“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
you had come down to make it clear to me that you could not possibly
obey her orders.”
“That was yesterday,” he said. “I had not really seen you; to-day I
think differently.”
“It is just because you are sorry for me; I suppose I seem so lonely,”
I whispered demurely.
“It is perfectly impossible--what you propose to do--to go and live by
yourself at a London hotel--the idea drives me mad!”
“It will be delightful! no one to order me about from morning to night!”
“Listen,” he said, and he flung himself into an armchair. “You can
marry me, and I will take you to Paris, or where you want, and I won’t
order you about,--only I shall keep the other beasts of men from
looking at you.”
But I told him at once I thought that would be very dull. “I have never
had the chance of any one looking at me,” I said, “and I want to feel
what it is like. Mrs. Carruthers always assured me I was very pretty,
you know, only she said that I was certain to come to a bad end,
because of my type, unless I got married at once, and then if my head
was screwed on the right way it would not matter; but I don’t agree
with her.”
He walked up and down the room impatiently.
“That is just it,” he said.” I would rather be the first--I would
rather you began by me. I am strong enough to ward off the rest.”
“What does ’beginning by you’ mean?” I asked with great candour. “Old
Lord Bentworth said I should begin by him, when he was here to shoot
pheasants last autumn; he said it could not matter, he was so old; but
I didn’t----”
Mr. Carruthers bounded up from his chair.
“You didn’t what! Good Lord, what did he want you to do!” he asked
aghast.
“Well,” I said, and I looked down for a moment, I felt stupidly shy,
“he wanted me to kiss him.”
Mr. Carruthers appeared almost relieved, it was strange!
“The old wretch! Nice company my aunt seems to have kept!” he
exclaimed. “Could she not take better care of you than that--to let you
be insulted by her guests.”
“I don’t think Lord Bentworth meant to insult me. He only said he had
never seen such a red, curly mouth as mine, and as I was bound to go to
the devil some day with that, and such hair, I might begin by kissing
him--he explained it all.”
“And were you not very angry?” his voice wrathful.
“No--not very, I could not be, I was shaking so with laughter. If you
could have seen the silly old thing, like a wizened monkey, with dyed
hair and an eyeglass, it was too comic!--I only told you because you
said the sentence ‘begin by you,’ and I wanted to know if it was the
same thing.”
Mr. Carruthers’ eyes had such a strange expression, puzzle and
amusement, and something else. He came over close to me.
“Because,” I went on, “if so, I believe if that is always the
beginning--I don’t want any beginnings--I haven’t the slightest desire
to kiss any one--I should simply hate it.”
Mr. Carruthers laughed. “Oh! you are only a baby child after all!” he
said.
This annoyed me. I got up with great dignity. “Tea will be ready in the
white drawing-room,” I said stiffly, and walked towards my bedroom door.
He came after me.
“Send your maid away, and let us have it up here,” he said. “I like
this room.”
But I was not to be appeased thus easily, and deliberately called
Véronique and gave her fresh directions.
“Poor old Mr. Barton will be feeling so lonely,” I said, as I went out
into the passage. “I am going to see that he has a nice tea,” and I
looked back at Mr. Carruthers over my shoulder. Of course he followed
me and we went together down the stairs.
In the hall a footman with a telegram met us. Mr. Carruthers tore it
open impatiently. Then he looked quite annoyed.
“I hope you won’t mind,” he said, “but a friend of mine, Lord Robert
Vavasour is arriving this afternoon--he is a--er--great judge of
pictures. I forgot I asked him to come down and look at them, it clean
went out of my head.”