Isabel Clarendon, Vol. I (of II)

“This is really awfully kind of you, Miss Warren,” were his words, as he came forward to shake hands. He spoke with subdued voice, and his demeanour was not quite as self-possessed as usual. “I was beset with doubts—whether you had my note safely, whether you could manage to be here alone, whether you would admit me at all. I know it is an unwarrantable step on my part, but I was bound to see you once more, and see you alone. I’m leaving England in a few days, so I’m not likely to annoy you after this.”

He had expressive eyes, and put much into them, as he gazed at the girl after speaking thus. Ada’s hands hung before her, nervously clasped, with the backs together.

“I of course ought not to consent to an interview of this kind,” she said coldly. “Mrs. Clarendon would be much displeased—would altogether misunderstand it. I hope you will say what you wish to very quickly.”

“Are we safe from disturbance?” he asked. “Do people come in?”

“No one will come in.”

He uttered a sound of satisfaction.

“I discovered,” he said, “that you and Mrs. Clarendon were alone, or of course I couldn’t have ventured. If you knew what I’ve gone through in the last month, since I was talking with you in this room! And not an hour but your voice has been present with me. Do you know that your voice is unique? I have heard voices more musical—don’t think I’m talking mere nonsensical flattery—but never one that dwelt with me for long after, as yours does. I suppose it is half your manner of expressing yourself—your frank directness.”

Whether he was sincere or not, it was impossible at least to gather evidence of insincerity from his words and the way in which they were uttered. There was no touch of a wheedling note, not an accent which jarred on the sufficiently discriminating ear of the listener. He seemed more than half regardless of the effect his speech might produce; the last sentence came forth in a rather absent way, whilst his eyes were apparently occupying themselves with a picture hanging near him.

“What was it you wished to say to me, Mr. Lacour?” Ada asked, when she had let a moment of silence pass. She still stood in the same attitude, but was now looking at him, her hard features studiously impassive.

“To say good-bye to you, and—and to thank you.”

It was uttered with an effort, as if the tone of mere frankness had been rather hard to hit, and might easily have slid to one of softer meaning.

“To thank me for what, pray?”

She was smiling slightly, perhaps to ease her features.

“For having shown me my ideal woman, the woman in whose existence I believed, though I never hoped to see her. I was tired of the women who cared for and studied nothing but the art of fooling men; I wanted a new type, the woman of sincerity. I don’t know whether you’ve noticed it—I’m something of an artist in my way. I can’t paint, and I can’t write, but I believe I have the artist’s way of looking at things. I live on refinements of sensation—you know what I mean? There’s nothing good or valuable in me; I’ve no moral force; I’m just as selfish as I can be; but I have a sort of delicacy of perception, I discriminate in my likings. Now you’ve heard all sorts of ill of me, of course; you’ve been told I pitched away ten thousand pounds in less than a couple of years; that I’ve– Well, never mind. But, Miss Warren, I haven’t lived a life of vulgar dissipation; I have not debased myself. My senses are finer-edged than they were, instead of being dulled and coarsened. I’ve led the life a man ought to lead who is going to be a great poet—though, as far as I know, I haven’t it in me to be that. But at least I understand the poetical temperament. I couldn’t help my extravagance. I was purchasing experience; the kind of experience my nature needed. Others feed their senses grossly; that would have cost less money, but my tendencies are not to grossness. I had certain capacities to develop, and I obeyed the need without looking very far ahead. Capacities of enjoyment, I admit; entirely egoistic. An egoist; I pretend to be nothing better. But believe me when I tell you that the admiration of a frank egoist is worth more than that of people who pretend to all the virtues. It is of necessity sincere.”

Ada had seated herself whilst these remarkable utterances were falling upon her ear. Lacour knelt upon a chair near her, leaning over the back.

“You are leaving England?” she said, quietly reminding him of the professed object of his visit.

“A place has been offered me in a house of business in Calcutta; I have no choice but to take it. Or, rather, there is an alternative; one I can’t accept.”

“Will you tell me what that is?”

She looked up, and he smiled sadly at her. His face just then had all that a man’s face can possess of melancholy beauty. The fineness of its lineaments contrasted remarkably with Ada’s over-prominence of feature. Hers was the individual countenance, his the vague alluring type.

“My brother,” he replied, “had been persuaded to offer me an allowance of two hundred a year, on condition that I do what I originally intended, read for the Bar.”

“And that you can’t accept? Why not?”

