Arabella, when she received it, had ceased to care very much about
the insult of the offer. She had then quarrelled with her mother,
and had insisted on some separation even without any arrangement as
to funds. Requiring some confidant, she had told a great deal,
though not quite all, to Mrs. Connop Green, and that lady had
passed her on for a while to her husband's aunt in London. At this
time she had heard nothing of John Morton's will, and had perhaps
thought with some tender regret of the munificence of her other
lover, which she had scorned. But she was still intent on doing
something. The fury of her despair was still on her, so that she
could not weigh the injury she might do herself against some
possible gratification to her wounded spirit. Up to this moment she
had formed no future hope. At this epoch she had no string to her
bow. John Morton was dead; and she had absolutely wept for him in
solitude, though she had certainly never loved him. Nor did she
love Lord Rufford. As far as she knew how to define her feelings,
she thought that she hated him. But she told herself hourly that
she had not done with him. She was instigated by the true feminine
Medea feeling that she would find some way to wring his heart,--
even though in the process she might suffer twice as much as he
did. She had convinced herself that in this instance he was the
offender.
Pages:
648
649
650
651
652
653
654
655
656
657
658
659
660
661
662
663
664
665
666
667
668
669
670
671
672