Red Hair. Glyn Elinor

Branches Park, [1] Thursday night, November 3.

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      Dear Bob—

      A quaint thing has happened to me! Came down here to take over the place, and to say decidedly I would not marry Miss Travers, and I find her with red hair and a skin like milk, and a pair of green eyes that look at you from a forest of black eyelashes with a thousand unsaid challenges. I should not wonder if I commit some folly. One has read of women like this in the cinque-cento time in Italy, but up to now I had never met one. She is not in the room ten minutes before one feels a sense of unrest, and desire for one hardly knows what—principally to touch her, I fancy. Good Lord! what a skin! pure milk and rare roses—and the reddest Cupid's bow of a mouth! You had better come down at once (these things are probably in your line) to save me from some sheer idiocy. The situation is exceptional—she and I practically alone in the house, for old Barton does not count. She had nowhere to go, and as far as I can make out has not a friend in the world. I suppose I ought to leave. I will try to on Monday; but come down to-morrow by the 4.00 train.

      Yours,

      Christopher.

      P.S.—'47 port A1, and two or three brands of the old aunt's champagne exceptional, Barton says—we can sample them. Shall send this up by express; you will get it in time for the 4.00 train.

[1] A letter from Mr. Carruthers which came into Evangeline's possession later, and which she put into her journal at this place.—Editor's Note.

Branches,

       Friday night, November 4th.

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      This morning Mr. Carruthers had his coffee alone. Mr. Barton and I breakfasted quite early, before nine o'clock, and just as I was calling the dogs in the hall for a run, with my out-door things already on, Mr. Carruthers came down the great stairs with a frown on his face.

      "Up so early!" he said. "Are you not going to pour out my tea for me, then?"

      "I thought you said coffee! No, I am going out," and I went on down the corridor, the wolf-hounds following me.

      "You are not a kind hostess!" he called after me.

      "I am not a hostess at all," I answered back—"only a guest."

      He followed me. "Then you are a very casual guest, not consulting the pleasure of your host."

      I said nothing. I only looked at him over my shoulder as I went down the marble steps—looked at him and laughed, as on the night before.

      He turned back into the house without a word, and I did not see him again until just before luncheon.

      There is something unpleasant about saying good-bye to a place, and I found I had all sorts of sensations rising in my throat at various points in my walk. However, all that is ridiculous and must be forgotten. As I was coming round the corner of the terrace, a great gust of wind nearly blew me into Mr. Carruthers's arms. Odious weather we are having this autumn!

      "Where have you been all the morning?" he said, when we had recovered ourselves a little. "I have searched for you all over the place."

      "You do not know it all yet, or you would have found me," I said, pretending to walk on.

      "No, you shall not go now!" he exclaimed, pacing beside me. "Why won't you be amiable, and make me feel at home?"

      "I do apologize if I have been unamiable," I said, with great frankness. "Mrs. Carruthers always brought me up to have such good manners."

      After that he talked to me for half an hour about the place.

      He seemed to have forgotten his vehemence of the night before. He asked all sorts of questions, and showed a sentiment and a delicacy I should not have expected from his hard face. I was quite sorry when the gong sounded for luncheon and we went in.

      I have no settled plan in my head. I seem to be drifting—tasting for the first time some power over another human being. It gave me delicious thrills to see his eagerness when contrasted with the dry refusal of my hand only the day before.

      At lunch I addressed myself to Mr. Barton; he was too flattered at my attention, and continued to chatter garrulously.

      The rain came on and poured and beat against the window-panes with a sudden, angry thud. No chance of further walks abroad. I escaped up-stairs while the butler was speaking to Mr. Carruthers, and began helping Véronique to pack. Chaos and desolation it all seemed in my cosey rooms.

      While I was on my knees in front of a great wooden box, hopelessly trying to stow away books, a crisp tap came to the door, and without more ado my host—yes, he is that now—entered the room.

      "Good Lord! what is all this?" he exclaimed. "What are you doing?"

      "Packing," I said, not getting up.

      He made an impatient gesture.

      "Nonsense!" he said. "There is no need to pack. I tell you I will not let you go. I am going to marry you and keep you here always."

      I sat down on the floor and began to laugh.

      "You think so, do you?"

      "Yes."

      "You can't force me to marry you, you know—can you? I want to see the world. I don't want any tiresome man bothering after me. If I ever do marry, it will be because—oh, because—" and I stopped and began fiddling with the cover of a book.

      "What?"

      "Mrs. Carruthers said it was so foolish—but I believe I should prefer to marry some one I liked. Oh, I know you think that silly—" and I stopped him as he was about to speak—"but of course, as it does not last, anyway, it might be good for a little to begin like that—don't you think so?"

      He looked round the room, and on through the wide-open double doors into my dainty bedroom, where Véronique was still packing.

      "You are very cosey here; it is absurd of you to leave it," he said.

      I got up off the floor and went to the window and back. I don't know why I felt moved—a sudden sense of the cosiness came over me. The world looked wet and bleak outside.

      "Why do you say you want me to marry you, Mr. Carruthers?" I said. "You are joking, of course."

      "I am not joking. I am perfectly serious. I am ready to carry out my aunt's wishes. It can be no new idea to you, and you must have worldly sense enough to realize it would be the best possible solution of your future. I can show you the world, you know."

      He appeared to be extraordinarily good-looking as he stood there, his face to the dying light. Supposing I took him at his word, after all!

      "But what has suddenly changed your ideas since yesterday? You told me you had come down to make it clear to me that you could not possibly obey her orders."

      "That was yesterday," he said. "I had not really seen you—to-day I think differently."

      "It