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Advanced Technologies,
Systems, and Applications
IV - Proceedings of
the International
Symposium on Innovative
and Interdisciplinary
Applications of Advanced
Technologies (IAT 2019)
Lecture Notes in Networks and Systems
Volume 83
Series Editor
Janusz Kacprzyk, Systems Research Institute, Polish Academy of Sciences,
Warsaw, Poland
Advisory Editors
Fernando Gomide, Department of Computer Engineering and Automation—DCA,
School of Electrical and Computer Engineering—FEEC, University of
Campinas—UNICAMP, São Paulo, Brazil
Okyay Kaynak, Department of Electrical and Electronic Engineering, Bogazici
University, Istanbul, Turkey
Derong Liu, Department of Electrical and Computer Engineering, University of
Illinois at Chicago, Chicago, USA; Institute of Automation, Chinese Academy of
Sciences, Beijing, China
Witold Pedrycz, Department of Electrical and Computer Engineering, University of
Alberta, Alberta, Canada; Systems Research Institute, Polish Academy of Sciences,
Warsaw, Poland
Marios M. Polycarpou, Department of Electrical and Computer Engineering
KIOS Research Center for Intelligent Systems and Networks, University of
Cyprus, Nicosia, Cyprus
Imre J. Rudas, Óbuda University, Budapest, Hungary
Jun Wang, Department of Computer Science, City University of Hong Kong,
Kowloon, Hong Kong
The series “Lecture Notes in Networks and Systems” publishes the latest
developments in Networks and Systems—quickly, informally and with high quality.
Original research reported in proceedings and post-proceedings represents the core
of LNNS.
Volumes published in LNNS embrace all aspects and subfields of, as well as new
challenges in, Networks and Systems.
The series contains proceedings and edited volumes in systems and networks,
spanning the areas of Cyber-Physical Systems, Autonomous Systems, Sensor
Networks, Control Systems, Energy Systems, Automotive Systems, Biological
Systems, Vehicular Networking and Connected Vehicles, Aerospace Systems,
Automation, Manufacturing, Smart Grids, Nonlinear Systems, Power Systems,
Robotics, Social Systems, Economic Systems and other. Of particular value to both
the contributors and the readership are the short publication timeframe and the
world-wide distribution and exposure which enable both a wide and rapid
dissemination of research output.
The series covers the theory, applications, and perspectives on the state of the art
and future developments relevant to systems and networks, decision making, control,
complex processes and related areas, as embedded in the fields of interdisciplinary
and applied sciences, engineering, computer science, physics, economics, social, and
life sciences, as well as the paradigms and methodologies behind them.
Ismar Volić
Editors
Advanced Technologies,
Systems, and Applications
IV - Proceedings
of the International
Symposium on Innovative
and Interdisciplinary
Applications of Advanced
Technologies (IAT 2019)
123
Editors
Samir Avdaković Aljo Mujčić
Faculty of Electrical Engineering Elektrotehnički Fakultet
University of Sarajevo Univerzitet u Tuzli
Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina Tuzla, Bosnia and Herzegovina
Ismar Volić
Department of Mathematics
Wellesley College
Wellesley, MA, USA
This Springer imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Switzerland AG
The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland
About this Book
v
Contents
vii
viii Contents
Aljo Mujčić was born in 1969 in Dubrave Gornje, Bosnia and Herzegovina. He
received his B.S. in electrical engineering from the University of Belgrade,
Belgrade, former Yugoslavia, in 1992; his M.S. in electrical engineering from the
University of Tuzla, Tuzla, Bosnia and Herzegovina, in 1999; and his Ph.D. from
the University of Ljubljana, Slovenia, in 2004. From 1993 to 2001, he was
Teaching Assistant at the University of Tuzla. From 2001 to 2004, he was with the
Faculty of Electrical Engineering at the University of Ljubljana, engaged in a
research project on high-speed digital power line communication over high-voltage
power lines. He is currently Full Professor in the Department of
Telecommunications, Faculty of Electrical Engineering, University of Tuzla. He
published five textbooks and more than 70 journal and conference research papers.
He participated in more than ten research projects. He was involved in developing
graduate and undergraduate courses in the areas of electronics and telecommuni-
cations. His research interests include embedded systems, signal processing, optical
access networks, and modeling of nonlinear components.
