, so that if possible he might do something to relieve her pain;—but he could not bring himself to ask further questions.
Lady Ushant on receiving the letter much doubted what she ought to do. She acknowledged at once Mary's right to appeal to her, and assured herself that the girl's presence would be a comfort and a happiness to herself. If Mary were quite alone in the world Lady Ushant would have been at once prepared to give her a home. But she doubted as to the propriety of taking the girl from her own family. She doubted even whether it would not be better that Mary should be left within the influence of Larry Twentyman's charms. A settlement, an income, and assured comforts for life are very serious things to all people who have reached Lady Ushant's age. And then she had a doubt within her own mind whether Mary might not be debarred from accepting this young man by some unfortunate preference for Reginald Morton. She had seen them together and had suspected something of the truth before it had glimmered before the eyes of any one in Dillsborough. Had Reginald been so inclined Lady Ushant would have been very glad to see him marry Mary Masters. For both their sakes she would have preferred such a match to one with the owner of Chowton Farm. But she did not think that Reginald himself was that way minded, and she fancied that poor Mary might be throwing away her prosperity in life were she to wait for Reginald's love. Larry Twentyman was at any rate sure;—and perhaps it might be unwise to separate the girl from her lover.
In her doubt she determined to refer the case to Reginald himself, and instead of writing to Mary she wrote to him. She did not send him Mary's letter,—which would, she felt, have been a breach of faith; nor did she mention the name of Larry Twentyman. But she told him that Mary had proposed to come to Cheltenham for a long visit because there were disturbances at home,—which disturbances had arisen from her rejection of a certain suitor. Lady Ushant said a great deal as to the inexpediency of fostering family quarrels, and suggested that Mary might perhaps have been a little impetuous. The presence of this lover could hardly do her much injury. These were not days in which young women were forced to marry men. What did he, Reginald Morton, think about it? He was to remember that as far as she herself was concerned, she dearly loved Mary Masters and would be delighted to have her at Cheltenham; and, so remembering, he was to see the attorney, and Mary herself, and if necessary Mrs. Masters;—and then to report his opinion to Cheltenham.
Then, fearing that her nephew might be away for a day or two, or that he might not be able to perform his commission instantly, and thinking that Mary might be unhappy if she received no immediate reply to such a request as hers had been, Lady Ushant by the same post wrote to her young friend asfollows;—
Dear Mary,Reginald will go over and see your father about your proposition. As far as I myself am concerned nothing would give me so much pleasure. This is quite sincere. But the matter is in other respects very important. Of course I have kept your letter all to myself, and in writing to Reginald I have mentioned no names.Your affectionate friend,Margaret Ushant.
Dear Mary,
Reginald will go over and see your father about your proposition. As far as I myself am concerned nothing would give me so much pleasure. This is quite sincere. But the matter is in other respects very important. Of course I have kept your letter all to myself, and in writing to Reginald I have mentioned no names.
Your affectionate friend,
Margaret Ushant.
Arabella Trefoil left her uncle's mansion on the day after her lover's departure, certainly not in triumph, but with somewhat recovered spirits. When she first heard that Lord Rufford was gone,—that he had fled away as it were in the middle of the night without saying a word to her, without a syllable to make good the slight assurances of his love that had been given to her in the post carriage, she felt that she was deserted and betrayed. And when she found herself altogether neglected on the following day, and that the slightly valuable impression which she had made on her aunt was apparently gone, she did for half an hour think in earnest of the Paragon and Patagonia. But after a while she called to mind all that she knew of great efforts successfully made in opposition to almost overwhelming difficulties. She had heard of forlorn hopes, and perhaps in her young days had read something of Cæsar still clinging to his Commentaries as he struggled in the waves. This was her forlorn hope, and she would be as brave as any soldier of them all. Lord Rufford's embraces were her Commentaries, and let the winds blow and the waves roll as they might she would still cling to them. After lunch she spoke to her aunt with great courage,—as the Duchess thought with great effrontery. "My uncle wouldn't speak to Lord Rufford before he went?"
"How could he speak to a man who ran away from his house in that way?"
"The running away, as you call it, aunt, did not take place till two days after I had told you all about it. I thought he would have done as much as that for his brother's daughter."
"I don't believe in it at all," said the Duchess sternly.
