The Vicissitudes of Evangeline 3

The Vicissitudes of Evangeline 3

Thursday night._

 

I WAS down in the library, innocently reading a book when Mr.

Carruthers came in. He looked even better in evening dress, but he

appeared ill-tempered, and no doubt found the situation unpleasant.

 

“Is not this a beautiful house?” I said, in a velvet voice, to break

the awkward silence, and show him I did not share his unease. “You had

not seen it before, for ages, had you?”

 

“Not since I was a boy,” he answered, trying to be polite. “My aunt

quarrelled with my father--she was the direct heiress of all this,

and married her cousin, my father’s younger brother--but you know the

family history, of course----”

 

“Yes.”

 

“They hated one another, she and my father.”

 

“Mrs. Carruthers hated all her relations,” I said demurely.

 

“Myself among them?”

 

“Yes,” I said slowly, and bent forward, so that the lamplight should

fall upon my hair. “She said you were too much like herself in

character for you ever to be friends.”

 

“Is that a compliment?” he asked, and there was a twinkle in his eye.

 

“We must speak no ill of the dead,” I said, evasively.

 

He looked slightly annoyed, as much as these diplomats ever let

themselves look anything.

 

“You are right,” he said. “Let her rest in peace.”

 

There was silence for a moment.

 

“What are you going to do with your life now?” he asked, presently. It

was a bald question.

 

“I shall become an adventuress,” I answered deliberately.

 

“A _what_?” he exclaimed, his black eyebrows contracting.

 

“An adventuress. Is not that what it is called? A person who sees life,

and has to do the best she can for herself.”

 

He laughed. “You strange little lady?” he said, his irritation with me

melting. And when he laughs you can see how even his teeth are, but the

two side ones are sharp and pointed like a wolf’s.

 

“Perhaps after all you had better have married me!”

 

“No, that would clip my wings,” I said frankly, looking at him straight

in the face.

 

“Mr. Barton tells me you propose leaving here on Saturday. I beg

you will not do so--please consider it your home for so long as you

wish--until you can make some arrangements for yourself. You look so

very young to be going about the world alone!”

 

He bent down and gazed at me closer--there was an odd tone in his voice.

 

“I am twenty, and I have been often snubbed,” I said, calmly; “that

prepares one for a good deal. I shall enjoy doing what I please.”

 

“And what are you going to please?”

 

“I shall go to Claridge’s until I can look about me.”

 

He moved uneasily.

 

“But have you no relations? No one who will take care of you?”

 

“I believe none. My mother was nobody particular you know--a Miss

Tonkins by name.”

 

“But your father?” He sat down now on the sofa beside me; there was a

puzzled, amused look in his face--perhaps I was amazing him.

 

“Papa? Oh! Papa was the last of his family--they were decent people,

but there are no more of them.”

 

He pushed one of the cushions aside.

 

“It is an impossible position for a girl--completely alone. I cannot

allow it. I feel responsible for you. After all, it would do very well

if you married me--I am not particularly domestic by nature, and should

be very little at home--so you could live here, and have a certain

position, and I would come back now and then to see you were getting

on all right.”

 

One could not say if he were mocking, or no.

 

“It is too good of you,” I said, without any irony, “but I like

freedom, and when you were at home it might be such a bore----”

 

He leant back, and laughed merrily.

 

“You are candid, at any rate!” he said.

 

Mr. Barton came into the room at that moment, full of apologies for

being late. Immediately after, with the usual ceremony, the butler

entered and pompously announced, “Dinner is served, sir.” How quickly

they recognize the new master!

 

Mr. Carruthers gave me his arm, and we walked slowly down the picture

gallery to the banqueting hall, and there sat down at the small round

table in the middle, that always looks like an island in a lake.

 

I talked nicely at dinner. I was dignified and grave, and quite frank.

Mr. Carruthers was not bored. The _chef_ had outdone himself, hoping to

be kept on. I never felt so excited in my life.

 

I was apparently asleep under a big lamp, after dinner in the

library--a book of silly poetry in my lap--when the door opened and

he--Mr. Carruthers--came in alone, and walked up the room. I did not

open my eyes. He looked for just a minute--how accurate I am! Then he

said, “You are very pretty when asleep!”

 

His voice was not caressing, or complimentary, merely as if the fact

had forced this utterance.

 

I allowed myself to wake without a start.

 

“Was the ’47 port as good as you hoped?” I asked, sympathetically.

 

He sat down. I had arranged my chair so that there was none other

in its immediate neighbourhood. Thus he was some way off, and could

realize my whole silhouette.

 

“The ’47 port--oh yes!--but I am not going to talk of port. I want you

to tell me a lot more about yourself, and your plans.”

 

“I have no plans--except to see the world.”

 

He picked up a book, and put it down again; he was not perfectly calm.

 

“I don’t think I shall let you. I am more than ever convinced you ought

to have some one to take care of you; you are not of the type that

makes it altogether safe to roam about alone.”

 

“Oh! as for my type,” I said, languidly, “I know all about that. Mrs.

Carruthers said no one with this combination of colour could be good,

so I am not going to try. It will be quite simple.”

 

He rose quickly from his chair, and stood in front of the great log

fire, such a comical __EXPRESSION__ on his face.

 

“You are the quaintest child I have ever met,” he said.

 

“I am not a child--and I mean to know everything I can.”

 

He went over towards the sofa again, and arranged the cushions--great,

splendid, fat pillows of old Italian brocade, stiff with gold and

silver.

 

“Come!” he pleaded, “sit here beside me, and let us talk; you are miles

away there, and I want to--make you see reason.”

 

I rose at once, and came slowly to where he pointed. I settled myself

deliberately, there was one cushion of purple and silver right under

the light, and there I rested my head.

 

“Now talk!” I said, and half closed my eyes.

 

Oh! I was enjoying myself! The first time I have ever been alone with

a real man! They--the old ambassadors, and politicians, and generals,

used always to tell me I should grow into an attractive woman--now I

meant to try what I could do.

 

Mr. Carruthers remained silent--but he sat down beside me, and looked,

and looked right into my eyes.

 

“Now talk then,” I said again.

 

“Do you know, you are a very disturbing person,” he said at last, by

way of a beginning.

 

“What is that?” I asked.

 

“It is a woman who confuses one’s thought when one looks at her. I do

not now seem to have anything to say--or too much.”

 

“You called me a child.”

 

“I should have called you an enigma.”

 

I assured him I was not the least complex, and that I only wanted

everything simple, and to be left in peace, without having to get

married, or worry to obey people.

 

We had a nice talk.

 

“You won’t leave here on Saturday,” he said, presently, apropos of

nothing. “I do not think I shall go myself, to-morrow. I want you to show me all over the gardens, and your favourite haunts.”