Adnan Mujezinović received his M.Sc. and Ph.D. in electrical engineering from
the Faculty of Electrical Engineering, University of Sarajevo (Bosnia and
xiii
xiv About the Authors
Herzegovina), in 2011 and 2017, respectively. From 2012, he has been with the
same faculty as a teaching assistant and currently as an assistant professor. His
research interests include numerical calculations of electromagnetic fields, cathodic
protection, and grounding systems.
Taik Uzunović received the B.Eng. and M.Eng. in electrical engineering from the
University of Sarajevo, Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina, and Ph.D. in mecha-
tronics from Sabanci University, Istanbul, Turkey, in 2008, 2010, and 2015,
respectively. He is Assistant Professor with the Department of Automatic Control
and Electronics, Faculty of Electrical Engineering, University of Sarajevo,
Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina. His research interests include motion control,
robotics, and mechatronics.
1 Introduction
This paper is concerned with the Taylor tower for the space of embeddings
Emb(S 2 , N ), where S 2 is the 2-sphere and N is a smooth manifold (precise
definition of Emb(S 2 , N ) can be found in Sect. 2). Namely, this is a tower of
“approximations” of Emb(S 2 , N ),
Emb(S 2 , N ) −→ T∞ Emb(S 2 , N ) → · · · → Tk Emb(S 2 , N ) → · · · → T0 Emb(S 2 , N ) (1)
providing an iterative way of defining the stages. The advantage is that all the
diagrams involved in the procedure are finite.
More detail about the construction of the Taylor tower and the process of
“punching holes” can be found in Sect. 2. The main result of this paper, Theo-
rem 3.1, simply says that this can be done in an easy (k+1)-step process, and the
proof provides an algorithm for doing so. The same procedure can be performed
for a general space of embeddings of any smooth manifold M in N , but the case
of S 2 is particularly nice since one arrives at embeddings of balls fast and in a
combinatorially clean way.
We emphasize that all that we are essentially providing is a fairly straightfor-
ward algorithm of reducing S 2 to subsets that are homotopy equivalent to unions
of balls. What is still needed is a way of organizing these equivalences so that
they are compatible with the maps in the diagrams involved in the procedure.
We will say more about this in the comments following the the proof of Theo-
rem 3.1. We will also discuss how our procedure mimics a similar process that
led to the cosimplicial model for the space of long knots, which has in turn been
used to great effect in furthering our understanding of the topology of spaces
of knots. We hope that the constructions in this paper will also lead to such a
model and provide new insight into Emb(S 2 , N ).
X1 I
II
I$
X2 / X12
X3 F / X13
FFF III
" I$
X23 / X123
Toward Finite Models for the Stages of the Taylor Tower 3
Of main interest here is the homotopy limit ofa punctured k-cube, which is the
subspace of the product of mapping spaces S∈P0 (k) Map(Δ|S| → XS ) given
by certain compatibilities that naturally generalize the compatibilities in the
ordinary limit in a way that endows the homotopy limit with homotopy invari-
ance. The homotopy pullback is an example of such a homotopy limit where the
punctured cube has dimension 2.
Now let S 2 be the 2-sphere, N any smooth manifold of dimension n, and
define Emb(S 2 , N ) to be the space of embeddings of S 2 in N , namely the set of
smooth injective maps with injective derivative topologized using the Whitney
C ∞ topology. Let Imm(S 2 , N ) be the space of immersions of S 2 in N , defined
the same way except the maps need not be injective.
To define the Taylor tower for Emb(S 2 , N ), let O(S 2 ) be the poset of open
subsets of S 2 and Ok (S 2 ) the subposet of O(S 2 ) consisting of open subsets that
are diffeomorphic to at most k open balls.
Definition 2.2. For k ≥ 0, the k th stage of the Taylor tower for Emb(S 2 , N )
is defined as
Tk Emb(S 2 , N ) = holim2 Emb(V, N ) (2)
V ∈Ok (S )
The goal of this paper is to systematically unravel this procedure, i.e. give
a description of Tk Emb(S 2 , N ) as an iterated homotopy limit of diagrams of
embeddings of 2-balls in N .
