Isabel and Ada were alone at Knightswell for a week. Though not in reality nearer to each other, their intercourse was easier than formerly, and chiefly owing to a change in Ada’s manner. Her character seemed to be losing some of its angularities, she was less given to remarks of brusque originality, and entertained common subjects without scornful impatience. She had grown much older in the past six months. The two did not unduly tax each others tolerance; during a great part of the day, indeed, they kept apart; but at meals and in the evenings they found topics for conversation. Ada was taking a holiday; she got as much fresh air as possible, and sketched a good deal.

“Ada, I don’t think you have ever given me one of your sketches,” Isabel said to her one evening, after praising a little water-colour drawn that day.

“Would you care for one?”

“Yes, I should.”

“Any one in particular?”

“Let me see. Yes; I should like the sketch you made of the cottage at Wood End. If you’ll give it me I’ll have it framed for the boudoir.”

Ada kept her eyes fixed on the drawing she held.

“Will you?”

She gazed directly at the speaker; Isabel met her look with steady countenance.

“You can have it; but it isn’t one of my best,” the girl said, still gazing.

“Never mind; it is the one I should like.”

Ada went from the room, and brought back the drawing with her. She was looking at some pencilling on the back.

“Midsummer Day of last year,” she said.

“I know,” was Isabel’s remark. “Thank you.”

As she spoke, she moved nearer, and, as if at an impulse, kissed the giver. Ada reddened deeply, and almost immediately left the room again; nor did she return that evening.

On the morrow they met just as before.

At the end of that week the Strattons came to stay until Mrs. Clarendon’s departure for Scotland, where she was to be the guest of friends. With the colonel and his wife came their eldest son, the young gentleman studying at Sandhurst. He had very much of his father’s shyness, curiously imposed on a disposition fond of display. He liked to show his knowledge of the world, especially of its seamy sides, and, though not a little afraid of her, sought Ada’s society for the purpose of talking in a way which he deemed would be impressive to a girl. There was no harm in his rather simple-minded bravado, and Ada found a malicious pleasure in drawing him out. In her own mind she compared conversation with him to prodding the shallowness of a very muddy stream. Here the stick hit on an unexpected stone; there it sank into ooze not easily fathomed; there again it came in contact with much unassimilated refuse, portions of which could be jerked up to the surface. With the others she seldom spoke, and Isabel also she had begun to avoid again. She took long walks, or read in the open air. Sketching for the present she seemed to have had enough of.

One morning in the second week, Robert Asquith joined the party. He came half-an-hour before luncheon. Isabel and Mrs. Stratton were on the lawn; after a little conversation, the latter moved towards the house.

“By-the-bye,” Robert said, when he was alone with Isabel, “have you heard of the death of Sir Miles Lacour?”

“The death!” exclaimed Isabel. “Indeed I have not.”

“He died last night, in London, after a week’s illness. I heard it by. chance at my club. They say it was the consequence of an accident on the ice last winter.”

Isabel became thoughtful.

“Probably Miss Warren will hear of it very shortly,” Asquith remarked.

“I don’t know, I’m sure. I can’t even say whether she is in communication with Mr. Lacour. But it does not concern us. You won’t, of course, mention the news.”

She spoke of it in private with Mrs. Stratton.

“Whatever the state of things may be,” said the latter, “I don’t see that this can alter it practically. The match becomes a respectable one, that’s all. And he can’t marry at once.”

“Ada, in any case, won’t marry till next June; I’m sure of that,” said Isabel.

Nothing was said openly, nor did Ada appear to receive any news which affected her.

The heat of the weather was excessive; only the mildest kinds of recreation could be indulged in. In the afternoon there was much seeking for cool corners, and a favourite spot was that embowered portion of the shrubbery in which we first saw Isabel. Tea was brought here. Colonel Stratton lay on the grass, deep-contemplative; his wife read a novel; Robert Asquith smoked cigarettes, and was the chief talker. Sandhurst Stratton was in the stables, a favourite haunt, and Ada sat by herself in the library.

Robert talked of Smyrna, and developed projects for settling there, causing Mrs. Stratton every now and then to look up from her book and view him askance.

