Claridge’s, Sunday Night, November 27th
Late this evening, about eight o’clock, when I had relocked my journal, I got a note from Robert. I was just going to begin my dinner.
I tore it open, inside was another; I did not wait to look who from, I was too eager to read his. I paste it in:
“Carlton House Terrace.
“My darling,—
“I have had a long talk with Aunt Sophia, and she is everything that is sweet and kind, but she fears Torquilstone will be a little difficult (I don’t care, nothing shall separate us now). She asks me not to go and see you again to-night as she thinks it would be better for you that I should not go to the hotel so late. Darling, read her note, and you will see how nice she is. I shall come round to-morrow, the moment the beastly stables are finished, about twelve o’clock. Oh, take care of yourself! What a difference to-night and last night! I was feeling horribly miserable and reckless, and to-night! Well, you can guess. I am not half good enough for you, darling beautiful queen, but I think I shall know how to make you happy. I love you.
“Good-night my own.
“Robert.”
“Do please send me a tiny line by my servant. I have told him to wait.”
I have never had a love-letter before. What lovely things they are. I felt thrills of delight over bits of it. Of course I see now that I must have been dreadfully in love with Robert all along, only I did not know it quite. I fell into a kind of blissful dream, and then I roused myself up to read Lady Merrenden’s. I sha’n’t put hers in, too; it fills up too much, and I can’t shut the clasp of my journal. It is a perfectly sweet little letter, just saying Robert had told her the news, and that she was prepared to welcome me as her dearest niece, and to do all she could for us. She hoped I would not think her very tiresome and old-fashioned suggesting Robert had better not see me again to-night, and, if it would not inconvenience me, she would herself come round to-morrow morning and discuss what was best to be done.
Véronique said Lord Robert’s valet was waiting outside the door, so I flew to my table and began to write. My hand trembled so I made a blot, and had to tear that sheet up; then I wrote another. Just a little word. I was frightened; I couldn’t say loving things in a letter; I had not even spoken many to him—yet.
“I loved your note,” I began; “and I think Lady Merrenden is quite right. I will be here at twelve, and very pleased to see you.” I wanted to say I loved him, and thought twelve o’clock a long way off, but of course one could not write such things as that, so I ended with just,
“Love from”
“Evangeline.”
Then I read it over, and it did sound “missish” and silly. However, with the man waiting there in the passage, and Véronique fussing in and out of my bedroom, besides the waiters bringing up my dinner, I could not go tearing up sheets and writing others, it looked so flurried, so it was put into an envelope. Then, in one of the seconds I was alone, I nipped off a violet from a bunch on the table and pushed it in, too. I wonder if he will think it sentimental of me! When I had written the name, I had not an idea where to address it. His was written from Carlton House Terrace, but he was evidently not there now, as his servant had brought it. I felt so nervous and excited, it was too ridiculous—I am very calm as a rule. I called the man, and asked him where was his lordship now? I did not like to say I was ignorant of where he lived.
“His Lordship is at Vavasour House, madam,” he said, respectfully, but with the faintest shade of surprise that I should not know. “His lordship dines at home this evening with his grace.”
I scribbled a note to Lady Merrenden. I would be delighted to see her in the morning at whatever time suited her. I would not go out at all, and I thanked her. It was much easier to write sweet things to her than to Robert.
When I was alone I could not eat. Véronique came in to try and persuade me. I looked so very pale, she said, she feared I had taken cold. She was in one of her “old-mother” moods, when she drops the third person sometimes, and calls me “mon enfant.”
“Oh, Véronique, I have not got a cold; I am only wildly happy,” I said.
“Mademoiselle is doubtless fiancée to Mr. Carruthers. Oh, mon enfant adorée,” she cried, “que je suis contente!”
“Gracious, no!” I exclaimed. This brought me back to Christopher with a start. What would he say when he heard?
“No, Véronique, to some one much nicer—Lord Robert Vavasour.”
Véronique was frightfully interested. Mr. Carruthers she would have preferred, to me, she admitted, as being more solid, more “rangé,” “plus à la fin de ses bêtises,” but, no doubt, “milor” was charming too, and for certain one day mademoiselle would be duchess. In the meanwhile what kind of coronet would mademoiselle have on her trousseau?
I was obliged to explain that I should not have any, or any trousseau, for an indefinite time, as nothing was settled yet. This damped her a little.
“Un frère de duc, et pas de couronne!” After seven years in England she was yet unable to understand these strange habitudes, she said.
She insisted upon putting me to bed directly after dinner, “to be prettier for milor demain!” and then when she had tucked me up, and was turning out the light in the centre of the room, she looked back. “Mademoiselle is too beautiful like that,” she said, as if it slipped from her. “Mon Dieu! il ne s’embêterai pas, le monsieur!”