_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.”