Remark 2.5. Everything that has been said so far, including the description of
the process of “punching holes”, still holds when S 2 is replaced by an arbitrary
manifold M . The advantage of using S 2 is that in this case we can easily under-
stand and control the way one arrives at a union of open balls by systematically
removing closed sets from S 2 .
In this section we carry out the “punching holes” procedure outlined in the
previous section. Theorem 3.1 gives the statement of the main result, but its
proof is the more interesting part since it gives an explicit algorithm for the
iterative process. Following the proof, we provide some comments and examples
illustrating the main construction.
To set some notation before the proof, let Aj denote the open 2-ball with
j holes. More precisely, this is the open 2-ball D2 with j ≥ 0 subsets that are
homeomorphic to closed 2-disks removed. Note that A1 is the ordinary open
annulus and A0 is the open ball D2 . Let N as usual be a smooth manifold.
⎛ ⎞ ⎛ ⎞
Tk Emb ⎝S 2 − Ci , N ⎠ holim Tk Emb ⎝S 2 − Ci1 − CS1 ,i2 , N ⎠ .
S2 ∈P0 (k+1)
i∈S1 i1 ∈S1 i2 ∈S2
It is clear that
⎛ ⎞
S2 − Ci1 − CS1 ,i2 ⎝ D2 ⎠ ∪ A|S1 |−2 . (7)
i1 ∈S1 i2 ∈S2 |S2 |−1
If |S1 | = 2, the space (7) is equivalent to |S2 | D2 . Then by (4) and (5), we
have equivalences
⎧ ⎛ ⎞
⎪
⎪
⎪
⎪ ⎝ D2 , N ⎠ ,
⎪
⎨Emb |S2 | ≤ k;
Tk Emb S 2 − Ci1 − CS1 ,i2 , N |S2 |
⎪
⎪
i1 ∈S1 i2 ∈S2 ⎪
⎪
⎪
⎩Emb D2 , N , |S2 | > k.
k
(8)
If |S1 | > 2, then, for each such S1 and for each S2 , we choose closed disjoint
subsets CS1 ,S2 ,i3 , 1 ≤ i3 ≤ k+1 of S 2 such that, when some of them are removed,
the number of holes in A|S1 |−2 is reduced by one and some disjoint 2-balls are
created. More precisely, we have
Toward Finite Models for the Stages of the Taylor Tower 7
Tk Emb S 2 − Ci1 − CS1 ,i2 , N
i1 ∈S1 i2 ∈S2
holim Tk Emb S 2 − Ci1 − CS1 ,i2 − CS1 ,S2 ,i3 , N
S3 ∈P0 (k+1)
i1 ∈S1 i2 ∈S2 i3 ∈S3
with
⎛ ⎞
S2 − Ci1 − CS1 ,i2 − CS1 ,S2 ,i3 ⎝ D2 ⎠ ∪ A|S1 |−3 (9)
i1 ∈S1 i2 ∈S2 i3 ∈S2 |S2 |+|S3 |−2
Now if |S1 | = 3, this is equivalent to a union of |S2 | + |S3 | − 1 balls and we have
⎧ ⎛ ⎞
⎪
⎪
⎛ ⎞ ⎪
⎪Emb ⎝ D , N⎠ ,
2
|S2 | + |S3 | − 1 ≤ k;
⎪
⎨
Tk Emb ⎝ D2 , N ⎠ |S2 |+|S3 |−1
(10)
⎪
⎪
|S2 |+|S3 |−1 ⎪
⎪ 2
⎩Emb
⎪ D ,N , |S2 | + |S3 | − 1 > k.
k
with
S2 − Ci1 − CS1 ,i2 −· · ·− CS1 ,...,Sl ,il+1 D2 ∪A|S1 |−(l+1)
i1 ∈S1 i2 ∈S2 il+1 ∈Sl+1 |S2 |+···+|Sl+1 |−l
(11)
Then if |S1 | = l + 1, this is the union of |S2 | + · · · + |Sl+1 | − l + 1 balls and we
have, again by (4) and (5),
⎛ ⎞
Tk Emb ⎝ D2 , N )⎠
|S2 |+···+|Sl+1 |−l+1
⎧ ⎛ ⎞
⎪
⎪
⎪
⎪ ⎝
⎪
⎨Emb D2 , N ⎠ , |S2 | + · · · + |Sl+1 | − l + 1 ≤ k;
|S2 |+···+|Sl+1 |−l+1
⎪
⎪
⎪
⎪
⎪Emb
⎩ D2 , N , |S2 | + · · · + |Sl+1 | − l + 1 > k.
