Part 9

We had been talking for nearly a quarter of an hour--she had incidentally asked me where I was staying now, and had not seemed surprised or shocked when I said Claridge’s, and by myself.

All she said was: “What a lonely little girl! but I daresay it is very restful sometimes to be by oneself, only you must let your friends come and see you, won’t you.”

“I don’t think I have any friends,” I said. “You see I have been out so little--but if you would come and see me--oh! I should be so grateful.”

“Then you must count me as one of your rare friends!” she said.

Nothing could be so rare, or so sweet, as her smile. Fancy papa throwing over this angel for Mrs. Carruthers!! Men are certainly unaccountable creatures.

I said I would be too honoured to have her for a friend--and she took my hand.

“You bring back the long ago,” she said. “My name is Evangeline, too. Sophia Evangeline--and I sometimes think you may have been called so in remembrance of me.”

What a strange, powerful factor Love must be! Here these two women, Mrs. Carruthers and Lady Merrenden--the very opposites of each other--had evidently both adored papa, and both, according to their natures, had taken an interest in me, in consequence, the child of a third woman, who had superseded them both! Papa must have been extraordinarily fascinating for, to the day of her death, Mrs. Carruthers had his miniature on her table, with a fresh rose beside it--his memory the only soft spot, it seemed, in her hard heart.

And this sweet lady’s eyes melted in tenderness when she spoke of the long ago--although she does not know me well enough yet to say anything further. To me papa’s picture is nothing so very wonderful, just a good-looking young guardsman, with eyes shaped like mine, only gray, and light curly hair. He must have had “a way with him” as the servants say.

At that moment the Duke of Torquilstone came in. Oh, such a sad sight!

A poor hump-backed man, with a strong face and head, and a soured, suspicious, cynical expression. He would evidently have been very tall, but for his deformity, a hump stands out on his back, almost like Mr. Punch. He can’t be much over forty, but he looks far older, his hair is quite gray.

Not a line, or an expression in him reminded me of Lord Robert, I am glad to say.

Lady Merrenden introduced us, and Lord Merrenden came in then, too, and we all went down to luncheon.

It was a rather small table, so we were all near one another, and could talk.

The dining-room is immense.

“I always have this little table when we are such a small party,” Lady Merrenden said. “It is more cosy, and one does not feel so isolated.”

How I agreed with her.

The Duke looked at me searchingly often, with his shrewd little eyes. One could not say if it was with approval, or disapproval.

Lord Merrenden talked about politics, and the questions of the day, he has a courteous manner, and all their voices are soft and refined. And nothing could have been more smooth and silent than the service.

The luncheon was very simple, and very good, but not half the numbers of rich dishes like at Branches, or Lady Ver’s.

There was only one bowl of violets on the table, but the bowl was gold, and a beautiful shape, and the violets nearly as big as pansies. My eyes wandered to the pictures--Gainsborough’s, and Reynolds’, and Romney’s--of stately men and women.

“You met my other nephew, Lord Robert, did you not?” Lady Merrenden said, presently. “He told me he had gone to Branches, where I believe you lived.”

“Yes,” I said, and oh! it is too humiliating to write, I felt my cheeks get crimson at the mention of Lord Robert’s name. What could she have thought? Can anything be so young ladylike and ridiculous.

“He came to the Opera with us the night before last,” I continued. “Mr. Carruthers had a box, and Lady Verningham and I went with them.” Then recollecting how odd this must sound in my deep mourning, I added, “I am so fond of music.”

“So is Robert,” she said. “I am sure he must have been pleased to meet a kindred spirit there.”

Sweet, charming, kind lady! If she only knew what emotions were really agitating us in that box that night--I fear the actual love of music was the least of them!

The Duke, during this conversation, and from the beginning mention of Lord Robert’s name, never took his eyes off my face--it was very disconcerting; his look was clearer now, and it was certainly disapproving.

We had coffee upstairs, out of such exquisite Dresden cups, and then Lord Merrenden showed me some miniatures. Finally it happened that the Duke and I were left alone for a minute looking out of a window on to the Mall.

