In the first week of February, Mrs. Clarendon spent a couple of days
with the Bruce Pages at Hanford. Among a vast accumulation of county and
general news which Mrs. Bruce Page emptied forth for Isabel’s benefit,
there was mention of an accident that had befallen Sir Miles Lacour.
Whenever, as had lately been the case, there was skating weather, Sir
Miles assembled large parties of friends to enjoy this pastime on a
fine piece of water that graced his grounds. One evening, when there was
torchlight merriment on the ice, Sir Miles had somehow managed to catch
a fall; it would have been nothing, but that unfortunately there came
immediately behind him a sleigh in which a lady was being whirled along
by a couple of skaters. The metal came in contact with the prostrate
baronet’s head, and he had remained for an hour in unconsciousness.
However, he appeared to be doing well, and probably there would be no
further result.
“Do you know,” said Mrs. Bruce Page, “I ran up to town the other day,
and took an opportunity of seeing the boy Vincent.”
“Did you?” said Isabel indifferently.
“Shall I tell you something that I found out? But perhaps you have
already got at the explanation of that affair?”
“No, I know nothing about it. It really does not concern me.”
“Of course not,” the other lady remarked to herself. She continued
aloud. “It was all Ada’s doing; so much is clear. She somehow came to
hear of---well, of things we won’t particularise. Vincent is open
enough with me, and made no secret of it. I told him plainly that I was
delighted; his behaviour had been simply disgraceful. Of course I can
never have him here again, at all events not for a long time; whatever
you do, don’t mention his name in Emily’s hearing,” her daughter, that
was. “And he wasn’t aware that Ada was in town; of course I left him in
his ignorance. It is to be hoped the poor girl won’t be so foolish as to
give in. Naturally, one understands her--her temptations only too well.
And, my dear, you know I always say just what I think--you won’t take
it ill--I can’t help blaming you; it was so clearly your duty to refuse
consent. You were actuated by the very highest and purest motives, that
I am well aware. But you are too unworldly; to suffer ourselves to be
led by our own higher instincts so often results in injustice to other
people. I really don’t think principles were meant to be acted upon;
they are ornaments of the mind. My set of Sèvres is exquisite, but I
shouldn’t think of drinking tea out of them.”
On returning to Knightswell, Isabel was Informed that Mr. Robert Asquith
had made a call that morning; hearing that she would be back before
night he had written on his card that he should wait at the inn in
Winstoke, as he wished to see her.
She took the card to the drawing-room, and stood bending it between her
fingers, not yet having removed her bonnet. She was thinking very hard;
her face had that expression which a woman never wears save when alone;
the look of absolute occupation with thoughts in which her whole being
is concerned. It ended in her passing to the boudoir, hastily writing a
note, and ringing the bell.
“Let this be taken at once,” she said to the servant who appeared. “And
tell Hopwood to bring tea upstairs.”
Robert Asquith was pleased to receive a summons to dine, with the
information added that his cousin was alone.
At dinner the conversation busied itself with everything save the
subject which was uppermost in the minds of both. Isabel was all the
more delightful for having to exert herself a little to sustain her
gaiety, and Asquith was in unfeigned good spirits. He gave an account of
his progress in Anglicisation, related many drily humorous stories.
When the meal was over he said:
“You don’t demand of me that I shall sit in solitary dignity over the
claret for-half-an-hour? Is it _de rigueur_ in my quality of English
gentleman?”
“Perhaps you would like to smoke?”
“No.”
“In that case come to the drawing-room.”
He held the door open, and she swept gently past; Robert smiled, so
pleasantly did her grace of movement affect him. There are women who
enter a room like the first notes of a sonata, and leave it like the
sweet close of a nocturne; Isabel was of them.
“How long does Miss Warren intend to stay in London?” he inquired, as
they seated themselves.
“Indefinitely.”
“Her friends there are congenial?”
“Entirely so. Mr. Meres is a clever man; he has more influence over her
than any one else.”
“You give that as an illustration of his cleverness?”
“No; as the result of it. Ada wants intellectual society; she has no
pleasure in talking of anything but books and art. And he has always
been a sort of guide to her.”
“Then you have the prospect of being alone for some time?”
“I shall go up as usual in May. Have you read this account of Indian
jugglers in the _Cornhill?_”
“No, I have not.”
“You really should; it is astonishing. Take it away with you; I have
done with it.”