k
8 A. Bolić et al.
Thus after l iterations, all the spaces in the inital punctured cube indexed
by S1 with |S1 | ≤ l have been replaced by iterated homotopy limits of diagrams
of embeddings where the spaces being embedded are homotopy equivalent to
unions of at most k balls.
The process terminates after k + 1 steps with the case |S1 | > k, i.e. with
|S1 | = k + 1 At the end, all the spaces in the initial punctured cube defining
Tk Emb(S 2 , N ) have been replaced by iterated homotopy limits of diagrams of
embeddings of at most k balls in N .
Remark 3.2. The largest possible number of balls is when the cardinality of all
Si is k + 1, in whichcase |S2 | + · · · + |Sk+1 | −k + 1 = k 2 + 1 (but as usual we
can replace Tk Emb( k2 +1 D2 , N ) by Tk Emb( k D2 , N )).
Here are some comments on Theorem 3.1, its proof, and further directions.
• The main omission of the result is that, while we have replaced S 2 −
(closed subsets) by unions of balls and balls with holes, we have not consis-
tently defined the maps that would make the original diagrams of embedding
spaces homotopy equivalent – as diagrams – to diagrams of embeddings of
balls and balls with holes. What is required is to define maps from embed-
dings of balls to embeddings of more balls in a way that is consistent across
the diagram. This leads to:
• Focusing on the case N = Rn , one of the uses for this construction would be
to come up with a cosimplicial model for Emb(S 2 , Rn ) in the spirit of what
was done for (long) knots Emb(S 1 , Rn ) [Sin09]. The cosimplicial model for
knots was a way to resolve the issue of “doubling” maps between embed-
dings of balls (1-balls in that case) and embeddings of more balls. This led to
many exciting results and provided a deep understanding of the cohomology
of Emb(S 1 , R≥4 ) [LTV10,ALTV08] and finite type invariants of Emb(S 1 , R3 )
[BCKS14,BCSS05,Vol06].
The setup in the knot case was to replace each Emb( j D1 , Rn ) with the
homotopy equivalent configuration space Conf(j, Rn ) (there would also be
a Stiefel manifold as a factor here, but it can be “removed” by passing to
the homotopy fiber of the inclusion of embedding to immersions, as is com-
monly done in this setup). Then the restriction maps Emb( j D1 , Rn ) →
Emb( j+1 D1 , Rn ) are replaced by doubling maps on compactifications of
corresponding configuration space. Putting all these doubling maps together
gives a cosimplicial space whose partial totalizations are precisely the stages
of the Taylor tower for knots.
Like in
the knot case, the goal in this setup would be to replace each
Emb( j D2 , Rn ) with Conf(j, Rn ) (upon removing the immersions part) and
again replace the restriction maps
Emb( D2 , Rn ) → Emb( D2 , Rn )
j j+1
We finish with two examples that illustrate the procedure from the proof of
Theorem 3.1.
10 A. Bolić et al.
Example 3.3. The first stage of the Taylor tower for T1 Emb(S 2 , N ) is
⎛ ⎞
T1 Emb(D2 , N )
⎜ ⎟
⎜ ⎟
T1 Emb(S 2 , N ) holim ⎜ ⎟ (12)
⎝ ⎠
T1 Emb(D2 , N ) / T1 Emb(A1 , N )
By (5) and the fact that both embeddings and immersions of balls are deter-
mined by where they send, say, the center point plus the framing information,
T1 Emb(D2 , N ) Emb(D2 , N ) Imm(D2 , N ). The final space can be written
as
⎛ ⎞
Emb(D2 , N )
⎜ ⎟
⎜ ⎟
T1 Emb(A1 , N ) holim ⎜ ⎟
⎝ ⎠
Emb(D2 , N ) / T1 Emb(D2 ∪ D2 , N )
It should be understood that the maps are not some kind of “doubling” but
are restrictions of an embedding of a ball to two subballs. One can think of the
balls in the initial spaces as little more than two halves of the open annulus with
the two balls in the final space as the intersection of those two “half-annuli”.