His eyes pierced me through and through--well at all events my nose and my ears and my wrists are as fine as Lady Merrenden’s--poor mamma’s odd mother does not show in me on the outside--thank goodness. He did not say much, only commonplaces about the view. I felt afraid of him, and rather depressed. I am sure he dislikes me.

“May I not drive you somewhere?” my kind hostess asked. “Or, if you have nowhere in particular to go, will you come with me?”

I said I should be delighted. An ache of loneliness was creeping over me. I wanted to put off as long as possible getting back to the hotel. I wanted to distract my thoughts from dwelling upon to-morrow, and what I was going to say to Christopher. To-morrow that seems the end of the world.

She has beautiful horses, Lady Merrenden, and the whole turn-out, except she herself, is as smart as can be. She really looks a little frumpish out of doors, and perhaps that is why papa went on to Mrs. Carruthers. Goodness and dearness like this do not suit male creatures as well as caprice, it seems.

She was so good to me, and talked in the nicest way. I quite forgot I was a homeless wanderer, and arrived at Claridge’s about half past four in almost good spirits.

“You won’t forget I am to be one of your friends,” Lady Merrenden said, as I bid her good-bye.

“Indeed I won’t,” I replied, and she drove off, smiling at me.

I do wonder what she will think of my marriage with Christopher.

Now it is night--I have had a miserable, lonely dinner in my sitting-room, Véronique has been most gracious and coddling--she feels Mr. Carruthers in the air, I suppose,--and so I must go to bed.

Oh! why am I not happy, and why don’t I think this is a delightful and unusual situation, as I once would have done. I only feel depressed and miserable, and as if I wished Christopher at the bottom of the sea. I have told myself how good-looking he is--and how he attracted me at Branches--but that was before--yes, I may as well write what I was going to--before Lord Robert arrived. Well, he and Lady Ver are talking together on a nice sofa by now, I suppose, in a big, well-lit drawing-room, and--oh!--I wish, I _wish_ I had never made any bargain with her--perhaps now in that case--ah well----

_Sunday afternoon._

No! I can’t bear it. All the morning I have been in a fever, first hot and then cold. What will it be like. Oh! I shall faint when he kisses me. And I know he will be dreadful like that, I have seen it in his eye--he will eat me up. Oh! I am sure I shall hate it. No man has ever kissed me in my life, and I can’t judge, but I am sure it is frightful, unless----I feel as if I shall go crazy if I stay here any longer. I can’t, I can’t stop and wait, and face it. I must have some air first. There is a misty fog. I would like to go out and get lost in it, and I _will_ too! Not get lost, perhaps, but go out in it, and alone. I won’t have even Véronique. I shall go by myself into the Park. It is growing nearly dark, though only three o’clock. I have got an hour. It looks mysterious, and will soothe me, and suit my mood, and then, when I come in again, I shall perhaps be able to bear it bravely, kisses and all.

CLARIDGE’S,

_Sunday evening, November 27th._

I have a great deal to write--and yet it is only a few hours since I shut up this book, and replaced the key on my bracelet.

By a quarter past three I was making my way through Grosvenor Square. Everything was misty and blurred, but not actually a thick fog, or any chance of being lost. By the time I got into the Park it had lifted a little. It seemed close and warm, and as I went on I got more depressed. I have never been out alone before; that in itself seemed strange, and ought to have amused me.

The image of Christopher kept floating in front of me, his face seemed to have the expression of a satyr. Well, at all events, he would never be able to break my heart like “Alicia Verney’s”--nothing could ever make me care for him. I tried to think of all the good I was going to get out of the affair, and how really fond I am of Branches.

I walked very fast, people loomed at me, and then disappeared in the mist. It was getting almost dusk, and suddenly I felt tired, and sat down on a bench.

I had wandered into a side path where there were no chairs. On the bench before mine I I saw, as I passed, a tramp huddled up. I wondered what his thoughts were, and if he felt any more miserable than I did. I daresay I was crouching in a depressed position too.

Not many people went by, and every moment it grew darker. In all my life, even on the days when Mrs. Carruthers taunted me about mamma being nobody, I have never felt so wretched. Tears kept rising in my eyes, and I did not even worry to blink them away. Who would see me--and who in the world would care if they did see.

