ISABEL CLARENDON
By George Gissing
In Two Volumes
VOL. II.
“_C’était plus qu’une vie, hélas! c’était un monde Qui s’était effacé!_”
London: Chapman And Hall, Limited
Charles Dickens And Evans, Crystal Palace Press.
1886.
[Illustration: 0001]
[Illustration: 0007]
ISABEL CLARENDON.
CHAPTER I.
Vincent Lacour rose at eleven these dark mornings; by half-past twelve
he had breakfasted and was at leisure. To begin the day with an elastic
interval of leisure seemed to him a primary condition of tolerable
existence. From his bedroom windows he had a glimpse of a very
busy street, along which, as he hummed at his toilet, he could
see heavily-laden omnibuses hastening Citywards; he thought with
contemptuous pity of the poor wretches who had to present themselves
at bank, or office, or shop by a certain hour. “Under no circumstances
whatever,” he often said to himself with conviction, “would I support
life in that way. If it comes to the worst, there are always the
backwoods. Hard enough, no doubt, but that would be in the order of
things. If I stick in the midst of civilisation, I live the life of a
civilised man.” A mode of looking at things wherein Vincent was probably
rational enough.
On the present morning, about the middle of January, no sight of
dolorous traffic had disturbed his soul. When he raised his blind, the
gas had merely reflected itself against the window-panes; outside was
Stygian darkness, vaguely lurid in one or two directions; the day was
blinded with foul vapour. He shrugged his shoulders, and went through
the operation of dressing in a dispirited way. In his sitting-room
things were a trifle better; with a blazing fire and drawn curtains, it
was just possible to counterfeit the cheerful end of day. The odour of
coffee and cutlets aided him in forgetfulness of external miseries.
“I suppose,” Vincent mused, as he propped the newspaper against the
coffee-pot, “they go to business even such mornings as this. Great
heavens!”
When the woman who waited upon him in his chambers had cleared the
table and betaken herself to other quarters where her services were in
request, Lacour placed himself in a deep chair, extended his limbs, and
lit a cigarette from the box which stood on a little round table at his
elbow. He was still in his dressing-gown; and, as he let his head fall
back and puffed up thin streams of smoke, the picture of civilised
leisure was complete. His fine hair, suffered to grow rather long, and
at present brushed carelessly into place till it should have dried in
the warmth of the room, relieved the delicate tints of his complexion;
his throat was charmingly white against the dark velvet collar of the
gown. The only detail not in harmony with his attitude and surroundings
was the pronounced melancholy of his expression, the habitual phase of
his countenance whenever, as now, he lost self-consciousness in reverie.
The look one bears at such times is wont to be a truthful representation
of the inner man, not merely of the moment’s mood but of personality
itself.
When he had reposed thus for half-an-hour, he went to his writing-table,
took from a drawer an unfinished letter, and, with the help of a
blotting-pad, resumed the writing of it in his chair by the fireside.
“.... I am still waiting for an answer from Mrs. Clarendon to my last
letter; no doubt she merely delays till she can tell me on what day
she will be in London. I have told her with all emphasis that we would
neither of us think of taking any steps until her health is completely
restored and all her arrangements made; but she has assured me several
times that it is her wish for our marriage to take place as soon as
possible.
“There is a point, my dear Ada, which I have not hitherto ventured to
mention to you; if I do so now, I feel sure I shall find that your
ideas are precisely the same as my own. You know, of course, what Mrs.
Clarendon’s circumstances will be when her guardianship comes to an end,
and you feel, as I do, that such a state of things is not practically
possible. There can be no doubt of the truth of what I hear from several
people, that she has refused an offer of marriage from Lord Winterset;
it is astonishing, but the source of the statement is, I am told, the
Earl himself. Well, you will see what I hint at; I know you have from
the first had the same wish. Personally I shall have nothing to do
with money matters; they are hateful to me, and, besides, are not your
desires supreme? Whatever proposal you make will, doubt not, meet with
my approval. Write to me in your own charming way of these matters; my
words are blunt and rude.
“I am glad you share my dislike to settling down at once either at
Knightswell or in London. My idea is that we should spend at least a
year in travelling. We will go to the East. I believe Oriental modes of
life will exactly suit my temperament. I dislike activity; to dream away
days in some delightful spot within view of the Bosphorus, with a hookah
near at hand, and you reading poetry to me--I think I could make that
last a long time. You will educate me. I have all sorts of rudimentary
capacities, which will never develop by my own efforts, but with you to
learn from as we chat at our ease among orange-groves, I may hope to get
some of the culture which I do indeed desire. I----”
The flow of first personal pronouns was checked by a knock at the outer
door, the knock of a visitor. With some surprise Lacour rose and went
to open. With yet more surprise he admitted a young lady, whose face,
though it was half-hidden with a shawl, he knew well enough.
