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THE AMERICAN SENATOR
the old branch. He’s getting old and he ought to marry. It is so
serious when there’s an old family property.”
“I suppose he will — only —”
“Yes; exactly. One can’t even think about it while this poor
young man is lying so ill. Mrs. Morton has been almost like his
mother, and has lived upon the Bragton property, — absolutely lived upon it, — and now she is away from him because he
chooses to do what he likes with his own. Is it not awful? And
she would not put her foot in the house if she knew that Reginald was here. She told Mrs. Hopkins as much, and she said
that she wouldn’t so much as write a line to me. Poor fellow; he
wrote it himself. And now he thinks so much about it. When
Dr. Fanning went back to London yesterday I think he took
some message to her.”
Mary remained there till lunch was announced but re-
fused to go down into the parlour, urging that she was expected
home for dinner. “And there is no chance for Mr. Twentyman?”
asked Lady Ushant. Mary shook her head. “Poor man! I do feel
sorry for him as everybody speaks so well of him. Of course, my
dear, I have nothing to say about it. I don’t think girls should
ever be in a hurry to marry, and if you can’t love him —”
“Dear Lady Ushant, it is quite settled.”
“Poor young man! But you must go and see Reginald.” Then
she was taken into the library and did see Reginald. Were
she to avoid him, — specially, — she would tell her tale almost
as plainly as though she were to run after him. He greeted her
kindly, almost affectionately, expressing his extreme regret
that his visit to Cheltenham should have been postponed and
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a hope that she would be much at Bragton. “The distance is so
great, Reginald,” said Lady Ushant.
“I can drive her over. It is a long walk, and I had made up
my mind to get Runciman’s little phaeton. I shall order it for
to-morrow if Miss Masters will come.” But Miss Masters would
not agree to this. She would walk over again some day as she
liked the walk, but no doubt she would only be in the way if
she were to come often.
“I have told her about Miss Trefoil,” said Lady Ushant.
“You know, my dear, I look upon you almost as one of ourselves because you lived here so long. But perhaps you had better postpone coming again till she has gone.”
“Certainly, Lady Ushant.”
“It might be difficult to explain. I don’t suppose she will
stay long. Perhaps she will go back the same day. I am sure
I shan’t know what to say to her. But when anything is fixed
I will send you in word by the postman.”
Reginald would have walked back with her across the bridge
but that he had promised to go to his cousin immediately after
lunch. As it was he offered to accompany her a part of the way,
but was stopped by his aunt, greatly to Mary’s comfort. He was
now more beyond her reach than ever, — more utterly removed from her. He would probably become Squire of Bragton, and she, in her earliest days, had heard the late Squire
spoken of as though he were one of the potentates of the earth.
She had never thought it possible; but now it was less possible
than ever. There was something in his manner to her almost
protective, almost fatherly, — as though he had some authority over her. Lady Ushant had authority once, but he had none.
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In every tone of his voice she felt that she heard an expression of interest in her welfare, — but it was the interest which
a grown-up person takes in a child, or a superior in an inferior.
Of course he was her superior, but yet the tone of his voice was
distasteful to her. As she walked back to Dillsborough she told
herself that she would not go again to Bragton without assuring herself that he was not there.
When she reached home many questions were asked of
her, but she told nothing of the secrets of the Morton family
which had been so openly confided to her. She would only say
that she was afraid that Mr. John Morton was very ill.
CHAPTER XXVII
ARABELLA AGAIN AT BRAGTON
Arabella Trefoil had adhered without flinching to the pur-
pose she had expressed of going down to Bragton to see
the sick man. And yet at that very time she was in the midst of
her contest with Lord Rufford. She was aware that a correspondence was going on between her father and the young
lord and that her father had demanded an interview. She was
aware also that the matter had been discussed at the family
mansion in Piccadilly, the Duke having come up to London
for the purpose, and that the Duke and his brother, who
hardly ever spoke to each other, had absolutely had a conference. And this conference had had results. The Duke had not
himself consented to interfere, but he had agreed to a compromise proposed by his son. Lord Augustus should be authorised to ask Lord Rufford to meet him in the library of
the Piccadilly mansion, — so that there should be some savour of the dukedom in what might be done and said there.