Suddenly I was conscious that a very perfect figure was coming out of the mist towards me, but not until he was close to me, and stopping with a start peered into my face, did I recognize it was Lord Robert.

“Evangeline!” he exclaimed, in a voice of consternation. “I--what, oh, what is the matter?”

No wonder he was surprised. Why he had not taken me for some tramp too, and passed on, I don’t know.

“Nothing,” I said, as well as I could, and tried to tilt my hat over my eyes. I had no veil on unfortunately.

“I have just been for a walk. Why do you call me Evangeline, and why are you not in Northumberland?”

He looked so tall and beautiful, and his face had no expression of contempt or anger now, only distress and sympathy.

“I was suddenly put on guard yesterday, and could not get leave,” he said, not answering the first part. “But, oh, I can’t bear to see you sitting here alone, and looking so, so miserable. Mayn’t I take you home? You will catch cold in the damp.”

“Oh no, not yet. I won’t go back yet!” I said, hardly realizing what I was saying. He sat down beside me, and slipped his hand into my muff, pressing my clasped fingers--the gentlest, friendliest caress, a child might have made in sympathy. It touched some foolish chord in my nature, some want of self-control inherited from mamma’s ordinary mother, I suppose, anyway the tears poured down my face--I could not help it. Oh, the shame of it! to sit crying in the Park, in front of Lord Robert, of all people in the world, too!

“Dear, dear little girl,” he said. “Tell me about it,” and he held my hand in my muff with his strong warm hand.

“I--I have nothing to tell,” I said, choking down a sob. “I am ashamed for you to see me like this, only--I am feeling so very miserable.”

“Dear child,” he said. “Well, you are not to be--I won’t have it. Has some one been unkind to you--tell me, tell me,” his voice was trembling with distress.

“It’s--it’s nothing,” I mumbled.

I dared not look at him, I knew his eyebrows would be up in that way that attracts me so dreadfully.

“Listen,” he whispered almost, and bent over me. “I want you to be friends with me so that I can help you. I want you to go back to the time we packed your books together. God knows what has come between us since--it is not of my doing--but I want to take care of you, dear little girl to-day. It--oh, it hurts me so to see you crying here.”

“I--would like to be friends,” I said. “I never wanted to be anything else, but I could not help it--and I can’t now.”

“Won’t you tell me the reason?” he pleaded. “You have made me so dreadfully unhappy about it. I thought all sorts of things. You know I am a jealous beast.”

There can’t in the world be another voice as engaging as Lord Robert’s, and he has a trick of pronouncing words that is too attractive, and the way his mouth goes when he is speaking, showing his perfectly chiselled lips under the little moustache! There is no use pretending! I was sitting there on the bench going through thrills of emotion, and longing for him to take me in his arms. It is too frightful to think of! I must be bad after all.

“Now you are going to tell me everything about it,” he commanded. “To begin with, what made you suddenly change at Tryland after the first afternoon, and then what is it that makes you so unhappy now?”

“I can’t tell you either,” I said very low. I hoped the common grandmother would not take me as far as doing mean tricks to Lady Ver!

“Oh, you have made me wild!” he exclaimed, letting go my hand, and leaning both elbows on his knees, while he pushed his hat to the back of his head. “Perfectly mad with fury and jealousy. That brute Malcolm! and then looking at Campion at dinner, and worst of all, Christopher in the box at ‘Carmen!’ Wicked, naughty little thing! And yet underneath I have a feeling it is for some absurd reason, and not for sheer devilment. If I thought that, I would soon get not to care. I did think it at ‘Carmen.’”

“Yes, I know,” I said.

“You know what?” he looked up, startled; then he took my hand again, and sat close to me.

“Oh, please, please don’t, Lord Robert!” I said.

It really made me quiver so with the loveliest feeling I have ever known, that I knew I should never be able to keep my head if he went on.

“Please, please, don’t hold my hand,” I said. “It--it makes me not able to behave nicely.”

“Darling,” he whispered, “then it shows that you like me, and I sha’n’t let go until you tell me every little bit.”

“Oh, I can’t, I can’t!” I felt too tortured, and yet waves of joy were rushing over me. That _is_ a word, “darling,” for giving feelings down the back!

