“What good can it do?”

“None to me, God knows.  You are such a thing that I would not have you now I know you, though you were twice Lord Rufford.  But I have chosen to speak my mind to you and to tell you what I think.  Did you suppose that when I said I would meet you face to face I was to be deterred by such girl’s excuses as you made?  I chose to tell you to your face that you are false, a coward, and no gentleman, and though you had hidden yourself under the very earth I would have found you.”  Then she turned round and saw Sir George Penwether standing close to them.

Lord Rufford had seen him approaching for some time, and had made one or two futile attempts to meet him.  Arabella’s back had been turned to the house, and she had not heard the steps or observed the direction of her companion’s eyes.  He came so near before he was seen that he heard her concluding words.  Then Lord Rufford with a ghastly attempt at pleasantry introduced them.  “George,” he said, “I do not think you know Miss Trefoil.  Sir George Penwether; Miss Trefoil.”

The interview had been watched from the house and the husband had been sent down by his wife to mitigate the purgatory which she knew that her brother must be enduring.  “My wife,” said Sir George, “has sent me to ask Miss Trefoil whether she will not come into lunch.”

“I believe it is Lord Rufford’s house,” said Arabella.

“If Miss Trefoil’s frame of mind will allow her to sit at table with me I shall be proud to see her,” said Lord Rufford.

“Miss Trefoil’s frame of mind will not allow her to eat or to drink with such a dastard,” said she turning away in the direction of the park gates.  “Perhaps, Sir George, you will be kind enough to direct the man who brought me here to pick me up at the lodge.”  And so she walked away—­a mile across the park,—­neither of them caring to follow her.

It seemed to her as she stood at the lodge gate, having obstinately refused to enter the house, to be an eternity before the fly came to her.  When it did come she felt as though her strength would barely enable her to climb into it.  And when she was there she wept, with bitter throbbing woe, all the way to Rufford.  It was over now at any rate.  Now there was not a possible chance on which a gleam of hope might be made to settle.  And how handsome he was, and how beautiful the place, and how perfect would have been the triumph could she have achieved it!  One more word,—­one other pressure of the hand in the post-chaise might have done it!  Had he really promised her marriage she did not even now think that he would have gone back from his word.  If that heavy stupid duke would have spoken to him that night at Mistletoe, all would have been well!  But now,—­now there was nothing for her but weeping and gnashing of teeth.  He was gone, and poor Morton was gone; and all those others, whose memories rose like ghosts before her;—­they were all gone.  And she wept as she thought that she might perhaps have made a better use of the gifts which Providence had put in her way.