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Isabel Clarendon, Vol. II (of II). George Gissing
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Автор произведения George Gissing
Жанр Зарубежная классика
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Ada raised her face and looked at him.
“Plenty of time?”
“Surely. I have begged Mrs. Clarendon to remember how anxious we both are to do nothing hastily, to leave her ample time for the arrangements she will find necessary,—her own, I mean. I am sure I represented your wish?”
“Certainly,” was the scarcely audible reply.
“It will of course be some time before she is perfectly strong,” Vincent pursued, noting with much satisfaction what he deemed a proof of the strength of her passion for him; she was so clearly disappointed. “Such an illness must have pulled her down seriously. I should think by the summer she will be herself again. It is wretched that we are so utterly dependent on others, and are bound to act with such cautious regard.”
“You have fixed the summer, in your correspondence with her?”
“Oh no! I leave it quite open. But we cannot, of course, wait for ever.”
Ada sat motionless, her hands in her lap. Her features were fixed in hard, blank misery. No wonder the girl looked ill. Ever since the day on which she wrote to Lacour her acceptance of his offer, life had been to her a mere battle of passions. When time and the events which so rapidly succeeded had dulled the memory of that frenzy which drove her to the step, of set purpose she nursed all the dark and resentful instincts of her nature, that they might support her to the end. Pride was an ally; if it cost her her life she would betray by no sign the suffering she had brought upon herself. She blinded her feelings, strove to crush her heart when it revolted against her self-imposed deception that she loved this man who would become her husband. Had she not found a pleasure in his society? Did not his attentions flatter and even move her? And ever she heard a voice saying that he cared nothing for her, that she had a face which could attract no man, that her money alone drew him to her, and that voice was always Mrs. Clarendon’s. Hatred of Isabel was in moments almost madness. It seemed in some horribly unnatural way to be increased by the sight of the pale and suffering face; a wretched perversion poisoned the sympathy which showed itself in many an act of kindness. The struggle with her better nature brought her at times near to delirium. When Isabel’s convalescence began, Ada counted the days. She knew that Lacour would not postpone their marriage an hour later than necessity demanded; her strength would surely hold out a few more weeks. That he did not come to see her was at once a relief and a source of bitterness; his letters she read with a mixture of eagerness and cold criticism. She stirred herself to factitious passion, excited all the glowing instincts, all the dormant ardours, of her being—and shivered before the flame. Every motive that could render marriage desirable she dwelt upon till it should become part of her hourly consciousness. The life she would lead when marriage had given her freedom was her constant forethought. She was made for enjoyment, and would enjoy. For her should exist no petty social rules, no conventional hypocrisies. In London her house should be a gathering-place of Bohemians. She herself did not lack brains, and her wealth would bring people about her. She would be a patroness of art and letters, would make friends of actresses who needed helping to opportunities of success, of artists who were struggling against unmerited neglect. Reading had filled her mind with images of such a world; was it not better than that dull sphere which styled itself exclusive?.... When at length Mrs. Clarendon left Knightswell to go to the Strattons, Ada promised herself that any morning might bring a definite proposal of a day for her wedding. With difficulty she restrained herself from asking when it was to be. She had put aside every doubt, every fear, every regret; her life burned towards that day which would complete her purpose. And now....
“But we must see each other oftener,” Lacour was saying. “If Mrs. Clarendon will welcome me–”
She interrupted him harshly.
“Is Mrs. Clarendon the only person you consult henceforth?”
“My dear Ada, you mustn’t misunderstand a mere form of politeness.”
“Such forms have always been disagreeable to me.”
She rose and moved to the fire-place. Lacour watched her from under his eyebrows. It grew more and more evident how strong was his hold upon her; he asked himself whether a little innocent quarrel might not best serve his ends.
“I am wearying you,” he said, rising.
She could not let him go without plain question and answer; it seemed to her that she had reached the limit of endurance, that her strength would fail under the trial of another hour. Yet her lips would form no word.
“In what have I displeased you, Ada?” Vincent inquired, with an air of much surprise.
“Clearly I have done so. Pray tell me what I have said or done.”
She turned from the fire and faced him.
“When is it your intention for our marriage to take place?”
Lacour was suspicious again. This astounding eagerness must be the result of some information she had received; she dreaded to lose him. Did not her desire about the settlement somehow depend upon the same cause?
“Surely I have no interest in putting it off,” he said, his head a little on one side, his most delicate smile in full play.
“But you think it had better not be before the summer?”
“Is not that best? I have no will but yours, Ada.”
“I think,” she replied slowly, “that it shall be, not this summer, but the summer of next year.”
“A year and a half still? For whatever reason?” he cried.
“I shall come of age then,” she continued, looking past him with vague eyes. “I need consult no one then about my wishes.”
“My dear Ada, you surely do not think I hesitated–”
“No,” she said firmly, “but it will be better. Have I your consent to this?”
He walked away a few steps, desperately puzzled, exasperated, by the necessity of answering yes or no, when more than he could imagine might depend upon the choice.
“This is a joke, Ada!” he said, coming back with disturbed countenance.
“Nothing less. I ask you to postpone our marriage till I am twenty-one.”
Her eyes did not move from his face. If he had said, “We will be married next week,” she would have given him her hand in assent. Surely at that moment the air must have been full of invisible mocking spirits, waiting, waiting in delicious anticipation of human folly.
“If that is your wish,” Lacour said, “I cannot oppose it.” He had assumed dignity.
“My constancy, Ada, can bear a test of eighteen months.”
“I will let Mrs. Clarendon know,” Ada observed quietly. “It will relieve her mind.”
Should he leave her thus? He hesitated for a moment. Pooh! As if he could not whistle her back whenever it suited him to do so; women appreciate a display of dignity and firmness. He held his hand in silence, and, when she gave him hers, he just touched it with his lips. As he moved to the door he expected momently to hear his name uttered, to find himself recalled. No; she allowed him to disappear. He left the house rather hurriedly, and not in an entirely sweet temper, in spite of the fact that he had gained the very end he had in view, and which he had feared would be so difficult of attainment, would necessitate such a succession of hypocrisies and small conflicts.
How the imps in the air exploded as soon as he was gone!
CHAPTER II
Mrs. Stratton was summoned home by her husband’s arrival just before Christmas. Isabel preferred to delay yet a little, and reached Chislehurst a fortnight later, accomplishing the journey with the assistance of her maid only. It proved rather too much for her strength, and for a day or two she had to keep her room. Then she joined the family, very pale still, and not able to do