Isabel Clarendon, Vol. II (of II)

The morning that he went off to Knights-well, she had not noticed his early departure, and his absence throughout the day alarmed her. He reappeared about four in the afternoon. Looking anxiously at his face, she did not venture to question him. He took up a newspaper and glanced over it for a few moments.

“You wondered what had become of me?” he said at length, opening his lips for the first time, and trying to smile. “I went very early; I had to go out of London to see some one.”

“I began to be very uneasy,” Mary returned.

He sat down—not, to her surprise, going to his own room—and she began to lay the table for tea. He read the paper. In passing him she timidly touched his head with her fingers caressingly. Kingcote looked round; his face had the kindest smile.

“Do you know,” he said, laughing, “what was in my mind at that moment? I was thinking how admirable the relations are between a brother and sister, when she is a good sister like you, Mary. Suppose you had been my wife instead of my sister. When I came in just now you would have overwhelmed me with questions, with complaints, with frettings, and made me angry. As it is, you have no anxiety but to put me at my ease, and your quiet kindness is a blessing to me.”

“But all wives are surely not like that, Bernard?” she returned, with pleased protest. “Most, I’m afraid; but no—not all.”

The strangest speculations began to live in Mary’s brain. Was it possible that her brother–? Oh, that was nonsense.

He was kind with the children when they came in from school, and, after tea, took a book and read to himself. Mary sent the youngsters a little earlier than usual to bed. When he and she sat alone, she saw that he made several beginnings of speaking; her eyes apparently busy over sewing, missed no phase of his countenance. At length he laid the book open on his knees.

“You remember my mentioning to you a large house called Knightswell, not far from my cottage?”

He did not look at her, but his eyes had an absent glimmer, not quite a smile, as they fixed themselves on the work she had on her lap.

“Yes, I do.”

“I have been there to-day.”

“Been all that way, Bernard?”

“Yes.”

Mary did not fail to understand that it was now her turn to question.

“You have friends there?”

“A friend. If you will listen I will tell you a story.”

He related all that he knew of the history of Isabel Clarendon, as if it had been told to him or he had read it somewhere, up to the time of his first meeting with her; he described her exactly, and described Ada Warren also, the latter, as far as his knowledge allowed, with perfect justice.

“One of those, Mary, is my friend; which do you think?”

“You have made it too easy to guess,” his sister answered good-naturedly. She had listened with the utmost attention, leaning forward, her arms crossed upon her sewing. “Not Miss Warren!”

“But I do not dislike her; you mustn’t think that.”

“Still, you would not go all the way to Knightswell to see her.”

He said nothing. Mary was nervously impatient.

“But what a strange, strange story! And she—Mrs. Clarendon—may be sent from her home any day? Is Miss Warren likely to marry?”

“She is engaged, but will not be married till she is of age. That will be in rather more than a year.”

“And what will Mrs. Clarendon do then?”

He paused a moment before answering. But at length:

“She has promised to be my wife.”

“Bernard!”

Mary threw her work down, and came and kissed his forehead. She could say nothing; stricken with wonder and confused emotions of pleasure, she strove to realise the truth of what he had told her. Then Kingcote took from his pocket the case in which he kept Isabel’s portrait. Mary gazed at it in long silence.

“But how strange!” she murmured, when she turned her eyes away to dream absently.

“You think she might have made a better choice.”

“I have no such thought, Bernard, as you know well. Is it known to her friends?”

“No,” he replied, shortly.

“I wonder what Miss Warren would think?”

He mused, wondering himself.

They talked for a long time. To Kingcote the relief of having told his secret was so great, that he had become cheerful, hopeful. His sister did not show exuberant delight; she continued preoccupied, now and then, as if in result of her meditations, putting a question, and musing again upon the answer. A woman mentally occupied with woman possesses a lucidity of reasoning, a swiftness of apprehension, a shrewdness of inference, which may well render her a trifle contemptuous of male conclusions on the same subject. A very few details are enough for her to work upon; she has the categories by heart, and classifies with relentless acumen. It is the acme of the contradictions of her nature. Instinctively revolting against materialist views when held by the other sex; passionately, fiercely tenacious of spiritual interpretations where her own affections are concerned; the fountain of all purity that the world knows; she yet has in her heart that secret chamber for the arraignment of her sisters, where spiritual pleas are scoffed at, where the code administered is based on the most cynical naturalism. She will not acknowledge it; she will die rather than admit the fact as a working element of her own consciousness; but she betrays herself too often. The countenance of a woman whose curiosity has been aroused concerning another is vaguely disturbing. She smiles, but the smile excites disagreeable thoughts, suspicions such as we would gladly put away. Happily she does most of such thinking when out of sight.