“Are you alone?” she asked in a muffled voice. “Can I speak to you?”
“Yes, I am alone. Pray come in.”
When the shawl was thrown aside, Rhoda Meres stood looking nervously
about the room. She was visibly in great agitation, and her appearance
seemed to show that she had dressed hurriedly to come out. Lacour
offered a chair by the fire, but she held at a distance, and at length
sat on the couch which was near her as she entered. Clearly it was
powerlessness to stand that made her seek the support. She held the
shawl lightly across her lap; shame and misery goaded her, and she could
neither raise her eyes nor speak.
“If you will allow me,” said Vincent, whose lips had been moving
curiously as he regarded her, “I will just make a little change in my
costume. Do come nearer to the fire. I won’t be a minute.”
Left alone she began to cry quietly, and this gave her a measure of
relief. Before Lacour returned, she had time to dry her eyes and survey
the room again. Her prettiness was of the kind which suffers rather
from the signs of distress; she knew it, and it was a fresh source of
trouble. She still did not look up when Lacour, conventionally attired,
took his stand before the fire-place.
“It’s a hideous morning,” he began, with as much ease of manner as he
could command. “Whatever can have brought you out in such weather?”
“Is it true what father has just told me?” broke from her lips; “is it
true that you are going to marry Ada Warren?”
“Yes,” replied Lacour with gravity, “it is true. I supposed you knew
long since.”
“Oh, it is cruel of you!” cried the girl passionately. “How can you
speak to me in that way?”
She hid her face upon the head of the sofa and wept unrestrainedly.
Lacour was uncomfortable. He took up a paper-knife and played with it,
then seated himself by the table, rested his elbow on it and watched
her, his own features a good deal troubled.
“Miss Meres----,” he began, but her smothered voice interrupted him.
“You did not call me that the last time we were together,” she sobbed.
“Why do you try to put a distance between us in that way? It is not
three months since that day when I met you--you asked me to--at South
Kensington, and you speak as if it was years ago. You must have gone
straight from me to--to her!”
Lacour had an eye for the quiet irony of circumstances; it almost amused
him to reflect how literally true her words were. None the less he was
troubled by her distress.
“Rhoda,” he said, leaning forward and speaking with calm reproof, “this
is altogether unworthy of you. I thought you so perfectly understood;
I thought it had all been made clear between us. Now do give up crying,
there’s a good girl, and come to the fire. You look wretchedly cold.
Take your hat off--won’t you?”
“No, no; how can you expect me to make myself at ease in that way! I
ought not to be here at all; it is foolish and wrong to have come to
you. But I couldn’t believe it; I was driven to come and ask you to
contradict it. And you only tell me it is true; that you thought I knew
it! I don’t understand how you can be so cruel.”
“Now let us talk,” said Lacour, tapping his knee with the paper knife.
“Why should you be so surprised at what you hear? You know all about my
position; we talked it over in full that day at the Museum, didn’t we?
I was absolutely frank with you; I concealed nothing, and I pretended
nothing. We liked each other; that we had both of us found out, and
there was no need to put it into words. We found, too, that there was
a danger of our growing indispensable to each other, a state of things
which had to be met rationally, and--well, put an end to. Had we been
at liberty to marry, I should certainly have asked you to be my wife; as
there was no possibility of that, we adopted the wisest alternative,
and agreed not to meet again. I cannot tell you how I admired your
behaviour; so few girls are capable of talking in a calm and reasonable
spirit of difficulties such as these. Any one watching us would have
thought we were discussing some affair of the most every-day kind. As I
say, you were simply admirable. It grieves me to see you breaking down
so after all; it is not of a piece with the rest of your behaviour; it
makes a flaw in what dramatists call the situation. Don’t you agree with
me? Have I said anything but the truth?”
Rhoda listened, with her eyes fixed despairingly on the ground; her
hands holding the edge of the sofa gave her the appearance of one
shrinking back from a precipice. When he had finished his statement, she
faced him for the first time.
“What would you have thought if I had gone at once and married somebody
else?”
“I should have heartily wished you every happiness.”
“Should you have thought I did right?” she asked with persistence,
clinging still to the edge of the sofa.
