One morning in August Mrs. Clarendon was sitting in the garden at
Knightswell, with Ada Warren and a young lady named Rhoda Meres, a guest
at the house. They had chosen a spot which was often resorted to for tea
on hot afternoons, a little piece of lawn closely shut in with leafage,
whence an overbowered pathway led out to the front garden. The lady of
Knightswell sat reposefully in a round-backed rustic chair. She wore a
pretty garden costume, a dainty web of shawl just covering her head, her
crossed feet just showing below the folds of her dress. An open sunshade
lay tumbled on the grass beside her, and on her lap was an illustrated
paper, of which she turned the leaves with idle interest. Miss Warren
sat a couple of yards away, reading a review. Her dress was plain, and
of dark material, and she wore a brown broad-brimmed straw hat. The
other young lady made no pretence of being occupied. With knit brows and
bent head she walked backwards and forwards on the grass, biting a long
leaf which she had pulled from a bough in passing. She was a pretty
girl, fair-cheeked and graceful of form. She carried her hat by its
ribbon, and let the stray sunlight make gleamings upon her golden hair.
Her age was not quite nineteen, and the beautiful lines of her maiden
figure lost nothing by her way of holding herself, whether she moved or
stood.
After several side glances at her silent companions, she presently came
to a pause before Mrs. Clarendon’s chair, and, still holding the leaf
between her lips, asked, rather plaintively:
“Why shouldn’t I, Mrs. Clarendon?”
Isabel looked up with suave smiling features, and met the girl’s eyes in
silence for a moment.
“My dear Rhoda,” she said then, “why should you?”
“No,” urged the girl, “I think all the reasons are needed on the other
side. I must do something, and this is what I think I’m suited for. Why
shouldn’t I?”
“For one thing, because you are a lady, and ladies don’t do such
things.”
“There you have Mrs. Clarendon’s last word,” remarked Ada Warren,
without looking up. Her voice contrasted strangely with those which had
been just heard; it was hard in tone, giving clear utterance to each
syllable, as if to accentuate the irony in her observation.
“Certainly,” said Isabel, with good humour; “if Rhoda is content to let
it be.”
Still biting her leaf, Miss Meres held her head a little on one side,
and, after glancing at Ada, turned her eyes again upon Mrs. Clarendon.
“But are you quite sure it is so, Mrs. Clarendon?” she urged. “I mean
that ladies don’t go on to the stage? It used to be so, no doubt, but
things have been changing. I’m sure I’ve heard that both ladies and
gentlemen are beginning to take to acting nowadays. And I can’t see why
they shouldn’t. It seems to be better than----”
She stopped, and looked a little embarrassed.
“Better than doing nothing at all, you were going to say,” Isabel
supplied; “like myself, for instance? Perhaps it is. But I fancy that
the ladies who go on to the stage are generally those who, for some
reason or other, have lost their places in society.”
“With a large S,” put in Ada, still without looking up.
“Yes, a very large one,” assented Isabel, smiling.
“And suppose,” exclaimed Rhoda, suddenly bold, “I don’t care anything
about the society which spells itself with a large S.”
Mrs. Clarendon shook her head indulgently.
“My child, you can’t help caring about it.”
“Not if I find something I like better outside it?”
Mrs. Clarendon crossed her hands upon the paper, and sighed a little
before speaking.
“You think it would be nice to become a Bohemian, and live in contempt
of us poor subjects of Mrs. Grundy. Rhoda, those Bohemians struggle for
nothing so hard as to get into society. If they are successful, the
best fruit of their success is an invitation to a lady’s ‘at home,’
the unsuccessful ones would give their ears to be received in the most
commonplace little drawing-room. Now you have already what they strive
for so desperately. You’ll see all this plainly enough when you know a
little more of the world.”
Rhoda turned away, and recommenced her pacing.
“What does your father say to it?” Mrs. Clarendon asked, after a short
silence.
“Father? Oh! he shrugs his shoulders and looks puzzled. Poor father
always does that, whatever the difficulty. If I ask him whether the
butcher hasn’t charged us too much a pound for veal, he shrugs and
looks puzzled. I believe he’d do just the same if I asked him whether
to-morrow wasn’t going to be the Day of Judgment.”
Isabel raised her forefinger with a warning smile. Ada Warren laughed.
After another turn on the grass, the girl again paused before Mrs.
Clarendon.
“Mr. Lacour told me the other day that he thought of going on to the
stage himself. He didn’t see any harm in it.”
