Isabel Clarendon, Vol. I (of II)

“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?”

“I shall offer no opposition of that kind,” Isabel said. “You are old enough to think and act for yourself. If you had come and told me of this in a friendly way I should no doubt have used the privilege of my age and experience–”

“To tell me what you have already on several occasions said indirectly,” broke in the girl, again passionate. “Thank you; I can make all such reflections for myself.”

“I think you are unjust to me, Ada,” said Mrs. Clarendon, in a lowered voice. Her fingers were now grasping the chair, instead of resting upon it. “When you have had time to reflect I am sure you will speak to me differently.”

Ada stood silent.

“You propose to be married shortly?” Isabel asked, joining her hands together before her.

“As soon as will suit your convenience, Mrs. Clarendon.”

“Pray do not consult that.”

She could not hold back this little note of resentment, and, having uttered it, she turned and left the room. As she drew the door to, a servant approached to say that the carriage waited.

“I shall not want it,” Isabel replied shortly; “let it go back.”

She moved to the foot of the stairs, and in doing so, had to pass the drawing-room door, which stood open. Mrs. Stratton was within. Hearing the rustle of Isabel’s dress she came forward.

“Ready?” she said; and added with a smile, “pray remember me to Lord Winterset; he is sure to be there.”

Isabel was pale now. She stood with one foot on the stairs and a hand pressed against her side. For a moment she looked strangely into her friends face, then turned and called to the footman, who was in the doorway of the house.

“Ward, stop the carriage!”

“Whats this?” inquired Mrs. Stratton, looking puzzled. Only an extreme occasion would have called alarm to that heroic lady’s face.

“I sent the carriage away,” Isabel explained. “I had a faintness—thought I wouldn’t go. It has gone! I shall be late.”

“You certainly don’t look very well. A glass of sherry, dear–?”

“No, no; it has gone. Don’t sit up for me, Rose. Good-bye, dear.”

They kissed each other, and Mrs. Clarendon rustled to her carriage.

CHAPTER XII

Mr. Saltash of Dunsey Priors was, by profession, a master of fox-hounds; in his leisure, Member of Parliament. He had won the county, in the Conservative interest, on the death of Mr. Clarendon, and proved an extremely useful man. His specialty consisted in “pairing” with Members of the opposite party. In his graver pursuit he held a high place, his knowledge and zeal being brought into brilliant evidence by the wealth which enabled him to entertain sumptuously those leaders of society whose appreciation grows keen on a satisfied palate. Essentially a country gentleman, he lived almost entirely at the Priors, a fine old dwelling of considerable archæological interest; known, among other things, for its piece of Roman pavement, discovered by Mr. Saltash himself, in the building of new stables. During the hunting season, he gathered at his table a succession of English and foreign notabilities. Half the Cabinet had been known to meet in festivity at Dunsey Priors, and men from other lands, desirous of studying British social life, were directed thither as to one of the most fruitful fields of observation. The misfortune of the house was, that it contained no son and heir; Miss Irene Saltash was her parent’s only child, and she, as we have seen, had degenerated from the type whereby her father desired to be represented. She did not even hunt, and was given over to ecclesiastical interests, which Mr. Saltash, utterly at a loss to account for, qualified with no reticence as condemned tomfoolery. Whether it was she who had infected Lady Florence Cootes with this singular frenzy, or who was the sufferer by contagion from Lord Winterset’s daughter, could not clearly be determined. At all events, she had it not from her mother. Mrs. Saltash possessed that solidity of physique and sterling commonplaceness of character which are, perhaps, the best qualifications of a country hostess. With every endowment of an admirable cook and housekeeper, the addition of aristocratic descent made her dulness respectable. She exacted nothing from her guests but the enjoyment of the fare she had provided; satisfied repose was the note of her conversation.

It was rather a large party to-night at the Priors; Mrs. Clarendon, arriving a few minutes after the dinner-hour, entered a great room murmurous with conversation, and striking in effects of costume; the men were in pink. The announcement of her name turned all faces to the door; male eyes glimmered with passive and polite satisfaction, those of the opposite sex wandered a little about the company. There were very few present who had not the pleasure of acquaintance with the Lady of Knightswell; greetings were abundant and cordial. It was a singular thing that the looks of most, after observing her, were bent, as if involuntarily, on a tall, baldish, handsome gentleman, who stood in conversation with Miss Saltash, stooping a little from his inconvenient height, and swinging an eyeglass round and round his fore-finger. This gentleman had precedence in rank, and very possibly in intellect, of all the assembled guests; the Earl of Winterset needed no introduction to any one familiar with the photograph-shops and illustrated papers of the day. Strong in politics and social enterprise, he was no less prominent on the turf and in the hunting field; the public had it on his own assertion that a good speech and a good horse were the prime joys of his life. Consequently he was popular. Had he said a good book and a good horse—but he was too wise for that, though the measure of truth in the phrase would have been larger. He was, in fact, a singular combination of a critical intellect with a conservative temperament. He knew himself, could joke on the vulgarity of his ruling instincts, could despise those who, resembling him fundamentally, lacked the refinement of his superstructure.