“By-the-bye,” he said, “who knows a meritorious youth out of employment? An English friend of mine out there writes to ask me to find him a secretary, some one who knows French well, a man of good general education. Can you help me, colonel?”

“‘Fraid not,” murmured the one addressed, whose straw hat had slipped over his eyes.

“What salary does he offer?” inquired Isabel.

“A hundred and fifty pounds, and residence in his own house.”

“Would he take me?” she asked, turning it into a jest.

The subject dropped; but on the following morning, as she was riding with her cousin, Isabel referred to it again.

“Is it the kind of thing,” she asked, “that would suit Mr. Kingcote?”

“Kingcote?” He seemed to refresh his memory. “Does he want something of the sort?”

“A few weeks ago he did. I don’t know that he would care to leave England; but I think it might be suggested to him,” she added, patting her horse’s neck. “He has a sister, a widow, with her two children dependent on him.”

“But, in that case, so small a salary would be no use.”

“I believe he has some small means of his own. If he were disposed to offer himself, would you give him your recommendation?”

“Certainly. If you recommend him it is quite enough.”

“He lived some time on the Continent, and I am sure he would be suitable—unless any knowledge of business is required.”

“None at all; purely private affairs.”

“I should like to have a list,” he said, looking at her with admiration, “of the people you have befriended in your life. Did you ever let one opportunity slip by?”

Isabel reddened, and did not speak.

“Yes, one,” Robert added, bethinking himself.

“What do you refer to?” she asked, still in some confusion, variously caused.

“Myself. Shall we give them a canter?”

After luncheon, Isabel went to her boudoir and sat down at the little writing-table. The sun had been on the windows all the morning, and in spite of curtains the room was very hot; cut flowers surcharged the air with heavy sweetness. She put paper before her, but delayed the commencement of writing. A languor oppressed her; she played with the pen, and listened to the chirping of birds in the trees just outside the windows; there was no other sound.

“Dear Bernard,” she wrote; then paused, resting her head on her hands. Why should he not pass a year so? she was asking herself. The change would be the very thing for him in his deplorable state of mind. There was no harm in her mentioning it, at all events. His moods were impossible to be anticipated; he might be delighted with the chance of going to the East. And it might easily lead to something much better. He would never do anything whilst he remained in London—nothing but suffer. He looked so ill, poor fellow; he would fret himself to death if there came no change. Why not go to Smyrna for a year, until–

She took up her pen again, and at the same moment Mrs. Stratton entered the room.

“Oh, you are busy,” she said.

“Do you want me?” Isabel asked, without turning.

“I was going to read you an account of Fred’s last cricket-match; it’s at full length in a paper I got this morning.”

“Only five minutes; I have just to finish a note.”

She wrote on.

“Dear Bernard,

“I have just heard from Mr. Asquith, whom you know, that an English friend of his in Smyrna wants a secretary, an educated man who knows French. What do you think of going out there for a few months? The salary offered is £150 a year, with residence. Could you leave your sister? I should think so, as your lodgings are so comfortable. I am writing in a great hurry, and of course this is only a suggestion. It would be the best thing possible for your health; wouldn’t it? I leave the day after to-morrow; if you reply at once, I shall get your letter before I go. Mr. Asquith’s recommendation will be sufficient. Try and read this scrawl if you can, for it comes from your own

“Isabel.”

This letter went into the post-bag, and Isabel only thought of it from time to time. On the following afternoon she was again in the arbour, and alone with Asquith. She had found him here talking to Ada, and the latter had subsequently left them.

“Miss Warren is—what shall I say?—considerably humanised since I last talked with her,” Robert observed.

“I notice it.”

When they had exchanged a few words, Isabel spoke of seeking the other people, and rose from her seat.

“Will you stay a minute?” he said, quite composedly.

She did not resume her seat, and did not reply.

“I said something in a jesting way yesterday, which I meant in earnest,” Robert continued, leaning his elbow on a rustic table. “I thought of waiting another year before saying it, but a year after all is a good piece of life.”

“Robert, don’t say it!” she broke in. “I cannot answer as you wish me to, and—it is too painful. It was a jest, and nothing more.”

He took her hand, and she allowed him to hold it.

