Isabel Clarendon, Vol. I (of II)

Kingcote looked from one to the other, but kept silence.

“Oh, but we have altogether forgotten Sir Thomas!” Isabel exclaimed. “Where is he? Do read us something, Mr. Kingcote.”

Kingcote hesitated.

“There are many passages marked in the book,” he said. “Will you let me leave it with you, that you may glance through it? Perhaps it is better suited for reading to oneself.”

“Very well; but I will do more than glance. I once knew what it was even to study, Mr. Kingcote, though you will have a difficulty in believing it.”

“The idea is not so incongruous,” he said, half seriously.

“Though passably so. You are not going?”

“I will, if you please.”

A heaviness seemed to have fallen upon him during the last few minutes; a smile was summoned only with difficulty, and his eyes had a weary look.

“But now that we know each other by more than hearsay,” said Isabel, “you will come and see us again?”

“Yourself and Miss Warren, gladly; but if I am remiss in visiting you will not misunderstand the reason that keeps me away?”

“It shall be as you wish. Ada and I will let you know when we are alone.”

Kingcote made his way back to Wood End.

CHAPTER VII

Since the disclosure made by Asquith to Ada Warren, the latter and Mrs. Clarendon had continued to live on precisely the same terms as before; no reference, however little explicit, had been made on either side to the subject which naturally occupied the thoughts of both. Ada was not in herself the same as before she understood her position; many little indications which had been wrought in her showed themselves involuntarily. But not in her behaviour to Mrs. Clarendon; that, as hitherto, was cold and reserved, at most the familiarity which comes of companionship in the external things of life.

It had always been so; there was a barrier between the two which only united effort could remove, and, though there had been impulses on both sides, a common emotion had never arisen to overthrow the obstacle. They did not understand each other, and, after so many years, there was small chance that they ever would.

Very clear in the memory of both was that day when Ada was first seen at Knightswell. Mr. Clarendon died at the end of January; a fortnight later the child was brought over from London by a member of the deceased man’s firm of solicitors. She was poorly dressed, and her teeth chattered after the cold journey. She was handed over to a servant to be attended to, whilst Mrs. Clarendon held a conversation with the lawyer in the library. When the legal gentleman had lunched, and was on his way back to town, Ada was sent for to the boudoir.

An overgrown girl of seven years, with a bad figure, even for a child of that age when grace is not a common attribute, with arms which seemed too long, and certainly were so in relation to the sleeves which cased them, with a thin neck, and a positively ugly face—that was what Isabel saw when she raised her eyes in anticipation at the opening of the door. A face decidedly ugly, and, for Isabel, with something in it more repellent than mere ugliness, something for which she had at once looked, and which she found only too unmistakably. The face regarded her half in fear, half in defiance; there seemed no touch of shyness in the gaze, and Isabel was not in a mood for perceiving that it was really excess of shyness which formed the expression. The child had been washed and warmed, but had not eaten yet; she had refused to eat. She and Isabel looked at each other for a little space; then the latter summoned the attendant maid by a gesture to her side.

“Have her properly clothed,” she said in a low voice, “and do what you can to make her at home in the room upstairs. Her own maid will be here to-morrow.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said the servant; adding, with a nervous cough, “must it be mourning, ma’am?”

Mrs. Clarendon uttered a very clear “No,” and gave a few other directions.

“Let her be put to bed at seven o’clock, and tell me to-morrow morning how she has passed the night.”

All that was as living to-day in Ada’s memory as if but a week had intervened. She saw the beautiful black-clad lady sitting by the fire, holding a fan to guard her face against excessive heat, and she heard several of the orders given. That night she had gone to bed hating the beautiful lady with a precocious hatred.

Three days went by before the two met again. Ada was now neatly attired, and her long hair, previously unkempt, had been done up and made presentable. It only made her neck look the longer and thinner, and put into relief the hard lines of her thin face. The probability was she had hitherto been half-starved. She was brought to the boudoir, and Mrs. Clarendon bade the servant go.

“Will you come and sit here by the fire?” Isabel said, speaking as softly as she could.

A low seat had been put by the hearth-rug in readiness. The child approached, swinging her long arms awkwardly, and seated herself on the edge of it.

“Your name is Ada, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“You haven’t a father or mother, have you, Ada?”

“No.”

“That is why you are come to live with me. I haven’t a little girl of my own, so I’m going to take care of you, and treat you like my own child. Do you think you can be happy with me?”

“I don’t know.”

The child spoke with a detestable London working-class accent, which made her voice grate on Isabel’s ears even more than it otherwise would have done.

“I shall do my very best to be kind to you,” Isabel continued, after a struggle with her feelings. “Have you been happy till now—I mean with the other people in London?”

“No,” was the decided answer.

“Weren’t they kind to you?”

“I don’t know.”

Isabel rose and walked about the room. The little creature was loathsome to her.

“Do you like the toys I’ve got for you?” was her next question from a distance.

“I don’t care for toys.”

There was another silence.

“Would you rather sit here with me, or be up in your own room?”

“Rather be upstairs.”

“Then I’ll take you. Will you go hand-inhand with me?”

She led the child back to the room which had been made into a nursery, and where there were dolls, and bricks, and other things of the kind supposed to be delightful to children.

“Wouldn’t you like to dress this nice doll?” Isabel asked, taking up one of the unclad abortions.

“No.”

“Have you been to school yet, Ada?”

“Yes.”

“And can you read?”