Lady Ver, away from her decorous relations, is most amusing. She says anything that comes into her head. Mrs. Fairfax got cross because Mr.
Campion would speak to me; but as I did not particularly take to her, I did not mind, and just amused myself. As the party was so small, Lord Robert and I were obliged to talk a little, and once or twice I forgot and let myself be natural and smile at him. His eyebrows went up in that questioning, pathetic way he has, and he looked so attractive--that made me remember again, and instantly turn away. When we were coming into the hall, while Lady Ver and Mrs. Fairfax were up putting on their cloaks, Lord Robert came up close to me and whispered:
"I _can"t_ understand you. There is some reason for your treating me like this, and I will find it out. Why are you so cruel, little, wicked tiger cat?" and he pinched one of my fingers until I could have cried out.
That made me so angry.
"How dare you touch me!" I said. "It is because you know I have no one to take care of me that you presume like this."
I felt my eyes blaze at him, but there was a lump in my throat. I would not have been hurt if it had been any one else, only angry; but he had been so respectful and gentle with me at Branches, and I had liked him so much. It seemed more cruel for him to be impertinent now.
His face fell; indeed, all the fierceness went out of it, and he looked intensely miserable.
"Oh, don"t say that!" he said, in a choked voice. "I--oh, that is the one thing you know is not true."
Mr. Campion, with his fur coat fastened, came up at that moment, saying gallant things, and insinuating that we must meet again, but I said good-night quietly, and came up the stairs without a word more to Lord Robert.
"Good-night, Evangeline, pet," Lady Ver said, when I met her on the drawing-room landing, coming down. "I do feel a wretch, leaving you, but to-morrow I will really try and amuse you. You look very pale, child; the journey has tried you, probably."
"Yes, I am tired," I tried to say in a natural voice, but the end word shook a little, and Lord Robert was just behind, having run up the stairs after me, so I fear he must have heard.
"Miss Travers--please--" he implored, but I walked on up the next flight, and Lady Ver put her hand on his arm and drew him down with her, and as I got up to the fourth floor I heard the front door shut.
And now they are gone and I am alone. My tiny room is comfortable, and the fire is burning brightly. I have a big arm-chair and books, and this, my journal, and all is cosey--only I feel so miserable.
I won"t cry and be a silly coward.
Why, of course it is amusing to be free. And I am _not_ grieving over Mrs.
Carruthers"s death--only perhaps I am lonely, and I wish I were at the theatre. No, I don"t--I--Oh, the thing I do wish is that--that--_no_, I won"t write it even.
Good-night, journal!
300 PARK STREET,
Wednesday, _November 23d._
Oh, how silly to want the moon! But that is evidently what is the matter with me. Here I am in a comfortable house with a kind hostess, and no immediate want of money, and yet I am restless, and sometimes unhappy.
For the four days since I arrived Lady Ver has been so kind to me, taken the greatest pains to try and amuse me and cheer me up. We have driven about in her electric brougham and shopped, and agreeable people have been to lunch each day, and I have had what I suppose is a _succes_. At least she says so.
I am beginning to understand things better, and it seems one must have no real feelings, just as Mrs. Carruthers always told me, if one wants to enjoy life.
On two evenings Lady Ver has been out, with numbers of regrets at leaving me behind, and I have gathered that she has seen Lord Robert, but he has not been here, I am glad to say.
I am real friends with the angels, who are delightful people, and very well brought up. Lady Ver evidently knows much better about it than Mary Mackintosh, although she does not talk in that way.
I can"t think what I am going to do next. I suppose soon this kind of drifting will seem quite natural, but at present the position galls me for some reason. I _hate_ to think people are being kind out of charity. How very foolish of me, though!
Lady Merrenden is coming to lunch to-morrow. I am interested to see her, because Lord Robert said she was such a dear. I wonder what has become of him. He has not been here--I wonder--No, I am _too_ silly.
Lady Ver does not get up to breakfast, and I go into her room and have mine on another little tray, and we talk, and she reads me bits out of her letters.
She seems to have a number of people in love with her--that must be nice.
"It keeps Charlie always devoted," she said, "because he realizes he owns what the other men want."
She says, too, that all male creatures are fighters by nature; they don"t value things they obtain easily, and which are no trouble to keep. You must always make them realize you will be off like a snipe if they relax their efforts to please you for one moment.
Of course there are heaps of humdrum ways of living, where the husband is quite fond, but it does not make his heart beat, and Lady Ver says she couldn"t stay on with a man whose heart she couldn"t make beat when she wanted to.
I am curious to see Sir Charles.
They play bridge a good deal in the afternoon, and it amuses me a little to talk nicely to the man who is out for the moment, and make him not want to go back to the game.
I am learning a number of things.
_Night._
Mr. Carruthers came to call this afternoon. He was the last person I expected to see when I went into the drawing-room after luncheon, to wait for Lady Ver. I had my out-door things on, and a big black hat, which is rather becoming, I am glad to say.
"You here!" he exclaimed, as we shook hands.
"Yes, why not me?" I said.
He looked very self-contained and reserved, I thought, as if he had not the least intention of letting himself go to display any interest. It instantly aroused in me an intention to change all that.
"Lady Verningham kindly asked me to spend a few days with her when we left Tryland," I said, demurely.
"Oh, you are staying here! Well, I was over at Tryland the day before yesterday--an elaborate invitation from Lady Katherine to "dine and sleep quietly," which I only accepted as I thought I should see you."
"How good of you," I said, sweetly. "And did they not tell you I had gone with Lady Verningham?"
"Nothing of the kind. They merely announced that you had departed for London, so I supposed it was your original design of Claridge"s, and I intended going round there some time to find you."
Again I said it was so good of him, and I looked down.
He did not speak for a second or two, and I remained perfectly still.
"What are your plans?" he asked, abruptly.
"I have no plans."
"But you must have--that is ridiculous--you must have made some decision as to where you are going to live!"