“There has been a great misfortune.”
“I suppose that is it. Only for that how very very pleasant it would have been!”
“Yes, indeed. It was a nice run, and that little horse carried you charmingly. I wish I could see you ride him again.” She shook her head as she looked up into his face. “Why do you shake your head?”
“Because I am afraid there is no possible chance of such happiness. We are going to such a dull house tomorrow! And then to so many dull houses afterwards.”
“I don’t know why you shouldn’t come back and have another day or two;—when all this sadness has gone by.”
“Don’t talk about it, Lord Rufford.”
“Why not?”
“I never like to talk about any pleasure because it always vanishes as soon as it has come;—and when it has been real pleasure it never comes back again. I don’t think I ever enjoyed anything so much as our ride this morning—till that tragedy came.”
“Poor Caneback!”
“I suppose there is no hope?” He shook his head. “And we must go on to those Gores tomorrow without knowing anything about it. I wonder whether you could send me a line.”
“Of course I can, and I will.” Then he asked her a question looking into her face. “You are not going back to Bragton?”
“Oh dear, no.”
“Was Bragton dull?”
“Awfully dull;—frightfully dull.”
“You know what they say?”
“What who say, Lord Rufford? People say anything—the more ill-natured the better they like it, I think.”
“Have you not heard what they say about you and Mr. Morton?”
“Just because mamma made a promise when in Washington to go to Bragton with that Mr. Gotobed. Don’t you find they marry you to everybody?”
“They have married me to a good many people. Perhaps they’ll marry me to you tomorrow. That would not be so bad.”
“Oh, Lord Rufford! Nobody has ever condemned you to anything so terrible as that.”
“There was no truth in it then, Miss Trefoil?”
“None at all, Lord Rufford. Only I don’t know why you should ask me.”
“Well; I don’t know. A man likes sometimes to be sure how the land lies. Mr. Morton looks so cross that I thought that perhaps the very fact of my dancing with you might be an offence.”
“Is he cross?”
“You know him better than I do. Perhaps it’s his nature. Now I must do one other dance with a native and then my work will be over.”
“That isn’t very civil, Lord Rufford.”
“If you do not know what I meant, you’re not the girl I take you to be.” Then as she walked with him back out of the ballroom into the drawing-room she assured him that she did know what he meant, and that therefore she was the girl he took her to be.
She had determined that she would not dance again and had resolved to herd with the other ladies of the house—waiting for any opportunity that chance might give her for having a last word with Lord Rufford before they parted for the night—when Morton came up to her and demanded rather than asked that she would stand up with him for a quadrille. “We settled it all among ourselves, you know,” she said. “We were to dance only once, just to set the people off.” He still persisted, but she still refused, alleging that she was bound by the general compact; and though he was very urgent she would not yield. “I wonder how you can ask me,” she said. “You don’t suppose that after what has occurred I can have any pleasure in dancing.” Upon this he asked her to take a turn with him through the rooms, and to that she found herself compelled to assent. Then he spoke out to her. “Arabella,” he said, “I am not quite content with what has been going on since we came to this house.”
“I am sorry for that.”
“Nor, indeed, have I been made very happy by all that has occurred since your mother and you did me the honour of coming to Bragton.”
“I must acknowledge you haven’t seemed to be very happy, Mr. Morton.”
“I don’t want to distress you;—and as far as possible I wish to avoid distressing myself. If it is your wish that our engagement should be over, I will endeavour to bear it. If it is to be continued—I expect that your manner to me should be altered.”
“What am I to say?”
“Say what you feel.”
“I feel that I can’t alter my manner, as you call it.”
“You do wish the engagement to be over then?”
“I did not say so. The truth is, Mr. Morton, that there is some trouble about the lawyers.”
“Why do you always call me Mr. Morton?”
“Because I am aware how probable it is that all this may come to nothing. I can’t walk out of the house and marry you as the cookmaid does the gardener. I’ve got to wait till I’m told that everything is settled; and at present I’m told that things are not settled because you won’t agree.”
“I’ll leave it to anybody to say whether I’ve been unreasonable.”
“I won’t go into that. I haven’t meddled with it, and I don’t know anything about it. But until it is all settled as a matter of course there must be some