“On the whole, perhaps not.”
“You mean,” she said, not without bitterness, a fresh tear stealing
to her cheek, “that you believe in my feeling for you, and wish me to
understand that yours for me hadn’t the same seriousness?”
“No, I didn’t mean that. You must remember that I am not defending this
step of mine, only showing you that I have not violated any compact
between us. We were both left free, that’s all.”
“Then you don’t care for her!” the girl exclaimed, with mingled
satisfaction and reproof.
Lacour threw one leg over the other, and bent the paper-knife on his
knee.
“You must remember,” he said, “that marriages spring from many other
motives besides personal inclination. I have told you that I don’t
defend myself. I’m afraid I mustn’t say more than that.”
Rhoda let her eyes wander; agitation was again getting hold upon her.
“You mean that I have no right to question you. I know I haven’t,
but--it all seems so impossible,” she burst forth. “How can you tell
me in such a voice that you are doing what you know isn’t right? When
father told me this morning I didn’t know about that will; he only
explained, because there was no use in keeping it secret any longer, and
of course he knew nothing of--of the way it would come upon me.”
“Ah, you know about the will? I am very glad of that; it makes our
explanation easier.”
She fixed her eyes upon him; they were only sad at first, but expanded
into a despairing amazement.
“How _can_ you speak so to me?” she asked in a low and shaken voice.
Lacour threw away the paper-cutter, and once more stood up.
“How am I to speak, Rhoda? Should you prefer to have me tell you lies?
Why couldn’t you accept the fact, and, knowing all the details, draw
your own conclusion? You were at liberty to hold me in contempt, or to
pity me, as you thought fit; you were even at liberty to interfere to
spoil my marriage if you liked----”
“You think me capable of that? No wonder you part from me so easily. I
thought you knew me better.”
She put her hands over her face and let her tears have way.
“Rhoda,” he exclaimed nervously, “there are two things I can’t bear--a
woman angry and a woman crying; but of the two I’d rather have the
anger. You are upsetting me dreadfully. I had ever so much rather you
told me in plain, knock-down words just what you think of me. If you
distress yourself in that way I shall do something absurd, something we
shall both of us be sorry for. Really, it was a horrible mistake to come
here; why should we have to go through a scene of this kind? You are
giving me--and yourself--the most needless pain.”
She rose and sought the door with blinded eyes, as if to go from him at
once. Lacour took a step or two towards her, and only with difficulty
checked himself.
“Rhoda!” he exclaimed, “you cannot go out in that way. Sit down; do as I
tell you!”
She turned, and, seeing his face, threw herself on her knees before him.
“Vincent, have pity on me! You can’t, you won’t, do this! I will kneel
at your feet till you promise me to break it off. I can’t bear it!
Vincent, I can’t bear it! It will drive me mad if you are married. I
can’t live; I shall kill myself! You don’t know what my life has been
since we ceased to meet; I couldn’t have lived if I hadn’t had a sort
of hope that--oh, I know it’s all my own fault; I said and did things
I never should have done; you are blameless. But you _cannot_ marry
another woman when you--I mean, not at once, not so soon! It isn’t three
months, not three months, since you said you liked me better than any
one else you had ever met. Can’t you be sorry for me a little? Look at
me--I haven’t even the pride a woman ought to have; I am on my knees to
you. Put it off a little while; let me see if I can get to bear it!”
She had caught and held the hand with which he had endeavoured to
raise her. The man was in desperate straits; his face was a picture of
passionate torment, the veins at his temple blue and swollen, his lips
dry and quivering. With an effort of all his strength he raised
her bodily, and almost flung her upon the sofa, where she lay with
half-closed eyes, pallid, semi-conscious.
“Lie there till you are quiet,” he said with a brutality which was the
result of his inner struggle, and not at all an utterance of his real
self, “and then go home. I am going out.”
He went into an inner room, and reappeared in a moment equipped for
walking. Rhoda had risen, and was before him at the door, standing with
her face turned from him.
“Wait till I have been gone a minute,” she said. “Forgive me; I will
never come again.”
“Where are you going?” he inquired abruptly.
“Home.”
A sudden, violent double-knock at the door made them both start.
“It’s only the postman,” Lacour explained. The interruption had been of
good effect, relieving the overcharged atmosphere.
