Next day, Mr. Vivian called on me at the Oxford and Cambridge, the
address on the card I had given his daughter. I was in the club when he
called, and I found him a pleasant, good-natured Cornishman, with very
little that was strange or romantic in any way about him. He thanked me
heartily, but not too effusively, for the care I had taken of Miss
Vivian overnight; and he was not so overcome with parental emotion as
not to smoke a very good Havana, or to refuse my offer of a brandy and
seltzer. We got on very well together, and I soon gathered from what my
new acquaintance said that, though he belonged to one of the best
families in Cornwall, he had been an English merchant in Haiti, and had
made his money chiefly in the coffee trade. He was a widower, I learned
incidentally, and his daughters had been brought up for some years in
England, though at their mother's request they had also passed part of
their lives in convent schools in Paris and Rouen. "Mrs. Vivian was a
Haitian, you know," he said casually: "Catholic of course. The girls are
Catholics. They're good girls, though they're my own daughters; and
Cesarine, your friend of last night, is supposed to be clever. I'm no
judge myself: I don't know about it. Oh, by the way, Cesarine said she
hadn't thanked you half enough herself yesterday, and I was to be sure
and bring you round this afternoon to a cup of tea with us at Seymour
Crescent."
In spite of the impression Mdlle. Cesarine had made upon me the night
before, I somehow didn't feel at all desirous of meeting her again. I
was impressed, it is true, but not favourably. There seemed to me
something uncanny and weird about her which made me shrink from seeing
anything more of her if I could possibly avoid it. And as it happened, I
was luckily engaged that very afternoon to tea at Irene's. I made the
excuse, and added somewhat pointedly--on purpose that it might be
repeated to Mdlle. Cesarine--"Miss Latham is a very old and particular
friend of mine--a friend whom I couldn't for worlds think of
disappointing."
Mr. Vivian laughed the matter off. "I shall catch it from Cesarine," he
said good-humouredly, "for not bringing her cavalier to receive her
formal thanks in person. Our West-Indian born girls, you know, are very
imperious. But if you can't, you can't, of course, so there's an end of
it, and it's no use talking any more about it."
I can't say why, but at that moment, in spite of my intense desire not
to meet Cesarine again, I felt I would have given whole worlds if he
would have pressed me to come in spite of myself. But, as it happened,
he didn't.
At five o'clock, I drove round in a hansom as arranged, to Irene's,
having almost made up my mind, if I found her alone, to come to a
definite understanding with her and call it an engagement. She wasn't
alone, however. As I entered the drawing-room, I saw a tall and graceful
lady sitting opposite her, holding a cup of tea, and with her back
towards me. The lady rose, moved round, and bowed. To my immense
surprise, I found it was Cesarine.
I noted to myself at the moment, too, that in my heart, though I had
seen her but once before, I thought of her already simply as Cesarine.
And I was pleased to see her: fascinated: spell-bound.
Cesarine smiled at my evident surprise. "Papa and I met Miss Latham this
afternoon in Bond Street," she said gaily, in answer to my mute inquiry,
"and we stopped and spoke to one another, of course, about last night;
and papa said you couldn't come round to tea with us in the Crescent,
because you were engaged already to Miss Latham. And Miss Latham very
kindly asked me to drive over and take tea with her, as I was so anxious
to thank you once more for your great kindness to me yesterday."
"And Miss Vivian was good enough to waive all ceremony," Irene put in,
"and come round to us as you see, without further introduction."
I stopped and talked all the time I was there to Irene; but, somehow,
whatever I said, Cesarine managed to intercept it, and I caught myself
quite guiltily looking at her from time to time, with an inexpressible
attraction that I could not account for.
By-and-by, Mr. Vivian's carriage called for Cesarine, and I was left a
few minutes alone with Irene.
"Well, what do you think of her?" Irene asked me simply.
I turned my eyes away: I dare not meet hers. "I think she's very
handsome," I replied evasively.
"Handsome! I should think so. She's wonderful. She's splendid. And
doesn't she talk magnificently, too, Harry?"
"She's clever, certainly," I answered shuffling. "But I don't know why,
I mistrust her, Irene."
I rose and stood by the door with my hat in my hand, hesitating and
trembling. I felt as if I had something to say to Irene, and yet I was
half afraid to venture upon saying it. My fingers quivered, a thing very
unusual with me. At last I came closer to her, after a long pause, and
said, "Irene."
Irene started, and the colour flushed suddenly into her cheeks. "Yes,
Harry," she answered tremulously.
I don't know why, but I couldn't utter it. It was but to say "I love
you," yet I hadn't the courage. I stood there like a fool, looking at
her irresolutely, and then--
The door opened suddenly, and Mrs. Latham entered and interrupted us.