They were married, and lived together for five years. Outwardly there was nothing whatever to suggest that they were not as happy as married people ordinarily are. They had no children, and Mr. Clarendon was said to be vexed at this, but such little vexations a wise man philosophically endures. And Mr. Clarendon laid claim to a certain kind of philosophy. In these latter years of his life his cynicisms of speech became rather more pronounced, but they were of a kind which with most people earned him credit for superiority. One favourite phrase he had which came to his lips whenever he happened to be talking of his worldly affairs; it was: Après moi le déluge. He seemed to mean something special by this.
Isabel grew to hate the sound of those words, as if they had been a formula of diabolical incantation.
At first she had life all her own way. They went on to the Continent, where her young mind grew, then came back to spend the winter at Knightswell. The house was kept incessantly full of guests, and Isabel shone. Mr. Clarendon never rode to hounds, but for his wifes sake hunters were bought, and Isabel proved herself the most splendid horsewoman in the field; that bareback riding at her uncles farm had been of service to her. She entered into the joy of hunting with almost reckless abandonment; she risked leaps which made men stare, and was in at the death with a face and figure which took away ones breath. Mr. Clarendon stayed at home these days, and was in the doorway to receive her when she returned. They were not seen to greet each other.
Then Mr. Clarendon fell ill of the disease which was to kill him. It was horribly painful, necessitating hideous operations, renewed again and again; an illness lasting for three years. He went to London, and Isabel began her work of tending him. To move about his bedroom, with that clear, cold, gray eye of his following her wherever she went, was a ghastly trial, but she bore it. Society was renounced; only occasionally she went to see intimate friends. One day her maid, a woman who loved her, begged leave to tell her somethingsomething of which she was not sure that she ought to speak.
Whenever you leave the house, maam, she said, a man follows youfollows you everywhere, and back home again.
Why, what man?
A man, maam, whowho has been to see master several times, said the servant, with apprehension.
You meana paid man? A man employed for this?
It was enough. Isabel went out no more. A friend or two came to see her, but at length she was deserted. Her mother died, and she could not even attend the funeral. Then Mr. Clarendon was removed to Knightswell, where she tended him for yet another year. At length he died after an agony of twelve hours. His last words were: Après moi le déluge.
It was said that he had left an extraordinary will; those who cared to do so discovered the details, and talked them over with much enjoyment of the sensation. Outwardly, Isabels life soon returned to its former joyousness. In the season in London (though not in the former house; she took rooms each year for three months), the rest of the year at Knightswell, she pursued her social triumphs; people held that she was more charming than ever. One curious change there was in her circumstances. Immediately after her husbands death she took to live with her a little girl of seven, a very plain and unattractive child, whose name was Ada Warren. She seemed to have made of her an adoptive daughter. Those who knew Mr. Clarendons will understood the childs presence in the house. Mrs. Clarendon never directly spoke of her.
And so twelve years of widowhood went by, and time brought the Midsummer Day which found Bernard Kingcote rambling between Salcot East and Winstoke. Mrs. Clarendons age was now thirty-six.
CHAPTER III
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. Clarendons chair, and, still holding the leaf between her lips, asked, rather plaintively:
Why shouldnt I, Mrs. Clarendon?
Isabel looked up with suave smiling features, and met the girls 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 Im suited for. Why shouldnt I?
For one thing, because you are a lady, and ladies dont do such things.
There you have Mrs. Clarendons 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 dont go on to the stage? It used to be so, no doubt, but things have been changing. Im sure Ive heard that both ladies and gentlemen are beginning to take to acting nowadays. And I cant see why they shouldnt. 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 dont care anything about the society which spells itself with a large S.
Mrs. Clarendon shook her head indulgently.
My child, you cant 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 ladys 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. Youll 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 hasnt charged us too much a pound for veal, he shrugs and looks puzzled. I believe hed do just the same if I asked him whether to-morrow wasnt 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 didnt 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 didnt say a word to him of my own idea. It only came out in conversation.
Mrs. Clarendon gave a little hm, and stroked the back of one hand with the fingers of the other.
Its a mistake, my dear Rhoda, she said. Like it or not, we have to consider our neighbours opinion, and that doesnt yet regard the stage as a career open to gentlemens daughters.
Theres 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 againoh, 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 Roberts 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.
Thats interesting, said Isabel. I fear I havent 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 mans specialty; he looked at me with gratitude, and forthwith gave meyou cant imaginethe most wonderful disquisition on pigs. He spoke as if he loved them. Now, a pigs heye, sir! Did you ever happen to notice a pigs heye, sir? I was afraid to say that I had. Theres more in a pigs heye, sir, than youd find creditable,meaning credible, of course. Theres that knowingness in a pigs heye, sir, it cant be described in words. When it isnt fierce,and if it is, the fierceness of it theres 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 labourers 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 hes taken the cottage just for the summer months?
Mr. Vissian says he has settled here for gooda philosopher, who is tired of town life. He comes from London. I havent 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, hes 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 shouldnt dare to converse with myself exclusively for two consecutive days. The great, preservative of sanity is free intercourse with ones fellow mento 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, Im 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 girls 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?