“Very much more,” he said, with earnestness which did not rob his voice of its pleasant tone. “I am disposed to think that everything has been a jest for a good many years, except that one hope. Do you mean that the hope must be vain?”

“My good, kind cousin! It is so hard to say it. I thought I had made it clear to you, that you understood.”

“What should I have understood, Isabel?”

“That I am not free. I have given my promise.”

He relinquished her hand, after pressing it, and said, with half a smile:

“Then I can only envy him, whoever he may be.”

There was a motion behind the bushes, a rustling as of some one moving away. Robert looked round, but could see no one. Isabel hastily quitted him.

CHAPTER XII

For a couple of days Kingcote had been too unwell to leave the house. For the most part he sat in his own room, with the windows darkened; his head was racked with pain. Mary’s anxious pleading to be allowed to send for aid drove him to angry resistance. He could not talk with her, and could not bear to have her sitting by him in silence. He wished to be alone.

On the third morning he did not rise at the usual time; Mary went to his room and entered. Her coming woke him from a light slumber; he said he had been awake through the night, and felt as if now he could sleep. An hour later she returned, and again he woke.

“Has any letter come this morning?” he asked.

“Yes, there is one. I thought I had better leave it till–”

“Let me have it at once!” he exclaimed fretfully. “You should not have kept it.”

There was fever on his lips, and his eyes had an alarming brightness. When Mary returned, he was sitting in expectation, and took the letter eagerly. She left the room as he began to read it.

It could not have been a quarter of an hour before Mary, who was just about to take up such breakfast as she thought he might accept, saw her brother descend the stairs.

“I have to go out,” he said. “Give me a cup of tea; I want nothing more.”

She turned into their sitting-room, and he followed her.

“But you mustn’t go out, Bernard,” she objected timidly, looking at him in distress. “You are not fit–”

“I have to go,” he repeated, in a dogged manner. “Is there tea here? If you won’t give me any I must go without it.”

“But you are so ill, dear! Bernard, do, do wait till you are better! I cannot let you go out like this!”

He looked at her, and spoke with perfect calmness.

“I am not ill. My head is much better. I am going into the country, and it will do me good.”

“Are you going to Knightswell?” she asked, laying a hand gently upon him.

“Yes, I am. She goes into Scotland tomorrow; I must see her before. I am dreadfully thirsty. Give me some tea, Mary, there’s a good girl.”

When she brought it from the kitchen, he had his hat in his hand. She in vain tried to persuade him to eat. He said he should have an appetite when he reached Winstoke. In a few minutes he was ready to start.

“I may be late back; don’t trouble yourself about me.”

“But I shall trouble dreadfully about you, Bernard; how can I help?”

But she was as helpless to prevent his going. He merely waved his hand, and hastened into the street.

He knew by heart all the trains by which he could reach Winstoke. One at twenty minutes to eleven he should not be able to catch, and the next was at five minutes past twelve; for that he had more than enough time. He loitered on till an omnibus should overtake him; fortunately the first that came was one which would carry him as far as Charing Cross. He sat through the journey with closed eyes; at every jolt of the vehicle it was as though a blow fell upon his aching brain. Alighting at Charing Cross, he proceeded to pass the river by the foot-bridge; the clock at Westminster told him that it was only half-past eleven. At one time he had never crossed this bridge without pausing to admire the fine view eastwards, the finest obtainable, from any point, of the City of London; the river winding on beneath many arches, the dome of St. Paul’s crowning the hilly mass of edifices, and beyond it the dark-drifting vapours of the region of toil. Even now he leaned upon the parapet, but only to look down into the dull, gross, heavy-flowing stream. He took from his pocket the letter which he had received from Isabel, and tore it mechanically into small fragments; they fell from his hands, wavered downwards in the still, hot air, and made specks upon the water. Thames knows many such offerings.

Yet he had to wait at Waterloo, and the last few minutes were the most impatient. Then it seemed to him that he travelled for hours and hours. Constantly he looked at his watch; when it assured him that but a few minutes had passed, he examined it in the belief that it had stopped. With his impatience his fever grew. His brain throbbed to agony; he could not bear to look at the sunlight on the meadows.