As she spoke, Rhoda examined the border of her hat.
“Mr. Lacour!” exclaimed Isabel. “Oh, Mr. Lacour says wonderful things,
and has wonderful plans. So you confided your project to Mr. Lacour, did
you?”
Isabel threw a rapid glance at Ada whilst speaking; the latter appeared
busy with her book.
“No, no,” disclaimed Rhoda rapidly, “I didn’t say a word to him of my
own idea. It only came out in conversation.”
Mrs. Clarendon gave a little “h’m,” and stroked the back of one hand
with the fingers of the other.
“It’s a mistake, my dear Rhoda,” she said. “Like it or not, we have to
consider our neighbour’s opinion, and that doesn’t yet regard the stage
as a career open to gentlemen’s daughters.”
“There’s no knowing what we _may_ come to,” remarked Ada absently.
“Then what _am_ I to do, Mrs. Clarendon?” cried the other girl almost
piteously.
“A great many things. To begin with, you have to help me to make my
garden party on Monday a success. Then again----oh, you have to become
acquainted with my cousin, Mr. Asquith. Here he is!”
From the covered pathway issued a tall gentleman of middle age, dressed
in a cool summer suit, holding his hat in his hands. His appearance was
what is called prepossessing; by his own complete ease and air of
genial well-being he helped to put others in the same happy state, his
self-satisfaction not being of the kind which irritates by excess.
His head was covered with a fine growth of black hair, which continued
itself in the form of full whiskers, and with these blended the silken
grace of a moustache long enough to completely conceal the lips. His
features were slightly browned by Eastern suns. His eyes, as he viewed
in turn each of the three ladies, had a calm, restful gaze which could
have embarrassed no one, hinting only the friendliest of inward comment.
Isabel rose and stepped forward to meet him. In the act of greeting she
was, perhaps, seen to greatest advantage. The upright grace of her
still perfect figure, the poise of her head, the face looking straight
forward, the smile of exquisite frankness, the warmth of welcome and
the natural dignity combined in her attitude as she stood with extended
hand, made a picture of fair womanhood which the eye did not readily
quit. It was symbolical of her inner self, of the large affections
which made the air about her warm, and of the sweet receptiveness of
disposition which allowed so many and so different men to see in her
their ideal of a woman.
“You found the trap at the station?” she asked, and, satisfied on this
point, presented him to her companions. Though Asquith had just reached
England in time to see his cousin once or twice before she left London,
he had still to become acquainted with Ada Warren, who did not go to
town with Mrs. Clarendon, but preferred to make her visits at other
times, staying with Mr. Meres and his daughters. Ada was silent during
the ceremony of introduction, and did not give her hand; Rhoda showed
her more expansive nature and smiled prettily in Robert’s face.
“I thought you would find it pleasant to come and sit here a little
before lunch,” said Isabel, by way of leading to conversation.
But Asquith merely bent his head; he seemed all at once to have become a
trifle absent, and, after letting his gaze rest on Miss Warren for a
few moments, had turned his look groundwards. But the interval was very
short.
“That groom of yours who drove me over,” he began, in a leisurely tone
and with an appreciative smile, “is a wonderful man.”
“That’s interesting,” said Isabel. “I fear I haven’t discovered his
exceptional qualities.”
“They are remarkable. His powers of observation. I make a point of
conversing whenever opportunity offers. The suggestive incident was a
pig crossing the road; I remarked that it was a fine pig. By a singular
accident I must have hit upon the man’s specialty; he looked at me with
gratitude, and forthwith gave me--you can’t imagine--the most wonderful
disquisition on pigs. He spoke as if he loved them. ‘Now, a pig’s heye,
sir! Did you ever happen to notice a pig’s heye, sir?’ I was afraid
to say that I had. ‘There’s more in a pig’s heye, sir, than you’d find
creditable,’--meaning credible, of course. ‘There’s that knowingness
in a pigs heye, sir, it can’t be described in words. _When_ it isn’t
fierce,--and if it is, the fierceness of it there’s no imagining!’”
This narration, given with much quiet humour, made Mrs. Clarendon and
Rhoda laugh. Ada Warren had resumed her review, or at all events had it
lying open on her lap, and showed no smile. Robert watched her with
his quiet eyes. In Miss Meres he seemed to have little interest, and he
looked far more frequently at Ada than at Mrs. Clarendon.
