Isabel and Ada were alone at Knightswell for a week. Though not
in reality nearer to each other, their intercourse was easier than
formerly, and chiefly owing to a change in Ada’s manner. Her character
seemed to be losing some of its angularities, she was less given to
remarks of brusque originality, and entertained common subjects without
scornful impatience. She had grown much older in the past six months.
The two did not unduly tax each others tolerance; during a great part of
the day, indeed, they kept apart; but at meals and in the evenings they
found topics for conversation. Ada was taking a holiday; she got as much
fresh air as possible, and sketched a good deal.
“Ada, I don’t think you have ever given me one of your sketches,” Isabel
said to her one evening, after praising a little water-colour drawn that
day.
“Would you care for one?”
“Yes, I should.”
“Any one in particular?”
“Let me see. Yes; I should like the sketch you made of the cottage at
Wood End. If you’ll give it me I’ll have it framed for the boudoir.”
Ada kept her eyes fixed on the drawing she held.
“Will you?”
She gazed directly at the speaker; Isabel met her look with steady
countenance.
“You can have it; but it isn’t one of my best,” the girl said, still
gazing.
“Never mind; it is the one I should like.”
Ada went from the room, and brought back the drawing with her. She was
looking at some pencilling on the back.
“Midsummer Day of last year,” she said.
“I know,” was Isabel’s remark. “Thank you.”
As she spoke, she moved nearer, and, as if at an impulse, kissed the
giver. Ada reddened deeply, and almost immediately left the room again;
nor did she return that evening.
On the morrow they met just as before.
At the end of that week the Strattons came to stay until Mrs.
Clarendon’s departure for Scotland, where she was to be the guest of
friends. With the colonel and his wife came their eldest son, the
young gentleman studying at Sandhurst. He had very much of his father’s
shyness, curiously imposed on a disposition fond of display. He liked
to show his knowledge of the world, especially of its seamy sides, and,
though not a little afraid of her, sought Ada’s society for the purpose
of talking in a way which he deemed would be impressive to a girl.
There was no harm in his rather simple-minded bravado, and Ada found
a malicious pleasure in drawing him out. In her own mind she compared
conversation with him to prodding the shallowness of a very muddy
stream. Here the stick hit on an unexpected stone; there it sank into
ooze not easily fathomed; there again it came in contact with much
unassimilated refuse, portions of which could be jerked up to the
surface. With the others she seldom spoke, and Isabel also she had begun
to avoid again. She took long walks, or read in the open air. Sketching
for the present she seemed to have had enough of.
One morning in the second week, Robert Asquith joined the party. He came
half-an-hour before luncheon. Isabel and Mrs. Stratton were on the lawn;
after a little conversation, the latter moved towards the house.
“By-the-bye,” Robert said, when he was alone with Isabel, “have you
heard of the death of Sir Miles Lacour?”
“The death!” exclaimed Isabel. “Indeed I have not.”
“He died last night, in London, after a week’s illness. I heard it by.
chance at my club. They say it was the consequence of an accident on the
ice last winter.”
Isabel became thoughtful.
“Probably Miss Warren will hear of it very shortly,” Asquith remarked.
“I don’t know, I’m sure. I can’t even say whether she is in
communication with Mr. Lacour. But it does not concern us. You won’t, of
course, mention the news.”
She spoke of it in private with Mrs. Stratton.
“Whatever the state of things may be,” said the latter, “I don’t see
that this can alter it practically. The match becomes a respectable one,
that’s all. And he can’t marry at once.”
“Ada, in any case, won’t marry till next June; I’m sure of that,” said
Isabel.
Nothing was said openly, nor did Ada appear to receive any news which
affected her.
The heat of the weather was excessive; only the mildest kinds of
recreation could be indulged in. In the afternoon there was much seeking
for cool corners, and a favourite spot was that embowered portion of the
shrubbery in which we first saw Isabel. Tea was brought here. Colonel
Stratton lay on the grass, deep-contemplative; his wife read a novel;
Robert Asquith smoked cigarettes, and was the chief talker. Sandhurst
Stratton was in the stables, a favourite haunt, and Ada sat by herself
in the library.
Robert talked of Smyrna, and developed projects for settling there,
causing Mrs. Stratton every now and then to look up from her book and
view him askance.
“By-the-bye,” he said, “who knows a meritorious youth out of employment?
An English friend of mine out there writes to ask me to find him
a secretary, some one who knows French well, a man of good general
education. Can you help me, colonel?”
“‘Fraid not,” murmured the one addressed, whose straw hat had slipped
over his eyes.
“What salary does he offer?” inquired Isabel.
