But Lady Penwether knew that it behoved her to prevent this if it might be possible. Of late she had had little or no conversation with her brother about Miss Trefoil, but she had heard much from her husband. She would be justified, she thought, in saying or in doing almost anything which would save him from such an encounter. “I really think,” she said, “that he had better be told that you are here,” and as she spoke she strove to put herself in the visitor’s way. “You had better come in, Miss Trefoil, and he shall be informed at once.”
“By no means, Lady Penwether. I would not for worlds give him or you so much trouble. I see him and I will go to him.” Then Lady Penwether absolutely put out her hand to detain her; but Arabella shook it off angrily and looked into the other woman’s face with fierce eyes. “Allow me,” she said, “to conduct myself at this moment as I may think best. I shall do so at any rate.” Then she stalked on and Lady Penwether saw that any contest was hopeless. Had she sent the servant on with all his speed, so as to gain three or four moments, her brother could hardly have fled through the trees in face of the enemy.
Lord Rufford, who was busy planning the prolongation of a ha-ha fence, saw nothing of all this; but, after a while he was aware that a woman was coming to him, and then gradually he saw who that woman was. Arabella when she had found herself advancing closer went slowly enough. She was sure of her prey now, and was wisely mindful that it might be well that she should husband her breath. The nearer she drew to him the slower became her pace, and more majestic. Her veil was well thrown back, and her head was raised in the air. She knew these little tricks of deportment and could carry herself like a queen. He had taken a moment or two to consider. Should he fly? It was possible. He might vault over a railed fence in among the trees, at a spot not ten yards from her, and then it would be impossible that she should run him down. He might have done it had not the men been there to see it. As it was he left them in the other direction and came forward to meet her. He tried to smile pleasantly as he spoke to her. “So I see that you would not take my advice,” he said.
“Neither your advice nor your money, my lord.”
“Ah—I was so sorry about that! But, indeed, indeed—the fault was not mine.”
“They were your figures that I saw upon the paper, and by your orders, no doubt, that the lawyer acted. But I have not come to say much of that. You meant I suppose to be gracious.”
“I meant to be—good-natured.”
“I daresay. You were willing enough to give away what you did not want. But there must be more between us than any question of money. Lord Rufford you have treated me most shamefully.”
“I hope not. I think not.”
“And you yourself must be well aware of it—quite as well aware of it as I am. You have thrown me over and absolutely destroyed me;—and why?” He shrugged his shoulders. “Because you have been afraid of others; because your sister has told you that you were mistaken in your choice. The women around you have been too many for you, and have not allowed you to dispose of your hand, and your name, and your property as you pleased. I defy you to say that this was not your sister’s doing.” He was too much astounded to contradict her rapidly, and then she passed on, not choosing to give him time for contradiction. “Will you have the hardihood to say that you did not love me?” Then she paused thinking that he would not dare to contradict her then, feeling that in that she was on strong ground. “Were you lying when you told me that you did? What did you mean when I was in your arms up in the house there? What did you intend me to think that you meant?” Then she stopped, standing well in front of him, and looking fixedly into his face.
This was the very thing that he had feared. Lord Augustus had been a trouble. The Duke’s letter had been a trouble. Lady Augustus had been a trouble; and Sir George’s sermons had been troublesome. But what were they all when compared to this? How is it possible that a man should tell a girl that he has not loved her, when he has embraced her again and again? He may know it, and she may know it—and each may know that the other knows it;—but to say that he does not and did not then love her is beyond the scope of his audacity—unless he be a heartless Nero. “No one can grieve about this so much as I do,” he said weakly.
“Cannot I grieve more, do you think—I who told all my relatives that I was to become your wife, and was justified in so telling them? Was I not justified?”
“I think not.”
“You think not! What did you mean then? What were you thinking of when we were coming back in the carriage from Stamford—when with your arms round me you swore that you loved me better than all the world? Is that true? Did you so swear?” What a question for a man to have to answer! It was becoming clear to him that there was nothing for him but to endure and be silent. Even to this interview the gods would at last give an end. The