“By-the-bye, some one we passed on the road,” he said presently. He had
a curious habit of mentioning in this disjointed way the subject of the
remark he was about to make, and, so reposeful was his habit of speech,
it often seemed as if the comment would never follow. “A young man,
rather good-looking, or perhaps, rather noticeable. My friend the groom
told me he was a settler in these parts; a gentleman who has taken
a labourer’s cottage, and lives in a more or less eccentric way. It
sounded interesting. Do you know anything of him?”
“Oh yes,” said Isabel, “our rector, Mr. Vissian, knows him, and speaks
of him in superlatives. His name is Kingcote.”
“But what is he doing here?--reading, rusticating? I suppose he’s taken
the cottage just for the summer months?”
“Mr. Vissian says he has settled here for good--a philosopher, who is
tired of town life. He comes from London. I haven’t been favoured with
a glimpse of him yet, but several people have spoken of him. I think I
must ask Mr. Vissian to bring him here.”
“A month or so of summer would be pleasant, spent in that way,” observed
Mr. Asquith; “but to settle finally! Something morbid about him, I
suppose; he looks, in fact, rather bloodless, like a man with a fixed
idea. Ten to one, he’s on precisely the wrong tack; instead of wanting
more of his own society, he ought to have less of it. I suppose he lives
alone?”
“Quite.”
“The worst thing for any man. I shouldn’t dare to converse with myself
exclusively for two consecutive days. The great, preservative of sanity
is free intercourse with one’s fellow men--to see the world from all
points, and to refrain from final conclusions.”
Chat of this kind went on for a few minutes, all taking part in it
except Ada.
“You are fond of the country, Miss Warren,” Asquith said at length,
addressing the latter directly.
“Yes, I’m fond of the country,” was the reply, given in a mechanical
way, and with a cold, steady look, whilst she ruffled the edges of her
review. Asquith had found it at first difficult to determine whether the
peculiarity of the girl’s behaviour were due to excessive shyness or to
some more specific cause; but shyness it certainly was not, her manner
of speaking and of regarding him put that out of the question. Did she,
then, behave in this way to every stranger, or was he for some reason
personally distasteful to her; or, again, had something just happened to
disturb her temper?
“Your liking for it, though, would scarcely go to the extent of leading
you to take up a solitary abode in a labourers cottage?”
“I can’t say,” Ada replied slowly. “One is often ready to do anything
for the sake of being left alone.”
“Ada would stipulate, however, to be supplied with the _Fortnightly_ or
the _Nineteenth Century_,” put in Mrs. Clarendon laughingly.
“If anything could drive me into the desert,” was Robert’s remark, “it
would be the hope of never again being called upon to look at them.
I shouldn’t wonder if Mr.--Mr. Kingcote, isn’t it?--has fled from
civilisation for the very same reason. Probably he has cast away books,
and aims at returning to the natural state of man.”
“By no means,” said Isabel. “He has brought down quite a library.”
“Alas!” exclaimed Robert, with a humorous shaking of the head, “then
he is, I fear, engaged in adding to the burden which oppresses us. No
wonder he hides his head; he is writing a book.”
“Perhaps he is a poet, Mrs. Clarendon,” puts in Rhoda.
“Perhaps so, Rhoda; and some day we may have pilgrims from all corners
of the earth visiting the cottage he has glorified.”
“With special omnibuses from Winstoke station,” added Robert, “and a
colony of licensed victuallers thriving about the sacred spot.”
“Let us be thankful,” exclaimed Isabel, “that a poet’s fame is usually
deferred for a generation or two. Ha, there’s the first luncheon bell!
It brings a smile to your face, Robert.”
“Did I betray myself? I confess I breakfasted early.”
The two girls walked towards the house together, their elders following
more slowly.
“Isn’t Rhoda Meres a nice girl?” said Isabel, when the object of her
remark was out of hearing.
“Very,” her cousin assented, though without enthusiasm. He seemed to be
thinking of something else.
“The poor child has got a foolish idea into her head; she wants to go on
to the stage.”
“Does she--ha? Most young people have that idea at one time or another,
I believe. In default of a special audience of one, you see----”
“And she _is_ such a good, dear girl!” pursued Isabel, when Asquith
showed no sign of continuing. “Her father is a literary man, the editor
of a magazine called _Ropers Miscellany_--do you know it? He and I
are the best of old friends. Its only with the thought of helping her
father, I’m sure, that Rhoda has taken up this fancy; we must drive it
out of her head somehow.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” remarked Robert, more absently than before.
