The mention of her godmother made Arabella start, and exclaim: “Lady Bridlington! Good God, I left a letter for her on the table in the hall, telling her of the dreadful thing I had done, and begging her to forgive me!”
“Don’t disturb yourself, my love: Lady Bridlington knows very well where you are. Indeed, I found her most helpful, particularly when it came to packing what you would need for a brief sojourn at my grandmother’s house. She promised that her own maid should attend to the matter while we were listening to that tedious concert. I daresay she has long since told that son of hers that he may look for the notice of our engagement in tomorrow’s Gazette, together with the intelligence that we have both of us gone out of town to stay with the Dowager Duchess of Wigan. By the time we reappear in London, we must hope that our various acquaintances will have grown so accustomed to the news that we shall not be quite overwhelmed by their astonishment, their chagrin, or their felicitations. But I am strongly of the opinion that you should permit me to escort you home to Heythram as soon as possible: you will naturally wish your father to marry us, and I am extremely impatient to carry off my wife without any loss of time. My darling, what in the world have I said to make you cry?”
“Oh, nothing, nothing!” sobbed Arabella. “Only that I don’t deserve to be so happy, and I n-never was indifferent to you, though I t-tried very hard to be, when I thought you were only trifling with m-me!”
Mr. Beaumaris then took her firmly into his arms, and kissed her; after which she derived much comfort from clutching the lapel of his elegant coat, and weeping into his shoulder. None of the very gratifying things which Mr. Beaumaris murmured into the curls that were tickling his chin had any other effect on her than to make her sob more bitterly than ever, so he presently told her that even his love for her could not prevail upon him to allow her to ruin his favourite coat. This changed her tears to laughter, and after he had dried her face, and kissed her again, she became tolerably composed, and was able to sit down on the sofa beside him, and to accept from him the glass of tepid milk which he told her she must drink if she did not wish to incur Mrs. Watchet’s displeasure. She smiled mistily, and sipped the milk, saying after a moment: “And Papa gave his consent! Oh, what will he say when he knows the whole? What did you tell him?”
“I told him the truth,” replied Mr. Beaumaris.
Arabella nearly dropped the glass. “All the truth?” she faltered, dismay in her face.
“All of it—oh, not the truth about Bertram! His name did not enter into our conversation, and I strictly charged him, when I sent him off to Yorkshire, not to divulge one word of his adventures. Much as I like and esteem your father, I cannot feel that any good purpose would be served by distressing him with that story. I told him the truth about you and me.”
“Was he—dreadfully displeased with me?” asked Arabella, In a small, apprehensive voice.
“He was, I fear, a little grieved,” owned Mr. Beaumaris. “But when he understood that you would never have announced yourself to have been an heiress had you not overheard me talking like a coxcomb to Charles Fleetwood, he was soon brought to perceive that I was even more to blame for the deception than you.”
“Was he,” said Arabella doubtfully.
“Drink your milk, my love! Certainly he was. Between us, your Mama and I were able to show him that without my prompting Charles would never have spread the rumour abroad, and that once the rumour had been so spread it was impossible for you to deny it, since naturally no one ever asked you if it were true. I daresay he may give you a little scold, but I am quite sure you are already forgiven.”
“Did he forgive you too?” asked Arabella, awed.
“I had all the merit of making the confession,” Mr. Beaumaris pointed out virtuously. “He forgave me freely. I cannot imagine why you should look so much surprised: I found him in every way delightful, and have seldom enjoyed an evening more than the one I spent conversing with him in his study, after your Mama and Sophy had gone to bed. Indeed, we sat talking until the candles guttered in their sockets.”
Arabella’s awed expression became even more marked. “Dear sir, what—what did you talk about?” she enquired quite unable to visualize Papa and the Nonpareil hobnobbing together.
“We discussed certain aspects of Wolfs Prolegomena ad Homerum, a copy of which work I chanced to see upon his bookshelf,” replied Mr. Beaumaris calmly. “I myself picked up a copy when I was in Vienna last year, and was much interested in Wolf’s theory that more than one hand was employed in the writing of the Iliad and the Odyssey.”
“Is—is that what the book is about?” asked Arabella.
He smiled, but replied gravely: “Yes, that is what it is about—though your father, a far more profound scholar than I am, found the opening chapter, which treats of the proper methods to be used in the recension of ancient manuscripts, of even more interest. He took me a little out of my depth there, but I hope I may have profited by his very just observations.”
