“I lied to you!” cried Arabella, determined to bring him to a sense of her iniquities.
“Most understandable,” agreed Mr. Beaumaris. “But I am really quite uninterested in heiresses.”
“Mr. Beaumaris,” said Arabella earnestly, “the whole of London believes me to be a wealthy woman!”
“Yes, and since the whole of London must certainly continue in that belief, you have, as I have already pointed out to you, no choice but to marry me,” he said. “ My fortune, happily, is so large that your lack of fortune need never be suspected.”
“Oh, why didn’t you tell me you knew the truth?” she cried, wringing her hands.
He possessed himself of them, and held them lightly. “My dearest goose, why didn’t you trust me, when I assured you that you might?” he countered. “I have cherished throughout the belief that you would confide in me, and you see I was quite right. So certain was I that you would not, when the time actually came, run off with me in this absurd fashion, that I visited my grandmother yesterday, and told her the whole story. She was very much diverted, and commanded me to bring you to stay for a few days with her. I hope you will not object to this: she frightens half the world, but you will have me to support you through the ordeal.”
Arabella pulled her hands resolutely away, and turned from him to hide her quivering lips, and suffused eyes. “It is worse than you know!” she said, in a stifled tone. “When you know all the truth, you will not wish to marry me! I have been worse than untruthful: I have been shameless! I can never marry you, Mr. Beaumaris!”
“This is most disturbing,” he said. “Not only have I sent the notice of our betrothal to the Gazette, and the Morning Post, but I have obtained your father’s consent to our marriage.”
At this, she spun round to face him again, a look of utter astonishment in her face. “ My father’s consent?” she repeated incredulously.
“It is usual, you know,” explained Mr. Beaumaris apologetically.