"Don't believe in what, aunt? You don't mean to say that you don't believe that Lord Rufford has asked me to be his wife!" Then she paused, but the Duchess absolutely lacked the courage to express her conviction again. "I don't suppose it signifies much," continued Arabella, "but of course it would have been something to me that Lord Rufford should have known that the Duke was anxious for my welfare. He was quite prepared to have assured my uncle of his intentions."
"Then why didn't he speak himself?"
"Because the Duke is not my father. Really, aunt, when I hear you talk of his running away I do feel it to be unkind. As if we didn't all know that a man like that goes and comes as he pleases. It was just before dinner that he got the message, and was he to run round and wish everybody good-bye like a schoolgirl going to bed?"
The Duchess was almost certain that no message had come, and from various little things which she had observed and from tidings which had reached her, very much doubted whether Arabella had known anything of his intended going. She too had a maid of her own who on occasions could bring information. But she had nothing further to say on the subject. If Arabella should ever become Lady Rufford she would of course among other visitors be occasionally received at Mistletoe. She could never be a favourite, but things would to a certain degree have rectified themselves. But if, as the Duchess expected, no such marriage took place, then this ill-conducted niece should never be admitted within the house again.
Later on in the afternoon, some hours after it became dusk, Arabella contrived to meet her aunt in the hall with a letter in her hand, and asked where the letter-box was. She knew where to deposit her letters as well as did the Duchess herself; but she desired an opportunity of proclaiming what she had done. "I am writing to Lord Rufford. Perhaps as I am in your house I ought to tell you what I have done."
"The letter-box is in the billiard-room, close to the door," said the Duchess passing on. Then she added as she went, "The post for to-day has gone already."
"His Lordship will have to wait a day for his letter. I dare say it won't break his heart," said Arabella, as she turned away to the billiard-room.
All this had been planned; and, moreover, she had so written her letter that if her magnificent aunt should condescend to tamper with it all that was in it should seem to corroborate her own story. The Duchess would have considered herself disgraced if ever she had done such a thing;—but the niece of the Duchess did not quite understand that this would be so. The letter was as follows:
Mistletoe, 19th Jany. 1875.Dearest R.,Your going off like that was, after all, very horrid. My aunt thinks that you were running away from me. I think that you were running away from her. Which was true? In real earnest I don't for a moment think that either I or the Duchess had anything to do with it, and that you did go because some horrid man wrote and asked you. I know you don't like being bound by any of the conventionalities. I hope there is such a word, and that if not, you'll understand it just the same.Oh, Peltry,—and oh, Jack,—and oh, that road back to Stamford! I am so stiff that I can't sit upright, and everybody is cross to me, and everything is uncomfortable. What horrible things women are! There isn't one here, not even old Lady Rumpus, who hasn't an unmarried daughter left in the world, who isn't jealous of me, because—because—.I must leave you to guess why they all hate me so! And I'm sure if you had given Jack to any other woman I should hate her, though you may give every horse you have to any man that you please. I wonder whether I shall have another day's hunting before it is all over. I suppose not. It was almost by a miracle that we managed yesterday—only fancy—yesterday! It seems to be an age ago!Pray, pray, pray write to me at once,—to the Connop Greens, so that I may get a nice, soft, pleasant word directly I get among those nasty, hard, unpleasant people. They have lots of money, and plenty of furniture, and I dare say the best things to eat and drink in the world,—but nothing else. There will be no Jack; and if there were, alas, alas, no one to show me the way to ride him.I start to-morrow, and as far as I understand, shall have to make my way into Hampshire all by myself, with only such security as my maid can give me. I shall make her go in the same carriage and shall have the gratification of looking at her all the way. I suppose I ought not to say that I will shut my eyes and try to think that somebody else is there.Good-bye dear, dear, dear R. I shall be dying for a letter from you. Yours ever, with all my heart. A.I shall write you such a serious epistle when I get to the Greens.
Mistletoe, 19th Jany. 1875.
Dearest R.,
Your going off like that was, after all, very horrid. My aunt thinks that you were running away from me. I think that you were running away from her. Which was true? In real earnest I don't for a moment think that either I or the Duchess had anything to do with it, and that you did go because some horrid man wrote and asked you. I know you don't like being bound by any of the conventionalities. I hope there is such a word, and that if not, you'll understand it just the same.