Isabel glanced at him, and kept silence till they reached the house.
There was nothing remarkable about the structure itself of Knightswell;
the front was long and low, built of brick faced with stone, and the
level entrance was anything but imposing. The main portion of the
building was early eighteenth century, but in the rear there still
existed a remnant of the sixteenth century manor-house which had once
stood here; the ancient hall now served as kitchen, its fine stone
fireplace being filled up with an incongruous modern range. The present
hall was surrounded with oak panelling, which Mr. Clarendon had obtained
at the dismantling of an old house in the neighbourhood; all else of the
interior had become, by successive changes, completely modernised, with
the exception of an elaborate chimney-piece in the drawing-room--massive
marble-work resting on caryatides--always said, though without
corroborative evidence, to be a production of Grinling Gibbons. The
faces of the two supporters were curiously unlike each other: on the
one side it was that of a youthful maiden, who smiled, and seemed to be
upraising her arms in sport; the other was an aged but not unbeautiful
face, wearing an expression of long-suffering sadness, worn under the
burden which the striving arms sustained. In the dining-room were a few
good pictures, taken with the house from the preceding occupants. For
Knightswell was not the ancestral abode of Mr. Clarendon’s family; it
had passed, by frequent changes, from tenant to tenant, all inglorious.
Notwithstanding his historic name, Mr. Clarendon was a _novus homo_;
his father had begun life as an obscure stockbroker, had made a great
fortune, and ended his life in a comfortable dwelling in Bayswater; his
daughters, there were two, married reputably, and were no more heard of.
During luncheon Asquith was still much occupied in observing Ada Warren
whenever he could unobtrusively do so. The young ladies were rather
silent, and even Isabel showed now and then a trace of effort in the
bright flow of talk which she kept up. Between herself and her cousin,
however, there was no lack of ease; a graceful intimacy had established
itself on the basis of their kinship, though not exactly that kind of
intimacy which bespeaks life-long association. Their talk was of the
present, or of the immediate past; neither spoke of things or people
whose mention would have revived the memory of years ago.
“And what are you doing with yourself?” Mrs. Clarendon inquired, when
Robert had abandoned another futile attempt to draw Ada Warren into
converse.
“Upon my word,” was his reply, “I hardly know. The town; I see a good
deal of it, indoors and out; it still has the charm of novelty. I can’t
say that time has begun to hang heavy on my hands; in truth, it seldom
does.”
“Fortunate being!”
“Yes, I suppose so. I find that people have a singular capacity for
being bored; I notice it more than I used to. For my own part, I
generally find a good deal of enjoyment to be got out of the present
moment; the enjoyment of sound health, at lowest. You know how pleasant
it is to look back on past days, even though at the time they may have
seemed anything but delightful. I account for that by believing that the
past always had a preponderant element of pleasure, though disturbing
circumstances wouldn’t allow us to perceive it. It’s always a joy to
be alive, and we recognise this in looking back, when accidents arrange
themselves in their true proportion.”
He glanced at Ada; the girl was smiling scornfully, her face averted to
the window.
“The present being so delightful,” said Mrs. Clarendon, “what joyous
pleasures have you for the immediate future?”
“Grouse on Wednesday next,” Robert replied, after helping himself to
salt in a manner which suggested that he was observant of the number of
grains he took. “An acquaintance who has a moor, or a portion of one,
in Yorkshire, has given me an invitation. As I have never shot grouse, I
shall avail myself of the opportunity to extend my experience.”
“Promise me the pick of your first bag.” There was a project for a long
drive in the afternoon; the weather was bright but sufficiently cool,
and Robert professed himself delighted. He had a few minutes by himself
in the drawing-room when the ladies went up to make their preparations.
He gave a careful scrutiny to the caryatides, smiling, as was generally
the case when he regarded anything, then glanced about at the pictures
and the chance volumes lying here and there; the latter were novels and
light literature from Mudie’s. Then he took up a number of the _Queen_,
and began to peruse it, sitting in the window-seat.
“What a singular choice of literature!” exclaimed Isabel, as she came in
drawing on her gloves.
“The _Queen?_ It interests me. There’s something so very concrete about
such writing. I like the concrete.”
“The first time I ever heard so learned a term applied to so frivolous
a publication. After all, Rhoda, there may be more in us poor creatures
than we gave ourselves credit for.”
“Do tell me,” said Robert, as he laid down the paper, “what is a--I hope
I may ask--what is a ‘graduated plastron’?”