One can also write T1 Emb(D2 ∪ D2 , N ) T1 Emb(D2 , N ) Emb(D2 , N ),
but that unfortunately obscures the maps in this diagram. Instead, we can punch
holes again to say
⎛ ⎞
T1 Emb(D2 , N )
⎜ ⎟
⎜ ⎟
T1 Emb(D2 ∪ D2 , N ) holim ⎜ ⎟
⎝ ⎠
T1 Emb(D2 , N ) / T1 Emb(∗, N )
⎛ ⎞
Emb(D2 , N )
⎜ ⎟
⎜ ⎟
holim ⎜ ⎟
⎝ ⎠
Emb(D2 , N ) /∗
Emb(D2 , N ) × Emb(D2 , N )
Imm(D2 ∪ D2 , N ).
The last equivalence is true since Emb(D2 , N ) Imm(D2 , N ) and map being
an immersion is a local condition.
Toward Finite Models for the Stages of the Taylor Tower 11
⎛ ⎞
Emb(D2 , N )
⎜ QQQQ ⎟
⎜ ( ⎟
⎜ Emb(D2 , N ) / Emb(D2 ∪ D2 , N ) ⎟
⎜ ⎟
⎜ ⎟
T2 Emb(A1 , N ) holim ⎜
⎜
⎟
⎟
⎜ Emb(D2 , N ) / Emb(D2 ∪ D2 , N ) ⎟
⎜ MMM QQQQ ⎟
⎝ & ( ⎠
2 2
Emb(D ∪ D , N ) / Emb(D2 ∪ D2 , N )
12 A. Bolić et al.
We again emphasize that the initial maps in the diagram are restrictions,
while the maps to the final space are even more involved since the equivalence
T2 Emb(D2 ∪ D2 ∪ D2 , N ) Emb(D2 ∪ D2 , N ) requires deeper understanding
of the definition of polynomial functors.
Now, when |S1 | = 3, we have
T2 Emb(A2 , N ) holim T2 Emb(A2 − CS1 ,S2 ,i3 , N ).
S3 ∈P0 (3)
i3 ∈S3
⎛ ⎞
T2 Emb(A1 , N )
⎜ UUUU ⎟
⎜ * ⎟
⎜
⎜ T2 Emb(A1 , N ) / T2 Emb(D2 ∪ A1 , N ) ⎟
⎟
⎜ ⎟
T2 Emb(A2 , N ) holim ⎜
⎜
⎟
⎟
⎜ T2 Emb(A1 , N ) / T2 Emb(D2 ∪ A1 , N ) ⎟
⎜ PPP UUUU ⎟
⎝ ' * ⎠
T2 Emb(D2 ∪ A1 , N ) / T2 Emb(D2 ∪ D2 ∪ A1 , N )
T2 Emb(D2 ∪ A1 , N )
⎛ ⎞
Emb(D2 ∪ D2 , N )
⎜ UUUUU ⎟
⎜ * ⎟
⎜ Emb(D2 ∪ D2 , N ) / Emb(D2 ∪ D2 , N ) ⎟
⎜ ⎟
holim ⎜
⎜ ⎟
⎟
⎜ Emb(D2 ∪ D2 , N ) / Emb(D2 ∪ D2 , N ) ⎟
⎜ UUUUU UUUUU ⎟
⎝ * * ⎠
Emb(D ∪ D , N )
2 2 / Emb(D2 ∪ D2 , N )
Again, we are not specifying what the maps in this diagram are.
Finally, T2 Emb(D2 ∪ D2 ∪ A1 , N ) can similarly be expressed as a homotopy
limit of a punctured 3-cube of embeddings of D2 ∪ D2 .
