_November 3._
I wonder so much if it is amusing to be an adventuress, because that is
evidently what I shall become now. I read in a book all about it; it is
being nice looking and having nothing to live on, and getting a pleasant
time out of life--and I intend to do that! I have certainly nothing to
live on, for one cannot count £300 a year; and I am extremely pretty, and
I know it quite well, and how to do my hair, and put on my hats, and those
things--so, of course, I am an adventuress! I was not intended for this
rôle--in fact, Mrs. Carruthers adopted me on purpose to leave me her
fortune, as at that time she had quarrelled with her heir, who was bound
to get the place. Then she was so inconsequent as not to make a proper
will--thus it is that this creature gets everything, and I nothing!
I am twenty, and up to the week before last, when Mrs. Carruthers got ill
and died in one day, I had had a fairly decent time at odd moments when
she was in a good temper.
There is no use pretending even when people are dead, if one is writing
down one's real thoughts. I detested Mrs. Carruthers most of the time. A
person whom it was impossible to please. She had no idea of justice, or of
anything but her own comfort, and what amount of pleasure other people
could contribute to her day.
How she came to do anything for me at all was because she had been in love
with papa, and when he married poor mamma--a person of no family--and then
died, she offered to take me, and bring me up, just to spite mamma, she
has often told me. As I was only four I had no say in the matter, and if
mamma liked to give me up that was her affair. Mamma's father was a lord,
and her mother I don't know who, and they had not worried to get married,
so that is how it is poor mamma came to have no relations. After papa was
dead, she married an Indian officer and went off to India, and died, too,
and I never saw her any more--so there it is; there is not a soul in the
world who matters to me, or I to them, so I can't help being an
adventuress, and thinking only of myself, can I?
Mrs. Carruthers periodically quarrelled with all the neighbors, so beyond
frigid calls now and then in a friendly interval, we never saw them much.
Several old, worldly ladies used to come and stay, but I liked none of
them, and I have no young friends. When it is getting dark, and I am up
here alone, I often wonder what it would be like if I had--but I believe I
am the kind of cat that would not have got on with them too nicely--so
perhaps it is just as well. Only, to have had a pretty--aunt, say--to love
one--that might have been nice.
Mrs. Carruthers had no feelings like this; "stuff and nonsense,"
"sentimental rubbish," she would have called them. To get a suitable
husband is what she brought me up for, she said, and for the last years
had arranged that I should marry her detested heir, Christopher
Carruthers, as I should have the money and he the place.
He is a diplomat, and lives in Paris, and Russia, and amusing places like
that, so he does not often come to England. I have never seen him. He is
quite old--over thirty--and has hair turning gray.
Now he is master here, and I must leave--unless he proposes to marry me at
our meeting this afternoon, which he probably won't do.
However, there can be no harm in my making myself look as attractive as
possible under the circumstances. As I am to be an adventuress, I must do
the best I can for myself. Nice feelings are for people who have money to
live as they please. If I had ten thousand a year, or even five, I would
snap my fingers at all men, and say, "No, I make my life as I choose, and
shall cultivate knowledge and books, and indulge in beautiful ideas of
honor and exalted sentiments, and perhaps one day succumb to a noble
passion." (What grand words the thought, even, is making me write!) But as
it is, if Mr. Carruthers asks me to marry him, as he has been told to do
by his aunt, I shall certainly say yes, and so stay on here, and have a
comfortable home. Until I have had this interview it is hardly worth while
packing anything.
What a mercy black suits me! My skin is ridiculously white. I shall stick
a bunch of violets in my frock--that could not look heartless, I suppose.
But if he asks me if I am sad about Mrs. Carruthers's death, I shall not
be able to tell a lie.
I am sad, of course, because death is a terrible thing, and to die like
that, saying spiteful things to every one, must be horrid--but I can't, I
can't regret her. Not a day ever passed that she did not sting some part
of me; when I was little, it was not only with her tongue--she used to
pinch me, and box my ears until Dr. Garrison said it might make me deaf,
and then she stopped, because she said deaf people were a bore, and she
could not put up with them.
I shall not go on looking back. There are numbers of things that even now
make me raging to remember.