“Oh, this is dreadful!” laughed Isabel. “Come along, the carriage is
waiting; we’ll discuss graduated plastrons on our way.”
“Are we not to have the pleasure of Miss Warren’s company?” Robert
asked, as they entered the phaeton.
“Ada never goes out with us,” was Mrs. Clarendon’s answer as she took
the reins and prepared to drive.
There was no additional guest at dinner; the evening was helped along
by Rhoda’s playing and singing. Her voice was good, and she had enjoyed
good teaching; this at Mrs. Clarendon’s expense. It was one of many
instances in which Isabel had helped her friends the Meres, her aid
being given in a manner of which she alone had the secret--irresistible,
warm-hearted, delicate beyond risk of offence. Ada sat in the room, but,
as usual, had a book in her hands.
“You read much,” said Robert, seating himself beside her and perforce
obtaining her attention.
“It is a way of getting through life,” the girl replied, rather less
abruptly than she had hitherto spoken.
“That means that life is not quite so attractive to you as it might be?”
he returned, under the cover of the music which had just begun.
“I doubt whether life is attractive to any one--who thinks about it.”
She had folded her hands on the pages and was leaning back in her chair.
Robert examined her and came to the conclusion that she was not quite so
disagreeable in countenance as the irregularity of her features at
first led one to think. She had large eyes, and, to meet them, was to
be strangely impressed, almost as with the attraction of beauty. Her
evening dress was of black satin, a richer and more tasteful garment
than he had expected she would wear, judging from her appearance earlier
in the day. Her hair, too, was very carefully arranged. The foot, which
just showed itself, was not small, but beautifully shaped. Ornaments she
had none.
“That is censure clearly directed against myself,” Robert said, with
good humour. “And yet I fancy I have thought a good deal of life.” Ada
did not seem disposed to pursue the argument.
“What are you reading?” Asquith inquired. It was a volume of Comte. She
showed the title without speaking.
“You are a Positivist?”
“No; merely an atheist.”
The confession was uttered in such a matter-of-fact tone that Robert was
disposed to think she used the word just for the pleasure of startling
him. There was, in fact, a barely perceptible glimmer in her eyes as she
sat looking straight before her.
“That’s rather dogmatic, isn’t it?” he remarked, smiling. “The word
Agnostic is better, I fancy.”
“I believe it comes to very much the same thing,” said Ada. “The new
word has been coined principally to save respectability.”
“A motive with which you have small sympathy?”
“None whatever.”
There was a silence between them.
“You play?” Robert asked, Rhoda Meres having risen from the piano.
“Only for my own amusement.”
“Then certainly you play things which I should like to hear. Will you
play me something that has a tune in it? I don’t mean to reflect upon
Miss Meres’ playing; but my ear is in a rudimentary state. I should be
very grateful if you would play something.”
Ada seemed to harden her face against an intruding smile. She rose,
however, and walked over to the piano. Mrs. Clarendon and Rhoda looked
at her with undisguised surprise. Asquith noticed that her walk might
have been graceful, had she not affected a sort of indifference in gait.
She seated herself at the instrument and played an operatic air;
it lasted about three minutes, then she ceased. Robert looked in
expectation of her resuming her former seat, but she walked straight to
the door and disappeared.
Mrs. Clarendon and Rhoda Meres exchanged glances, and for an instant
there was a rather awkward silence. Isabel found a subject, and talked
with her wonted vivacity.
Ada did not return. About half-past ten Rhoda began to make preparations
for departure; she went to one of the windows, and held the blind aside
a little to look out at the night.
“Oh! what a moon!” she exclaimed. “Mrs. Clarendon, do let us just go out
for a minute on to the lawn; the country is so wonderful at night.”
Wrappers were at hand for the ladies, and the three went out together.
The whole scope of visible heavens was pale with light; the blacker
rose the circle of trees about Knights Well. The leaves made their weird
whispering, each kind with its separate voice; no other sounds came from
the sleeping earth.
“We often hear the nightingale,” Isabel said, lowering her voice.
“Perhaps it’s too early yet.”
Then she added:
“This is the hour of our poet’s inspiration.”
“What poet?” asked Robert.
“Our poet in the cottage; don’t you remember?”
“Ah, the morbid young man. Poor fellow!”
Isabel suppressed a low laugh.
“Come, Rhoda dear, it’s cold,” she said to the girl, who had drawn a
little apart.
Rhoda followed in silence, her head bent. In the hall she took her
candle, and bade the two a hasty good-night.
