The Vicissitudes of Evangeline 4
“To-morrow I shall be busy packing,” I said, gravely, “and I do not
think I want to show you the gardens--there are some corners I rather
loved--I believe it will hurt a little to say good-bye.”
Just then Mr. Barton came into the room, fussy and ill at ease. Mr.
Carruthers’ face hardened again, and I rose to say good-night.
As he opened the door for me: “Promise you will come down to give me my
coffee in the morning,” he said.
“_Qui vivra verra_,” I answered, and sauntered out into the hall. He
followed me, and watched as I went up the staircase.
“Good-night!” I called softly, as I got to the top, and laughed a
little--I don’t know why.
He bounded up the stairs, three steps at a time, and before I could
turn the handle of my door, he stood beside me.
“I do not know what there is about you,” he said, “but you drive me
mad--I shall insist upon carrying out my aunt’s wish after all! I shall
marry you, and never let you out of my sight--do you hear?”
Oh! such a strange sense of exaltation crept over me--it is with me
still! Of course he probably will not mean all that to-morrow, but to
have made such a stiff block of stone rush upstairs, and say this much
now is perfectly delightful!
I looked at him up from under my eyelashes. “No, you will not marry
me,” I said, calmly; “or do anything else I don’t like, and now really
good-night!” and I slipped into my room, and closed the door. I could
hear he did not stir for some seconds. Then he went off down the stairs
again, and I am alone with my thoughts.
My thoughts! I wonder what they mean. What did I do that had this
effect upon him? I intended to do something, and I did it, but I am not
quite sure what it was. However, that is of no consequence. Sufficient
for me to know that my self-respect is restored, and I can now go out
and see the world with a clear conscience.
_He_ has asked me to marry him! and _I_ have said I won’t!
BRANCHES PARK,
_Thursday night, Nov. 3rd, 1904_.
DEAR BOB,--A quaint thing has happened to me! Came down here to take
over the place, and to say decidedly I would not marry Miss Travers,
and I find her with red hair and a skin like milk, and a pair of green
eyes that look at you from a forest of black eyelashes with a thousand
unsaid challenges. I should not wonder if I commit some folly. One
has read of women like this in the _cinque-cento_ time in Italy, but
up to now I had never met one. She is not in the room ten minutes
before one feels a sense of unrest, and desire for one hardly knows
what--principally to touch her, I fancy. Good Lord! what a skin! pure
milk and rare roses--and the reddest Cupid’s bow of a mouth! You had
better come down at once, (these things are probably in your line) to
save me from some sheer idiocy. The situation is exceptional; she and
I practically alone in the house, for old Barton does not count. She
has nowhere to go, and as far as I can make out has not a friend in
the world. I suppose I ought to leave--I will try to on Monday, but
come down to-morrow by the 4 train.
Yours,
CHRISTOPHER.
P.S. ’47 port A1, and two or three brands of the old aunt’s champagne
exceptional, Barton says; we can sample them. Shall send this up by
express, you will get it in time for the 4 train.
(The above letter from Mr. Carruthers came into Evangeline’s possession
later, and which she put into her journal at this place.--Editor’s
note.)
BRANCHES,
_Friday night, November 4th._
THIS morning Mr. Carruthers had his coffee alone. Mr. Barton and I
breakfasted quite early, before 9 o’clock, and just as I was calling
the dogs in the hall for a run, with my outdoor things already on, Mr.
Carruthers came down the great stairs with a frown on his face.
“Up so early!” he said. “Are you not going to pour out my tea for me,
then?”
“I thought you said coffee! No, I am going out,” and I went on down the
corridor, the wolf-hounds following me.
“You are not a kind hostess!” he called after me.
“I am not a hostess at all,” I answered back, “only a guest.”
He followed me. “Then you are a very casual guest, not consulting the
pleasure of your host.”
I said nothing; I only looked at him over my shoulder, as I went down
the marble steps--looked at him, and laughed as on the night before.
He turned back into the house without a word, and I did not see him
again until just before luncheon.
There is something unpleasant about saying good-bye to a place, and
I found I had all sorts of sensations rising in my throat at various
points in my walk. However, all that is ridiculous, and must be
forgotten. As I was coming round the corner of the terrace, a great
gust of wind nearly blew me into Mr. Carruthers’ arms. Odious weather
we are having this autumn.
“Where have you been all the morning?” he said, when we had recovered
ourselves a little. “I have searched for you all over the place.”
“You do not know it all yet, or you would have found me,” I said,
pretending to walk on.
“No, you shall not go now,” he exclaimed, pacing beside me. “Why won’t
you be amiable and make me feel at home.”
“I do apologize if I have been unamiable,” I said, with great
frankness. “Mrs. Carruthers always brought me up to have such good
manners.”
After that he talked to me for half an hour about the place.
He seemed to have forgotten his vehemence of the night before. He asked
all sorts of questions, and showed a sentiment and a delicacy I should
not have expected from his hard face. I was quite sorry when the gong
sounded for luncheon and we went in.
I have no settled plan in my head--I seem to be drifting,--tasting
for the first time some power over another human being. It gave me
delicious thrills to see his eagerness when contrasted with the dry
refusal of my hand only the day before.
At lunch I addressed myself to Mr. Barton; he was too flattered at my
attention, and continued to chatter garrulously.
The rain came on, and poured, and beat against the window-panes with
a sudden angry thud. No chance of further walks abroad. I escaped
upstairs while the butler was speaking to Mr. Carruthers, and began
helping Véronique to pack. Chaos and desolation it all seemed in my
cosy rooms.
While I was on my knees in front of a great wooden box, hopelessly
trying to stow away books, a crisp tap came to the door, and without
more ado my host--yes, he is that now--entered the room.
“Good Lord! what is all this,” he exclaimed, “what are you doing?”
“Packing,” I said, not getting up.
He made an impatient gesture.
“Nonsense!” he said, “there is no need to pack. I tell you I will not
let you go. I am going to marry you and keep you here always.”
I sat down on the floor and began to laugh.
“You think so, do you?”
“Yes.”
“You can’t force me to marry you, you know--can you? I want to see the
world, I don’t want any tiresome man bothering after me. If I ever do
marry it will be because--oh, because----” and I stopped, and began
fiddling with the cover of a book.
“What?”
“Mrs. Carruthers said it was so foolish--but I believe I should prefer
to marry some one I liked. Oh! I know you think that silly,” and I
stopped him as he was about to speak, “but of course, as it does not
last any way, it might be good for a little to begin like that, don’t
you think so?”
He looked round the room, and on through the wide open double doors
into my dainty bedroom where Véronique was still packing.
“You are very cosy here, it is absurd of you to leave it,” he said.
I got up off the floor and went to the window and back. I don’t know
why I felt moved, a sudden sense of the cosiness came over me. The
world looked wet and bleak outside.
“Why do you say you want me to marry you, Mr. Carruthers?” I said. “You
are joking, of course.”
“I am not joking. I am perfectly serious. I am ready to carry out my
aunt’s wishes. It can be no new idea to you, and you must have worldly
sense enough to realize it would be the best possible solution of your
future. I can show you the world, you know.”
He appeared to be extraordinarily good-looking as he stood there, his
face to the dying light. Supposing I took him at his word, after all.
“But what has suddenly changed your ideas since yesterday? You told me
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