“A hundred and fifty pounds, and residence in his own house.”
“Would he take me?” she asked, turning it into a jest.
The subject dropped; but on the following morning, as she was riding
with her cousin, Isabel referred to it again.
“Is it the kind of thing,” she asked, “that would suit Mr. Kingcote?”
“Kingcote?” He seemed to refresh his memory. “Does he want something of
the sort?”
“A few weeks ago he did. I don’t know that he would care to leave
England; but I think it might be suggested to him,” she added, patting
her horse’s neck. “He has a sister, a widow, with her two children
dependent on him.”
“But, in that case, so small a salary would be no use.”
“I believe he has some small means of his own. If he were disposed to
offer himself, would you give him your recommendation?”
“Certainly. If you recommend him it is quite enough.”
“He lived some time on the Continent, and I am sure he would be
suitable--unless any knowledge of business is required.”
“None at all; purely private affairs.”
“I should like to have a list,” he said, looking at her with admiration,
“of the people you have befriended in your life. Did you ever let one
opportunity slip by?”
Isabel reddened, and did not speak.
“Yes, one,” Robert added, bethinking himself.
“What do you refer to?” she asked, still in some confusion, variously
caused.
“Myself. Shall we give them a canter?”
After luncheon, Isabel went to her boudoir and sat down at the little
writing-table. The sun had been on the windows all the morning, and in
spite of curtains the room was very hot; cut flowers surcharged the
air with heavy sweetness. She put paper before her, but delayed the
commencement of writing. A languor oppressed her; she played with the
pen, and listened to the chirping of birds in the trees just outside the
windows; there was no other sound.
“Dear Bernard,” she wrote; then paused, resting her head on her hands.
Why should he not pass a year so? she was asking herself. The change
would be the very thing for him in his deplorable state of mind.
There was no harm in her mentioning it, at all events. His moods were
impossible to be anticipated; he might be delighted with the chance of
going to the East. And it might easily lead to something much better.
He would never do anything whilst he remained in London--nothing but
suffer. He looked so ill, poor fellow; he would fret himself to death if
there came no change. Why not go to Smyrna for a year, until----
She took up her pen again, and at the same moment Mrs. Stratton entered
the room.
“Oh, you are busy,” she said.
“Do you want me?” Isabel asked, without turning.
“I was going to read you an account of Fred’s last cricket-match; it’s
at full length in a paper I got this morning.”
“Only five minutes; I have just to finish a note.”
She wrote on.
“Dear Bernard,
“I have just heard from Mr. Asquith, whom you know, that an English
friend of his in Smyrna wants a secretary, an educated man who knows
French. What do you think of going out there for a few months? The
salary offered is £150 a year, with residence. Could you leave your
sister? I should think so, as your lodgings are so comfortable. I am
writing in a great hurry, and of course this is only a suggestion. It
would be the best thing possible for your health; wouldn’t it? I leave
the day after to-morrow; if you reply at once, I shall get your letter
before I go. Mr. Asquith’s recommendation will be sufficient. Try and
read this scrawl if you can, for it comes from your own
“Isabel.”
This letter went into the post-bag, and Isabel only thought of it from
time to time. On the following afternoon she was again in the arbour,
and alone with Asquith. She had found him here talking to Ada, and the
latter had subsequently left them.
“Miss Warren is--what shall I say?--considerably humanised since I last
talked with her,” Robert observed.
“I notice it.”
When they had exchanged a few words, Isabel spoke of seeking the other
people, and rose from her seat.
“Will you stay a minute?” he said, quite composedly.
She did not resume her seat, and did not reply.
“I said something in a jesting way yesterday, which I meant in earnest,”
Robert continued, leaning his elbow on a rustic table. “I thought of
waiting another year before saying it, but a year after all is a good
piece of life.”
“Robert, don’t say it!” she broke in. “I cannot answer as you wish me
to, and--it is too painful. It _was_ a jest, and nothing more.”
He took her hand, and she allowed him to hold it.
“Very much more,” he said, with earnestness which did not rob his voice
of its pleasant tone. “I am disposed to think that everything has been
a jest for a good many years, except that one hope. Do you mean that the
hope must be vain?”
“My good, kind cousin! It is so hard to say it. I thought I had made it
clear to you, that you understood.”
“What should I have understood, Isabel?”
“That I am not free. I have given my promise.”
He relinquished her hand, after pressing it, and said, with half a
smile:
“Then I can only envy him, whoever he may be.”
There was a motion behind the bushes, a rustling as of some one moving
away. Robert looked round, but could see no one. Isabel hastily quitted
him.