“Why is she crying?” asked Robert, under his voice, as he entered the
drawing-room again with Isabel.
The latter shook her head, but did not speak. She moved about the room
for a moment; the shawl had half slipped from her shoulders, and made a
graceful draping. Asquith stood watching her.
She approached him.
“I half hinted,” she began, “that I had a selfish object in asking you
to come here. We are good friends, are we not?--old and good friends?”
There was a beautiful appeal upon her face, anxiety blending with a
slight embarrassment. She had put aside the mask of light-heartedness,
and that which it had all day been in her countenance to utter freely
exposed itself. It was not so much as distress; rather, impatience of
some besieging annoyance. She was more beautiful now than when Robert
had read her face seventeen years ago. Still, he regarded her with his
wonted smile. There was much kindness in his look; nothing more than
kindness.
“The best of friends, Isabel, I hope,” he replied to her.
“I am going to ask you to do something for me,” she continued. “Will you
sit down and listen to me? I am not sure that I do right in asking this
favour of you, but you are the only one of my relatives whom I feel able
to talk freely with, and I think I had rather you than any one else
did this thing that I am going to ask. Perhaps you will find it too
disagreeable; if so, tell me--you will promise to speak freely?”
“Certainly, I promise.”
They had taken their seats. Asquith rested one of his arms on a small
table, and waited, the smile lingering. Isabel gathered the shawl about
her, as if she felt cold. She was a trifle pale.
“You understand perfectly,” she resumed, with a certain abruptness,
which came of the effort it cost her to broach the subject, “the meaning
of Ada Warren’s presence in this house?”
“Perfectly, I think,” her cousin replied, with a slight motion of his
eyebrows.
“That is to say,” pursued Isabel, looking at the fringe of her shawl,
“you know the details of Mr. Clarendon’s will?”
He paused an instant before replying.
“Precisely,” was his word, as he tapped the table.
Isabel smiled, a smile different from that with which she was wont to
charm. It was one almost of self-contempt, and full of bitter memories.
“I had never heard of her,” she continued, “until I was called upon to
take her as my own child. Then she was sent to me from people who had
had the care of her since she was three years old.”
Asquith slowly nodded, wrinkling his forehead.
“Well, we will speak no more of that. What I wish to ask you to do for
me is this:--Oh, I am ashamed to speak of it! It is something that I
ought to have done myself already. But I am a coward; I have always been
a coward. I can’t face the consequences of my own--my own baseness; that
is the true word. Will you tell Ada Warren what her real position is,
and what mine?”
Asquith raised his head in astonishment.
“She is still ignorant?”
“I have every reason to believe so. I don’t think any one will have told
her.”
Robert bit his upper lip.
“Has she never asked questions about her origin?”
“Yes, but only once. I told her that her parents were friends of Mr.
Clarendon, and that she was an orphan, therefore I had taken her. That
was several years ago.”
Again there was a pause in the dialogue. Isabel had difficulty in
keeping her face raised; her cheeks had lost their pallor, the blood
every now and then made them warm.
“She seems a strange being,” Asquith remarked. “I am not as a rule
tempted to puzzle about people’s characteristics, but hers provoke one’s
curiosity.”
“I cannot aid you,” Isabel said, speaking quickly. “I know her as little
as on the day when I first saw her. I have tried to be kind; I have
tried to----”
She broke off. Her voice had begun to express emotion, and the sound
seemed to recall her to self-command. She looked up, smiling more
naturally, though still with a touch of shame.
“Will you help me, cousin?” she asked.
“Certainly I will do what you wish. Do you desire me to explain
everything in detail----”
“The will, the will,” she interposed, with a motion of her hand. “Yes,
the full details of the will.”
“And if she asks me----?”
“You know nothing--that is best. You cannot speak to her on such a
subject. Will you wait for me a moment?”
She rose hastily and left the room. Asquith remained standing till her
return. She was only a few moments absent, and came back with a folded
paper in her hand.
“This,” she said, “is a full copy of the will. It might be best to read
it to her, or even to let her have it to read herself. She may keep it
if she wishes to.”
Asquith took the paper and stood in thought.
“You have well considered this?” he asked.
“Oh, for long enough. I thank you for your great kindness.”
“When shall I see her? To-morrow is Sunday. Does she go to church?”
“Never.”
“Then I will take the opportunity, whilst you and Miss Meres are away.”
Isabel gave him her hand, and they exchanged good-nights.