Oh, Peltry,—and oh, Jack,—and oh, that road back to Stamford! I am so stiff that I can't sit upright, and everybody is cross to me, and everything is uncomfortable. What horrible things women are! There isn't one here, not even old Lady Rumpus, who hasn't an unmarried daughter left in the world, who isn't jealous of me, because—because—.I must leave you to guess why they all hate me so! And I'm sure if you had given Jack to any other woman I should hate her, though you may give every horse you have to any man that you please. I wonder whether I shall have another day's hunting before it is all over. I suppose not. It was almost by a miracle that we managed yesterday—only fancy—yesterday! It seems to be an age ago!
Pray, pray, pray write to me at once,—to the Connop Greens, so that I may get a nice, soft, pleasant word directly I get among those nasty, hard, unpleasant people. They have lots of money, and plenty of furniture, and I dare say the best things to eat and drink in the world,—but nothing else. There will be no Jack; and if there were, alas, alas, no one to show me the way to ride him.
I start to-morrow, and as far as I understand, shall have to make my way into Hampshire all by myself, with only such security as my maid can give me. I shall make her go in the same carriage and shall have the gratification of looking at her all the way. I suppose I ought not to say that I will shut my eyes and try to think that somebody else is there.
Good-bye dear, dear, dear R. I shall be dying for a letter from you. Yours ever, with all my heart. A.
I shall write you such a serious epistle when I get to the Greens.
This was not such a letter as she thought that her aunt would approve; but it was, she fancied, such as the Duchess would believe that she would write to her lover. And if it were allowed to go on its way it would make Lord Rufford feel that she was neither alarmed nor displeased by the suddenness of his departure. But it was not expected to do much good. It might produce some short, joking, half-affectionate reply, but would not draw from him that serious word which was so necessary for the success of her scheme. Therefore she had told him that she intended to prepare a serious missile. Should this pleasant little message of love miscarry, the serious missile would still be sent, and the miscarriage would occasion no harm.
But then further plans were necessary. It might be that Lord Rufford would take no notice of the serious missile,—which she thought very probable. Or it might be that he would send back a serious reply, in which he would calmly explain to her that she had unfortunately mistaken his sentiments;—which she believed would be a stretch of manhood beyond his reach. But in either case she would be prepared with the course which she would follow. In the first she would begin by forcing her father to write to him a letter which she herself would dictate. In the second she would set the whole family at him as far as the family were within her reach. With her cousin Lord Mistletoe, who was only two years older than herself, she had always held pleasant relations. They had been children together, and as they had grown up the young Lord had liked his pretty cousin. Latterly they had seen each other but rarely, and therefore the feeling still remained. She would tell Lord Mistletoe her whole story,—that is the story as she would please to tell it,—and implore his aid. Her father should be driven to demand from Lord Rufford an execution of his alleged promises. She herself would write such a letter to the Duke as an uncle should be unable not to notice. She would move heaven and earth as to her wrongs. She thought that if her friends would stick to her, Lord Rufford would be weak as water in their hands. But it must be all done immediately,—so that if everything failed she might be ready to start to Patagonia some time in April. When she looked back and remembered that it was hardly more than two months since she had been taken to Rufford Hall by Mr. Morton she could not accuse herself of having lost any time.
In London she met her mother,—as to which meeting there had been some doubt,—and underwent the tortures of a close examination. She had thought it prudent on this occasion to tell her mother something, but not to tell anything quite truly. "He has proposed to me," she said.
"He has!" said Lady Augustus, holding up her hands almost in awe.
"Is there anything so wonderful in that?"
"Then it is all arranged. Does the Duke know it?"
"It is not all arranged by any means, and the Duke does know it. Now, mamma, after that I must decline to answer any more questions. I have done this all myself, and I mean to continue it in the same way."
"Did he speak to the Duke? You will tell me that."
"I will tell you nothing."
"You will drive me mad, Arabella."
"That will be better than your driving me mad just at present. You ought to feel that I have a great deal to think of."
"And have not I?"
"You can't help me;—not at present."
"But he did propose,—in absolute words?"
"Mamma, what a goose you are! Do you suppose that men do it all now just as it is done in books? 'Miss Arabella Trefoil, will you do me the honour to become my wife?' Do you think that Lord Rufford would ask the question in that way?"
"It is a very good way."
"Any way is a good way that answers the purpose. He has proposed, and I mean to make him stick to it."
"You doubt then?"
"Mamma, you are so silly! Do you not know what such a man is well enough to be sure that he'll change his mind half-a-dozen times if he can? I don't mean to let him; and now, after that, I won't say another word."
