“Mr. Short may do whatever he likes,” said Arabella.  There were very hot words between them that night in London, but the mother could obtain no further information from her daughter.

That serious epistle had been commenced even before Arabella had left Mistletoe; but the composition was one which required great care, and it was not completed and copied and recopied till she had been two days in Hampshire.  Not even when it was finished did she say a word to her mother about it.  She had doubted much as to the phrases which in such an emergency she ought to use, but she thought it safer to trust to herself than to her mother.  In writing such a letter as that posted at Mistletoe she believed herself to be happy.  She could write it quickly, and understood that she could convey to her correspondent some sense of her assumed mood.  But her serious letter would, she feared, be stiff and repulsive.  Whether her fears were right the reader shall judge,—­for the letter when written was as follows: 

Marygold Place, Basingstoke,
Saturday.

My Dear Lord Rufford,

You will I suppose have got the letter that I wrote before I left Mistletoe, and which I directed to Mr. Surbiton’s.  There was not much in it,—­except a word or two as to your going and as to my desolation, and just a reminiscence of the hunting.  There was no reproach that you should have left me without any farewell, or that you should have gone so suddenly, after saying so much, without saying more.  I wanted you to feel that you had made me very happy, and not to feel that your departure in such a way had robbed me of part of the happiness.

It was a little bad of you, because it did of course leave me to the hardness of my aunt; and because all the other women there would of course follow her.  She had inquired about our journey home, that dear journey home, and I had of course told her,—­well I had better say it out at once; I told her that we were engaged.  You, I am sure, will think that the truth was best.  She wanted to know why you did not go to the Duke.  I told her that the Duke was not my father; but that as far as I was concerned the Duke might speak to you or not as he pleased.  I had nothing to conceal.  I am very glad he did not, because he is pompous, and you would have been bored.  If there is one thing I desire more than another it is that nothing belonging to me shall ever be a bore to you.  I hope I may never stand in the way of anything that will gratify you,—­as I said when you lit that cigar.  You will have forgotten, I dare say.  But, dear Rufford,—­dearest; I may say that, mayn’t I?—­say something, or do something to make me satisfied.  You know what I mean;—­don’t you?  It isn’t that I am a bit afraid myself.  I don’t think so little of myself, or so badly of you.  But I don’t like other women to look at me as though I ought not to be proud of anything.  I am proud of everything; particularly proud of you,—­and of Jack.