“For the simple reason that I should not read. I should take the money, get into debt, do nothing. I am past the possibility of voluntary work. In a house of business I suppose I shall be made to work, and perhaps it may lead to a competence sooner or later. But for reading here at home I have no motive. I lack an impulse. Life would be intolerable.”

Ada did not raise her eyes. He was still leaning forward on the back of the chair, but now at length held himself upright, passed his fingers through his hair, and uttered an exclamation of weariness.

“So I go to India!” he said. “The climate is of course impossible for me; I suffer enough here. Well, it can’t be helped.”

He sat down opposite the girl, bent forward, and let his face fall upon his hands.

“Other men of my age,” he murmured, “are beginning the work of their life. My life is as good as over. I have capabilities; I might do something if I had an impulse.”

He looked at her. Her face was as impassible as stone, her eyes closed. Lacour reached forward and touched her hand, making her start into consciousness.

“Will you lend me your hand one moment?” he asked in an irresistible voice, a low, tired breathing.

Ada did not resist. She had to bend forward a little; he put her palm against his forehead. The man was not merely acting; not purely and simply inventing poses; if so, how came his brow so terribly hot? Yet at this moment the question uppermost in his brain was—whether Ada knew the contents of Mr. Clarendon’s will. He had no means of ascertaining whether or not she had been enlightened. He could scarcely ask her directly.

The girl drew her hand away, and rose from her chair. She breathed with difficulty.

“How cool that was!” he said. Perhaps he had not noticed that her palm was like fire. “That is again something I never yet felt.” Then, with sudden energy: “Miss Warren, what on earth do you think of me? Do you think I am unconscious of the supremely bad taste I show in coming here and talking to you in this way? I have kept away as long as ever I could—a whole month. I was absurd that last time I talked to you. I don’t charge myself with iniquities; in fact, I don’t know that I recognise any sin except sins against good taste. This present behaviour of mine is in the very worst. You understand me as well as if I had spoken out the whole monstrous truth; you judge me. Well, you shall do it in my absence. Good-bye.”

She let him take her hand again. He looked at the palm, appeared to be following the lines.

“That is the line of the heart; that of the head. Both strong and fine. If I were a man of means, or even a man with a future, I would ask you to let this hand lie a little longer in mine, now and afterwards–”

He looked once more into her face; she saw that his eyes were moist.

“Mr. Lacour, please to leave me!” Ada suddenly exclaimed, rousing herself from a kind of heaviness which had held her inactive and irresponsive. Then she added: “I cannot aid you. We all have our lives to live; yours is no harder than mine. Try your best to be happy; I know nothing else to live for.”

“Will—you—help me?” he asked, plainly enough at last. “It has come, you see, in spite of everything. Will you help me?”

“I cannot. You mean, of course, will I promise to be your wife. I shall make that promise to no one till I am one-and-twenty.”

It was a flash of illumination for Lacour. “Not even,” he inquired, with a smile of quiet humour, “when Mrs. Clarendon marries?”

“When Mrs. Clarendon marries?” Ada repeated, not exactly with surprise, but questioningly.

“You know that she is going to marry Lord Winterset, and very soon? Why, there is another terrible mistake; I ought not to have mentioned it if you do not know it. I thought it was understood.”

“Perhaps it is,” returned Ada, a curious expression in her eyes. “It does not matter; it does not affect me. I beg you not to stay longer. Indeed, we have no more to say to each other.”

“May I write to you from India?”

“If you still have the slightest interest in me; I shall be glad to hear you have got there safely. I must leave you now.”

He had retained her hand for the last few moments, and now she felt herself being softly drawn towards him.

“My hand!” she exclaimed almost hysterically. “Release it! I order you to leave me!”

She tore it away and fell back several paces; then, as he still remained motionless, she went to the door and opened it. Lacour turned away; it was to hide the smile which rose when he heard the lock. In another moment he was once more in the garden.

There was moonlight by this time; the lawn was unshadowed, and he had to pass before the house in order to get into the park, and thence by a track he had in mind which would bring him into the high road. Close at hand, however, was the impenetrable gloom of the shrubbery, and, just as he was moving away from the end of the house to make a bold start across the open, there issued from the trees the form of a lady, who stepped quickly up to him.

“Mr. Lacour,” she said, recognising him without difficulty, “will you have the goodness to explain this to me?”

He had never yet heard Mrs. Clarendon’s voice speaking thus; it impressed him.

“What is the meaning of your presence in my house, and your very unusual way of leaving it?”