I did look forward to coming out in London, but, being so late, every one was preoccupied when we got there—and no one got in love with me much. Indeed, we went out very little, a part of the time I had a swollen nose from a tennis ball at Ranelagh—and people don’t look at girls with swollen noses.
I wonder where I shall go and live! Perhaps in Paris—unless, of course, I marry Mr. Carruthers,—I don’t suppose it is dull being married. In London all the married ones seemed to have a lovely time, and had not to bother with their husbands much.
Mrs. Carruthers always assured me love was a thing of absolutely no consequence in marriage. You were bound to love some one, some time, but the very fact of being chained to him would dispel the feeling. It was a thing to be looked upon like measles, or any other disease, and was better to get it over, and then turn to the solid affairs of life. But how she expected me to get it over when she never arranged for me to see anyone I don’t know.
I asked her one day what I should do if I got to like some one after I am married to Mr. Carruthers, and she laughed one of her horrid laughs, and said I should probably do as the rest of the world. And what do they do?—I wonder?—Well, I suppose I shall find out some day.
Of course there is the possibility that Christopher (do I like the name of Christopher, I wonder?)—well, that Christopher may not want to follow her will.
He has known about it for years, I suppose, just as I have, but I believe men are queer creatures, and he may take a dislike to me. I am not a type that would please every one. My hair is too red, brilliant dark fiery red like a chestnut when it tumbles out of its shell, only burnished like metal. If I had the usual white eyelashes I should be downright ugly, but, thank goodness! by some freak of nature mine are black and thick, and stick out when you look at me sideways, and I often think when I catch sight of myself in the glass that I am really very pretty—all put together—but, as I said before, not a type to please every one.
A combination I am that Mrs. Carruthers assured me would cause anxieties. “With that mixture, Evangeline,” she often said, “you would do well to settle yourself in life as soon as possible. Good girls don’t have your colouring.” So you see, as I am branded as bad from the beginning, it does not much matter what I do. My eyes are as green as pale emeralds, and long, and not going down at the corners with the Madonna expression of Cicely Parker, the Vicar’s daughter. I do not know yet what is being good, or being bad, perhaps I shall find out when I am an adventuress, or married to Mr. Carruthers.
All I know is that I want to live, and feel the blood rushing through my veins. I want to do as I please, and not have to be polite when I am burning with rage. I want to be late in the morning if I happen to fancy sleeping, and I want to sit up at night if I don’t want to go to bed! So, as you can do what you like when you are married, I really hope Mr. Carruthers will take a fancy to me, and then all will be well! I shall stay upstairs until I hear the carriage-wheels, and leave Mr. Barton—the lawyer—to receive him. Then I shall saunter down nonchalantly while they are in the hall. It will be an effective entrance. My trailing black garments, and the great broad stairs—this is a splendid house—and if he has an eye in his head he must see my foot on each step! Even Mrs. Carruthers said I have the best foot she had ever seen. I am getting quite excited. I shall ring for Véronique and begin to dress!... I shall write more presently.