Kingcote said nothing of Isabel’s pecuniary difficulties, and left the question of Ada’s parentage as it was represented in the will. He laid stress all through, on the pathetic aspect of Isabel’s position. Mary listened, questioned innocently, gathered data, and made her deduction.

On the day after Isabel’s visit to Chelsea, Kingcote came and lunched with her. Her rooms, as he noticed, were sufficiently luxurious; a trouble weighed upon him as he talked with her. With a new dress—which of course became her perfectly—she seemed to him to have put on an air somewhat different from that which characterised her in the country. She was impulsively affectionate, but there was an absence in her manner, a shade of intermittence in her attention, a personal restlessness, an almost flippancy in her talk at times, which kept him uneasy. The atmosphere of town and of the season was about her; she seemed to be experiencing a vast relief, to have a reaction of buoyancy. It was natural that she should speak of indifferent things whilst servants were waiting at table, but Kingcote was none the less irritated and hurt in his sensibilities. He lacked the virtue of hypocrisy. The passion which had hold upon him felt itself wronged even by harmless compliance with the exactions of every-day artificial life. Something gnawed within his breast all the time that he was speaking as a mere acquaintance; he had a difficulty in overcoming a sullenness of temper which rose within him. The end of the meal was all but the limit of his patience.

“Don’t ask me to come in this formal way again,” he said, when they were alone in the drawing-room.

“Why not?” Isabel asked, in surprise.

“Because I am absurdly sensitive. It is pain to me to hear you speak as you would to any one whom you had asked out of mere politeness. I think I had rather not see you at all than in that way.”

She laughed lightly.

“But isn’t it enough to know what there is beneath my outward manner?”

“I know it, but–”

“But—your faith in me is so weak. Why cannot you trust me more?”

He was silent.

“You must get rid of these weaknesses. It all comes of your living so much alone. Besides, I want you particularly to come and dine with me on Sunday. Mr. Meres will be here, and I should like you to know him. I shouldn’t wonder if he can be useful to you.”

Kingcote made a gesture of impatience.

“But you won’t refuse, if I wish it? He is the most delightful man, and such an old friend of mine.”

“The less reason why I should like him.”

“Now, Bernard, this is foolish. Are you going to be jealous of every one I know? Oh, what a terrible time is before you!”

She said the words with mirthful mockery, and to Kingcote they were like a sudden stab. It was as though a future of dreadful things had suddenly been opened before his eyes, black, yawning, thronged with the shapes of midnight agonies. Her laugh had a taunting cruelty; her very eyes looked relentless. In this moment he feared her.

She was sitting some little distance away, and could not let him feel the touch of her hand which would have soothed.

“Have you told your sister?” she asked, after regarding him for a moment.

He found it difficult to answer truthfully, but could not do otherwise. He admitted that he had.

“I knew you would,” she returned, with a nod and an ambiguous smile. “And your friend, Gabriel?”

“No. I told you I should not. My sister is different.”

“Yes. Why should you not tell her? And you showed her my portrait?”

“I did.”

“What did she say?”

“Many kind and pleasant things—things you would have liked to hear.”

“Are you sure of that?”

“You don’t dislike to be praised.”

“No, on the whole I think not. But I could do with the praises of just one person—they would be enough.”

“I may repeat your question—are you sure of that?”

“Very sure. But you will come on Sunday?”

“At what time? I thought you went to church.”

“Only in the morning. We shall dine at eight o’clock.”

“And will there only be Mr. Meres?”

“Only one other—a lady.”

Kingcote looked about him restlessly.

