Isabel Clarendon, Vol. II (of II)

“Well, let me have all the others, and set to work upon the new one. Mind, I don’t regard this impulse of yours at all in a trivial light. I say get to work; and I mean it. Write with as determined endeavour as if your bread and cheese depended upon it. Unfortunately, it doesn’t.”

“Unfortunately?”

“Well, let that pass. I have no right to speak in that way of the priceless blessing of independence—the gift of Heaven–”

“If it be the gift of Heaven,” remarked Ada, with meaning.

“Oh, it always is; though not always used to celestial ends.”

“You meant, though, that you doubted my power of perseverance, when there was temptation to idleness.”

“Something of that, perhaps. But it’s clear you haven’t been idle of late. Did you write any of those stories at Knightswell?”

“One.”

“Did you show it to Mrs. Clarendon?”

She shook her head.

Mr. Meres drummed upon his desk; there was an expression of pain on his forehead. But he dismissed it with a sigh.

“By-the-bye, this is a first manuscript?”

“Yes.”

“Never dare to show me one again! You are to copy the new story twice,—you understand?”

“Copying is terrible work.”

“So is every effort that leads to anything. You are beginning an apprenticeship; don’t think you can carve masterpieces straight from the block, or dash on frescoes without cartoon. Now shake hands with me and go. And Ada, if you can find it in your heart to do me a great kindness–”

“Would I not?”

“Well, I can’t ask it now. Some evening when we have talked the fire low, and our tongues are loosened. To work! To work!”

CHAPTER VII

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.”