by Elinor Glyn
300 PARK STREET,
Friday morning, _November 25th._
I know just the meaning of dust and ashes, for that is what I felt I hadhad for breakfast this morning, the day after "Carmen."
Lady Ver had given orders she was not to be disturbed, so I did not gonear her, and crept down to the dining-room, quite forgetting the masterof the house had arrived. There he was, a strange, tall, lean man withfair hair, and sad, cross, brown eyes, and a nose inclined to pink at thetip--a look of indigestion about him, I feel sure. He was sitting in frontof a _Daily Telegraph_ propped up on the teapot, and some cold, untastedsole on his plate.
I came forward. He looked very surprised.
"I--I'm Evangeline Travers," I announced.
He said "How d'you do?" awkwardly. One could see without a notion whatthat meant.
"I'm staying here," I continued. "Did you not know?"
"Then won't you have some breakfast? Beastly cold, I fear," politenessforced him to utter. "No, Ianthe never writes to me. I had not heard anynews for a fortnight, and I have not seen her yet."
Manners have been drummed into me from early youth, so I said, politely,"You only arrived from Paris late last night, did you not?"
"I got in about seven o'clock, I think," he replied.
"We had to leave so early--we were going to the opera," I said.
"A Wagner that begins at unearthly hours, I suppose?" he murmured,absently.
"No, it was 'Carmen,' but we dined first with my--my--guardian, Mr.Carruthers."
"Oh!"
We both ate for a little. The tea was greenish black--and lukewarm. Nowonder he has dyspepsia.
"Are the children in, I wonder?" he hazarded, presently.
"Yes," I said. "I went to the nursery and saw them as I came down."
At that moment the three angels burst into the room, but came forwarddecorously and embraced their parent. They do not seem to adore him asthey do Lady Ver.
"Good-morning, papa," said the eldest, and the other two repeated it inchorus. "We hope you have slept well and had a nice passage across thesea."
They evidently had been drilled outside.
Then, nature getting uppermost, they patted him patronizingly.
"Daddie, darling, have you brought us any new dolls from Paris?"
"And I want one with red hair, like Evangeline," said Yseult, theyoungest.
Sir Charles seemed bored and uncomfortable; he kissed his three exquisitebits of Dresden china, so like and yet unlike himself--they have LadyVer's complexion, but brown eyes and golden hair like his.
"Yes; ask Harbottle for the packages," he said. "I have no time to talk toyou. Tell your mother I will be in for lunch," and making excuses to mefor leaving so abruptly--an appointment in the City--he shuffled out ofthe room.
I wonder how Lady Ver makes his heart beat! I _don't_ wonder sheprefers--Lord Robert.
"Why is papa's nose so red?" said Yseult.
"Hush!" implored Mildred. "Poor papa has come off the sea."
"I don't love papa," said Corisande, the middle one. "He's cross, andsometimes he makes darling mummie cry."
"We must always love papa," chanted Mildred, in a lesson voice. "We mustalways love our parents, and grandmamma, and grandpapa, and aunts andcousins--amen." The "amen" slipped out unawares, and she looked confused,and corrected herself when she had said it.
"Let's find Harbottle. Harbottle is papa's valet," Corisande said, "and heis much thoughtfuller than papa. Last time he brought me a Highland boydoll, though papa had forgotten I asked for it."
They all three went out of the room, first kissing me, and courtesyingsweetly when they got to the door. They are never rude or boisterous, thethree angels--I love them.
Left alone, I did feel like a dead fish. The column "London Day by Day"caught my eye in the _Daily Telegraph_, and I idly glanced down it, nottaking in the sense of the words, until "The Duke of Torquilstone hasarrived at Vavasour House, St. James's, from abroad," I read.
Well, what did it matter to me--what did anything matter to me?--LordRobert had met us in the hall again, as we were coming out of the opera;he looked very pale, and he apologized to Lady Ver for his abruptdeparture. He had got a chill, he said, and had gone to have a glass ofbrandy, and was all right now, and would we not come to supper, andvarious other _empresse_ things, looking at her with the greatestdevotion. I might not have existed.
She was capricious, as she sometimes is. "No, Robert, I am going home tobed. I have got a chill, too," she said.
And the footman announcing the electric at that moment, we flew off andleft them, Christopher having fastened my sable collar with an air ofpossession which would have irritated me beyond words at another time, butI felt cold and dead, and utterly numb.
Lady Ver did not speak a word on the way back, and kissed me frigidly asshe went into her room; then she called out:
"I am tired, snake-girl; don't think I am cross. Good-night." And so Icrept up to bed.
To-morrow is Saturday and my visit ends. After my lunch with LadyMerrenden, I am a wanderer on the face of the earth.
Where shall I wander to? I feel I want to go away by myself, away where Ishall not see a human being who is English. I want to forget what theylook like; I want to shut out of my sight their well-groomed heads; Iwant--oh, I do not know what I do want.
Shall I marry Mr. Carruthers? He would eat me up, and then go back toParis to the lady he loves. But I should have the life I like--and theCarruthers's emeralds are beautiful--and I love Branches--and--and----
"Her ladyship would like to see you, miss," said a footman.
So I went up the stairs.
Lady Ver was in a darkened room, soft pink blinds right down beyond thehalf-drawn blue silk curtains.
"I have a fearful head, Evangeline," she said.
"Then I will smooth your hair," and I climbed up behind her and began torun over her forehead with the tips of my fingers.
"You are really a pet, snake-girl," she said, "and you can't help it."