There were two young people, a man and a girl, travelling with him for some distance; they seemed a couple recently wedded. It was holiday with them; they talked over what they would do at the place to which they were going, talked and laughed right joyfully. The sick man who sat opposite, perforce hearing and seeing their happiness, hated them as he had never hated mortal.

The end came. With difficulty he descended from the carriage; then drew back for a few moments under the shed of the station, to recover from his dizziness and shield his eyes against the light. In walking towards Knightswell the sun was full in his face; he held his hands clasped upon his brows as a shelter. Quicker and quicker he paced on strangely, he could not feel the ground upon which he trod; he often stumbled.

It was not necessary to go round to the front gates. There was an entrance to the back of the park, and through this he passed. It led him into the garden by the rear of the shrubbery; to reach the house-door he would have to go past the arbour, where, at this moment, Isabel and her cousin were together. He came near, and, through the leaves, saw them.

Isabel stood looking down at Asquith, who, holding her hands, seemed to speak affectionately. Kingcote did not watch them. He turned, pushed between boughs, and, without consciousness of purpose, went from the garden into the park again....

He was standing by a great elm-tree, his arms hanging at his sides, his eyes fixed on the ground. He must have stood there long and unmoving, for a rabbit nibbled a few paces off. Presently the rabbit showed its white tail in flight. Kingcote saw a shadow move near to him; he looked up, and there was Ada Warren.

She uttered his name with surprise; then the sight of his face held her speechless. He seemed to recognise her, for a dreadful smile came to his lips; but, without speaking, he walked from the spot, shielding his eyes with one hand. Ada gazed after him for a moment, then hastened up to him again.

“Mr. Kingcote, are you ill?—can I help you?”

He smiled in the same way as before, and shook his head.

“No; you can’t help me,” he rather muttered than spoke, only half facing her.

“Are you going to London?”

“To London, yes,” was his answer.

And he pursued his way....

Ada went to the house. Mrs. Stratton was in the drawing-room.

“Can you tell me where Mrs. Clarendon is?” the girl asked of her.

“She has gone up to her room, Ada,” was the reply. “Do you want her? She has a little headache, and meant to lie down for an hour.”

“In that case I won’t trouble her; it is nothing.”

She wandered back into the park. King-cote was long since out of sight. She went as far as the gate leading out into the road, and stood by it for a long time....

He did not walk towards Winstoke station, but turned into a lane which would bring him to Salcot East. Going slowly at first, even standing still at times, his pace at length quickened, and before long he was walking at his utmost speed. Even thus, it took him an hour and a half to reach Salcot. He went straight to the post-office, which was also a shop where stationery and very various things were sold. Having purchased paper and a large envelope, he wrote this:

“I cannot please you by leaving England, but there are much simpler ways of giving you what you wish. I send your portrait. It is a long time since I have dared to look at it, and I cannot do so now. May you be happy!”

He enclosed Isabel’s picture, without taking it from the envelope in which he always carried it about with him; then addressed the letter to her and posted it.

He walked towards the railway station. Ah, there was the inn at which he lost his purse; he stood and looked at it for a moment. He looked, too, towards the branching of the old and the new roads to Winstoke. He had chosen the old road that day; it was picturesque. Even so it looked now, descending into the hollows, leafy, grass-grown, peaceful. To what had it led him!

He found at the station that there would not be a train for nearly two hours. But he dreaded waiting; motion was imperative. He would walk back again to Winstoke station, by the way he had come, and catch the train there. His head did not ache so badly now. Though he had eaten nothing all day, hunger he felt none, but much thirst. He remembered a stream on the way, and hastened that he might reach it.

The stream he had in view ran across the lane; he made his way into the field, lay down, and drank at a convenient spot. The water had an ill taste, or seemed to have, but it refreshed him. Still, he found it hard to rise again; a heaviness tempted him to rest here. His head lay upon his arm, and for a time he dozed.

Then up and on again, or he would miss the train. The last half-mile he walked by the railway. He was not yet in sight of the station when the train he had hoped to take came along. He watched it with a strange sort of indifference, as if incapable of the effort of feeling annoyed. Nothing greatly mattered, it seemed as if nothing henceforth would greatly matter. Still more singular, he found himself confused with the idea of the future, unable to make it a subject of conscious speculation. His mind was occupied with a fixed idea that his life had been, as it were, broken off short, and had a ragged edge; no forward continuity seemed possible.

