‘I happened to meet him, and spoke two words to him,’ said Arabella.  ‘Would you have me cut him?’

’I’ll tell you what it is, Bella, if there is any underhand game going on that I don’t understand, all Exeter shall be on fire before you shall carry it out.’

Bella made no answer to this, but shrugged her shoulders.  Camilla was almost at a loss to guess what might be the truth.  Would not any sister, so accused on such an occasion, rebut the accusation with awful wrath?  But Arabella simply shrugged her shoulders, and went her way.  It was now the 16th of April, and there wanted but one short fortnight to their marriage.  The man had not the courage to jilt her!  She felt sure that he had not heart enough to do a deed of such audacity.  And her sister, too, was weak and a coward, and would lack the power to stand on her legs and declare herself to be the perpetrator of such villany.  Her mother, as she knew well, would always have preferred that her elder daughter should be the bride; but her mother was not the woman to have the hardihood, now, in the eleventh hour, to favour such an intrigue.  Let her wish be what it might, she would not be strong enough to carry through the accomplishment of it.  They would all know that that threat of hers of setting Exeter on fire would be carried out after some fashion that would not be inadequate to the occasion.  A sister, a mother, a promised lover, all false—­all so damnably, cruelly false!  It was impossible.  No history, no novel of most sensational interest, no wonderful villany that had ever been wrought into prose or poetry, would have been equal to this.  It was impossible.  She told herself so a score of times a day.  And yet the circumstances were so terribly suspicious!  Mr Gibson’s conduct as a lover was simply disgraceful to him as a man and a clergyman.  He was full of excuses, which she knew to be false.  He would never come near her if he could help it.  When he was with her, he was as cold as an archbishop both in word and in action.  Nothing would tempt him to any outward manifestation of affection.  He would talk of nothing but the poor women of St. Peter-cum-Pumpkin in the city, and the fraudulent idleness of a certain colleague in the cathedral services, who was always shirking his work.  He made her no presents.  He never walked with her.  He was always gloomy, and he had indeed so behaved himself in public that people were beginning to talk of ‘poor Mr Gibson.’  And yet he could meet Arabella on the sly in the lanes, and send notes to her by the green-grocer’s boy!  Poor Mr Gibson indeed!  Let her once get him well over the 29th of April, and the people of Exeter might talk about poor Mr Gibson if they pleased.  And Bella’s conduct was more wonderful almost than that of Mr Gibson.  With all her cowardice, she still held up her head, held it perhaps a little higher than was usual with her.  And when that grievous accusation was made against her—­made and repeated—­an accusation the very thought