Lord Rufford would by the surroundings be made to feel
that in rejecting Arabella he was rejecting the Duke and all
the Mayfair belongings, and that in accepting her he would
be entitled to regard himself as accepting them all. But by
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allowing thus much the Duke would not compromise himself, — nor the Duchess, nor Lord Mistletoe. Lord Mistletoe,
with that prudence which will certainly in future years make
him a useful assistant to some minister of the day, had seen all
this, and so it had been arranged.
But, in spite of these doings, Arabella had insisted on com-
plying with John Morton’s wish that she go down and visit
him in his bed at Bragton. Her mother, who in these days
was driven almost to desperation by her daughter’s conduct,
tried her best to prevent the useless journey, but tried in vain.
“Then,” she said in wrath to Arabella, “I will tell your father,
and I will tell the Duke, and I will tell Lord Rufford that they
need not trouble themselves any further.” “You know, mamma, that you will do nothing of the kind,” said Arabella. And
the poor woman did do nothing of the kind. “What is it to
them whether I see the man or not?” the girl said. “They are
not such fools as to suppose that because Lord Rufford has engaged himself to me now I was never engaged to any one before.
There isn’t one of them doesn’t know that you had made up
an engagement between us and had afterwards tried to break
it off.” When she heard this the unfortunate mother raved, but
she raved in vain. She told her daughter that she would not
supply her with money for the expenses of her journey, but
her daughter replied that she would have no difficulty in finding her way to a pawn shop. “What is to be got by it?” asked
the unfortunate mother. In reply to this Arabella would say,
“Mamma, you have no heart; — absolutely none. You ought to
manœuvre better than you do, for your feelings never stand in
your way for a moment.” All this had to be borne, and the old
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ANTHONY TROLLOPE
woman was forced at last not only to yield but to promise
that she would accompany her daughter to Bragton. “I know
how all this will end,” she said to Arabella. “You will have to
go your way and I must go mine.” “Just so,” replied the daughter. “I do not often agree with you, mamma; but I do there
altogether.”
Lady Augustus was absolutely at a loss to understand
what were the motives and what the ideas which induced
her daughter to take the journey. If the man were to die no
good could come of it. If he were to live then surely that love
which had induced him to make so foolish a petition would
suffice to ensure the marriage, if the marriage should then be
thought desirable. But, at the present moment, Arabella was
still hot in pursuit of Lord Rufford; — to whom this journey,
as soon as it should be known to him, would give the easiest mode of escape! How would it be possible that they two
should get out at the Dillsborough Station and be taken to
Bragton without all Rufford knowing it. Of course there
would be hymns sung in praise of Arabella’s love and constancy, but such hymns would be absolutely ruinous to her.
It was growing clear to Lady Augustus that her daughter was
giving up the game and becoming frantic as she thought of
her age, her failure, and her future. If so it would be well
that they should separate.
On the day fixed a close carriage awaited them at the Dills-
borough Station. They arrived both dressed in black and both
veiled, — and with but one maid between them. This arrangement had been made with some vague idea of escaping scrutiny rather than from economy. They had never hitherto been
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known to go anywhere without one apiece. There were no airs
on the station now as on that former occasion, — no loud talking; not even a word spoken. Lady Augustus was asking herself why, — why she should have been put into so lamentable
a position, and Arabella was endeavouring to think what she
would say to the dying man.
She did think that he was dying. It was not the purport of
her present visit to strengthen her position by making certain of the man’s hand should he live. When she said that she
was not as yet quite so hard-hearted as her mother, she spoke
the truth. Something of regret, something of penitence had
at times crept over her in reference to her conduct to this
man. He had been very unlike others on whom she had played
her arts. None of her lovers, or mock lovers, had been serious
and stern and uncomfortable as he. There had been no other
who had ever attempted to earn his bread. To her the butterflies of the world had been all in all, and the working bees had
been a tribe apart with which she was no more called upon to
mix than is my lady’s spaniel with the kennel hounds. But
the chance had come. She had consented to exhibit her allurements before a man of business and the man of business had
at once sat at her feet. She had soon repented, — as the reader
has seen. The alliance had been distasteful to her. She had
found that the man’s ways were in no wise like her ways, — and
she had found also that were she to become his wife, he certainly would not change. She had looked about for a means of
escape, — but as she did so she had recognized the man’s truth.