“How long shall you stay in London?” was his next question.

“Not more than two months, I think.”

“Two months—May, June. It will seem long.”

“Long? Seem long to you?”

“Yes.”

“Are you not glad that I am nearer to you?”

“Very glad. But I wish it were November, with no one else in town, I suppose you will be surrounded with people all the time.”

“No, I shall see very few,” she answered, rather coldly. “I should wish, if I can, to please you.”

There was a struggle in him between obstinate jealousy and self-denial. She looked at him, with a half-suppressed smile about her lips, and the nobler feeling for the moment had its way.

“You will best please me,” he said, with the old tenderness, “by pleasing yourself. You shall see nothing of my foolishness, even if I can’t altogether overcome it; and I will try my hardest to do that, for my own peace indeed. I will bury myself in books.”

Isabel was seeking for words to express what was in her mind.

“You see,” she began at length, “I can’t entirely isolate myself, even if I would. People find out that I am in town, and I cannot forbid them to come and see me. If they come, then I am bound to make calls in return, or to accept invitations.”

“Yes, I understand it perfectly well,” he assented, with a little too much of readiness. “It would be monstrous to ask you to live in solitude. Indeed, I will accept it all without murmuring.”

“All that I can do I will. I promise you not to seek new acquaintances, and I will see no more of the old than I am absolutely obliged. You can trust me so far? It is rather hard to feel that you have not complete confidence in me. I have in you.”

“Forgive me, and let us forget that I ever talked so unkindly. I ought to be proud of your successes in society. It would all be easier, I suppose, if–”

“If what?”

“Only if I valued myself more highly than I can. It is so hard to believe that you can compare me with others and not grow very cold.”

“I should never think of comparing you with any one. Why should I? You are apart from all others; I should as soon think of asking whether the sun did really give more light than one or other of the stars.”

She would not have used such a comparison in the days before his letters had revealed to her a gospel of passion. His pleasure in hearing the words was mitigated by a critical sense that she had the turn of thought from himself, that it did not come from the fountains of her heart. Few men surpassed Bernard Kingcote in ingenious refinement of self-torture. His faculty in that respect grew daily.

“Is any one likely to call this afternoon?” he asked, when they had sat together a little longer.

“I don’t expect any one in particular, but it is quite possible.”

“Then I will leave you now.”

Isabel did not oppose his going.

“Oh,” she said, as a thought struck her, “Rhoda and Hilda Meres are going to lunch with me to-morrow, and perhaps Ada, though I don’t know whether she will come. In the afternoon I dare say we shall go to the Academy. Will you be there, and show us Gabriel’s pictures?”

He gave a hesitating “Yes.”

“Not unless you would like to. Be in the first room about half-past three.”

CHAPTER IX

Gabriel’s “Market Night” was well hung, and kept a crowd about it through the day. Prelates, plutocrats, and even the British baby appeared on the whole to be less attractive. Setting aside landscapes, which we paint with understanding, our Exhibition cannot often boast of more than a couple of pictures which invite to a second examination on disinterested grounds; this of the unknown painter addressed itself successfully both to the vulgar and to the cultured. Its technical qualities were held to be high. Some people made a sermon of it,—which the painter never intended.

It being Saturday afternoon, Kingcote found himself waiting in a great press at the hour that Isabel had mentioned. The face for which he looked at length shone upon him, and he discerned the two young ladies upon whose appearance he had speculated—Rhoda Meres, with her tall, graceful figure and melancholy prettiness; Hilda, greatly more interesting, of flower-like freshness and purity, her keen look anticipating the pleasure that was before her. Kingcote was conscious of missing some one; whilst he was joining the three, he sought for Ada Warren, but she seemed not to be of the party. He could not understand why her absence should occasion him anything like disappointment, yet it assuredly did. He was wondering whether she had changed at all since he saw her.

He was presented to the two girls, and did what he could in the way of amiable interrogation and remark. Hilda, constraining her sisters companionship, began to examine the pictures.

“I must keep them within view,” Mrs. Clarendon said to Kingcote, “but I have no intention of wearying myself by walking round each room. You have been here already; you can point out anything you would like me to see. Where are your friend’s?”