I have only been out for a year. Mrs. Carruthers got an attack of
bronchitis when I was eighteen, just as we were going up to town for the
season, and said she did not feel well enough for the fatigues, and off we
went to Switzerland. And in the autumn we travelled all over the place,
and in the winter she coughed and groaned, and the next season would not
go up until the last court, so I have only had a month of London. The
bronchitis got perfectly well--it was heart-failure that killed her,
brought on by an attack of temper because Thomas broke the Carruthers
vase. I shall not write of her death, or the finding of the will, or the
surprise that I was left nothing but a thousand pounds and a diamond ring.
Now that I am an adventuress, instead of an heiress, of what good to
chronicle all that! Sufficient to say if Mr. Carruthers does not obey his
orders and offer me his hand this afternoon, I shall have to pack my
trunks and depart by Saturday, but where to is yet in the lap of the gods.
He is coming by the 3.20 train, and will be in the house before four, an
ugly, dull time; one can't offer him tea, and it will be altogether
trying and exciting.
He is coming ostensibly to take over his place, I suppose, but in reality
it is to look at me, and see if in any way he will be able to persuade
himself to carry out his aunt's wishes. I wonder what it will be like to
be married to some one you don't know and don't like? I am not greatly
acquainted yet with the ways of men. We have not had any that you could
call that here, much--only a lot of old wicked sort of things, in the
autumn, to shoot the pheasants, and play bridge with Mrs. Carruthers. The
marvel to me was how they ever killed anything, such antiques they were!
Some politicians and ambassadors, and creatures of that sort; and mostly
as wicked as could be. They used to come trotting down the passage to the
school-room, and have tea with mademoiselle and me on the slightest
provocation, and say such things! I am sure lots of what they said meant
something else, mademoiselle used to giggle so. She was rather a
good-looking one I had the last four years, but I hated her. There was
never any one young and human who counted.
I did look forward to coming out in London, but being so late, every one
was preoccupied when we got there, and no one got in love with me much.
Indeed, we went out very little; a part of the time I had a swollen nose
from a tennis-ball at Ranelagh, and people don't look at girls with
swollen noses.
I wonder where I shall go and live! Perhaps in Paris--unless, of course, I
marry Mr. Carruthers. I don't suppose it is dull being married. In London
all the married ones seemed to have a lovely time, and had not to bother
with their husbands much.
Mrs. Carruthers always assured me love was a thing of absolutely no
consequence in marriage. You were bound to love some one some time, but
the very fact of being chained to him would dispel the feeling. It was a
thing to be looked upon like measles, or any other disease, and was better
to get it over and then turn to the solid affairs of life. But how she
expected me to get it over when she never arranged for me to see any one,
I don't know.
I asked her one day what I should do if I got to like some one after I am
married to Mr. Carruthers, and she laughed one of her horrid laughs, and
said I should probably do as the rest of the world. And what do they do, I
wonder? Well, I suppose I shall find out some day.
Of course there is the possibility that Christopher (do I like the name of
Christopher, I wonder?)--well, that Christopher may not want to follow her
will.
He has known about it for years, I suppose, just as I have, but I believe
men are queer creatures, and he may take a dislike to me. I am not a type
that would please every one. My hair is too red--brilliant, dark, fiery
red, like a chestnut when it tumbles out of its shell, only burnished like
metal. If I had the usual white eyelashes I should be downright ugly, but,
thank goodness! by some freak of nature mine are black and thick, and
stick out when you look at me sideways, and I often think when I catch
sight of myself in the glass that I am really very pretty--all put
together--but, as I said before, not a type to please every one.
A combination I am that Mrs. Carruthers assured me would cause anxieties.
"With that mixture, Evangeline," she often said, "you would do well to
settle yourself in life as soon as possible. Good girls don't have your
coloring." So you see, as I am branded as bad from the beginning, it does
not much matter what I do. My eyes are as green as pale emeralds, and
long, and not going down at the corners with the Madonna expression of
Cicely Parker, the vicar's daughter. I do not know yet what is being good,
or being bad; perhaps I shall find out when I am an adventuress, or
married to Mr. Carruthers.
