"You might give me away at my wedding," I said, gayly. "I am thinking of
getting married, some day!"
"That I will," he promised; "and, by Jove! the man will be a fortunate
fellow."
Lady Ver and I drove after luncheon--me paid some calls, and went in to
tea with the Montgomeries, who had just arrived at Brown's Hotel for a
week's shopping.
"Aunt Katherine brings those poor girls up always at this time, and takes
them to some impossible old dressmaker of her own in the daytime, and to
Shakespeare or a concert at night, and returns with them equipped in more
hideous garments each year. It is positively cruel," said Lady Ver, as we
went up the stairs to their _appartement_.
There they were, sitting round the tea-table just as at Tryland--Kirstie
and Jean embroidering and knitting, and the other two reading new
catalogues of books for their work.
Lady Ver began to tease them. She asked them all sorts of questions about
their new frocks, and suggested they had better go to Paris once in a way.
Lady Katherine was like ice. She strongly disapproved of my being with her
niece, one could see.
The connection with the family she hoped would be ended with my visit to
Tryland. Malcolm was arriving in town, too, we gathered, and Lady Ver left
a message to ask him to dine to-night.
Then we got away.
"If one of those lumps of suet had a spark of spirit they would go
straight to the devil," Lady Ver said as we went down the stairs. "Think
of it--ties and altar-cloths in London! Mercifully they could not dine
to-night. I had to ask them, and they generally come once while they are
up--the four girls and Aunt Katherine--and it is with the greatest
difficulty I can collect four young men for them if they get the least
hint whom they are to meet. I generally secure a couple of socially
budding Jews, because I feel the subscriptions for their charities which
they will pester whoever they do sit next for are better filched from the
Hebrew than from some pretty, needy Guardsman. Oh, what a life!"
She was so kind to me on the way back; she said she hated leaving me alone
on the morrow, and that I must settle now what I was going to do or she
would not go. I said I would go to Claridge's, where Mrs. Carruthers and I
had always stayed, and remain quietly alone with Véronique. I could afford
it for a week. So we drove there and made the arrangement.
"It is absolutely impossible for you to go on like this, dear child," she
said. "You must have a chaperone; you are far too pretty to stay alone in
a hotel. What _can_ I do for you?"
I felt so horribly uncomfortable I was really at my wits' end. Oh, it is
no fun being an adventuress, after all, if you want to keep your friends
of the world as well.
"Perhaps it won't matter if I don't see any one for a few days," I said.
"I will write to Paris. My old mademoiselle is married there to a
flourishing poet, I believe--perhaps she would take me as a paying guest
for a little."
"That is very visionary--a French poet! Horrible, long-haired, frowsy
creature! Impossible! Surely you see how necessary it is for you to marry
Christopher as soon as you can, Evangeline, don't you?" she said, and I
was obliged to admit there were reasons.
"The truth is, you can't be the least eccentric or unconventional if you
are good-looking and unmarried," she continued. "You may snap your fingers
at society, but if you do you won't have a good time, and all the men will
either foolishly champion you or be impertinent to you."
"Oh, I realize it," I said, and there was a lump in my throat.
"I shall write to Christopher to-morrow," she went on, "and thank him for
our outing last night, and I shall say something nice about you and your
loneliness, and that he, as a kind of relation, may go and see you on
Sunday, as long as he doesn't make love to you, and he can take you to the
Zoo--don't see him in your sitting-room. That will give him just the extra
fillip, and he will go, and you will be demure, and then by those
stimulating lions' and tigers' cages you can plight your troth. It will be
quite respectable. Wire to me at once on Monday to Sedgwick, and you must
come back to Park Street directly I return on Thursday, if it is all
settled."
I thanked her as well as I could. She was quite ingenuous and quite
sincere. I should be a welcome guest as Christopher's fiancée, and there
was no use my feeling bitter about it--she was quite right.
As I put my hand on Malcolm's skinny arm going down to the dining-room,
the only consolation was my fate had not got to be him. I would rather be
anything in the world than married to that!
I tried to be agreeable to Sir Charles. We were only a party of six. An
old Miss Harpenden, who goes everywhere to play bridge, and Malcolm, and
one of Lady Ver's young men, and I. Sir Charles is absent, and brings
himself back. He fiddles with the knives and forks, and sprawls on the
table rather, too. He looks at Lady Ver with admiration in his eyes. It is
true, then, in the intervals of Paris, I suppose, she can make his heart
beat.
