This morning Mr. Carruthers had his coffee alone. Mr. Barton and I
breakfasted quite early, before nine o'clock, and just as I was calling
the dogs in the hall for a run, with my out-door 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's 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 up-stairs
while the butler was speaking to Mr. Carruthers, and began helping
Véronique to pack. Chaos and desolation it all seemed in my cosey 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."