It was a possession; he could not think of the details of his present, scarcely suffered from the thought of what he had done; his trouble took the shape of an intellectual difficulty. Wrestling with it he walked straight on, past the station, and in a direction away from Winstoke. His mental distress was the same in kind as that we experience when striving with wearied faculties to see clearly into a mathematical problem, a dogged exertion of the brain, painful, acharné, but accompanied with a terrible desolation of the heart. He would half forget what had brought him to this pass, and set to work to review events. There were no passionate outbreaks; a dead weight lay upon his emotions, and vitality was in the brain alone. He did not even pity himself; the calamity which crushed him was too vast.

He was conscious again of a torturing thirst, and the object of his progress became to discover a wayside inn where he might drink. He came to one at last, and entered it very much as any pedestrian might have done. What could they give him to drink?—he asked. Beer; no, for beer he had no palate. They had spirits. He diluted two half-tumblers, and drank them off in quick succession. A couple of men were talking in the parlour, discussing politics. One of them jocularly appealed to him, and he replied energetically, laying down the law on a subject which never occupied his thoughts, or had not done for years. Again he set forth, with understanding that he must make for Winstoke station. His limbs were of iron, he had not a sensation of weariness. The sun was no longer shining; there were clouds in the west, and the evening was drawing on. Again with dogged mental effort he clung to the fact that his end was Winstoke station; he did not question but that he was on the right road. On and on, and it grew dusk about him. Presently something shot painfully into his eyes; it was a flash of summer lightning; no thunder followed. He pressed his hands against his head, and moaned a little. The flashes became frequent, and then, of a sudden, the strength of his limbs failed him. He would have to rest, and the grassy edge of the road gave an opportunity. He lay down at full length, and hid his face; the lightning pained him too much.

It was as if he slept, but always with the weight of shapeless woe burdening his heart and brain. He turned at times, and knew that he was lying by the road-side, knew, too, that night was coming on, but was powerless to rise. He talked much and loud, inveighed with forceful bitterness against some one who had done him a wrong, vast and vague. If he could but get one hours quiet sleep; and that cruel tormentor would not suffer him....

The summer lightning ceased, and it grew very dark. Over the meadows swept a warm wind, bearing mysterious voices, wafting sobs and sighs. Then a cloud broke, and rain began to fall....

That night Mary sat long after every one else in the house had gone to rest. Till eleven o’clock she was only in a vague uneasiness, an anxious expectation of her brother’s return; when midnight came her fears were excited. She constantly opened her window and looked up and down the street. It had rained since evening, and the street lamps shimmered drearily on the wet pavement. It grew too late to hope for his return.

It was easy to find plausible explanations of his absence, if only they could have given her genuine comfort. What more simple than that Bernard should have remained for the night either in Mrs. Clarendon’s house, or with his friend the rector, of whom she had heard so much? Possibly there might not be a telegraph-office near enough to allow of his relieving her by a message, as he assuredly would wish to do. Her reason listened, but she could not overcome the presage of evil which had lurked in her heart since he left home. He was utterly unfit to take such a journey; his condition, she knew, was graver than he had been willing to admit. If illness prostrated him somewhere, quite away from friends, what would become of him? She could not try to sleep. The misery of suspense was scarcely to be borne.

She rose at a very early hour, and tried to occupy herself till the arrival of the post; if all were well, she could not but have a line of explanation. He had spoken of possibly being late, but not of remaining away all night; it would be cruelty most unlike him if he had not anticipated her anxiety. But the postman came and for her brought nothing. With difficulty she discharged her morning duties to the children. The trial was harder to bear because of her loneliness. The engraver and his wife from whom their rooms were rented, belonged to a decent class of people, but Kingcote had uniformly discouraged anything like intimacy with them. Mary could not relieve her mind with interchange of suggestion and encouragement. When the children had gone to school, she sat at the open window, watching the end of the street with painful intentness. Often she deceived herself into a belief that she had caught sight of him, but a moment undid her hope.

