300 | Park Street, Thursday Evening, November 24th
Lady Merrenden is so nice—one of those kind faces that even a tight fringe in a net does not spoil. She is tall and graceful, past fifty perhaps, and has an expression of Lord Robert about the eyes. At luncheon she was sweet to me at once, and did not look as if she thought I must be bad just because I have red hair, like elderly ladies do generally.
I felt I wanted to be good and nice directly. She did not allude to my desolate position or say anything without tact, but she asked me to lunch as if I had been a queen and would honor her by accepting. For some reason I could see Lady Ver did not wish me to go—she made all sorts of excuses about wanting me herself—but also, for some reason, Lady Merrenden was determined I should, and finally settled it should be on Saturday, when Lady Ver is going down to Northumberland to her father’s, and I am going—where? Alas! as yet I know not.
When she had gone Lady Ver said old people without dyed hair or bridge proclivities were tiresome, and she smoked three cigarettes, one after the other as fast as she could. (Welby is going to the theatre again to-night!)
I said I thought Lady Merrenden was charming. She snapped my head off for the first time, and then there was silence, but presently she began to talk, and fix herself in a most becoming way on the sofa—we were in her own sitting-room, a lovely place, all blue silk and French furniture and attractive things. She said she had a cold and must stay in-doors. She had changed immediately into a tea-gown, but I could not hear any cough.
“Charlie has just wired he comes back to-night,” she announced, at length.
“How nice for you!” I sympathized; “you will be able to make his heart beat!”
“As a matter of fact, it is extremely inconvenient, and I want you to be nice to him, and amuse him, and take his attention off me, like a pet, Evangeline,” she cooed; and then: “What a lovely afternoon for November! I wish I could go for a walk in the park,” she said.
I felt it would be cruel to tease her further, and so announced my intention of taking exercise in that way with the angels.
“Yes, it will do you good, dear child,” she said, brightly, “and I will rest here and take care of my cold.”
“They have asked me to tea in the nursery,” I said, “and I have accepted.”
“Jewel of a snake-girl!” she laughed—she is not thick.
“Do you know the Torquilstone history?” she said, just as I was going out of the door.
I came back—why, I can’t imagine, but it interested me.
“Robert’s brother—half-brother, I mean—the duke, is a cripple, you know, and he is toqué on one point too—their blue blood. He will never marry, but he can cut Robert off with almost the bare title if he displeases him.”
“Yes,” I said.
“Torquilstone’s mother was one of the housemaids. The old duke married her before he was twenty-one, and she, fortunately, joined her beery ancestors a year or so afterwards; and then much later he married Robert’s mother, Lady Etheldrida Fitz Walter. There is sixteen years between them—Robert and Torquilstone, I mean.”
“Then what is he toqué about blue blood for, with a tache like that?” I asked.
“That is just it. He thinks it is such a disgrace that even if he were not a humpback he says he would never marry to transmit this stain to the future Torquilstones—and if Robert ever marries any one without a pedigree enough to satisfy an Austrian prince, he will disown him and leave every sou to charity.”
“Poor Lord Robert!” I said, but I felt my cheeks burn.
“Yes, is it not tiresome for him? So, of course, he cannot marry until his brother’s death, there is almost no one in England suitable.”
“It is not so bad, after all,” I said; “there is always the delicious rôle of the ‘married woman’s pet,’ open to him, isn’t there?” and I laughed.
“Little cat!” but she wasn’t angry.
“I told you I only scratched when I was scratched first,” I said, as I went out of the room.
The angels had started for their walk, and Véronique had to come with me at first to find them. We were walking fast down the path beyond Stanhope Gate, seeing their blue velvet pelisses in the distance, when we met Mr. Carruthers.
He stopped and turned with me.
“Evangeline, I was so angry with you yesterday,” he said. “I very nearly left London and abandoned you to your fate, but now that I have seen you again—” He paused.
“You think Paris is a long way off!” I said, innocently.
“What have they been telling you?” he said, sternly, but he was not quite comfortable.
“They have been saying it is a fine November, and the Stock Exchange is no place to play in, and if it weren’t for bridge they would all commit suicide. That is what we talk of at Park Street.”
“You know very well what I mean. What have they been telling you about me?”
“Nothing, except that there is a charming French lady who adores you, and whom you are devoted to—and I am so sympathetic. I like Frenchwomen, they put on their hats so nicely.”
“What ridiculous gossip! I don’t think Park Street is the place for you to stay. I thought you had more mind than to chatter like this.”
“I suit myself to my company.” I laughed, and waited for Véronique, who had stopped respectfully behind. She came up reluctantly. She disapproves of all English unconventionality, but she feels it her duty to encourage Mr. Carruthers.
“Should she run on and stop the young ladies,” she suggested, pointing to the angels in front.
“Yes, do,” said Mr. Carruthers, and before I could prevent her she was off.
Traitress! She was thinking of her own comfortable quarters at Branches, I know.
The sharp, fresh air got into my head. I felt gay, and without care. I said heaps of things to Mr. Carruthers, just as I had once before to Malcolm, only this was much more fun, because Mr. Carruthers isn’t a red-haired Scotchman and can see things.
It seemed a day of meetings, for when we got down to the end we encountered Lord Robert walking leisurely in our direction. He looked as black as night when he caught sight of us.
“Hello, Bob!” said Mr. Carruthers, cheerfully. “Ages since I saw you. Will you come and dine to-night? I have a box for this winter opera that is on, and I am trying to persuade Miss Travers to come. She says Lady Verningham is not engaged to-night, she knows, and we might dine quietly and all go; don’t you think so?”
Lord Robert said he would, but he added, “Miss Travers would never come out before—she said she was in too deep mourning.” He seemed aggrieved.
“I am going to sit in the back of the box and no one will see me,” I said. “And I do love music so.”
“We had better let Lady Verningham know at once then,” said Mr. Carruthers.
Lord Robert announced he was going there now, and would tell her.
I knew that. The blue tea-gown with the pink roses, and the lace cap, and the bad cold were not for nothing. (I wish I had not written this; it is spiteful of me, and I am not spiteful, as a rule. It must be the east wind.)