He was certainly disturbed in his mind, foreseeing that there might be much difficulty in his way. He remembered with fair accuracy all that had occurred during the journey from Stamford to Mistletoe. He felt assured that up to that time he had said nothing which could be taken to mean a real declaration of love. All that at Rufford had been nothing. He had never said a word which could justify the girl in a hope. In the carriage she had asked him whether he loved her, and he had said that he did. He had also declared that he would do anything in his power to make her happy. Was a man to be bound to marry a girl because of such a scene as that? There was, however, nothing for him to do except to keep out of the girl’s way. If she took any steps, then he must act. But as he thought of it, he swore to himself that nothing should induce him to marry her.
He remained a couple of days in town and reached Rufford Hall on the Monday—just a week from the day of that fatal meet at Peltry. There he found Sir George and his sister and Miss Penge, and spent his first evening in quiet. On the Tuesday he hunted with the U.R.U., and made his arrangements with Runciman. He invited Hampton to shoot with him. Surbiton and Battersby were coming, and his brother-in-law. Not wishing to have less than six guns he asked Hampton how he could make up his party. “Morton doesn’t shoot,” he said, “and is as stiff as a post.” Then he was told that John Morton was supposed to be very ill at Bragton. “I’m sick of both the Botseys,” continued the lord, thinking more of his party than of Mr. Morton’s health. “Purefoy is still sulky with me because he killed poor old Caneback.” Then Hampton suggested that if he would ask Lawrence Twentyman it might be the means of saving that unfortunate young man’s life. The story of his unrequited love was known to everyone at Dillsborough and it was now told to Lord Rufford. “He is not half a bad fellow,” said Hampton, “and quite as much like a gentleman as either of the Botseys.”
“I shall be delighted to save the life of so good a man on such easy terms,” said the lord. Then and there, with a pencil, on the back of an old letter, he wrote a line to Larry asking him to shoot on next Saturday and to dine with him afterwards at the Bush.
That evening on his return home he found both the letters from Arabella. As it happened he read them in the order in which they had been written, first the laughing letter, and then the one that was declared to be serious. The earlier of the two did not annoy him much. It contained hardly more than those former letters which had induced him to go to Mistletoe. But the second letter opened up her entire strategy. She had told the Duchess that she was engaged to him, and the Duchess of course would have told the Duke. And now she wrote to him asking him to acknowledge the engagement in black and white. The first letter he might have ignored. He might have left it unanswered without gross misconduct. But the second letter, which she herself had declared to be a serious epistle, was one which he could not neglect. Now had come his difficulty. What must he do? How should he answer it? Was it imperative on him to write the words with his own hand? Would it be possible that he should get his sister to undertake the commission? He said nothing about it to anyone for four and twenty hours; but he passed those hours in much discomfort. It did seem so hard to him that because he had been forced to carry a lady home from hunting in a postchaise, that he should be driven to such straits as this! The girl was evidently prepared to make a fight of it. There would be the Duke and the Duchess and that prig Mistletoe, and that idle ass Lord Augustus, and that venomous old woman her mother, all at him. He almost doubted whether a shooting excursion in Central Africa or a visit to the Pampas would not be the best thing for him. But still, though he should resolve to pass five years among the Andes, he must answer the lady’s letter before he went.
Then he made up his mind that he would tell everything to his brother-in-law, as far as everything can be told in such a matter. Sir George was near fifty, full fifteen years older than his wife, who was again older than her brother. He was a man of moderate wealth, very much respected, and supposed to be possessed of almost infinite wisdom. He was one of those few human beings who seem never to make a mistake. Whatever he put his hand to came out well;—and yet everybody liked him. His brother-in-law was a little afraid of him, but yet was always glad to see him. He kept an excellent house in London, but having no country house of his own passed much of his time at Rufford Hall when the owner was not there. In spite of the young peer’s numerous faults Sir George was much attached to him, and always ready to help him in his difficulties. “Penwether,” said the Lord, “I have got myself into an awful scrape.”
“I am sorry to hear it. A woman, I suppose.”
“Oh, yes. I