What should she do if he neither came nor sent news of himself? There was but one source of help; she must write to Mrs. Clarendon. Only the extremest need could justify that; but what point was to be the limit of her endurance? She dare not wait for day after day to pass. One day she must live through, with what strength she might be able to summon. If he still remained silent, evil had surely befallen him.

It was about three o’clock in the afternoon, when, still looking from the window, she saw a policeman pause before the house, and ring the bell. Any unknown visitor would have filled her with apprehension; the sight of this one shook her with terror. She could not let any one else go to the door, it was so certain that the visit must be for her. It did not seem by her own strength that she reached the foot of the stairs; she opened, and stood for an instant in fearful waiting.

The constable made inquiry if any person of the name of Kingcote was known in the house.

“Yes. I am his sister.”

“We have received information,” the man continued, “that a Mr. B. Kingcote has been brought to the hospital at Lindow, in –shire, in an insensible state, and lies there very ill.”

He showed her a telegram from the police-station in the town of Lindow. She looked at it, but could not read.

“May I keep this?” she asked.

He allowed her to do so, and, after naming the line of railway by which Lindow could be reached, took his departure with constabulary tramp.

Mary had to act, and she found the strength. She went to her landlady, communicated in part the news she had received, and begged that the children might be cared for in case she should have to be absent through the night. The charge was readily undertaken. Then she took a cab and drove to Gabriel’s lodgings. This was the only friend whose aid she could seek. Gabriel put himself at her disposal immediately, discovered the first train to Lindow, and, better still, offered to accompany her.

“Is it far?” Mary asked, moved to her first tears by the blessed relief of a friend’s helpful presence.

“A journey of two hours and a quarter,” Gabriel replied. “We shall be there a little after six.”

They had not too much time to reach Waterloo Station, even with the aid of a cab.

“What on earth does this mean?” Gabriel asked as they went along.

“He left home yesterday very ill,” she answered, “to go to—to Winstoke, to see friends.”

“What friends?” asked the artist, with his natural abruptness. “Why did he go when he was ill?”

Mary professed that she knew nothing certainly, and after that they scarcely exchanged half-a-dozen words all the way to their destination. Lindow is some ten miles nearer to London than Winstoke, a flourishing market-town. They had no difficulty in finding the hospital; it was a very new building in the centre of the town. The house-surgeon came to them in the waiting-room; a young-looking man, with an apparent difficulty in suppressing native high spirits; he seemed often on the point of chuckling as he talked with them. The information he had to give amounted to this: Kingcote had been found early in the morning lying by the road-side a mile out of the town, and found, as good luck would have it, by a doctor, who was driving past. The respectable attire of the prostrate man had naturally invited close inspection, with the result that he was discovered to be in a state of coma. The night-long rain had completely soaked his garments. Robbery with violence had at the first glance suggested itself; but, on examination, watch and purse was found untouched. He was carried straightway to the hospital. A letter in his pocket had disclosed his name and address, and the police had been communicated with. He lay at present in high fever; there had been as yet no return of consciousness.

The house-surgeon proceeded to interrogations, several of them so obviously needless that Gabriel made decisive interposal.

“The facts seem to be these,” he said at length: “Our friend, Mr. Kingcote, left London yesterday morning to see friends in Winstoke. The need being urgent, he set forth in an unfit state, having suffered for two or three days from severe headache and feverish symptoms. He had, Mrs. Jalland tells us, experienced a good deal of mental trouble for some time. I suppose we may take it for granted that he, for some reason or other, tried to walk to your town here, and failed by the way.”

The medical man gave a somewhat grudging assent to these propositions, as probably true. Mary, at her pressing wish, was then permitted to see her brother. The doctor could not tell her as yet whether or not the fever was infectious; mindful of her children, she kept at some distance from the bedside. Poor Kingcote lay in a sad state. There was no intelligence in his wide eyes; he muttered incessantly.

“My proposal is this,” said Gabriel, when she returned to him in the waiting-room, “you had better take a lodging in the town, and I will fetch the children to you. Can they be left where they are over night?”

They could; so Gabriel would bring them in the morning. The house-surgeon was able to suggest a likely quarter for finding lodgings, and Mary rested at the hospital—subject to much interrogation—whilst her friend sought and discovered a suitable abode.