“Good night, Mr. Runciman,” said Larry as he made his way downstairs to the yard. “We’ve had an uncommon pleasant evening.”
“I’m glad you’ve enjoyed yourself, Larry.” Larry thought that his Christian name from the hotel keeper’s lips had never sounded so offensively as on the present occasion.
XLIX
Miss Trefoil’s Decision
Lord Rufford’s letter reached Arabella at her cousin’s house, in due course, and was handed to her in the morning as she came down to breakfast. The envelope bore his crest and coronet, and she was sure that more than one pair of eyes had already seen it. Her mother had been in the room some time before her, and would of course know that the letter was from Lord Rufford. An indiscreet word or two had been said in the hearing of Mrs. Connop Green—as to which Arabella had already scolded her mother most vehemently, and Mrs. Connop Green too would probably have seen the letter, and would know that it had come from the lover of whom boasts had been made. The Connop Greens would be ready to worship Arabella down to the very soles of her feet if she were certainly—without a vestige of doubt—engaged to be the wife of Lord Rufford. But there had been so many previous mistakes! And they, too, had heard of Mr. John Morton. They too were a little afraid of Arabella though she was undoubtedly the niece of a Duke.
She was aware now—as always—how much depended on her personal bearing; but this was a moment of moments! She would fain have kept the letter, and have opened it in the retirement of her own room. She knew its terrible importance, and was afraid of her own countenance when she should read it. All the hopes of her life were contained in that letter. But were she to put it in her pocket she would betray her anxiety by doing so. She found herself bound to open it and read it at once—and she did open it and read it.
After all it was what she had expected. It was very decided, very short, very cold, and carrying with it no sign of weakness. But it was of such a letter that she had thought when she resolved that she would apply to Lord Mistletoe, and endeavour to put the whole family of Trefoil in arms. She had been—so she had assured herself—quite sure that that kind, loving response which she had solicited, would not be given to her. But yet the stern fact, now that it was absolutely in her hands, almost overwhelmed her. She could not restrain the dull dead look of heartbreaking sorrow which for a few moments clouded her face—a look which took away all her beauty, lengthening her cheeks, and robbing her eyes of that vivacity which it was the task of her life to assume. “Is anything the matter, my dear?” asked Mrs. Connop Green.
Then she made a final effort—an heroic effort. “What do you think, mamma?” she said, paying no attention to her cousin’s inquiry.
“What is it, Arabella?”
“Jack got some injury that day at Peltry, and is so lame that they don’t know whether he’ll ever put his foot to the ground again.”
“Poor fellow,” said Mr. Green. “Who is Jack?”
“Jack is a horse, Mr. Green;—and such a horse that one cannot but be sorry for him. Poor Jack! I don’t know any Christian whose lameness would be such a nuisance.”
“Does Lord Rufford write about his horses?” asked Mrs. Connop Green, thus betraying that knowledge as to the letter which she had obtained from the envelope.
“If you must know all the truth about it,” said Arabella, “the horse is my horse, and not Lord Rufford’s. And as he is the only horse I have got, and as he’s the dearest horse in all the world, you must excuse my being a little sorry about him. Poor Jack!” After that the breakfast was eaten and everybody in the room believed the story of the horse’s lameness—except Lady Augustus.
When breakfast and the loitering after breakfast were well over, so that she could escape without exciting any notice, she made her way up to her bedroom. In a few minutes—so that again there should be nothing noticeable—her mother followed her. But her door was locked. “It is I, Arabella,” said her mother.
“You can’t come in at present, mamma. I am busy.”
“But Arabella.”
“You can’t come in at present, mamma.” Then Lady Augustus slowly glided away to her own room and there waited for tidings.
The whole form of the girl’s face was altered when she was alone. Her features in themselves were not lovely. Her cheeks and chin were heavy. Her brow was too low, and her upper lip too long. Her nose and teeth were good, and would have been very handsome had they belonged to a man. Her complexion had always been good till it had been injured by being improved—and so was the carriage of her head and the outside lines of her bust and figure, and her large eyes, though never soft, could be bright and sparkle. Skill had done much for her and continued effort almost more. But now the effort was dropped and that which skill had done turned against her. She was haggard, lumpy, and almost hideous in her bewildered grief.
Had there been a word of weakness in the short letter she