“Evangeline,” he said, quite sternly, “will you answer this question then--do you like me, or do you hate me? Because, as you must know very well, I love you.”

Oh, the wild joy of hearing him say that! What in the world did anything else matter! For a moment there was a singing in my ears, and I forgot everything but our two selves. Then the picture of Christopher waiting for me, with his cold, cynic’s face and eyes blazing with passion, rushed into my vision, and the Duke’s critical, suspicious, disapproving scrutiny, and I felt as if a cry of pain, like a wounded animal, escaped me.

“Darling, darling, what is it? Did I hurt your dear little hand?” Lord Robert exclaimed tenderly.

“No,” I whispered, brokenly; “but I cannot listen to you. I am going back to Claridge’s now, and I am going to marry Mr. Carruthers.”

He dropped my hand as if it stung him.

“Good God! Then it is true,” was all he said.

In fear I glanced at him--his face looked gray in the quickly gathering mist.

“Oh, Robert!” I said in anguish, unable to help myself. “It isn’t because I want to. I--I--oh! probably I love you--but I must, there is nothing else to be done.”

“Isn’t there!” he said, all the life and joy coming back to his face. “Do you think I will let Christopher, or any other man in the world, have you now you have confessed that!!” and fortunately there was no one in sight--because he put his arms round my neck, and drew me close, and kissed my lips.

Oh, what nonsense people talk of heaven! sitting on clouds and singing psalms and things like that! There can’t be any heaven half so lovely as being kissed by Robert--I felt quite giddy with happiness for several exquisite seconds, then I woke up. It was all absolutely impossible, I knew, and I must keep my head.

“Now you belong to me,” he said, letting his arm slip down to my waist; “so you must begin at the beginning, and tell me everything.”

“No, no,” I said, struggling feebly to free myself, and feeling so glad he held me tight! “It is impossible all the same, and that only makes it harder. Christopher is coming to see me at four, and I promised Lady Ver I would not be a fool, and would marry him.”

“A fig for Lady Ver,” he said, calmly, “if that is all; you leave her to me--she never argues with me!”

“It is not only that--I--I promised I would never play with you----”

“And you certainly never shall,” he said, and I could see a look in his eye as he purposely misconstrued my words, and then he deliberately kissed me again. Oh! I like it better than anything else in the world! How could any one keep their head with Robert quite close, making love like that?

“You certainly never--never--shall,” he said again, with a kiss between each word. “I will take care of that! Your time of playing with people is over, Mademoiselle! When you are married to me, I shall fight with any one who dares to look at you!”

“But I shall never be married to you, Robert,” I said, though, as I could only be happy for such a few moments, I did not think it necessary to move away out of his arms. How thankful I was to the fog! and no one passing! I shall always adore fogs.

“Yes, you will,” he announced, with perfect certainty; “in about a fortnight, I should think. I can’t and won’t have you staying at Claridge’s by yourself. I shall take you back this afternoon to Aunt Sophia. Only all that we can settle presently. Now, for the moment, I want you to tell me you love me, and that you are sorry for being such a little brute all this time.”

“I did not know it until just now--but I think--I probably do love you--Robert!” I said.

He was holding my hand in my muff again, the other arm round my waist. Absolutely disgraceful behaviour in the Park; we might have been Susan Jane and Thomas Augustus, and yet I was perfectly happy, and felt it was the only natural way to sit.

A figure appeared in the distance--we started apart.

“Oh! really, really,” I gasped, “we--you--must be different.”

He leant back and laughed.

“You sweet darling! Well, come, we will go for a drive in a hansom--we will choose one without a light inside. Albert Gate is quite close, come!” and he rose, and taking my arm, not offering his to me, like in books, he drew me on down the path.

I am sure any one would be terribly shocked to read what I have written, but not so much if they knew Robert, and how utterly adorable he is. And how masterful, and simple, and direct! He does not split straws, or bandy words. I had made the admission that I loved him, and that was enough to go upon!

As we walked alone I tried to tell him it was impossible, that I must go back to Christopher, that Lady Ver would think I had broken my word about it. I did not, of course, tell him of her bargain with me over him, but he probably guessed that, because before we got into the hansom even, he had begun to put me through a searching cross-examination as to the reasons for my behaviour at Tryland, and Park Street, and the Opera. I felt like a child with a strong man, and every moment more idiotically happy, and in love with him.