"I have got a letter here from Mr. Short saying that something must be fixed about Mr. Morton." Mr. Short was the lawyer who had been instructed to prepare the settlements.
"Mr. Short may do whatever he likes," said Arabella. There were very hot words between them that night in London, but the mother could obtain no further information from her daughter.
That serious epistle had been commenced even before Arabella had left Mistletoe; but the composition was one which required great care, and it was not completed and copied and recopied till she had been two days in Hampshire. Not even when it was finished did she say a word to her mother about it. She had doubted much as to the phrases which in such an emergency she ought to use, but she thought it safer to trust to herself than to her mother. In writing such a letter as that posted at Mistletoe she believed herself to be happy. She could write it quickly, and understood that she could convey to her correspondent some sense of her assumed mood. But her serious letter would, she feared, be stiff and repulsive. Whether her fears were right the reader shall judge,—for the letter when written was as follows:
Marygold Place, Basingstoke,Saturday.My dear Lord Rufford,You will I suppose have got the letter that I wrote before I left Mistletoe, and which I directed to Mr. Surbiton's. There was not much in it,—except a word or two as to your going and as to my desolation, and just a reminiscence of the hunting. There was no reproach that you should have left me without any farewell, or that you should have gone so suddenly, after saying so much, without saying more. I wanted you to feel that you had made me very happy, and not to feel that your departure in such a way had robbed me of part of the happiness.It was a little bad of you, because it did of course leave me to the hardness of my aunt; and because all the other women there would of course follow her. She had inquired about our journey home, that dear journey home, and I had of course told her,—well I had better say it out at once; I told her that we were engaged. You, I am sure, will think that the truth was best. She wanted to know why you did not go to the Duke. I told her that the Duke was not my father; but that as far as I was concerned the Duke might speak to you or not as he pleased. I had nothing to conceal. I am very glad he did not, because he is pompous, and you would have been bored. If there is one thing I desire more than another it is that nothing belonging to me shall ever be a bore to you. I hope I may never stand in the way of anything that will gratify you,—as I said when you lit that cigar. You will have forgotten, I dare say. But, dear Rufford,—dearest; I may say that, mayn't I?—say something, or do something to make me satisfied. You know what I mean;—don't you? It isn't that I am a bit afraid myself. I don't think so little of myself, or so badly of you. But I don't like other women to look at me as though I ought not to be proud of anything. I am proud of everything; particularly proud of you,—and of Jack.Now there is my serious epistle, and I am sure that you will answer it like a dear, good, kind-hearted, loving—lover. I won't be afraid of writing the word, nor of saying that I love you with all my heart, and that I am always your ownArabella.
Marygold Place, Basingstoke,Saturday.
My dear Lord Rufford,
You will I suppose have got the letter that I wrote before I left Mistletoe, and which I directed to Mr. Surbiton's. There was not much in it,—except a word or two as to your going and as to my desolation, and just a reminiscence of the hunting. There was no reproach that you should have left me without any farewell, or that you should have gone so suddenly, after saying so much, without saying more. I wanted you to feel that you had made me very happy, and not to feel that your departure in such a way had robbed me of part of the happiness.
It was a little bad of you, because it did of course leave me to the hardness of my aunt; and because all the other women there would of course follow her. She had inquired about our journey home, that dear journey home, and I had of course told her,—well I had better say it out at once; I told her that we were engaged. You, I am sure, will think that the truth was best. She wanted to know why you did not go to the Duke. I told her that the Duke was not my father; but that as far as I was concerned the Duke might speak to you or not as he pleased. I had nothing to conceal. I am very glad he did not, because he is pompous, and you would have been bored. If there is one thing I desire more than another it is that nothing belonging to me shall ever be a bore to you. I hope I may never stand in the way of anything that will gratify you,—as I said when you lit that cigar. You will have forgotten, I dare say. But, dear Rufford,—dearest; I may say that, mayn't I?—say something, or do something to make me satisfied. You know what I mean;—don't you? It isn't that I am a bit afraid myself. I don't think so little of myself, or so badly of you. But I don't like other women to look at me as though I ought not to be proud of anything. I am proud of everything; particularly proud of you,—and of Jack.
Now there is my serious epistle, and I am sure that you will answer it like a dear, good, kind-hearted, loving—lover. I won't be afraid of writing the word, nor of saying that I love you with all my heart, and that I am always your own
Arabella.