"PARTICULARLY PROUD OF YOU."
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.
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 own
ARABELLA.
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.