He told the cabman to drive to Hammersmith, and then put his arm round my waist again, and held my hand, pulling my glove off backwards first. It is a great big granny muff of sable I have, Mrs. Carruthers’ present on my last birthday. I never thought then to what charming use it would be put!

“Now I think we have demolished all your silly little reasons for making me miserable,” he said. “What others have you to bring forward as to why you can’t marry me in a fortnight?”

I was silent--I did not know how to say it--the principal reason of all.

“Evangeline--darling,” he pleaded. “Oh, why will you make us both unhappy--tell me at least.”

“Your brother, the Duke,” I said, very low. “He will never consent to your marrying a person like me with no relations.”

He was silent for a second,--then, “My brother is an awfully good fellow,” he said, “but his mind is warped by his infirmity. You must not think hardly of him--he will love you directly he sees you, like everyone else.”

“I saw him yesterday,” I said.

Robert was so astonished.

“Where did you see him?” he asked.

Then I told him about meeting Lady Merrenden, and her asking me to luncheon, and about her having been in love with papa, and about the Duke having looked me through and through with an expression of dislike.

“Oh, I see it all!” said Robert, holding me closer. “Aunt Sophia and I are great friends, you know, she has always been like my mother, who died when I was a baby. I told her all about you when I came from Branches, and how I had fallen deeply in love with you at first sight, and that she must help me to see you at Tryland; and she did, and then I thought you had grown to dislike me, so when I came back she guessed I was unhappy about something, and this is her first step to find out how she can do me a good turn--oh! she is a dear!”

“Yes, indeed she is,” I said.

“Of course she is extra interested in you if she was in love with your father! So that is all right, darling, she must know all about your family, and can tell Torquilstone. Why, we have nothing to fear!”

“Oh yes we have!” I said. “I know all the story of what your brother is _toqué_ about. Lady Ver told me. You see the awkward part is, mamma was really nobody, her father and mother forgot to get married, and although mamma was lovely, and had been beautifully brought up by two old ladies at Brighton, it was a disgrace for papa marrying her--Mrs. Carruthers has often taunted me with this!”

“Darling!” he interrupted, and began to kiss me again, and that gave me such feelings I could not collect my thoughts to go on with what I was saying for a few minutes. We both were rather silly--if it is silly to be madly, wildly happy,--and oblivious of every thing else.

“I will go straight to Aunt Sophia now, when I take you back to Claridge’s,” he said, presently, when we had got a little calmer.

I wonder what kisses do that they make one have that perfectly lovely sensation down the back, just like certain music does, only much, much more so. I thought they would be dreadful things when it was a question of Christopher, but Robert! Oh well, as I said before, I can’t think of any other heaven.

“What time is it?” I had sense enough to ask presently.

He lit a match, and looked at his watch.

“Ten minutes past five,” he exclaimed.

“And Christopher was coming about four,” I said, “and if you had not chanced to meet me in the Park, by now I should have been engaged to him, and probably trying to bear his kissing me.”

“My God!” said Robert, fiercely, “it makes me rave to think of it,” and he held me so tight for a moment, I could hardly breathe.

“You won’t have anyone else’s kisses ever again, in this world, and that I tell you,” he said, through his teeth.

“I--I don’t want them,” I whispered, creeping closer to him; “and I never have had any, never any one but you, Robert.”

“Darling,” he said, “how that pleases me!”

Of course, if I wanted to, I could go on writing pages and pages of all the lovely things we said to one another, but it would sound, even to read to myself, such nonsense, that I can’t, and I couldn’t make the tone of Robert’s voice, or the exquisite fascination of his ways--tender, and adoring, and masterful. It must all stay in my heart; but oh! it is as if a fairy with a wand had passed, and said “bloom” to a winter tree. Numbers of emotions that I had never dreamed about were surging through me--the flood-gates of everything in my soul seemed opening in one rush of love and joy. While we were together, nothing appeared to matter--all barriers melted away.

Fate would be sure to be kind to lovers like us!

We got back to Claridge’s about six, and Robert would not let me go up to my sitting-room, until he had found out if Christopher had gone.