“You are the echo of my youth, when 1, too, knew the wild springtime
of love. So dear, I need not tell you that you may count upon my doing
what I can for you both.”
Then we talked and talked.
“I must admit,” she said at last, “I was prejudiced in your favour
for your dear father’s sake, but in any case my opinion of Robert’s
judgement is so high, I would have been prepared to find you charming
even without that. He has the rarest qualities, he is the truest, most
untarnished soul in this world.”
“I don’t say,” she went on, “that he is not just as the other young men
of his age and class; he is no Galahad, as no one can be with truth who
is human and lives in the world. And I daresay kind friends will tell
you stories of actresses and other diversions, but I who know him, tell
you you have won the best and greatest darling in London.”
“Oh, I am sure of it!” I said. “I don’t know why he loves me so much,
he has seen me so little; but it began from the very first minute I
think with both of us. He is such a nice shape!”
She laughed. Then she asked me if she was right in supposing all these
_contretemps_ we had had were the doing of Lady Ver. “You need not
answer, dear,” she said. “I know Ianthe--she is in love with Robert
herself, she can’t help it; she means no harm, but she often gets these
attacks, and they pass off. I think she is devoted to Sir Charles
really.”
“Y-e-s,” I said.
“It is a queer world we live in, child,” she continued, “and true love
and suitability of character are such a rare combination, but, from
what I can judge, you and Robert possess them.”
“Oh, how dear of you to say so!” I exclaimed. “You don’t think I _must_
be bad, then, because of my colouring?”
“What a ridiculous idea, you sweet child!” she laughed. “Who has told
you that?”
“Oh! Mrs. Carruthers always said so--and--and--the old gentlemen,
and--even Mr. Carruthers hinted I probably had some odd qualities. But
you do think I shall be able to be fairly good, don’t you?”
She was amused I could see, but I was serious.
“I think you probably might have been a little wicked if you had
married a man like Mr. Carruthers,” she said, smiling; “but with Robert
I am sure you will be good. He will never leave you a moment, and he
will love you so much you won’t have time for anything else.”
“Oh! that is what I shall like--being loved,” I said.
“I think all women like that,” she sighed. “We could all of us be good
if the person we love went on being demonstrative. It is the cold
matter-of-fact devotion that kills love, and makes one want to look
elsewhere to find it again.”
Then we talked of possibilities about the Duke. I told her I knew
his _toquade_, and she, of course, was fully acquainted with mamma’s
history.
“I must tell you, dear, I fear he will be difficult,” she said. “He
is a strangely prejudiced person, and obstinate to a degree, and he
worships Robert, as we all do.”
I would not ask her if the Duke had taken a dislike to me, because I
_knew_ he had.
“I asked you to meet him on Saturday on purpose,” she continued. “I
felt sure your charm would impress him, as it had done me, and as it
did my husband--but I wonder now if it would have been better to wait.
He said, after you were gone, that you were much too beautiful for the
peace of any family, and he pitied Mr. Carruthers if he married you!
I don’t mean to hurt you, child. I am only telling you everything, so
that we may consult how best to act.”
“Yes, I know,” I said, and I squeezed her hand again; she does not put
out claws like Lady Ver.
“How did he know anything about Mr. Carruthers?” I asked, “or me--or
anything?”
She looked ashamed.
“One can never tell how he hears things. He was intensely interested to
meet you, and seemed to be acquainted with more of the affair than I
am. I almost fear he must obtain his information from the servants.”
“Oh, does not that show the housemaid in him! Poor fellow!” I said,
“He can’t help it, then, any more than I could help crying yesterday
before Robert in the Park. Of course we would neither of us have done
these things if it were not for the _tache_ in our backgrounds, only,
fortunately for me, mine wasn’t a housemaid, and was one generation
further back, so I would not be likely to have any of those tricks.”
She leant back in her chair and laughed. “You quaint, quaint child,
Evangeline,” she said.
Just then it was twelve o’clock and Robert came in.
Oh! talk of hearts beating. If mine is going to go on jumping like this
every time Robert enters a room, I shall get a disease in it in less
than a year.
He looked too intensely attractive; he was not in London clothes, just
serge things and a Guard’s tie, and his face was beaming, and his eyes
shining like blue stars.
We behaved nicely; he only kissed my hand, and Lady Merrenden looked
away at the clock even for that! She has tact!