“Listen to me for one moment before you go,” he continued. “You must see
perfectly well that you ask what is impossible. Mistake or not, right or
wrong, I cannot undo what I have done; we must consider other people
as well as ourselves. For all that, we are not going to part in an
unfriendly way. I am sensitive; I could not be at my ease; I think you
owe it to me to restore our relations to their former reasonable state.”
“I will try,” came from the girl in a whisper.
“But I must have your promise. You will go home to your father and
sister, and will live as you have been doing.”
“Do you know how that has been?” she murmured.
“In future it must be different,” he urged vehemently. “Cannot you see
that by being unhappy you reproach me?”
“I do not reproach you, but I cannot help my unhappiness.”
“But you _must_ help it,” he cried half-angrily. “I will not have that
laid to my account. You must overcome all such weakness. The feeling you
profess for me is unreal if you are not capable of so small an effort on
my behalf. Surely you see that?”
“I will try.”
“Good. And now how are you going home? By train? No, I shall not let you
go by train; you are not fit. Come to the foot of the stairs, and I will
get you a cab. Nonsense, you need not drive as far as the house. Why
will you irritate me by such resistance? The fog? It is as good as
gone; it was quite light in the other room. Please go before me down the
stairs, and stop at the bottom. Now that is a good girl.”
She held her hand to say good-bye, saying: “It is for the last time.”
“No, but for a long time. You are a brave girl, and I shall think very
kindly of you.”
He found a cab, prepaid the fare, and waved his hand to her as she was
carried off. The fog had become much thinner, but there was nothing to
be seen still save slush underfoot and dim lights in the black front
of the opposite house. Lacour hastened up to his rooms again, suddenly
mindful of the letter which the postman had left and which was very
possibly from Mrs. Clarendon.
No; the envelope showed an unknown hand. He opened it with
disappointment, and found a folded sheet of letter-paper, on which was
written something which had neither the formal commencement nor the
conclusion of an ordinary letter; it was dated but not signed, and the
matter of it this:
“The writer of this is personally acquainted with you, and desires to
save you from the disagreeable consequences of an important step which
you are contemplating. This step you are about to take in reliance upon
the testamentary document which has hitherto been accepted as the late
Mr. Clarendon’s valid will. My friendly object is to warn you that the
document in question will prove inoperative, seeing that Mr. Clarendon
left a will of more recent date, which disposes of his property in a
wholly different manner. This will is being kept back in accordance
with express private injunctions of the testator; its very existence
is unknown to any save the writer of this. It will be produced either
immediately after Miss Warren’s marriage or upon her coming of age,
should the latter event precede the former.
“The writer of this cannot of course make any bargain of secrecy with
you, but he trusts that you will manifest your gratitude by heeding his
desire and keeping silence in a matter which henceforth cannot affect
you.”
This astonishing communication, awakening memories of old-fashioned
melodrama, was penned in firm, masculine handwriting, not unlike that of
a legal copying clerk. Lacour read it again and again, his amazement at
first rendering him incapable of scrutinising each particular. He
stood for a quarter of an hour with the paper in his hand, oblivious
of everything in life save those written words. Recovering himself
somewhat, he picked up the envelope from the floor and examined its
postmarks; they were metropolitan. At last he seated himself to think.
Anonymous letters are, to all save Cabinet Ministers and police
officials, agitating things, if only as examples of a rare phenomenon.
The tendency is to attach importance to them, however strong the
arguments making for a less grave consideration. An anonymous letter
concerning some matter of vital importance to the recipient will rarely
leave him at ease until events have adduced their final evidence on one
side or the other; mystery wholly impenetrable will often exert a moral
influence which no lucidity of argument, no open appeal, could ever have
attained. The present missive had everything in its favour; it could
not have come at a more opportune moment, it could not have found a mind
better prepared to receive and be affected by it. Lacour must have been
singularly free from those instincts of superstition which linger in the
soundest minds not to be struck with something like awe at the fact of
the postmans knock which signalled such an arrival having come just when
it did, at the moment when he had, after a hard struggle, crushed down
a generous impulse, and was congratulating himself upon his success. He
did not care to handle the paper, but let it lie before his eyes on the
table. He was nervously excited. This message from the unknown was
at once a reproach and a command; as a mere warning on behalf of his
material interests he was not yet able to regard it.
