Now there is my serious epistle, and I am sure that you will answer it like a dear, good, kind-hearted, loving-lover.  I won’t be afraid of writing the word, nor of saying that I love you with all my heart, and that I am always your own
                             Arabella.

She kept the letter till the Sunday, thinking that she might have an answer to that written from Mistletoe, and that his reply might alter its tone, or induce her to put it aside altogether; but when on Sunday morning none came, her own was sent.  The word in it which frightened herself was the word “engaged.”  She tried various other phrases, but declared to herself at last that it was useless to “beat about the bush.”  He must know the light in which she was pleased to regard those passages of love which she had permitted so that there might be no mistake.  Whether the letter would be to his liking or not, it must be of such a nature that it would certainly draw from him an answer on which she could act.  She herself did not like the letter; but, considering her difficulties, we may own that it was not much amiss.

CHAPTER XVIII

Lord Rufford makes up his Mind

As it happened, Lord Rufford got the two letters together, the cause of which was as follows.

When he ran away from Mistletoe, as he certainly did, he had thought much about that journey home in the carriage, and was quite aware that he had made an ass of himself.  As he sat at dinner on that day at Mistletoe his neighbour had said some word to him in joke as to his attachment to Miss Trefoil, and after the ladies had left the room another neighbour of the other sex had hoped that he had had a pleasant time on the road.  Again, in the drawing-room it had seemed to him that he was observed.  He could not refrain from saying a few words to Arabella as she lay on the sofa.  Not to do so after what had occurred would have been in itself peculiar.  But when he did so, some other man who was near her made way for him, as though she were acknowledged to be altogether his property.  And then the Duchess had striven to catch him, and lead him into special conversation.  When this attempt was made he decided that he must at once retreat,—­or else make up his mind to marry the young lady.  And therefore he retreated.

He breakfasted that morning at the inn at Stamford, and as he smoked his cigar afterwards, he positively resolved that he would under no circumstances marry Arabella Trefoil.  He was being hunted and run down, and, with the instinct of all animals that are hunted, he prepared himself for escape.  It might be said, no doubt would be said, that he behaved badly.  That would be said because it would not be open to him to tell the truth.  The lady in such a case can always tell her story, with what exaggeration she may please to give, and can complain.  The man never can do so.  When inquired into, he cannot