Toward Finite Models for the Stages of the Taylor Tower 13
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[ALTV08] Arone, G., Lambrechts, P., Turchin, V., Volić, I.: Coformality and rational
homotopy groups of spaces of long knots. Math. Res. Lett. 15(1), 1–14
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[BCKS14] Budney, R., Conant, J., Koytcheff, R., Sinha, D.: Embedding calculus knot
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The Macro-Political Economy of the Housing
Market Through an Agent-Based Model
Abstract. Both, the housing bubble and financial crisis, are prime examples of
complex events. Complex in the sense that there were several interconnected and
interdependent root causes. This paper presents an agent-based model (ABM) to
model the housing market from 1986 to 2017. We provide a unique approach to
simulating the financial market along with analyzing the phenomenon of emer-
gence resulting from the interactions among consumers, banks and the Federal
Reserve. This paper specifically focuses on the emergence of “underwater
mortgages” and the macroeconomics of the housing market. The market value of
a property is heavily influence by the value of a neighboring property; therefore,
individuals are able to gauge the probable value of a property that has not been
developed yet. The blend of available financial products to consumers (i.e., ARM
versus Fixed-Rate) certainly influences demand within the housing market given
that ARM products are more affordable than fixed-rate products. Policymakers
and financial institutions should work together to develop programs, which
monitor the supply of these historically easy to access financial products and
prevent the risk of underwater mortgages and crashes.
1 Introduction
For many people, the “American Dream” is defined as an opportunity to own a home.
Home ownership allows for individuals to secure a potential appreciating asset. The
real estate crash in 2007 started as a banking and securities crisis, which transformed
into what is considered the worst crisis since the Great Depression. The diminishment
of home prices influenced some individuals to strategically default on their mortgage
payments because their mortgage was underwater (i.e. unpaid loan balance is greater
than market value of property). Others defaulted without choice because of catastrophic
events such as becoming unemployed. These delinquent payments inevitably led to
foreclosed properties, which inevitably deteriorated the balance sheets of financial
institutions. Researchers have attempted to understand the housing market by analyzing
various underlying determinants, such as monetary policy implemented by the Federal
Reserve, the role of sub-prime mortgages and mortgage-backed securities (MBS),
lending standards by the financial services sector, and the list continues; however, there
is no consensus as to what caused the US housing market to tumble into this detri-
mental position. What if it was a “perfect storm” of all the above plus more? Both, the
housing bubble and financial crisis, are prime examples of complex events. Complex in
the sense that there were several interconnected and interdependent root causes.
The purpose of this paper is to share an agent-based model (ABM), which simulates
the US housing market as a complex adaptive system. Through this approach, we are
able to understand, visualize, and analyze the fluctuation in house prices and phe-
nomenon of “underwater mortgages” due to variations in micro-level agent attributes
and macro-level parameters such as interest rates. Once the world is generated, we
perform stress testing and sensitivity analyses to assess varying outputs given a specific
set of inputs. We demonstrate that the interdependent relationships in the market paired
with varying input parameters such interest rates, percentage of adjustable rate versus
fixed rate mortgages, and initial minimum and maximum house prices influence the
average housing price over time. Substantial increases in house prices reduce the
demand and ability for consumers to own a home. In the case of overvalued properties,
this may further encourage delinquent payments and underwater mortgages, which may
threaten a bank’s balance sheet. Nonetheless, monetary policy implemented by the
Federal Reserve plays a critical role in controlling the housing market. Policymakers
and banks should work together to develop programs, which monitor and prevent the
risk of underwater mortgages, overvalued properties, and crashes.
2 Literature Review
This section will briefly reference the various claims by researchers as to why and how
the housing bubble occurred, and it will also mention literature that discusses the
mechanics of the real estate market as a major component of the financial system.
Additionally, we would like to begin this section of the paper by briefly addressing that
the model presented in this paper was substantially enhanced from a Level 1 Axtell-
Epstein (1994) agent-based model developed by a group of researchers at George
Mason University (GMU) (McMahon et al. 2009). In addition, this paper focuses on
similar methodologies implemented by Gangel et al. (2013a) to represent the contagion
effect and contributes to real estate, foreclosure, and financial literature.
housing, and seller behavior. Goldstein claims that lending standards and refinance
rules did not particularly influence the bubble; however, we will attempt to model these
factors over time to assess whether they play significant roles in the nation’s housing
market. The financial sector, specifically banks, control the supply of loans in the
market. Lenders typically do not hold onto mortgages and have the option to bundle
volumes of them together. After the mortgages are bundled into a single product, they
are sold to investors. These products are residential mortgage-backed securities (RMBS
or MBS). A pair of researchers developed a hypothesis to assess the action by banks to
created MBS products for investors called “originate to distribute” (Bord and Santos
2012). In other words, the more loans a bank can originate, the more MBS products
they can sell to investors.