“Thanks. I will. You wish to be in London in May? Two clear months
before then. Could you be ready in, say, three days to go southwards?”
Isabel was quite prepared for this, but not for the way in which it was
put. A man whose character finds its natural expression in little turns
of this kind has terrible advantages over a woman not entirely sure of
her own purpose. She looked for a moment almost offended; it was the
natural instinctive method of defence.
“To go southwards?” she repeated, rolling up the magazine she held.
“The yacht is at Marseilles,” Robert pursued, watching her with eyes
half-closed. “The Calders have made every preparation, and some friends
of theirs, Mr. and Mrs. Ackerton--very nice people--are to be of the
party.”
She answered nothing. As he waited, coffee was brought in.
“I don’t think I know anything of the Ackertons,” Isabel said,
naturally, as the servant held the tray.
“They are Somersetshire people, I believe. The lady was a Miss Harkle.”
“Not a daughter of Canon Harkle?”
“Can’t say, I’m sure.”
The servant retired, and they sipped coffee in silence. Isabel presently
put hers aside; Asquith then finished his cup at a draught, and walked
to a table with it.
“I don’t think you have any excuse left, have you?” he said, leaning
over the back of a chair.
“That is a decidedly Oriental way of putting an invitation, Robert.”
He was surprised at the amount of seriousness there was in her tone; she
would not raise her face, and her cheeks were coloured.
“Let me be more English, then. Will you give us--give me--the great
pleasure of your company, Isabel?”
“But I tell you so clearly that under no circumstances should I leave
England just now. It is a little--unkind of you.”
“Unkind? It is not exactly a spirit of unkindness that actuates me. It
would do you no end of good, and you will find the people delightful.”
Probably Isabel had by this time made up her mind, but disingenuousness
was a mistake on Robert’s part. He only slipped into it because he began
to fear that he had really offended her, and the feeling disturbed his
self-possession for the moment.
“Thank you,” Isabel said. “I appreciate your kindness at its full, but
you must not ask me again. I shall remain at Knightswell till I go to
London.”
He made a slight motion of assent with his hand.
“Now to think,” Isabel said, with sudden recovery of good-humour--that
sort of “well done, resolution!” which we utter to ourselves with
cheering effect--“that you should have troubled to come all this way on
what you might have known was an errand of disappointment!”
“Oh, I wanted, in any case, to see you before starting. I should have
been very disappointed if I had missed you.”
He began at once to give a lively sketch of the expedition he had
planned, and Isabel listened with much attention, though she interposed
no remarks.
“You will bring me an account of it all when you come back,” she said on
his ceasing to speak.
“It’s not very clear to me whether I shall come back,” Robert returned.
“I have a friend in Smyrna whom I shall go to see, and I shouldn’t
wonder if I am tempted to stay out there.”
“What, after all your perseverance in mastering English
accomplishments?”
“To tell you the truth, I don’t quite know what I shall do with myself
if I stay here. Most probably I shall decide to go into harness again,
one way or another. And that reminds me of the ‘Coach and Horses.’ I
will wend my way to that respectable hostelry.”
“You’ll come and breakfast in the morning?”
“No; I must leave by the 8.15. I want to be early in London.”
“You are rather an unreasonable man, my cousin Robert,” said Isabel, as
she stood at leave-taking. “Because I am forced, with every expression
of regret, to decline an invitation to a yachting expedition, you are
more than half angry with me. I thought you and I were beyond these
follies.”
“Did you? But, you see, I am not a hardened giver of invitations. The
occasion has a certain uniqueness for me.”
“Take courage. If one whom you invite declines, there is always a better
one very ready to fill the place.”
Robert went his way, and before many days Isabel had a written
“good-bye” from London:
“To-morrow we start. It would have been a different thing if you had
been with us here to-night. There are mysteries about you, cousin
Isabel, and I rather think I was more at my ease before I began
to puzzle over such things. If I settle in Smyrna, I will send you
muscatels. Here or there, I believe I am always yours, Robert Asquith.”
He never wrote a letter much longer than this.
The day after his visit, Isabel took up her pen to talk with Kingcote.
