Isabel Clarendon, Vol. I (of II)

“I suppose you are eager to get back to cricket?” said Kingcote.

“Cricket! Why, you don’t play cricket this time of year!” cried Edgar, with scornful laughter.

“Indeed? What is the game, then? Football?”

“I should think so.”

“You must mend your manners, Edgar,” observed his mother. “Now run out into the garden, and don’t trouble us. His body is getting rather too much for him,” she continued playfully to Kingcote. “He must get back to his fagging. I wouldn’t for the world send a boy of mine to a school where there was no fagging.”

“Capital thing, no doubt,” said Kingcote. “He’s a fine boy.”

“A little too noisy just at present.”

“Oh, it’s a sign of his perfect health. Surely you wouldn’t see him mooning about, or shutting himself up with books?”

“Like that poor little fellow of the rector’s,” said Mrs. Stratton. “That child ought to be sent off to school.”

“Certainly. They’d soon knock him into shape, take the dreaminess out of him. Robust health before everything. Are your other boys as hearty as this one?”

“Oh, every bit! My eldest lad has broken almost every bone in his body, and seems all the better for it.”

“Why, that’s magnificent! Their lives will be a joy to them. Constitution, of course, is much; but I’m sure they have to thank you for an admirable bringing-up.”

Ada, who sat close by, was regarding Kingcote curiously, just suppressing a smile as she caught a glimpse of Mrs. Stratton’s gratified face.

“This is your ideal of education?” she put in gravely.

“Assuredly it is,” was Kingcote’s answer. “Surely that education is best which leads to happiness. That boy will never be afflicted with nervous disorders; he will never be melancholy, hypochondriacal, despairing; he will never see the world in any but the rosiest light, never be troubled by abstract speculation, never doubt for a moment about his place and his work. The plan of education which has such a result as that is beneficence itself. Don’t you think so, Miss Warren?”

“To be sure I wouldn’t have the minds altogether neglected,” said Mrs. Stratton. “Come and listen, Isabel; Mr. Kingcote is saying the most interesting things.”

“Let the mind take care of itself,” continued Kingcote, smiling slightly as he looked at Mrs. Clarendon. “If a boy has a bent for acquiring knowledge, he will manage that later. I wouldn’t encourage it. Make him a sound creature, that’s the first thing. Occupy him with vigorous bodily pursuits; keep his mind from turning inwards; save him from reflection. If every boy in England could be so brought up, they would be a blissful generation.”

“How about the girls?” questioned Isabel. “Would you educate them in the same way?”

“Precisely, with yet more wholesome effect. Nay, I would go further; they should never open a book till they were one-and-twenty, and their previous training should be that of Amazons.”

“That is a merciful provision,” said Ada, meaning possibly more than her hearers understood.

When Kingcote took his leave the ladies separated. Mrs. Clarendon had before her a dinner party at Dunsey Priors, and it was necessary to give certain orders. Mrs. Stratton took up The Times till tea should appear.

Ada, after pacing about the library for a quarter of an hour, took her hat and went into the open air. Her mind was disturbed in some way; the darkness of trouble was back again in her eyes. She walked among the evergreens of the shrubbery, then strayed to a seat which stood against the wall of the circular portion of the conservatory. The landscape before her was wild with the hues of a sky in which the declining sun fought against flying strips of ragged cloud. The wind was kept off from this part of the lawn, but in the distance it made a moaning over the fields. She watched a cohort of dead leaves sweeping in great curves along the side of the house.

A voice spoke very near to her. It came from within the rotunda; the stained-glass window just above her head was partly open.

“It would be infinitely better,” Mrs. Clarendon was saying, “than that a man like Vincent Lacour should make a prize of her.”

“But she cannot be so infatuated,” returned Mrs. Stratton. “She has sense enough to understand her own position and to take care of herself. My idea is that she won’t marry for some time, perhaps not at all.”

There was silence, then the last speaker resumed.

“She certainly has no interest in Mr. Kingcote.”

“You can’t judge so speedily. I don’t say that I desire it,” Isabel added with an uncertain voice. “But I am sure it would be a happy thing.”

“Then why not desire it?”

“I don’t know, I can’t quite explain. And I half think she __has an interest in him; but then—poor Ada!”

“She isn’t so ugly as she was,” remarked Mrs. Stratton’s matter-of-fact voice. “I notice that distinctly.”

Ada rose and walked away with quick steps. At the corner of the house, as she passed it to reach the front door, a great gust of wind met her, and a troop of dry crackling leaves swarmed about her feet and dress; she bent her head and hastened on, not staying till she had reached her bedroom. There she stood, just within the door, motionless and purposeless. Her face was pale, her lips set at their hardest and cruelest. When at length she stirred, it was to go to the glass and view herself. She turned away with a laugh, no pleasant one....

As Isabel came downstairs a few minutes before the time for which the carriage had been ordered, she saw Ada standing in the doorway of the library.

“Don’t, of course, sit up for me, Ada,” she said.

“I will not. But I should be glad to speak to you now, if you could spare me a moment.”

Isabel gazed, surprised at her tone.

“Certainly,” she acceded, and passed into the library. Ada closed the door behind her. Isabel was resplendent in her evening costume; her pure, shapely neck and shoulders gleamed above the dark richness of her robe, the gold and jewels made worthy adornment of her beauty. Her colour a trifle heightened, her eyes lustrous with foresight of homage, her white, womanly brows crowned with the natural tiara of her hair—fine and rich still as in her girlhood—the proud poise of her small and perfect head, these things were lovelier to-night than on the day when her picture had been painted as a young bride. Maturity had rewarded her with its dower, which so few dare count upon. To-night she was a woman whom men of ripe experience, men of the world, would take for herself, asking no wealth but that of her matchless charm, a woman for whom younger and more passionate hearts would break with longing.

“What is it, Ada?” she asked in a voice of concern.

“This, Mrs. Clarendon. You rightly required of me that I should keep secret no step that affected us both. I wish to tell you that I have accepted an offer from Mr. Lacour—that I am going to be married to him.”

She spoke neither hurriedly nor vehemently. The only measure of her feeling was in the words she used, the plainest and directest which came into her mind.

Isabel regarded her steadily for a moment. The look was grave, not hostile. Her eyes were dulled a little, her cheeks less warm, the jewels on her breast rose and fell; but she mastered the emotions which such an announcement could not but cause, forced back that cold, heavy flood which just touched her heart, held her own against the onset of fears.

“You have well considered this, Ada?”

Her hand sought the nearest chair, but she resisted the need of seating herself, merely rested her gloved fingers on the back.

“Yes, I have given it all the consideration that is necessary,” was Ada’s reply, less self-controlled than her last speech.

“But why do you tell me in this way?” Isabel inquired, when she had again regarded the girl’s pale anguish. “What has happened? What has offended you?”

“I have said all that I wished to say, Mrs. Clarendon,” continued the other, regardless, seeming not to hear what was asked of her. “Please to tell me whether I am free to act, whether, as I am still under your authority, you will use it or not to oppose my marriage?”

“I cannot understand you, Ada. Why do you speak to me so harshly? What unkindness have I been guilty of, and so recently?” She stopped, her eyes fell, a thought seemed to strike her.

“Have I said anything to hurt you?”

Ada made a nervous movement, then spoke more calmly.

“I should not allow anything you say to influence my actions. Will you please tell me what I wish to know?”