“That will be impossible, Arabella.”
“They shall see whether it is impossible.
I have got beyond caring very much what people say
now. I know the kind of way papa would be thrown
over if there is no one there to back him. I shall
be there and I will ask Lord Rufford to his face whether
we did not become engaged when we were at Mistletoe.”
“They won’t let you in.”
“I’ll find a way to make my way in.
I shall never be his wife. I don’t know
that I want it. After all what’s the good
of living with a man if you hate each other,—or
living apart like you and papa?”
“He has income enough for anything!” exclaimed
Lady Augustus, shocked at her daughter’s apparent
blindness.
“It isn’t that I’m thinking of,
but I’ll have my revenge on him. Liar!
To write and say that I had made a mistake! He
had not the courage to get out of it when we were
together; but when he had run away in the night, like
a thief, and got into his own house, then he could
write and say that I had made a mistake! I have
sometimes pitied men when I have seen girls hunting
them down, but upon my word they deserve it!”
This renewal of spirit did something to comfort Lady
Augustus. She had begun to fear that her daughter,
in her despair, would abandon altogether the one pursuit
of her life;—but it now seemed that there
was still some courage left for the battle.
That night nothing more was said, but Arabella applied
all her mind to the present condition of her circumstances.
Should she or should she not go to the House in Piccadilly
on the following morning? At last she determined
that she would not do so, believing that should her
father fail she might make a better opportunity for
herself afterwards. At her uncle’s house
she would hardly have known where or how to wait for
the proper moment of her appearance. “So
you are not going to Piccadilly,” said her mother
on the following morning.
“It appears not,” said Arabella.
“Now what have you got to say?”
It may be a question whether Lord Augustus Trefoil
or Lord Rufford looked forward to the interview which
was to take place at the Duke’s mansion with
the greater dismay. The unfortunate father whose
only principle in life had been that of avoiding trouble
would have rather that his daughter should have been
jilted a score of times than that he should have been
called upon to interfere once. There was in this
demand upon him a breach of a silent but well-understood
compact. His wife and daughter had been allowed
to do just what they pleased and to be free of his
authority, upon an understanding that they were never
to give him any trouble. She might have married
Lord Rufford, or Mr. Morton, or any other man she
might have succeeded in catching, and he would not
have troubled her either before or after her marriage.
But it was not fair that he should be called upon