“Isn’t my Evangeline a darling, Aunt Sophia? he said. “And don’t you
love her red hair?”
“It is beautiful,” said Lady Merrenden.
“When you leave us alone I am going to pull it all down,” and he
whispered, “darling, I love you,” so close, that his lips touched my
ear, while he pretended he was not doing anything! I say again, Robert
has ways which would charm a stone image.
“How was Torquilstone last night?” Lady Merrenden asked. “And did you
tell him anything?”
“Not a word,” said Robert. “I wanted to wait and consult you both which
would be best. Shall I go to him at once, or shall he be made to meet
my Evangeline again and let her fascinate him, as she is bound to do,
and then tell him?”
“Oh, tell him straight!” I exclaimed, remembering his proclivities
about the servants, and that Véronique knows. “Then he cannot ever say
we have deceived him.”
“That is how I feel,” said Robert.
“You take Evangeline to lunch, Aunt Sophia, and I will go back and feed
with him and tell him, and then come to you after.”
“Yes, that will be best,” she said, and it was settled that she should
come in again and fetch me in an hour, when Robert should leave to go
to Vavasour House. He went with her to the lift, and then he came back.
No--even in this locked book I am not going to write of that hour--it
was too divine. If I had thought just sitting in the Park was heaven, I
now know there are degrees of heaven, and that Robert is teaching me up
towards the seventh.
_Monday afternoon (continued)._
I FORGOT to say a note came from Christopher by this morning’s
post--it made me laugh when I read it, then it went out of my head,
but when Lady Merrenden returned for me, and we were more or less sane
again--Robert and I--I thought of it; so apparently did he.
“Did you by chance hear from Christopher whether he got your note last
night or no?” he said.
I went and fetched it from my bedroom when I put on my hat. Robert read
it aloud:
“TRAVELLERS’ CLUB,
“_Sunday night_.
“_Souvent femme varie, fol qui se fie!_”
Hope you found your variation worth while.
“C. C.”
“What dam cheek!” he said in his old way; he hasn’t used any “ornaments
to conversation” since we have been--oh! I want to say it--engaged!
Then his eyes flashed. “Christopher had better be careful of himself.
He will have to be answerable to me now!”
“Do be prudent, Evangeline, dear!” Lady Merrenden said gaily, “or you
will have Robert breaking the head of every man in the street who even
glances at you! He is frantically jealous!”
“Yes, I know I am,” said Robert, rearranging the tie on my blouse with
that air of _sans gêne_ and possession that pleases me so.
I belong to him now, and if my tie isn’t as he likes, he has a perfect
right to re-tie it! No matter who is there! That is his attitude, not
the _least_ ceremony or stuff, everything perfectly simple and natural!
It does make things agreeable. When I was “Miss Travers” and he “Lord
Robert,” he was always respectful and unfamiliar--except that one night
when rage made him pinch my finger! but now that I am _his_ Evangeline,
and he is _my_ Robert (thus he explained it to me in our Paradise hour)
I am his queen and his darling--but at the same time his possession and
belonging, just the same as his watch or his coat. I adore it, and it
does not make me the least “uppish,” as one might have thought.
“Come, come, children!” Lady Merrenden said at last, “we shall all be
late!”
So we started, dropping Robert at Vavasour House on our way. It is a
splendid place, down one of those side streets looking on the Green
Park, and has a small garden that side. I had never been down to the
little square where it is before, but, of course, every one can see its
splendid frontage from St. James’s Park, though I had never realized it
was Vavasour House.
“Good luck!” whispered Lady Merrenden as Robert got out, and then we
drove on.
Several people were lunching at Carlton House Terrace, Cabinet
Ministers, and a clever novelist, and the great portrait painter,
besides two or three charming women, one as pretty and smart as Lady
Ver, but the others more ordinary looking, only so well mannered. No
real frumps like the Montgomeries. We had a delightful lunch, and I
tried to talk nicely, and do my best to please my dear hostess. When
they had all left I think we both began to feel excited, and long
apprehensively for the arrival of Robert. So we talked of the late
guests.
“It amuses my husband to see a number of different kinds of people,”
she said, “but we had nothing very exciting to-day, I must
confess--though sometimes the authors and authoresses bore me--and they
are often very disappointing, one does not any longer care to read
their books after seeing them.”