“Did you enjoy that?” demanded Arabella, much impressed.
“Very much. In spite of my frippery ways, you know, I do occasionally enjoy rational conversation, just as I can spend a very agreeable evening playing at lottery-tickets with Mama, and Sophy, and the children.”
“You did not do that!” she cried. “Oh, you are quizzing me! You must have been shockingly bored!”
“Nothing of the sort! The man who could be bored in the midst of such a lively family as yours must be an insufferable fellow, above being pleased by anything. By the by, if that uncle of yours does not come up to scratch, we must do something towards helping Harry to achieve his burning ambition to become a second Nelson. Not the eccentric uncle who died, and left you his entire fortune, but the one who still lives.”
“Oh, pray don’t speak of that dreadful fortune ever again!” begged Arabella, hanging down her head.
“But I must speak of it!” objected Mr. Beaumaris. “Since I presume that we shall frequently be inviting the various members of your family to stay with us, and can hardly pass them all off as heirs and heiresses, some explanation of your superior circumstances must be forthcoming! Your Mama—an admirable woman!—and I decided that the eccentric uncle would serve our turn very well. We were further agreed, quite tacitly, you know, that it will be unnecessary, and, indeed, quite undesirable, to mention the matter to Papa.”
“Oh, no it would never do to tell him that!” she said quickly. “He would not like it at all, and when he is grieved with any of us—Oh, if only he does not discover the scrape Bertram fell into, and if only Bertram didn’t fail to pass that examination at Oxford, which I am much afraid he may have, because it did not sound to me as though—”
“It is not of the slightest consequence,” he interrupted. “Bertram—though Papa does not yet know it—is not going to Oxford: he is going to join a good cavalry regiment, where he will feel very much more at home, and, I daresay, become a great credit to us all.”
At this, Arabella caught his hand in her free one, and kissed it, exclaiming, with a sob in her voice: “How good you are! How much, much too good you are, my dear Mr. Beaumaris!”
“Never,” said Mr. Beaumaris, snatching his hand away, and taking Arabella into his arms so ungently that the rest of the milk in the glass was spilt over her gown, “Never, Arabella, dare to do such a thing again! And don’t talk such fustian to me, or persist in calling me Mr. Beaumaris!”
“Oh, I must!” protested Arabella, into his shoulder. “I can’t call you—I can’t call you—Robert!”
“You have called me Robert very prettily, and you will find, if you persevere, that it will rise quite easily to your lips in a very short space of time.”
“Well, if it will please you, I will try to say it,” said Arabella. She sat up suddenly, as a thought occurred to her, and said in her impulsive way: “Oh, Mr. Beau—I mean, Leaky Peg, in that horrid house where I went to see poor Bertram, and she was so very kind to him! Do you think—?”
> “No, Arabella,” said Mr. Beaumaris firmly. “I do not!”
She was disappointed, but docile. “No?” she said.
“No,” said Mr. Beaumaris, drawing her back into his arm.
“I thought we might have taken her away from that dreadful place,” suggested Arabella, smoothing his coat-lapel with a coaxing hand.
“I am quite sure you did, my love, but while I am prepared to receive into my household climbing-boys and stray curs, I must draw the line at a lady rejoicing in the name of Leaky Peg.”
“You don’t think she might learn to become a housemaid, or something of that sort? You know—”
“I only know two things,” interrupted Mr. Beaumaris. “The first is that she is not going to make the attempt in any house of mine; and the second, and by far the more important, is that I adore you, Arabella!”
Arabella was so much pleased by this disclosure that she lost interest in Leaky Peg, and confined herself to the far more agreeable task of convincing Mr. Beaumaris that his very obliging sentiments were entirely reciprocated.
FB2 document info
Document ID: bb9d0226-ae9c-48be-af26-140287e30d8c
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 30 May 2011
Created using: FictionBook Editor Release 2.6 software
Document authors :
frenky_m
Document history:
1.0 — создание файла
About
This file was generated by Lord KiRon's FB2EPUB converter version 1.1.5.0.
(This book might contain copyrighted material, author of the converter bears no responsibility for it's usage)
Этот файл создан при помощи конвертера FB2EPUB версии 1.1.5.0 написанного Lord KiRon.
(Эта книга может содержать материал который защищен авторским правом, автор конвертера не несет ответственности за его использование)
http://www.fb2epub.net
https://code.google.com/p/fb2epub/
Arabella Page 30
