“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 she how nice she is. I shall come round to-morrow, the moment the beastly stables are finished, about 12 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, Madame,” 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.”