On the evening of the third day after her return she was able to come downstairs and the line of thought which has been suggested for her induced her to undertake some trouble with the white and pink robe, or dressing-gown in which she had appeared. “Well, my dear, you are smart,” the old lady said.
“ ‘Odious in woollen;—’twould a saint provoke,
Were the last words which poor Narcissa spoke.’ ”
said Arabella, who had long since provided herself with this quotation for such occasions. “I hope I am not exactly dying, Mrs. Green; but I don’t see why I should not object to be ‘frightful,’ as well as the young lady who was.”
“I suppose it’s all done for Mounser’s benefit?”
“Partly for you, partly for Mounser, and a good deal for myself. What a very odd name. Why did they call him Mounser? I used to think it was because he was in the Foreign Office—a kind of chaff, as being half a Frenchman.”
“My mother’s maiden name was Mounser, and it isn’t French at all. I don’t see why it should not be as good a Christian name as Willoughby or Howard.”
“Quite as good, and much more distinctive. There can’t be another Mounser Green in the world.”
“And very few other young men like him. At my time of life I find it very hard his going away. And what will he do in such a place as that—all alone and without a wife?”
“Why don’t you make him take a wife?”
“There isn’t time now. He’ll have to start in May.”
“Plenty of time. Trousseaus are now got up by steam, and girls are kept ready to marry at the shortest notice. If I were you I should certainly advise him to take out some healthy young woman, capable of bearing the inclemencies of the Patagonian climate.”
“As for that the climate is delicious,” said Mrs. Green, who certainly was not led by her guest’s manner to suspect the nature of her guest’s more recent intentions.
Mounser Green on this afternoon came to Portugal Street before he himself went out to dinner, choosing the hour at which his aunt was wont to adorn herself. “And so you are to be the hero of Patagonia?” said Arabella as she put out her hand to congratulate him on his appointment.
“I don’t know about heroism, but it seems that I am to go there,” said Mounser with much melancholy in his voice.
“I should have thought you were the last man to leave London willingly.”
“Well, yes; I should have said so myself. And I do flatter myself I shall be missed. But what had I before me here? This may lead to something.”
“Indeed you will be missed, Mr. Green.”
“It’s very kind of you to say so.”
“Patagonia! It is such a long way off!” Then she began to consider whether he had ever heard of her engagement with the last Minister-elect to that country. That he should know all about Lord Rufford was a matter of course; but what chance could there be for her if he also knew that other affair? “We were intimately acquainted with Mr. Morton in Washington and were surprised that he should have accepted it.”
“Poor Morton. He was a friend of mine. We used to call him the Paragon because he never made mistakes. I had heard that you and Lady Augusta were a good deal with him in Washington.”
“We were, indeed. You do not know my good news as yet, I suppose. Your Paragon, as you call him, has left me five thousand pounds.” Of course it would be necessary that he should know it some day if this new plan of hers were to be carried out;—and if the plan should fail, his knowing it could do no harm.
“How very nice for you. Poor Morton!”
“It is well that somebody should behave well, when others treat one so badly, Mr. Green. Yes; he has left me five thousand pounds.” Then she showed him the lawyer’s letter. “Perhaps as I am so separated at present from all my own people by this affair with Lord Rufford, you would not mind seeing the man for me.” Of course he promised to see the lawyer and to do everything that was necessary. “The truth is, Mr. Green, Mr. Morton was very warmly attached to me. I was a foolish girl, and could not return it. I thought of it long and was then obliged to tell him that I could not entertain just that sort of feeling for him. You cannot think now how bitter is my regret;—that I should have allowed myself to trust a man so false and treacherous as Lord Rufford, and that I should have perhaps added a pang to the deathbed of one so good as Mr. Morton.” And so she told her little story;—not caring very much whether it were believed or not, but finding it to be absolutely essential that some story should be told.
During the next day or two Mounser Green thought a great deal about it. That the story was not exactly true, he knew very well. But it is not to be expected that a girl before her marriage should be exactly true about her old loves. That she had been engaged to Lord Rufford and had been cruelly jilted by him he did believe. That she had at one time been engaged to the Paragon he was almost sure. The fact that the Paragon had left her money was a strong argument that she had not behaved badly to him. But there was much that was quite certain. The five thousand pounds