All I know is that I want to _live_, and feel the blood rushing through my
veins. I want to do as I please, and not have to be polite when I am
burning with rage. I want to be late in the morning if I happen to fancy
sleeping, and I want to sit up at night if I don't want to go to bed! So,
as you can do what you like when you are married, I really hope Mr.
Carruthers will take a fancy to me, and then all will be well! I shall
stay up-stairs until I hear the carriage wheels, and leave Mr. Barton--the
lawyer--to receive him. Then I shall saunter down nonchalantly while they
are in the hall. It will be an effective entrance. My trailing black
garments, and the great broad stairs--this is a splendid house--and if he
has an eye in his head he must see my foot on each step! Even Mrs.
Carruthers said I have the best foot she had ever seen. I am getting quite
excited--I shall ring for Véronique and begin to dress!... I shall write
more presently.
_Thursday evening._
It is evening, and the fire is burning brightly in my sitting-room, where
I am writing. _My_ sitting-room!--did I say? Mr. Carruthers's
sitting-room, I meant--for it is mine no longer, and on Saturday, the day
after to-morrow, I shall have to bid good-bye to it forever.
For--yes, I may as well say it at once--the affair did not walk; Mr.
Carruthers quietly, but firmly, refused to obey his aunt's will, and thus
I am left an old maid!
I must go back to this afternoon to make it clear, and I must say my ears
tingle as I think of it.
I rang for Véronique, and put on my new black afternoon frock, which had
just been unpacked. I tucked in the violets in a careless way, saw that my
hair was curling as vigorously as usual, and not too rebelliously for a
demure appearance, and so, at exactly the right moment, began to descend
the stairs.
There was Mr. Carruthers in the hall. A horribly nice-looking, tall man,
with a clean-shaven face and features cut out of stone, a square chin, and
a nasty twinkle in the corner of his eye. He has a very distinguished
look, and that air of never having had to worry for his things to fit;
they appear as if they had grown on him. He has a cold, reserved manner,
and something commanding and arrogant in it that makes one want to
contradict him at once; but his voice is charming--one of that cultivated,
refined kind, which sounds as if he spoke a number of languages, and so
does not slur his words. I believe this is diplomatic, for some of the old
ambassador people had this sort of voice.
He was standing with his back to the fire, and the light of the big window
with the sun getting low was full on his face, so I had a good look at
him. I said in the beginning that there was no use pretending when one is
writing one's own thoughts for one's own self to read when one is old, and
keeping them in a locked-up journal, so I shall always tell the truth
here--quite different things to what I should say if I were talking to
some one and describing to them this scene. Then I should say I found him
utterly unattractive, and, in fact, I hardly noticed him! As it was, I
noticed him very much, and I have a tiresome inward conviction that he
could be very attractive indeed, if he liked.
He looked up, and I came forward with my best demure air as Mr. Barton
nervously introduced us, and we shook hands. I left him to speak first.
"Abominably cold day," he said, carelessly. That was English and
promising!
"Yes, indeed," I said. "You have just arrived?"
And so we continued in this _banal_ way, with Mr. Barton twirling his
thumbs, and hoping, one could see, that we should soon come to the
business of the day; interposing a remark here and there which added to
the _gêne_ of the situation.
At last Mr. Carruthers said to Mr. Barton that he would go round and see
the house, and I said tea would be ready when they got back. And so they
started.
My cheeks would burn, and my hands were so cold, it was awkward and
annoying--not half the simple affair I had thought it would be up-stairs.
When it was quite dark and the lamps were brought, they came back to the
hall, and Mr. Barton, saying he did not want any tea, left us to find
papers in the library.
I gave Mr. Carruthers some tea, and asked the usual things about sugar and
cream. His eye had almost a look of contempt as he glanced at me, and I
felt an angry throb in my throat. When he had finished he got up and stood
before the fire again. Then, deliberately, as a man who has determined to
do his duty at any cost, he began to speak.
"You know the wish, or, rather, I should say, the command, my aunt left
me," he said. "In fact, she states that she had always brought you up to
the idea. It is rather a tiresome thing to discuss with a stranger, but
perhaps we had better get it over as soon as possible, as that is what I
came down here to-day for. The command was I should marry you." He paused
a moment. I remained perfectly still, with my hands idly clasped in my
lap, and made myself keep my eyes on his face.