The rest of the day was none too long to be wholly given up to brooding
on the one subject. With calmness naturally came a consideration of the
possibility that the letter was a mere hoax; yet he could not earnestly
entertain that view. Who should send it? His intended marriage was
known, he felt sure, to very few people; certainly to none of those
frisky spirits who were his associates in London, and who alone would
relish such a form of amusement. Mrs. Clarendon? Her name haunted him
suggestively from the first. But in that case it would be no mere joke,
but a trick seriously meant to succeed. Was Mrs. Clarendon capable of
such a trick to maintain her position yet a little longer? That was not
to be easily credited; yet Lacour had sufficient insight into his own
being to understand how very possible it is for a character of pure
instincts to reconcile itself with the meanest motives in special
circumstances. Of men and women most justly deemed noble there is not
one of whom it is safe to predict a noble course of conduct; the wise
content themselves with smiling approval after the event. He knew how
terribly hard it must be for her to come down from her position of
comfort and dignity, how strong the temptation must be to postpone her
fall by any means. But in that case--why had she refused to marry Lord
Winterset, and thus not only make herself independent of Ada’s actions,
but rise at once to a social standing compared with which her present
one was insignificant? This was final, one would think, against the
supposition of her being guilty of such a stratagem. On the other hand,
if it were no mere fiction, if this will did in truth exist, could Mrs.
Clarendon be the person who was keeping it back? It seemed ridiculous
to suppose such a thing, though of course the nature of the will might
reveal unimaginable reasons. What was the law on the subject? Could
any one with impunity act thus? Lacour half rose to get at his tomes of
legal lore, but a reflection checked him: wills have often come to light
long after the testator’s death, and it would be the easiest thing in
the world to create an appearance of chance discovery.
When evening came, he went to his restaurant and dined poorly, then
walked for a long time about the streets, grievously perplexed. Some
action he must take, and at once, but the conflicting reasons which
swarmed in his mind were as far as ever from subordinating themselves
to the leadership of a satisfactory argument. Probabilities were
exasperatingly balanced. At one moment he had all but resolved to go
down at once to Chislehurst and put the letter before Mrs. Clarendon.
But what was the use? If she already knew of it, she would only profess
ignorance of the whole matter; if she knew nothing, she could afford no
help. Equally useless to seek the counsel of indifferent people; they
could do no more than run through the conjectures with which he was
already too familiar, and would naturally derive high amusement from his
dilemma. The joke would spread. With a sense of relief he arrived at one
conclusion: he must decide for himself and keep the anonymous letter a
secret.
This meant, of course, that his marriage must be postponed. It was all
very well to smile at the extreme improbability of the danger revealed
to him, but the recollection of how improbable it had seemed would not
go far in the way of consolation if he found himself married to Ada
Warren and divorced from her possessions. There was, from one point of
view, some comfort in the thought that his predicament would be just as
grave if he had been about to marry Ada from pure affection; in no case
could they live on his bachelor allowance. Lacour persuaded himself that
this reflection would help him in the disagreeable task which he had
to face. The marriage must be postponed; not, of course, in a sudden,
crude, business-like way, but with ingenuity and tact, by the exertion
of that personal influence which he believed to be supreme with Ada. All
sorts of occasions for delay would present themselves. Mrs. Clarendon
seemed anxious to have it over (a suspicious circumstance, by-the-bye),
but Ada herself could not of course take any initiative in the matter,
and would be the ready dupe of plausible representations. That she was
deeply in love with him he took for granted; the pleasant flattery of
a supposition which agreed so well with our friend’s view of his own
advantages was not to be resisted. In a year and a half she would be of
age; it was a long time to wait, with a prospect of mere frustration in
the end, but there was no choice. If the danger proved illusory, after
all he would not have lost much; nay, it was to be remembered that Ada’s
inheritance increased in value from accumulation, and would be yet more
desirable after another eighteen months. Truly, there was a much-needed
point of support; he must keep that well in mind. Of course, if any
considerable heiress, with a more agreeable person, fell at his feet
in the meantime, he held himself free to review his position; another
advantage of delaying, if it came to that.
You will naturally understand that these reflections are not to be taken
baldly as representing the state of Lacour’s mind. He thought all these
things, but he felt many other things simultaneously. I will just barely
hint that when excitement had allayed itself, there might have been some
dim motive, of which Lacour was himself unconscious, operating towards
acquiescence in the unexpected turn things had taken. This, at all
events, is one of the suggestions helping me to account for the fact
that Lacour put away the anonymous letter that same night and adhered to
his purpose of revealing its existence to no one. He would scarcely have
done so if that day’s mental perturbation had not brought into activity
certain forces of his nature previously without influence on his
decisions.