Whilst conversing affably with Irene Saltash on the subject of a recent Ritualist trial, Lord Winterset’s eyes strayed to the group amid which stood Mrs. Clarendon. He pursed his lips, held his head on one side, in seeming reflection upon an argument Miss Saltash had just advanced, then nodded gravely three times. But Irene had to ask twice for an answer to a question she was putting. Before she received it, dinner was announced.

The happy man to whose lot it fell to conduct Isabel was a certain Mr. Ladbroke Ruff, foxy from the summit of his cranium to the sole of his feet; there were titled dames present, otherwise Mr. Ruff would scarcely have been so honoured. The musicians’ gallery in the old feasting hall was occupied by a band which discoursed old English strains; Mr. Ruff discoursed foxes. His “place” was in Leicestershire; a week’s visit to his old friend Saltash was detaining him in this less interesting county. His talk was of “oxers,” of “bullfinches,” and of “raspers”; he overflowed with genial reminiscences of the Quorn, the Pytchley, and the Cottesmore. A certain “hog-maned chestnut” of his came in for a vast amount of praise.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, “one of the very finest things in the way of a run that I remember! Forty-eight minutes, Mrs. Clarendon—on my word of honour, forty-eight minutes without a check, and a kill in the open. That was the day when poor Lewin Copstake broke both his legs. Ah! you know Copstake? Delighted, delighted! A mare he would ride—not up to the country; kneed the rails just in front of me, and came down a cracker.”

Mrs. Clarendon related a similar incident from her own experience, giving Mr. Ruff an opportunity to get through an entrée.

“You don’t say so, you don’t say so! Extraordinary recklessness! By-the-bye, you know Mrs. Scarlett Slapton? Know of her, to be sure. Who doesn’t?—ha, ha! Which season was it? Oh, she had a clever flyer— Meg Merrilies, bought from Lord Wakefield, I believe. I shall never forget one day in December, ’72—yes, ’72—with the Quorn.”

Then followed excited particulars. “The fox broke for–,” “a burning scent,” “never dwelt between– and –,” “had our work cut out to live the pace,”—and so on.

Isabel talked eagerly; the flush had come back to her cheeks, her gaiety was inexhaustible. She ate little, however, and only touched with her lips a glass of champagne. Her answers now and then were a trifle wide of the mark, but she never failed in outward attentiveness. Mr. Ruff probably did not catch the sigh of relief with which she at length obeyed the signal to rise.

Mrs. Bruce Page got to her side in the drawing-room, and chattered with accustomed energy. Isabel encouraged her, heedless of subjects; the advantage was that a word or two put in edgewise every few minutes sufficed to this lady’s colloquial demands, and at present Isabel did not feel capable of taking a more active part in conversation.

“You know,” said the gossiper, after exhausting all other topics, “that the boy Vincent has settled down at length in the most orderly way.”

“Mr. Lacour?” Isabel asked, watching the speaker’s face.

“Yes. He is becoming exemplary; reads law all day, like the good boy he ought to be. I’m so glad, for—to tell you the truth–”

She stopped in hesitation, a most unusual thing. Isabel looked inquiringly, but with preoccupied countenance.

“To tell you the truth,” Mrs. Bruce Page resumed, ruffling her fan, “I have been a little anxious about my eldest girl. I dare say you have noticed my eagerness to get Vincent settled in some way? There is no reason in the world why it shouldn’t come to something, some day, you know; but for the present——”

“Does it amount to an engagement?” Isabel asked, rather bluntly, but still without much show of interest.

“Oh, my dear, nothing so premature as that. In fact, I ought not to have breathed a syllable, but to you!”

Mrs. Bruce Page put her head on one side, and looked fascinatingly. Isabel reflected, seemed about to put another question, altered her mind and said to herself:

“Now what is the woman’s precise object in telling me that—that fib?”

They gossiped a little on sundry other topics, then, another lady coming up, Isabel withdrew to a more retired part of the room. The windows were deep recesses, comfortably cushioned, with a heavy, shadowing curtain on each side; in one of these retreats she established herself, watching those who moved about before her. Soon she ceased consciously to watch, her gaze grew fixed, her features made of themselves a mask woefully unlike Isabel Clarendon.

“You are not looking yourself to-night, dear Mrs. Clarendon,” said the voice of Lady Florence Cootes, as that playful young religionist crouched on a stool by Isabel’s side. “Have you a headache?”

“Yes, a little. No matter, I shall hunt tomorrow, Flo, and that always sets me up.”

“Oh, I’m sure I hope so. Have you seen father yet?”

“Seen him, but not spoken,” Isabel returned, seeming to regard a lady who stood near. “I rather thought this troublesome news from Egypt would have taken him up to town.”

“Oh, he’s like you, he won’t miss his hunting to-morrow!”