“What do you think I have just done? Refused an invitation to go with
friends yachting in the Mediterranean--an invitation it would have
been lovely to accept. And why did I refuse? Wholly and solely on your
account, sir. Will you not thank me? No, there was no merit in it, after
all. How could I have been happy on the coasts of Italy and Greece,
whilst you, my dearest, were so far from happy in London? You must get
over that depression, which is the result of sudden change, and of the
gloomy things you find yourself amongst. Do not be so uneasy about the
future. Try to write to me more cheerfully, for have not I also a few
hard things to bear? Indeed, I want your help as much as you need mine.
Yet in one thing I have the advantage--I look to the future with perfect
trust. I laugh at your doubts and fears. Do you doubt of me? Do you fear
lest I shall forget? I dare you to think such a thought! If I could but
give you some of my good spirits. To me the new year makes a new world.
I long for the bright skies and spring fields that I may enjoy them;
they will have a meaning they never had before. It will soon be May, and
then shall we not see each other?”
February passed, March all but passed. There were guests at Knightswell,
and one fair spring morning, about eleven o’clock, Isabel was on the
point of setting forth to drive with three ladies. The carriage was
expected to come up to the door, and Isabel was just descending the
stairs with one of her friends, when she saw the servant speaking with
some one who had appeared at the entrance. A glance, and she perceived
that it was Kingcote. She was startled, and had to make an effort before
she could walk forward. She motioned to Kingcote to enter, and greeted
him in the way of ordinary friendliness.
“We were on the very point of going out,” she said, her voice shaken in
spite of all determination. “Will you come into the library?”
She turned and excused herself to her companion, promising to be back
almost immediately.
“What has brought you?” was her hurried question, when the library door
was closed behind them. “Has anything happened?”
“Nothing,” Kingcote answered, turning his eyes from her. “But I see you
have no time to give me. I mustn’t keep you now. I thought perhaps I
might find you alone.”
“And you have come----?”
“To see you--to see you--what else?” burst passionately from his lips.
“I was dying with desire to see you. Last night it grew more than I
could bear. I left the house before daylight, and I find myself here.
I had no purpose of coming; I have done it all in a dream. My life had
grown to a passion to see you!”
He caught her hand and kissed it again and again, kissed the sleeve of
her garments, pressed her palm against his eyes.
“You have made me mad, Isabel,” he whispered. “It is terrible not to be
able to see you when that agony comes upon me. I neither rest nor employ
myself; I can only pace my room, like an animal in his cage, with my
heart on fire. Oh, I suffer--life is intolerable!”
“Bernard, let me go to that chair--to see you gave me a shock. For
heaven’s sake do speak less wildly, dear! Why should you suffer so? Have
I not written to you often? Do you doubt me? What is it that distresses
you?”
He stood, and still held her hand.
“Don’t speak, but look at me very gently, softly, with all the assurance
of tenderness that your eyes will utter. You have such power over me,
that your gaze will soothe and make me a reasonable being again. No, not
your lips! Only that still, smiling look, that I may worship you.”
Her bosom trembled.
“Do you know yourself?” Kingcote went on, under his breath. “Have you
any consciousness of that fearful power which is in you? No more, I
suppose, than the flower has of its sweetness. You have so drawn my life
into the current of your own, that I have lost all existence apart
from you. I have dreamed of loving, but that was all idle; I had no
imagination for this spell you have cast upon me.”
“I am glad you came! I too was longing to touch your hand.”
She pressed it to her lips.
“Oh, if I could only stay with you, now!”
“Yes, I know I must not keep you. You have friends waiting. They have a
better right.”
“A better right? That you know they have not, Bernard. But--I
cannot----”
“They represent the world that is between you and me,” he said, moving
away. “You cannot leave them--no, it is impossible. Think how strange
it sounds. It would be as easy for you to do anything that is most
disgraceful in the world’s eyes, as to leave those friends to themselves
for my sake. I am not speaking harshly; I mean that it is in truth so,
and it shows us how amazingly we are creatures of conventional habit.”
It was doubtful whether Isabel understood his meaning, her point of view
was so different.
A thought which strikes one into speechless astonishment will leave
another quite unmoved. It is a question of degree of culture--also of
degree of emotion.
“Dear, if you had forewarned me of your coming. Don’t speak unkindly to
me!”
“Rather I would never speak again. Go, and all blessings go with you!
You have helped me to my calmer self. But, Isabel----”
“Bernard?”
“Are there often these friends about you?” he asked sadly.