“Much further on.”

“What do you think of these girls?”

“The younger one is delightful.”

“You don’t care for Rhoda; yet she has always been my favourite. Poor things!” she added in a lower tone, “isn’t it hard that they should have nothing in life to look forward to?”

Hilda turned to draw Mrs. Clarendon’s attention to a picture.

“Miss Warren has not come with you?” Kingcote asked, when there was again opportunity.

“No; she kept at home. But the girls have just been surprising me. If you buy to-day’s Tattler you’ll find something that she has written—a description—something about the river.”

“Verse?”

“No, prose. They are all in great excitement about it. I must get the paper; I don’t suppose she’ll send it to me.”

Kingcote was much interested; he promised himself to read this contribution as soon as possible.

When at length they reached the “Market Night,” it was very difficult to get a view of the canvas. But for Isabel a few glances were enough.

“Oh, I don’t like that at all!” she exclaimed positively, moving away from the throng. “Those faces are disgusting. I should not like to have such a picture as that in my house.”

“In that I agree with you,” Kingcote said. Hilda had also come away and was listening. “But it is a wonderful picture for all that.”

“What a pity he paints such things! Why don’t you make him choose pleasant subjects?”

“I imagine Gabriel’s answer if I said such a thing to him,” said Kingcote, smiling. “I suppose the artist must paint what he can and will; our likes and dislikes will not much affect him. But don’t you admire the skill and power, at all events?”

Hilda went to look again, guided by this remark; she snapped up anything that seemed likely to instruct her taste with the eager voracity of a robin.

But Isabel only shook her head and shuddered a little.

“Is the other picture as bad?” she asked.

“It’s just opposite; come and look.”

This was the child in front of the shop-window.

“No, not quite as bad,” was Isabel’s judgment. “But he has such a taste for low subjects. Why doesn’t he paint decent people?”

“I’d rather keep clear of the gutter myself,” conceded her companion. “Still–”

He did not conclude, and they crossed to the girls again. Shortly, Mrs. Clarendon met with a party of friends, and Kingcote drew away. A tall, heavy man of a military type bent insinuatingly as he talked to her; King-cote fretted at the sight. To avoid and forget it he joined Hilda Meres. The bright intelligence which made way through her shyness charmed him; possibly the extreme respect with which she received every word of his utterance did not diminish his interest in her. Rhoda scarcely spoke, but her smile, too, was very sweet. How he wished that his sister could have companions such as these! And, as Mary came into his mind—she sitting alone in her widow’s weeds—he felt impatient with the bright mob crushing about him. He did not need to be reminded, yet it reminded him again, how heartless the world is....

Ada had made pretext of a headache to stay at home. Possibly she would not have done so, but for the fact of her first piece of writing having appeared to-day. She did not care to present herself before Mrs. Clarendon as if anxious to be congratulated. Yet it concerned her not a little to know that Mrs. Clarendon read what she had written; she had joy in the thought that at length she could prove herself not insignificant. Henceforth her position was far other than it had been, in her own eyes at all events. Formerly she was scarcely a person, rather a mere disagreeable fact, troubling and puzzling people; she had no rights, and no satisfaction save the illiberal one of feeling the brute power which circumstances had given her. Now she was a human being, and her heart was full.

This that The Tattler had printed was a little sketch called “River Twilight”; it occupied a column of the weekly paper, and was of course unsigned. Walking with Hilda along the Embankment a fortnight ago, when there was a finely dusky heaven, it had first of all struck her that she might find bits for her pencil about here; then came the suggestion to picture in words that which had so impressed her. She went home, and up to her own room, and by midnight had written her description. She resolved not to show this to Mr. Meres, but to try her luck at once with one of the papers which published similar things; it was despatched the first thing in the morning. In a day or two there came to her an envelope with which she hastened into privacy; she had seen the name of The Tattler stamped on the back. It contained a proof.