He continued, finding I did not answer, just a faint tone of resentment
creeping into his voice--because I would not help him out, I suppose. I
should think not! I loved annoying him!
"It is a preposterous idea in these days for any one to dispose of
people's destinies in this way, and I am sure you will agree with me that
such a marriage would be impossible."
"Of course I agree," I replied, lying with a tone of careless sincerity. I
had to control all my real feelings of either anger or pleasure for so
long in Mrs. Carruthers's presence that I am now an adept.
"I am so glad you put it so plainly," I went on, sweetly. "I was wondering
how I should write it to you, but now you are here it is quite easy for
us to finish the matter at once. Whatever Mrs. Carruthers may have
intended me to do, I had no intention of obeying her; but it would have
been useless for me to say so to her, and so I waited until the time for
speech should come. Won't you have some more tea?"
He looked at me very straightly, almost angrily, for an instant;
presently, with a sigh of relief, he said, half laughing:
"Then we are agreed; we need say no more about it!"
"No more," I answered; and I smiled, too, although a rage of anger was
clutching my throat. I do not know who I was angry with--Mrs. Carruthers
for procuring this situation, Christopher for being insensible to my
charms, or myself for ever having contemplated for a second the
possibility of his doing otherwise. Why, when one thinks of it calmly,
should he want to marry me, a penniless adventuress with green eyes and
red hair that he had never seen before in his life? I hoped he thought I
was a person of naturally high color, because my cheeks from the moment I
began to dress had been burning and burning. It might have given him the
idea the scene was causing me some emotion, and that he should never know!
He took some more tea, but he did not drink it, and by this I guessed
that he also was not as calm as he looked!
"There is something else," he said--and now there was almost an
awkwardness in his voice--"something else which I want to say, though
perhaps Mr. Barton could say it for me, but which I would rather say
straight to you, and that is, you must let me settle such a sum of money
on you as you had every right to expect from my aunt, after the promises I
understand she always made to you----"
This time I did not wait for him to finish. I bounded up from my seat,
some uncontrollable sensation of wounded pride throbbing and thrilling
through me.
"Money! Money from you!" I exclaimed. "Not if I were starving." Then I sat
down again, ashamed of this vehemence. How would he interpret it! But it
galled me so--and yet I had been ready an hour ago to have accepted him as
my husband! Why, then, this revolt at the idea of receiving a fair
substitute in gold? Really, one is a goose, and I had time to realize,
even in this tumult of emotion, that there can be nothing so inconsistent
as the feelings of a girl.
"You must not be foolish!" he said, coldly. "I intend to settle the money
whether you will or no, so do not make any further trouble about it!"
There was something in his voice so commanding and arrogant, just as I
noticed at first, that every obstinate quality in my nature rose to answer
him.
"I do not know anything about the law in the matter; you may settle what
you choose, but I shall never touch any of it," I said, as calmly as I
could. "So it seems ridiculous to waste the money, does it not? You may
not, perhaps, be aware I have enough of my own, and do not in any way
require yours."
He became colder and more exasperated.
"As you please, then," he said, snappishly, and Mr. Barton fortunately
entering at that moment, the conversation was cut short, and I left them.
They are not going back to London until to-morrow morning, and dinner has
yet to be got through. Oh, I do feel in a temper! and I can never tell of
the emotions that were throbbing through me as I came up the great stairs
just now. A sudden awakening to the humiliation of the situation! How had
I ever been able to contemplate marrying a man I did not know, just to
secure myself a comfortable home! It seems preposterous now. I suppose it
was because I have always been brought up to the idea, and, until I came
face to face with the man, it did not strike me as odd. Fortunately he can
never guess that I had been willing to accept him; my dissimulation has
stood me in good stead. Now I am animated by only one idea--to appear as
agreeable and charming to Mr. Carruthers as possible. The aim and object
of my life shall be to make him regret his decision. When I hear him
imploring me to marry him, I shall regain a little of my self-respect! And
as for marriage, I shall have nothing to do with the horrid affair! Oh,
dear, no! I shall go away free and be a happy adventuress. I have read the
_Trois Mousquetaires_ and _Vingt Ans Après_--mademoiselle had them--and I
remember milady had only three days to get round her jailer, starting with
his hating her; whereas Mr. Carruthers does not hate me, so that counts
against my only having one evening. I shall do my best!
