He read this through with an air of satisfaction, and posted it on his way to Waterloo Station. The train by which he travelled reached Winstoke at two o’clock. As it was a clear day he walked from the station to the village, which was nearly a mile, then took luncheon at the inn, and reached Knightswell about half-past three. On asking for Miss Warren he was led to the drawing-room.
Ada entered almost immediately. They had not seen each other since the day at South Kensington, and he was astonished at the girl’s appearance. Her face had every mark of illness; there were dark rings about her eyes, her cheeks were colourless, her lips dry and nervous; she had a worn, anxious, feverish look, and the hand she gave him was hot. They exchanged no more than an ordinary friends’ greeting, and Ada seated herself without having met his eyes.
Lacour drew his chair within reach of her, and leaned forward to take one of her hands, which she surrendered passively.
“What has made you look so ill?” he asked, with surprise. “Is it the result of your anxiety for Mrs. Clarendon? Why didn’t you tell me that you were not well?”
“There was nothing necessary to speak of,” she answered, in a voice which seemed to come from a parched throat. “I think I am not quite well, but it’s nothing more than I am used to; I have headaches.”
“You haven’t written to me for a fortnight. Why didn’t you ask me to come and see you?”
“I supposed you would come before long.”
“You don’t seem very glad to see me, now I have come,” said Lacour musingly.
“Yes, I am glad.”
The words had not much life, and the smile with which she accompanied them was as pain-stricken as a smile could be. Lacour, still holding her hand, looked down, his brows contracting.
“You haven’t had any bad news?” he asked all at once, facing her.
“Bad news?”
“It is not anything you have heard that has made you ill?”
“Certainly not. What should I have heard?”
Her tone had sincerity in it, and relieved him from the suspicion that she too might have received an anonymous letter. He leaned back in his chair smiling.
“What should I have heard?” Ada repeated impatiently, examining his face.
“Oh, I don’t know. We are always getting news, and there is so much more of bad than good. Mrs. Clarendon seems to be much better,” he added, slapping his leg with his gloves.
“Yes. You have heard from her?”
“Several times. I had a letter this morning.”
“What did she say?”
“She spoke of the necessary preparations for our marriage.”
Ada was silent. She had several times moved nervously on her chair, and now she seemed compelled by restlessness to change her position. A small ornament on a bracket had got out of position; she went and put it right.
“What preparations?55 she asked, walking to the window.
“I don’t exactly know. She wishes me to see her lawyer. Unfortunately,” he added in a joking tone, “you are not one of those girls whose marriage is a simple matter of the ceremony.”
She turned and came towards him, her hands hanging clasped before her.
“That is something I have to speak of. I cannot mention it to Mrs. Clarendon, and if I tell you now it will be done with. I desire that there shall be no kind of settlement. Nothing of the kind is enacted by the will, and I do not wish it. Will you please to see that my wish is respected?”
“Why is it your wish?”
“I can give no reason. I wish it.”
“I imagine there will be very strong opposition, and not only from Mrs. Clarendon. I expect the trustees will have something to say.”
Ada’s eyes flashed; her whole face showed agitation, passionate impatience.
“What does it matter what they say?” she exclaimed. “What are they to me? What is my future to them? If you refuse to give me an assurance that my one desire shall be respected I must turn to Mrs. Clarendon, and that will be hateful to me! I have asked nothing else; but this I wish.”
“You put as much persistence into it as another would in pleading for exactly the opposite,” remarked Lacour, his coolness contrasting strangely with her agitated vehemence. “You know that a wish of yours is a law to me, and I promise you to agree to nothing you would dislike; remember that they cannot do without my assent. But you see,” he added, “that it is not a very easy thing for me to urge. I have already been made to feel quite sufficiently–”
He interrupted himself. Ada waited for him to resume, still standing before him, but he kept silence.
“What have you been made to feel?” she asked, more quietly, her eyes searchingly fixed on him.
“Well, we won’t speak of that. Why do you stand? Come and let us talk of other things. You do indeed, Ada, look wretchedly ill.”
She averted her face impatiently. Though he had risen and was placing a chair for her, she moved to the window again.
“For my own part,” said Vincent, watching her, “I am grieved that you have set your mind on that. My own resolve was that everything should be settled on you. I hadn’t given the matter a thought till just lately, but well, that is what I had determined.”
Ada turned in his direction.
“You have been corresponding with Mrs. Clarendon?” she said, only half interruptedly. “Yes, you told me. I understand.”
What she understood was clear enough to Lacour, and his silence was filled with a rather vigorous inward debate. A protest of conscience—strengthened by prudential reasons—urged his next words.
“You mustn’t let me convey a false impression. Mrs. Clarendon is delicacy itself; I am quite sure she would not mean–”
He checked himself, naturally confirming the false impression. Conscience had still a voice, but the resolve with which he had come into Ada’s presence grew stronger as he talked with her.
Then she did a curious thing. Coming from the window, she seemed about to walk past him, but, instead of passing, paused just when her dress almost brushed his feet, and stood with her eyes fixed on the ground.
“Do sit down.” Lacour forced himself to say, rising again and laying his hand on the other