"I can't help what?"
"Being a witch. I knew you would hurt me when I first saw you, and I triedto protect myself by being kind to you."
"Oh, dear Lady Ver!" I said, deeply moved. "I would not hurt you for theworld, and indeed you misjudge me. I have kept the bargain to the veryletter--and spirit."
"Yes, I know you have to the letter, at least, but why did Robert go outof the box last night?" she demanded, wearily.
"He said he had got a chill, did not he?" I replied, lamely. She claspedher hands passionately.
"A chill! You don't know Robert. He never had a chill in his life," shesaid. "Oh, he is the dearest, dearest being in the world. He makes mebelieve in good and all things honest. He isn't vicious, and isn't a prig,and he knows the world, and he lives in its ways like the rest of us, andyet he doesn't begin by thinking every woman is fair game and underminingwhat little self-respect she may have left to her."
"Yes," I said. I found nothing else to say.
"If I had had a husband like that I would never have yawned," she went on;"and besides, Robert is too masterful and would be too jealous to let onedivert one's self with another."
"Yes," I said again, and continued to smooth her forehead.
"He has sentiment, too--he is not matter-of-fact and brutal--and oh, youshould see him on a horse!--he is too, too beautiful." She stretched outher arms in a movement of weariness that was pathetic and touched me.
"You have known him a long, long time?" I said, gently.
"Perhaps five years, but only casually until this season. I was busy withsome one else before. I have played with so many." Then she rousedherself up. "But Robert is the only one who has never made love to me.Always dear and sweet, and treating me like a queen, as if I were too highfor that, and having his own way, and not caring a pin for any one'sopinion. And I have wanted him to make love to me often. But now I r
ealizeit is no use. Only, you sha'n't have him, snake-girl! I told him as wewere going to the opera you were as cold as ice, and were playing withChristopher, and I am going to take him down to Northumberland with meto-morrow out of your way. He shall be my devoted friend, at any rate. Youwould break his heart, and I shall still hold you to your promise."
I said nothing.
"Do you hear? I say: _You_ would break his heart. He would be only capableof loving straight to the end. The kind of love any other woman would diefor--but--you--You are Carmen."
At all events, not _she_, nor any other woman, shall ever see what I am oram not. My heart is not for them to peck at. So I said, calmly:
"Carmen was stabbed!"
"And serve her right! Fascinating, fiendish demon!" Then she laughed, hermood changing.
"Did you see Charlie?" she said.
"We breakfasted together."
"Cheerful person, isn't he?"
"No," I said. "He looked cross and ill."
"Ill!" she said, with a shade of anxiety. "Oh, you only mean dyspeptic."
"Perhaps."
"Well, he always does when he comes from Paris. If you could go into hisroom and see the row of photographs on his mantelpiece, you might guesswhy."
"Pictures of 'Sole Dieppoise' and 'Poulet a la Victoria aux Truffes,' nodoubt," I hazarded.
She doubled up with laughter. "Yes, just that," she said. "Well, he adoresme in his way, and will bring me a new Cartier ring to make up for it--youwill see at luncheon."
"He is a perfect husband, then."
"About the same as you will find Christopher. Only Christopher will startby being an exquisite lover. There is nothing he does not know, andCharlie has not an idea of that part. Heavens!--the dulness of myhoneymoon!"
"Mrs. Carruthers said all honeymoons were only another parallel to goingto the dentist or being photographed. Necessary evils to be got throughfor the sake of the results."
"The results!"
"Yes, the nice house and the jewels and the other things."
"Oh! Yes, I suppose she was right, but if one had married Robert one wouldhave had both." She did not say both what--but oh, I knew!
"You think Mr. Carruthers will make a fair husband, then?" I asked.
"You will never really know Christopher. I have been acquainted with himfor years. You will never feel he would tell you the whole truth aboutanything. He is an epicure, and an analyst of sensations. I don't know ifhe has any gods--he does not believe in them if he has; he believes in noone, and nothing, but perhaps himself. He is violently in love with youfor the moment, and he wants to marry you, because he cannot obtain you onany other terms."
"You are flattering," I said, rather hurt.
"I am truthful. You will probably have a delightful time with him, andkeep him devoted to you for years, because you are not in love with him;and he will take good care you do not look at any one else. I can imagineif one were in love with Christopher he would break one's heart, as he hasbroken poor Alicia Verney's."
"Oh, but how silly! People don't have broken hearts now; you are talkinglike out of a book, dear Lady Ver."
"There are a few cases of broken hearts, but they are not for bookreasons--of death and tragedy, etc.--they are because we cannot have whatwe want, or keep what we have--" and she sighed.
We did not speak for a few minutes, then she said, quite gayly:
"You have made my head better; your touch is extraordinary; in spite ofall, I like you, snake-girl. You are not found on every gooseberry-bush."
We kissed lightly, and I left her and went to my room.
Yes, the best thing I can do is to marry Christopher. I care for him solittle that the lady in Paris won't matter to me, even if she is like SirCharles's "Poulet a la Victoria aux Truffes." He is such a gentleman, hewill at least be kind to me and refined and considerate--and theCarruthers emeralds are divine, and just my stones. I shall have themreset by Cartier. The lace, too, will suit me, and the sables, and I shallhave the suite that Mrs. Carruthers used at Branches done up with pale,pale green, and burn all the early Victorians! And no doubt existencewill be full of triumphs and pleasure.
But oh--I wish--I wish it were possible to obtain--"both!"