Perhaps it would be literally true to say that this was the first great pleasure that life had brought her. She sat and sobbed for joy; a vast gratitude possessed her whole being—gratitude to the Fates, as she would have said. She could not believe that in very truth her writing was going to be printed; nay, that it was printed, and lay before her! With eyes constantly blinded by a foolish rush of tears, she read through the composition—oh, how many times! One misprint there was, and one only; she laughed at the nonsense it made. Mr. Meres was not at home, or she could not have resisted showing him the proof; she could not delay the posting of it (“by return of post” was requested), and it was so much the better; she would astonish him with the paper on Saturday. She went out, dropped her envelope into the nearest pillar, and wandered along the Embankment, night-time though it was. The girls she had avoided—it was better to be alone. The blackness of the river was full of intense meaning; the stars above flashed and burned like beacons; the rush of the night air she drank like wine. Over to the south was a red glare; that was Lambeth—to her a mysterious region of toil and trouble. The fierceness of human conflict had all at once assumed for her the significance of kindred emotion. She, too—only a girl, and without that which in girls is prized—might perhaps find some work in the world. Would they pay her for this contribution? She stood still, as if her breath had been caught. The glare in the south became a mighty illumination of the heavens; it was like the rising of a new sun. She leaned upon the stone parapet, and strove to fix the idea which had shot so into birth. Would they pay her? Might she hope to earn by writing enough to live upon? Mr. Meres had always spoken of that aspect of literature very gloomily; he, indeed, had never ceased to find it the hardest struggle to earn a living. But then he had his children to support....

She turned to go home. On one of the seats which she passed, a wretched woman was huddling herself in her rags, as if preparing to sleep. Ada took out her purse and gave money.

“Who knows?” she said to herself, “my mother may be such an one....”

Thomas Meres was exultant when Ada showed him her achievement. He reminded himself just in time, and only just in time, that excess of laudation was not advisable, but he could not prevent his eyes from twinkling with delight. Hilda was less cautious, nothing less than enthusiasm could satisfy her. Rhoda gave approval, which surprised her sister and her father by its cool moderateness.

Ada had meant to send a copy of the paper to Mrs. Clarendon, but at the last she altered her mind; she could not bear the thought of being misinterpreted. One copy she did dispatch, and that was to Lacour, having pencilled her initials at the end of the article.

At dinner there was of course talk of Academy experiences. It was mentioned that Mr. Kingcote had been met with and introduced.

“There were two pictures by a friend of his, a Mr. Gabriel,” Hilda said, and described what they were. “Mrs. Clarendon couldn’t bear them, but Mr. Kingcote said they were very powerful, and so they seemed to me. I wish I could have looked at them longer and closer, but there was such a crowd.”

“I have seen mention of the ‘Market Night,’” observed her father. “I must manage to get a look at it. I am not surprised Mrs. Clarendon didn’t like it.”

“Oh, but she didn’t look at it from an artistic point of view,” Hilda went on to explain with much zeal. “Very likely it wasn’t a pretty subject, but that has nothing to do with its merits as a picture.”

“You are an advanced young lady,” jested Mr. Meres. “Art for art’s sake, eh? What’s your opinion Ada? Must a picture necessarily be pleasant to look at?”

“It depends what we call pleasant,” hazarded Ada. “I fancy people think very differently about that.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s the fact of the matter. What view did Mr. Kingcote take?”

Ada turned her eyes to Hilda and listened.

“I fancy,” said the girl, with a roguish smile, “he didn’t like to disagree with Mrs. Clarendon; but he thought the picture good for all that. I like Mr. Kingcote, don’t you, Ada?”

The question was unexpected, and Ada was not ready with an answer. She tried to say something natural and off-hand, and could not hit on the right words. To her extreme annoyance, she saw that her embarrassment was attracting attention. Mr. Meres glanced at her, and then showed artificial interest in something at the other end of the room.

“I can’t say that I have thought much about him,” she uttered at length, with exaggerated indifference. She was intensely angry with herself for her utterly groundless difficulty. If she had not thought of Kingcote before, she at all events did so now, and with not a little acrimony.

She and Mr. Meres passed each other by chance about an hour after dinner.

“Will you come and give me some help?” the latter asked.

“Certainly.”

He wanted her to read aloud several pages from a German book, the while he scanned an English translation which was under review. When this was done, he sat musing, and stroked his nose.