The gentlemen entered the room, and Lady Florence went off to the warmer regions. In her recess Isabel was conscious of some one moving gradually towards her, stopping here and there to exchange a few words, often glancing about him, slowly but surely moving her way. A dreadful nervousness took hold of her; she wished to quit her place, to stir, to breathe freely away from the shadowing curtain, but she could not rise. She was in terror lest some flagrant weakness should entirely overcome her, an hysterical burst of tears, or a fit of faintness. Indeed, the latter seemed imminent; she could not fan herself. Just then Lord Winterset perceived her, and at his recognising smile her agitation suddenly calmed.

“Well, my fair enemy!” he exclaimed, sinking on the cushion by her side. “How long it seems since we had an opportunity of quarrelling! You have been at Knightswell through the autumn, I understand.”

“With the exception of a week or two. You have been travelling.”

“Nothing to speak of; Spain, and a peep at Algiers.”

Isabel put some questions which led to talk of the countries he had visited. He talked well, with a pleasantly graphic manner, and in a tone of good-humoured criticism, the tone of a man who had no illusions, and who made every allowance for the defective construction of the world. Dropping gradually upon one elbow, that nearest to his companion, he played with the seals on his watch-guard, and let the current of his descriptive eloquence glide into any pleasant channel which offered itself. One or two stories of adventures he had met with were recounted very gracefully—one, at least, was just saved by its manner from being the kind of thing better suited to the club than the drawing-room. Isabel laughed freely.

“How is it,” he asked pleasantly, “that no one I know has your secret of laughter? You laugh with such complete naturalness and enjoyment, and yet it is only a delightful smile accompanied by music. I should not like to say that any lady’s laughter is unmusical, but the smile is shockingly spoilt. Poor Flo, for instance, laughs most deplorably. Many ladies know the difficulty, and never venture on a laugh at all; alas, they grin!”

Isabel laughed again, though not quite as before.

“What have you to report of the Spanish ladies?” she asked.

“Beautiful; some I saw beautiful exceedingly; but their complexion too hot. I seemed to feel the need of fresh air. The northern type is my ideal; faces which remain through a lifetime fresh as a flower, which exhale the coolness of an early summer morning. They are graceful, but I often thought of a certain English lady, who has more natural grace of bearing than any one of them.”

He has fixed his look upon her; Isabel tried to make some light response, but her voice failed.

“By-the-bye,” he asked, “Flo gave you that message of mine—a message I sent from Seville?”

“About the winner of the Two Thousand? Oh yes; I was duly humiliated. How could I have erred in a matter of such moment?”

“You remember—there was a wager.”

“Was there?”

“Certainly. You have not forgotten the terms?”

Isabel held her fan by its two ends, and, as if to recollect, pressed it across her forehead. There was a terrible throbbing there; the cool ivory was very pleasant.

“I must claim payment,” Lord Winterset pursued playfully, whilst he glanced about him to see that neighbours were minding their business. “You remember it was to be anything I chose to ask for.”

“Lord Winterset! How foolish! There was really no wager at all; that was a mere joke, a piece of nonsense.”

“Indeed, I did not regard it as anything of the kind,” he continued imperturbably, still fingering his seals. “I knew perfectly well that I should win, and I knew just as well what payment I should beg for.”

Her beautifully gloved hand rested on its open palm by her side; there was pressure on it, the nerves were strung. She gazed straight before her and saw nothing.

Lord Winterset looked at the hand, and touched it with two fingers.

“That is what I ask,” he said, just audibly.

Isabel drew the hand back to her lap, then faced him, with a great effort of self-control.

“I cannot answer you at once, Lord Winterset,” she said, almost calmly, though in very truth the words were a mere buzzing in her own ears. “Not to-night. Grant me a day or two.”

“Is that necessary?”

“It is—indeed it is! I can say nothing whatever to-night. You must not interpret my behaviour at all.”

“We hunt together to-morrow. May I see you in the evening?”

“Yes, after the hunt. I will answer you then. May I, please, be left to myself now?”

“Till to-morrow evening.”

Lord Winterset smiled, bowed to her with informal grace, and passed to the nearest group.

In a few moments, Isabel too moved away. She had but to appear in the centre of the room to attract half-a-dozen loiterers. Never had her social instincts triumphed as they did now; never had she governed herself with such perfection of skill. For five minutes she was an enchantress. Then she drew aside, and presently had disappeared.

At the appointed time and place, Kingcote saw the carriage pulling up for him, Edgar Stratton having ridden his pony on before. It was a dull morning, but perfect for hunting purposes, as Mr. Vissian declared when Kingcote chatted with him for a moment in front of the rectory. The two ladies seemed in excellent spirits; they wore their habits, ready to mount the horses which would have reached Salcot before them. Mrs. Clarendon pressed Kingcote’s hand warmly when he had taken his seat opposite her, held it a moment longer than was necessary, indeed, and looked with earnestness into his face. The night had been sleepless for her, but whatever traces her watching might have left had at once been carried away by the air which breathed past the light-speeding vehicle. She talked and laughed without ceasing; the prospect of a delightful day appeared entirely to occupy her.