_Thursday night._
I was down in the library, innocently reading a book, when Mr. Carruthers
came in. He looked even better in evening dress, but he appeared
ill-tempered, and no doubt found the situation unpleasant.
"Is not this a beautiful house?" I said, in a velvet voice, to break the
awkward silence, and show him I did not share his unease. "You had not
seen it before, for ages, had you?"
"Not since I was a boy," he answered, trying to be polite. "My aunt
quarrelled with my father--she was the direct heiress of all this--and
married her cousin, my father's younger brother--but you know the family
history, of course----"
"Yes."
"They hated each other, she and my father."
"Mrs. Carruthers hated all her relations," I said, demurely.
"Myself among them?"
"Yes," I said, slowly, and bent forward so that the lamplight should fall
upon my hair. "She said you were too much like herself in character for
you ever to be friends."
"Is that a compliment?" he asked, and there was a twinkle in his eye.
"We must speak no ill of the dead," I said, evasively.
He looked slightly annoyed--as much as these diplomats ever let themselves
look anything.
"You are right," he said. "Let her rest in peace."
There was silence for a moment.
"What are you going to do with your life now?" he asked, presently. It was
a bald question.
"I shall become an adventuress," I answered, deliberately.
"A _what_?" he exclaimed, his black eyebrows contracting.
"An adventuress. Is not that what it is called? A person who sees life,
and has to do the best she can for herself."
He laughed. "You strange little lady!" he said, his irritation with me
melting. And when he laughs you can see how even his teeth are; but the
two side ones are sharp and pointed, like a wolf's.
"Perhaps, after all, you had better have married me!"
"No, that would clip my wings," I said, frankly, looking at him straight
in the face.
"Mr. Barton tells me you propose leaving here on Saturday. I beg you will
not do so. Please consider it your home for so long as you wish--until
you can make some arrangements for yourself. You look so very young to be
going about the world alone!"
He bent down and gazed at me closer--there was an odd tone in his voice.
"I am twenty, and I have been often snubbed," I said, calmly. "That
prepares one for a good deal. I shall enjoy doing what I please."
"And what are you going to please?"
"I shall go to Claridge's until I can look about me."
He moved uneasily.
"But have you no relations--no one who will take care of you?"
"I believe none. My mother was nobody particular, you know--a Miss Tonkins
by name."
"But your father?" He sat down now on the sofa beside me; there was a
puzzled, amused look in his face; perhaps I was amazing him.
"Papa? Oh, papa was the last of his family. They were decent people, but
there are no more of them."
He pushed one of the cushions aside.
"It is an impossible position for a girl--completely alone. I cannot allow
it. I feel responsible for you. After all, it would do very well if you
married me. I am not particularly domestic by nature, and should be very
little at home, so you could live here and have a certain position, and I
would come back now and then and see you were getting on all right."
One could not say if he was mocking or no.
"It is too good of you," I said, without any irony. "But I like freedom,
and when you were at home it might be such a bore----"
He leaned back and laughed merrily.
"You are candid, at any rate!" he said.
Mr. Barton came into the room at that moment, full of apologies at being
late. Immediately after, with the usual ceremony, the butler entered and
pompously announced, "Dinner is served, sir." How quickly they recognize
the new master!
Mr. Carruthers gave me his arm, and we walked slowly down the
picture-gallery to the banqueting-hall, and there sat down at the small,
round table in the middle, that always looks like an island in a lake.
I talked nicely at dinner. I was dignified and grave, and quite frank. Mr.
Carruthers was not bored. The chef had outdone himself, hoping to be kept
on. I never felt so excited in my life.
I was apparently asleep under a big lamp, after dinner, in the library, a
book of silly poetry in my lap, when the door opened and he--Mr.
Carruthers--came in alone, and walked up the room. I did not open my
eyes. He looked for just a minute--how accurate I am! Then he said, "You
are very pretty when asleep!"
His voice was not caressing or complimentary--merely as if the fact had
forced this utterance.