No doubt he had been different from the others, less gay in
his attire, less jocund in his words, less given to flattery and
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ANTHONY TROLLOPE
sport and gems and all the little wickednesses which she had
loved. But they, — those others had, one and all, struggled to
escape from her. Through all the gems and mirth and flattery
there had been the same purpose. They liked the softness of
her hand, they liked the flutter of her silk, they liked to have
whispered in their ears the bold words of her practised raillery. Each liked for a month or two to be her special friend. But
then, after that, each had deserted her as had done the one
before; till in each new alliance she felt that such was to be her
destiny, and that she was rolling a stone which would never
settle itself, straining for waters which would never come lip
high. But John Morton, after once saying that he loved her,
had never tired, had never wished to escape. He had been so
true to his love, so true to his word, that he had borne from
her usage which would have fully justified escape had escape
been to his taste. But to the last he had really loved her, and
now, on his death bed, he had sent for her to come to him.
She would not be coward enough to refuse his request. “Should
he say anything to you about his will don’t refuse to hear him,
because it may be of the greatest importance,” Lady Augustus
whispered to her daughter as the carriage was driven up to
the front door.
It was then four o’clock, and it was understood that
the two ladies were to stay that one night at Bragton, a letter
having been received by Lady Ushant that morning informing her that the mother as well as the daughter was coming.
Poor Lady Ushant was almost beside herself, — not knowing
what she would do with the two women, and having no one in
the house to help her. Something she had heard of Lady Au-
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gustus, but chiefly from Mrs. Hopkins who certainly had not
admired her master’s future mother-in-law. Nor had Arabella
been popular; but of her Mrs. Hopkins had only dared to say
that she was very handsome and “a little upstartish.” How
she was to spend the evening with them Lady Ushant could
not conceive, — it having been decided, in accordance with
the doctor’s orders, that the interview should not take place
till the next morning. When they were shown in Lady Ushant
stood just within the drawing-room door and muttered a few
words as she gave her hand to each. “How is he?” asked Arabella, throwing up her veil boldly, as soon as the door was
closed. Lady Ushant only shook her head. “I knew it would be
so. It is always so with anything I care for.”
“She is so distressed, Lady Ushant,” said the mother,
“that she hardly knows what she does.” Arabella shook her
head. “It is so, Lady Ushant.”
“Am I to go to him now?” said Arabella. Then the old lady
explained the doctor’s orders, and offered to take them to their
rooms. “Perhaps I might say a word to you alone? I will stay
here if you will go with mamma.” And she did stay till Lady
Ushant came down to her. “Do you mean to say it is certain,”
she asked, —” certain that he must — die?”
“No; — I do not say that.”
“It is possible that he may recover?”
“Certainly it is possible. What is not possible with God?”
“Ah; — that means that he will die.” Then she sat herself
down and almost unconsciously took off her bonnet and laid
it aside. Lady Ushant, then looking into her face for the first
time, was at a loss to understand what she had heard of her
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beauty. Could it be the same girl of whom Mrs. Hopkins had
spoken and of whose brilliant beauty Reginald had repeated
what he had heard? She was haggard, almost old, with black
lines round her eyes. There was nothing soft or gracious in
the tresses of her hair. When Lady Ushant had been young
men had liked hair such as was that of Mary Masters. Arabella’s yellow locks, — whencesoever they might have come, —
were rough and uncombed. But it was the look of age, and
the almost masculine strength of the lower face which astonished Lady Ushant the most. “Has he spoken to you about
me?” she said.
“Not to me.” Then Lady Ushant went on to explain
that though she was there now as the female representative of
the family she had never been so intimate with John Morton
as to admit of such confidence as that suggested.
“I wonder whether he can love me,” said the girl.
“Assuredly he does, Miss Trefoil. Why else should he send
for you?”
“Because he is an honest man. I hardly think that he can
love me much. He was to have been my husband, but he will
escape that. If I thought that he would live I would tell him
that he was free.”
“He would not want to be — free.”
“He ought to want it. I am not fit for him. I have come here,
Lady Ushant, because I want to tell him the truth.”
“But you love him?” Arabella made no answer, but sat look-
ing steadily into Lady Ushant’s face. “Surely you do love him.”
“I do not know. I don’t think I did love him, — though
now I may. It is so horrible that he should die, and die while
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