have been a little impetuous. The presence of
this lover could hardly do her much injury. These
were not days in which young women were forced to marry
men. What did he, Reginald Morton, think about
it? He was to remember that as far as she herself
was concerned, she dearly loved Mary Masters and would
be delighted to have her at Cheltenham; and, so remembering,
he was to see the attorney, and Mary herself, and if
necessary Mrs. Masters;—and then to report
his opinion to Cheltenham.
Then, fearing that her nephew might be away for a
day or two, or that he might not be able to perform
his commission instantly, and thinking that Mary might
be unhappy if she received no immediate reply to such
a request as hers had been, Lady Ushant by the same
post wrote to her young friend as follows;—
Dear Mary,
Reginald will go over and see your father about your
proposition. As far as I myself am concerned
nothing would give me so much pleasure. This
is quite sincere. But the matter is in other
respects very important. Of course I have kept
your letter all to myself, and in writing to Reginald
I have mentioned no names.
Your affectionate
friend,
Margaret Ushant.
“Particularly proud of you”
Arabella Trefoil left her uncle’s mansion on
the day after her lover’s departure, certainly
not in triumph, but with somewhat recovered spirits.
When she first heard that Lord Rufford was gone,—that
he had fled away as it were in the middle of the night
without saying a word to her, without a syllable to
make good the slight assurances of his love that had
been given to her in the post carriage, she felt that
she was deserted and betrayed. And when she found
herself altogether neglected on the following day,
and that the slightly valuable impression which she
had made on her aunt was apparently gone, she did
for half an hour think in earnest of the Paragon and
Patagonia. But after a while she called to mind
all that she knew of great efforts successfully made
in opposition to almost overwhelming difficulties.
She had heard of forlorn hopes, and perhaps in her
young days had read something of Caesar still clinging
to his Commentaries as he struggled in the waves.
This was her forlorn hope, and she would be as brave
as any soldier of them all. Lord Rufford’s
embraces were her Commentaries, and let the winds
blow and the waves roll as they might she would still
cling to them. After lunch she spoke to her aunt
with great courage,—as the Duchess thought
with great effrontery. “My uncle wouldn’t
speak to Lord Rufford before he went?”
“How could he speak to a man who ran away from
his house in that way?”
“The running away, as you call it, aunt, did
not take place till two days after I had told you
all about it. I thought he would have done as
much as that for his brother’s daughter.”
“I don’t believe in it at all,”
said the Duchess sternly.
