After all it was what she had expected. It was very decided, very short, very cold, and carrying with it no sign of weakness. But it was of such a letter that she had thought when she resolved that she would apply to Lord Mistletoe, and endeavour to put the whole family of Trefoil in arms. She had been,—so she had assured herself,—quite sure that that kind, loving response which she had solicited, would not be given to her. But yet the stern fact, now that it was absolutely in her hands, almost overwhelmed her. She could not restrain the dull dead look of heart-breaking sorrow which for a few moments clouded her face,—a look which took away all her beauty, lengthening her cheeks, and robbing her eyes of that vivacity which it was the task of her life to assume. "Is anything the matter, my dear?" asked Mrs. Connop Green.
Then she made a final effort,—an heroic effort. "What do you think, mamma?" she said, paying no attention to her cousin's inquiry.
"What is it, Arabella?"
"Jack got some injury that day at Peltry, and is so lame that they don't know whether he'll ever put his foot to the ground again."
"Poor fellow," said Mr. Green. "Who is Jack?"
"Jack is a horse, Mr. Green;—and such a horse that one cannot but be sorry for him. Poor Jack! I don't know any Christian whose lameness would be such a nuisance."
"Does Lord Rufford write about his horses?" asked Mrs. Connop Green, thus betraying that knowledge as to the letter which she had obtained from the envelope.
"If you must know all the truth about it," said Arabella, "the horse is my horse, and not Lord Rufford's. And as he is the only horse I have got, and as he's the dearest horse in all the world, you must excuse my being a little sorry about him. Poor Jack!" After that the breakfast was eaten and everybody in the room believed the story of the horse's lameness—except Lady Augustus.
When breakfast and the loitering after breakfast were well over, so that she could escape without exciting any notice, she made her way up to her bedroom. In a few minutes,—so that again there should be nothing noticeable,—her mother followed her. But her door was locked. "It is I, Arabella," said her mother.
"You can't come in at present, mamma. I am busy."