Malcolm made love to me after dinner. We were left to talk when the others
sat down to bridge in the little drawing-room.
"I missed you so terribly, Miss Travers," he said, priggishly, "when you
left us that I realized I was extremely attracted by you."
"No, you don't say so!" I said, innocently. "Could one believe a thing
like that?"
"Yes," he said, earnestly. "You may, indeed, believe it."
"Do not say it so suddenly, then," I said, turning my head away so that he
could not see how I was laughing. "You see, to a red-haired person like me
these compliments go to my head."
"Oh, I do not want to flurry you," he said, affably. "I know I have been a
good deal sought after--perhaps on account of my possessions"--this with
arrogant modesty--"but I am willing to lay everything at your feet if you
will marry me."
"Everything?" I asked.
"Yes, everything."
"You are too good, Mr. Montgomerie--but what would your mother say?"
He looked uneasy and slightly unnerved.
"My mother, I fear, has old-fashioned notions, but I am sure if you went
to her dressmaker--you--you would look different."
"Should you like me to look different, then? You wouldn't recognize me,
you know, if I went to her dressmaker."
"I like you just as you are," he said, with an air of great condescension.
"I am overcome," I said, humbly. "But--but--what is this story I hear
about Miss Angela Grey? A lady, I see in the papers, who dances at the
Gaiety, is it not? Are you sure she will permit you to make this
declaration without her knowledge?"
He became petrified.
"Who has told you about her?" he asked.
"No one," I said. "Jean said your father was angry with you on account of
a horse of that name, but I chanced to see it in the list of attractions
at the Gaiety, so I conclude it is not a horse; and if you are engaged to
her, I don't think it is quite right of you to try and break my heart."
"Oh, Evangeline--Miss Travers!" he spluttered. "I am greatly attached to
you--the other was only a pastime--a--a--Oh, we men, you know--young
and--and--run after--have our temptations, you know. You must think
nothing about it. I will never see her again, except just to finally say
good-bye. I promise you."
"Oh, I could not do a mean thing like that, Mr. Montgomerie," I said. "You
must not think of behaving so on my account. I am not altogether
heartbroken, you know; in fact, I rather think of getting married,
myself."
He bounded up.
"Oh, you have deceived me, then!" he said, in self-righteous wrath. "After
all I said to you that evening at Tryland, and what you promised then!
Yes, you have grossly deceived me."
I could not say I had not listened to a word he had said that night and
was utterly unconscious of what I had promised. Even his self-appreciation
did not deserve such a blow as that, so I softened my voice and natural
anger at his words, and said, quite gently:
"Do not be angry. If I have unconsciously given you a wrong impression I
am sorry, but if one came to talking of deceiving, you have deceived me
about Miss Grey, so do not let us speak further upon the matter. We are
quits. Now, won't you be friends as you have always been?" and I put out
my hand and smiled frankly in his face. The mean little lines in it
relaxed, he pulled himself together, and took my hand and pressed it
warmly. From which I knew there was more in the affair of Angela Grey than
met the eye.
"Evangeline," he said. "I shall always love you; but Miss Grey is an
estimable young woman--there is not a word to be said against her moral
character--and I have promised her my hand in marriage, so perhaps we had
better say good-bye."
"Good-bye," I said; "but I consider I have every reason to feel insulted
by your offer, which was not, judging from your subsequent remarks, worth
a moment's thought."
"Oh, but I love you!" he said, and by his face, for the time, this was
probably true. So I did not say any more, and we rose and joined the
bridge players. And I contrived that he should not speak to me again alone
before he said good-night.
"Did Malcolm propose to you?" Lady Ver asked as we came up to bed. "I
thought I saw a look in his eye at dinner."
I told her he had done it in a kind of a way, with a reservation in favor
of Miss Angela Grey.
"That is too dreadful!" she said. "There is a regular epidemic in some of
the Guards regiments just now to marry these poor, common things with high
moral characters and indifferent feet. But I should have thought the
cuteness of the Scot would have protected Malcolm from their designs. Poor
Aunt Katherine!"