The hunting field is by no means a place suited for real lovemaking. Very much of preliminary conversation may be done there in a pleasant way, and intimacies may be formed. But when lovers have already walked with arms round each other in a wood, riding together may be very pleasant but can hardly be ecstatic. Lord Rufford might indeed have asked her to be Lady R. while they were breaking up the first fox, or as they loitered about in the big wood;—but she did not expect that. There was no moment during the day’s sport in which she had a right to tell herself that he was misbehaving because he did not so ask her. But in a postchaise it would be different.
At the inn at Stamford the horses were given up, and Arabella condescended to take a glass of cherry brandy. She had gone through a long day; it was then half-past four, and she was not used to be many hours on horseback. The fatigue seemed to her to be very much greater than it had been when she got back to Rufford immediately after the fatal accident. The ten miles along the road, which had been done in little more than an hour, had almost overcome her. She had determined not to cry for mercy as the hard trot went on. She had passed herself off as an accustomed horsewoman, and having done so well across the country, would not break down coming home. But, as she got into the carriage, she was very tired. She could almost have cried with fatigue;—and yet she told herself that now—now—must the work be done. She would perhaps tell him that she was tired. She might even assist her cause by her languor;—but, though she should die for it, she would not waste her precious moments by absolute rest. “May I light a cigar?” he said as he got in.
“You know you may. Wherever I may be with you do you think that I would interfere with your gratifications?”
“You are the best girl in all the world,” he said as he took out his case and threw himself back in the corner.
“Do you call that a long day?” she asked when he had lit his cigar.
“Not very long.”
“Because I am so tired.”
“We came home pretty sharp. I thought it best not to shock her Grace by too great a stretch into the night. As it is you will have time to go to bed for an hour or two before you dress. That’s what I do when I am in time. You’ll be right as a trivet then.”
“Oh; I’m right now—only tired. It was very nice.”
“Pretty well. We ought to have killed that last fox. And why on earth we made nothing of that fellow in Gooseberry Grove I couldn’t understand. Old Tony would never have left that fox alive above ground. Would you like to go to sleep?”
“O dear no.”
“Afraid of gloves?” said he, drawing nearer to her. They might pull him as they liked by his coattails but as he was in a postchaise with her he must make himself agreeable. She shook her head and laughed as she looked at him through the gloom. Then of course he kissed her.
“Lord Rufford, what does this mean?”
“Don’t you know what it means?”
“Hardly.”
“It means that I think you the jolliest girl out. I never liked anybody so well as I do you.”
“Perhaps you never liked anybody,” said she.
“Well;—yes, I have; but I am not going to boast of what fortune has done for me in that way. I wonder whether you care for me?”
“Do you want to know?”
“I should like to know. You have never said that you did.”
“Because you have never asked me.”
“Am I not asking you now, Bella?”
“There are different ways of asking—but there is only one way that will get an answer from me. No;—no. I will not have it. I have allowed too much to you already. Oh, I am so tired.” Then she sank back almost into his arms—but recovered herself very quickly. “Lord Rufford,” she said, “if you are a man of honour let there be an end of this. I am sure you do not wish to make me wretched.”
“I would do anything to make you happy.”
“Then tell me that you love me honestly, sincerely, with all your heart—and I shall be happy.”
“You know I do.”
“Do you? Do you?” she said, and then she flung herself on to his shoulder, and for a while she seemed to faint. For a few minutes she lay there and as she was lying she calculated whether it would be better to try at this moment to drive him to some clearer declaration, or to make use of what he had already said without giving him an opportunity of protesting that he had not meant to make her an offer of marriage. He had declared that he loved her honestly and with his whole heart. Would not that justify her in setting her uncle at him? And might it not be that the Duke would carry great weight with him;—that the Duke might induce him to utter the fatal word though she, were she to demand it now, might fail? As she thought of it all she affected to swoon, and almost herself believed that she was swooning. She
