No doubt he had first written a sum of money on the fragment of paper which she had preserved;—­and the evidence would so far go against him.  But Lady Augustus had spoken piteously of their joint poverty,—­and had done so in lieu of insisting with a mother’s indignation on her daughter’s rights.  Of course she had intended to ask for money.  What other purpose could she have had?  It was so he had argued at the moment, and so he had argued since.  If it were so he would not admit that he had behaved unlike a gentleman in offering the money.  Yet he did not dare to tell Sir George, and therefore was obliged to answer Arabella’s letter without assistance.

He was not altogether sorry to have his 8,000 pounds, being fully as much alive to the value of money as any brother peer in the kingdom, but he would sooner have paid the money than be subject to an additional interview.  He had been forced up to London to see first the father and then the mother, and thought that he had paid penalty enough for any offence that he might have committed.  An additional interview with the young lady herself would distress him beyond anything,—­would be worse than any other interview.  He would sooner leave Rufford and go abroad than encounter it.  He promised himself that nothing should induce him to encounter it.  Therefore he wrote the above letter.

Arabella, when she received it, had ceased to care very much about the insult of the offer.  She had then quarrelled with her mother, and had insisted on some separation even without any arrangement as to funds.  Requiring some confidant, she had told a great deal, though not quite all, to Mrs. Connop Green, and that lady had passed her on for a while to her husband’s aunt in London.  At this time she had heard nothing of John Morton’s will, and had perhaps thought with some tender regret of the munificence of her other lover, which she had scorned.  But she was still intent on doing something.  The fury of her despair was still on her, so that she could not weigh the injury she might do herself against some possible gratification to her wounded spirit.  Up to this moment she had formed no future hope.  At this epoch she had no string to her bow.  John Morton was dead; and she had absolutely wept for him in solitude, though she had certainly never loved him.  Nor did she love Lord Rufford.  As far as she knew how to define her feelings, she thought that she hated him.  But she told herself hourly that she had not done with him.  She was instigated by the true feminine Medea feeling that she would find some way to wring his heart,—­ even though in the process she might suffer twice as much as he did.  She had convinced herself that in this instance he was the offender.  “Painful to both of us!” No doubt!  But because it would be painful to him, it should be exacted.  Though he was a coward and would fain shirk such pain, she could be brave enough.  Even though she should be driven to catch him by the arm in the open street, she would have it out with him.  He was a liar and a coward, and she would, at any rate, have the satisfaction of telling him so.