Mrs. Clarendon being with the Strattons at Chislehurst, Ada was living
by herself at Knightswell. Instead of finishing the letter to her upon
which he was engaged when interrupted by Rhoda Meres, Lacour, having
let a day or two pass in nervous awaiting of each post, rose one morning
with the determination to take train to Winstoke. On his breakfast-table
he found a letter from Mrs. Clarendon--a brief matter-of-fact
communication--telling him that she hoped to be in London that day week,
and requesting him to previously pay a visit to her solicitor, who would
discuss with him the business matters which it was needful to arrange.
He pondered the words of this note, but only with the result of
strengthening his resolve. After very little hesitation he penned a
reply, begging that there might be no needless haste, and intimating,
with skilful avoidance of direct falsehood, that he consulted Ada’s
wish in suppressing his own anxiety for a speedy marriage. “There are
circumstances, as you know,” wrote Vincent, “which make it my duty to
exercise the utmost delicacy and discretion in all that concerns my
marriage. I esteem you my true friend; I have often given you my perfect
confidence, and in return I have asked for your forbearance when I
showed myself weak or inconsistent. You will believe that I am not
incapable of generosity, that I would not selfishly exact the fulfilment
of any pledge which a hint should prove to have been rashly given. I
am but too well aware of my own shortcomings, but after all there is
a certain pride in me which will preserve me from the errors of vulgar
self-confidence. I beg of you, dear Mrs. Clarendon, not to see in
this more than I would imply. I only desire that there should be no
unbecoming haste. Ada and myself are both, thank goodness! young enough,
and, I believe, are sincerely devoted to each other. Let everything be
done with careful preconsideration.”
He read this through with an air of satisfaction, and posted it on
his way to Waterloo Station. The train by which he travelled reached
Winstoke at two o’clock. As it was a clear day he walked from the
station to the village, which was nearly a mile, then took luncheon at
the inn, and reached Knightswell about half-past three. On asking for
Miss Warren he was led to the drawing-room.
Ada entered almost immediately. They had not seen each other since the
day at South Kensington, and he was astonished at the girl’s appearance.
Her face had every mark of illness; there were dark rings about her
eyes, her cheeks were colourless, her lips dry and nervous; she had a
worn, anxious, feverish look, and the hand she gave him was hot. They
exchanged no more than an ordinary friends’ greeting, and Ada seated
herself without having met his eyes.
Lacour drew his chair within reach of her, and leaned forward to take
one of her hands, which she surrendered passively.
“What has made you look so ill?” he asked, with surprise. “Is it the
result of your anxiety for Mrs. Clarendon? Why didn’t you tell me that
you were not well?”
“There was nothing necessary to speak of,” she answered, in a voice
which seemed to come from a parched throat. “I think I am not quite
well, but it’s nothing more than I am used to; I have headaches.”
“You haven’t written to me for a fortnight. Why didn’t you ask me to
come and see you?”
“I supposed you would come before long.”
“You don’t seem very glad to see me, now I have come,” said Lacour
musingly.
“Yes, I am glad.”
The words had not much life, and the smile with which she accompanied
them was as pain-stricken as a smile could be. Lacour, still holding her
hand, looked down, his brows contracting.
“You haven’t had any bad news?” he asked all at once, facing her.
“Bad news?”
“It is not anything you have heard that has made you ill?”
“Certainly not. What should I have heard?”
Her tone had sincerity in it, and relieved him from the suspicion that
she too might have received an anonymous letter. He leaned back in his
chair smiling.
“What should I have heard?” Ada repeated impatiently, examining his
face.
“Oh, I don’t know. We are always getting news, and there is so much more
of bad than good. Mrs. Clarendon seems to be much better,” he added,
slapping his leg with his gloves.
“Yes. You have heard from her?”
“Several times. I had a letter this morning.”
“What did she say?”
“She spoke of the necessary preparations for our marriage.”
Ada was silent. She had several times moved nervously on her chair, and
now she seemed compelled by restlessness to change her position. A
small ornament on a bracket had got out of position; she went and put it
right.
“What preparations?55 she asked, walking to the window.
“I don’t exactly know. She wishes me to see her lawyer. Unfortunately,”
he added in a joking tone, “you are not one of those girls whose
marriage is a simple matter of the ceremony.”
She turned and came towards him, her hands hanging clasped before her.
“That is something I have to speak of. I cannot mention it to Mrs.
Clarendon, and if I tell you now it will be done with. I desire that
there shall be no kind of settlement. Nothing of the kind is enacted by
the will, and I do not wish it. Will you please to see that my wish is
respected?”