“No, not often. I have told you how often I am by myself. And now, I
_must!_ Stay; do not leave the room when I do. Sit at the desk there and
write me a letter. The drawer below is open; close the envelope, and put
it in there; I will look for it. And you have not even breakfasted?”
“Oh, I will go to the ‘Coach and Horses.’ But no; I’m afraid of meeting
Mr. Vissian somewhere. I will leave the park by the opposite road, and
find some inn. Now I am well again. Good-bye, sweet!”
“Only a month, and I shall be in London!” She hurried away. The ladies
were waiting for her. The servant stood by the door with wraps.
“Isn’t it too bad to keep you all like this? I give you leave to scold
me all the way. Why didn’t you get in? Lily, you know what you were
saying about unpunctual people; take me for your text next time.”
They passed out before her, and she said to the servant:
“Mr. Kingcote is writing in the library. Take him at once some biscuits
and wine.”
They drove off, and Isabel was gay as the sunshine....
With her the month passed quickly enough. Through her solicitor she
always obtained suitable rooms for the season, this time they were found
in the neighbourhood of Portman Square. For some reason or other she did
not to the end apprise Kingcote of the exact day on which she would be
in town; after reaching her abode she let two days pass before summoning
him to her. But this did not mean coldness, only--shopping. A host of
things had as usual to be bought; the rooms had to be adorned in various
ways; infinite--oh, infinite calls had to be made, or cards to be left.
And one of the first houses she went to was that humble one in Chelsea.
In her friendships Isabel was golden.
She went in the evening, that all might be at home. Before she could get
from the door to the parlour Hilda’s arms were about her, and Rhoda was
waiting with a flush of pleasure on her usually pale cheeks.
“I don’t think I shall as much as shake hands with _that_ young lady,”
Isabel said, designating the elder girl. “Her behaviour to me has been
too shameful. Not one scrap of a letter for two months at least! Ah, how
good it is to be with you again! Hilda, you are taller than I am; that
is most disrespectful. And it seems yesterday that I used to lift you up
on my lap.--Well?”
So kindly said it was, that one word; a greeting that warmed the heart.
It was for Thomas Meres himself, who came into the room. He never made
use of speech in meeting Mrs. Clarendon; simply shook hands with her and
let his eyes rest a moment upon her face.
“And where is Ada?”
Ada was summoned, and shortly presented herself. She showed no pleasure,
but came forward holding out her hand naturally; she and Isabel did not
kiss each other, it had never been their habit.
“You, I should say, want a good deal more exercise, Ada. Mr. Meres, you
are the worst possible person to take care of a young lady who is too
fond of shutting herself up over books.”
“Oh, we have been rowing in Battersea Park,” cried Hilda. “Ada rows
splendidly. We are going up the river before long, if we can persuade
father to come with us. Mrs. Clarendon, do order him to come. Father
will do anything that you tell him.”
Her father’s yellow face changed colour for an instant; he laughed.
“If Mrs. Clarendon will guarantee that the boats won’t capsize,” he
said; “that is the only question.”
“Are you great at the oar, Rhoda?” Isabel asked, going over to a seat by
the girl, and taking her hand affectionately. It was an impulse of pity;
Rhoda looked so sad, though she smiled.
“My function is steering,” was the reply.
“What a wise girl! And how did you all enjoy yourselves at Eastbourne?
You can’t think how tempted I was to join you. If only it hadn’t been
such a long way.”
“I hope you feel no permanent ill results of your accident?” Mr. Meres
asked.
“None, I really think. But, oh dear! I’m growing old.”
Hilda broke into her cheery laugh; Rhoda and her father smiled; even Ada
moved her lips incredulously.
“How dare you all make fun of me? Hilda, stop laughing at once.”
“Old, indeed, Mrs. Clarendon! That I don’t think you’ll ever be.”
It was Isabel’s delight to hear these words; she flushed with pleasure.
“I want you girls to come and lunch with me to-morrow--no, the day
after; to-morrow I am engaged. But I forgot; can you come, Hilda?”
“Yes, on Saturday.”
“That’s just right, then. And can you dine with me on Sunday, Mr. Meres?
I shall have some one you would like to know, I think. Mr. Kingcote,
Ada; he is in London now. You must give Mr. Meres an account of him.”
She did not stay much longer, and went, as always, leaving kind thoughts
behind her. Should we not value those who have this power of touching
hearts to the nobler life of emotion as they pass?