“Why is it your wish?”
“I can give no reason. I wish it.”
“I imagine there will be very strong opposition, and not only from Mrs.
Clarendon. I expect the trustees will have something to say.”
Ada’s eyes flashed; her whole face showed agitation, passionate
impatience.
“What does it matter what they say?” she exclaimed. “What are they to
me? What is my future to them? If you refuse to give me an assurance
that my one desire shall be respected I must turn to Mrs. Clarendon, and
that will be hateful to me! I have asked nothing else; but this I wish.”
“You put as much persistence into it as another would in pleading
for exactly the opposite,” remarked Lacour, his coolness contrasting
strangely with her agitated vehemence. “You know that a wish of yours
is a law to me, and I promise you to agree to nothing you would dislike;
remember that they cannot do without my assent. But you see,” he added,
“that it is not a very easy thing for me to urge. I have already been
made to feel quite sufficiently----”
He interrupted himself. Ada waited for him to resume, still standing
before him, but he kept silence.
“What have you been made to feel?” she asked, more quietly, her eyes
searchingly fixed on him.
“Well, we won’t speak of that. Why do you stand? Come and let us talk of
other things. You do indeed, Ada, look wretchedly ill.”
She averted her face impatiently. Though he had risen and was placing a
chair for her, she moved to the window again.
“For my own part,” said Vincent, watching her, “I am grieved that you
have set your mind on that. My own resolve was that everything should
be settled on you. I hadn’t given the matter a thought till just lately,
but well, that is what I had determined.”
Ada turned in his direction.
“You have been corresponding with Mrs. Clarendon?” she said, only half
interruptedly. “Yes, you told me. I understand.”
What she understood was clear enough to Lacour, and his silence
was filled with a rather vigorous inward debate. A protest of
conscience--strengthened by prudential reasons--urged his next words.
“You mustn’t let me convey a false impression. Mrs. Clarendon is
delicacy itself; I am quite sure she would not mean----”
He checked himself, naturally confirming the false impression.
Conscience had still a voice, but the resolve with which he had come
into Ada’s presence grew stronger as he talked with her.
Then she did a curious thing. Coming from the window, she seemed about
to walk past him, but, instead of passing, paused just when her dress
almost brushed his feet, and stood with her eyes fixed on the ground.
“Do sit down.” Lacour forced himself to say, rising again and laying his
hand on the other chair.
He saw that she trembled; then, with a quick movement, she went to a
chair at a greater distance.
“These things are horribly awkward to talk about,” he said, leaning
forward at his ease. “Let’s put them aside, shall we? We shall have
plenty of time to consider all that.”
Ada raised her face and looked at him.
“Plenty of time?”
“Surely. I have begged Mrs. Clarendon to remember how anxious we both
are to do nothing hastily, to leave her ample time for the arrangements
she will find necessary,--her own, I mean. I am sure I represented your
wish?”
“Certainly,” was the scarcely audible reply.
“It will of course be some time before she is perfectly strong,” Vincent
pursued, noting with much satisfaction what he deemed a proof of the
strength of her passion for him; she was so clearly disappointed. “Such
an illness must have pulled her down seriously. I should think by the
summer she will be herself again. It is wretched that we are so utterly
dependent on others, and are bound to act with such cautious regard.”
“You have fixed the summer, in your correspondence with her?”
“Oh no! I leave it quite open. But we cannot, of course, wait for ever.”
Ada sat motionless, her hands in her lap. Her features were fixed in
hard, blank misery. No wonder the girl looked ill. Ever since the day on
which she wrote to Lacour her acceptance of his offer, life had been to
her a mere battle of passions. When time and the events which so rapidly
succeeded had dulled the memory of that frenzy which drove her to the
step, of set purpose she nursed all the dark and resentful instincts of
her nature, that they might support her to the end. Pride was an ally;
if it cost her her life she would betray by no sign the suffering she
had brought upon herself. She blinded her feelings, strove to crush her
heart when it revolted against her self-imposed deception that she loved
this man who would become her husband. Had she not found a pleasure in
his society? Did not his attentions flatter and even move her? And ever
she heard a voice saying that he cared nothing for her, that she had a
face which could attract no man, that her money alone drew him to her,
and that voice was always Mrs. Clarendon’s. Hatred of Isabel was in
moments almost madness. It seemed in some horribly unnatural way to
be increased by the sight of the pale and suffering face; a wretched
perversion poisoned the sympathy which showed itself in many an act of
kindness. The struggle with her better nature brought her at times near
to delirium. When Isabel’s convalescence began, Ada counted the days.
She knew that Lacour would not postpone their marriage an hour later
than necessity demanded; her strength would surely hold out a few more
weeks. That he did not come to see her was at once a relief and a source
of bitterness; his letters she read with a mixture of eagerness and cold
criticism. She stirred herself to factitious passion, excited all the
glowing instincts, all the dormant ardours, of her being--and shivered
before the flame. Every motive that could render marriage desirable she
dwelt upon till it should become part of her hourly consciousness. The
life she would lead when marriage had given her freedom was her constant
forethought. She was made for enjoyment, and would enjoy. For her should
exist no petty social rules, no conventional hypocrisies. In London her
house should be a gathering-place of Bohemians. She herself did not
lack brains, and her wealth would bring people about her. She would be a
patroness of art and letters, would make friends of actresses who needed
helping to opportunities of success, of artists who were struggling
against unmerited neglect. Reading had filled her mind with images
of such a world; was it not better than that dull sphere which styled
itself exclusive?.... When at length Mrs. Clarendon left Knightswell to
go to the Strattons, Ada promised herself that any morning might bring
a definite proposal of a day for her wedding. With difficulty she
restrained herself from asking when it was to be. She had put aside
every doubt, every fear, every regret; her life burned towards that day
which would complete her purpose. And now....
“But we must see each other oftener,” Lacour was saying. “If Mrs.
Clarendon will welcome me-------”
She interrupted him harshly.
“Is Mrs. Clarendon the only person you consult henceforth?”
“My dear Ada, you mustn’t misunderstand a mere form of politeness.”
“Such forms have always been disagreeable to me.”
She rose and moved to the fire-place. Lacour watched her from under his
eyebrows. It grew more and more evident how strong was his hold upon
her; he asked himself whether a little innocent quarrel might not best
serve his ends.
“I am wearying you,” he said, rising.
She could not let him go without plain question and answer; it seemed to
her that she had reached the limit of endurance, that her strength would
fail under the trial of another hour. Yet her lips would form no word.
“In what have I displeased you, Ada?” Vincent inquired, with an air of
much surprise.
“Clearly I have done so. Pray tell me what I have said or done.”
She turned from the fire and faced him.
“When is it your intention for our marriage to take place?”
Lacour was suspicious again. This astounding eagerness must be the
result of some information she had received; she dreaded to lose him.
Did not her desire about the settlement somehow depend upon the same
cause?
“Surely I have no interest in putting it off,” he said, his head a
little on one side, his most delicate smile in full play.
“But you think it had better not be before the summer?”
“Is not that best? I have no will but yours, Ada.”
“I think,” she replied slowly, “that it shall be, not this summer, but
the summer of next year.”
“A year and a half still? For whatever reason?” he cried.
“I shall come of age then,” she continued, looking past him with vague
eyes. “I need consult no one then about my wishes.”
“My dear Ada, you surely do not think I hesitated----”
“No,” she said firmly, “but it will be better. Have I your consent to
this?”
He walked away a few steps, desperately puzzled, exasperated, by the
necessity of answering yes or no, when more than he could imagine might
depend upon the choice.
“This is a joke, Ada!” he said, coming back with disturbed countenance.
“Nothing less. I ask you to postpone our marriage till I am twenty-one.”
Her eyes did not move from his face. If he had said, “We will be married
next week,” she would have given him her hand in assent. Surely at
that moment the air must have been full of invisible mocking spirits,
waiting, waiting in delicious anticipation of human folly.
“If that is your wish,” Lacour said, “I cannot oppose it.” He had
assumed dignity.
“My constancy, Ada, can bear a test of eighteen months.”
“I will let Mrs. Clarendon know,” Ada observed quietly. “It will relieve
her mind.”
Should he leave her thus? He hesitated for a moment. Pooh! As if he
could not whistle her back whenever it suited him to do so; women
appreciate a display of dignity and firmness. He held his hand in
silence, and, when she gave him hers, he just touched it with his lips.
As he moved to the door he expected momently to hear his name uttered,
to find himself recalled. No; she allowed him to disappear. He left the
house rather hurriedly, and not in an entirely sweet temper, in spite
of the fact that he had gained the very end he had in view, and which he
had feared would be so difficult of attainment, would necessitate such a
succession of hypocrisies and small conflicts.
How the imps in the air exploded as soon as he was gone!