Additionally, small and mid-sized banks attempted to mimic their business
strategies after large banks. Before the crisis, large banks had insurmountable MBS
portfolios. How were small and mid-sized banks going to catch up with large banks?
These banks evolved into mortgage originating machines, since this was a powerful
strategy to generate high-revenue and remain competitive. During this time, a few
factors were in place: (1) interest rates were at an all-time low—which was key for
Adjustable Rate Mortgages, or ARMs, because interest rates were fixed for a certain
amount of time (typically 5–10 years), and then home-owners would sell the property
just before the teaser-rate expired to make a profit and avoid and adjustable rate,
(2) Americans wanted to lock down low-interest mortgages and homes as soon as
possible to retain affordable payments, (3) lending standards were loose, which may be
correlated with originating to distribute (Mian and Sufi 2009); however, Gorton (2008)
suggests securitizing mortgages did not lower these standards, and instead these loose
standards became problematic for the securitization process. Essentially, once the
initial fixed- rate (also known as teaser rate) for adjustable-rate mortgages ended,
borrowers began defaulting on payments because they were too high while house
prices did not appreciate. As we mentioned earlier, researchers have asserted that sub-
prime mortgage borrowers, or high-risk borrowers with low credit scores, played a
critical role in contributing to the housing bubble because they increased demand and
prices (Mian and Sufi 2009). Given the three factors we previously listed, sub-prime
mortgages were an easy solution for small and mid-sized banks to generate high
volumes. The financial sector could innovate trading mechanisms for these products
(i.e., credit default swaps), which contributed to the bubble and crash (Duca et al.
2011). Banks no longer had to be concerned with risk, since investors were only
focused on pricing of securities and not how loans were originated. Ashcraft and
Schuerman (2008) identify this as a principal-agent problem. Gorton (2008) and
Khandani et al. (2009) claim refinancing and the appreciation of home prices con-
tributed immensely to the real estate crash; however, Goldstein (2017) argues that
refinance did not play a critical role. Eventually, investors understood that the pools of
mortgages being purchased may contain sub-prime mortgages and it was too late.
Researchers have also presented literature on how the international real estate markets
operate and change over time by using agent-based simulations, such as the English
housing market (Gilbert et al. 2009). We have included additional agents such as
individual consumers and banks because their characteristics and behavior play critical
roles in the market. In the U.S., ARMs typically rely on LIBOR, Treasury, and other
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Ada had meant this, but it did not exactly please her to hear it
from Lacour’s lips.
“I don’t think I ever heard Mrs. Clarendon speak evil of any one,”
she said, with seemingly needless emphasis, measuring her words
as if in scrupulous justice.
“I’m glad to hear you say that,” he observed; “and it’s just what I
should have thought. I like Mrs. Clarendon very much, but—well, I
can’t say that I find in her the moral support I am seeking.”
“You are seeking moral support?” Ada asked, looking at him in her
direct way, with no irony in her expression.
“Well, that’s rather a grand way of putting it, after all, for one who
isn’t accustomed to pose and use long words. I want help, there’s no
doubt of that, at all events.”
“Help of what kind?”
“Moral help—it’s the only word, after all. Material help wouldn’t be
out of place, but one doesn’t go round with one’s hat exactly—till,
that is, one’s driven to it by what Homer calls a shameless stomach.
Don’t think I know Homer, Miss Warren; it’s only a phrase out of a
crib, which somehow has stuck in my mind.”
Ada laughed.
“Now, if you hadn’t told me that,” she said, “I might have been
greatly impressed.”
“Pay tribute to my honesty then.”
He rose from his leaning attitude and walked a few paces.
“You’ve no idea,” he resumed, facing her, “how much better I feel
since I’ve been talking to you; upon my word I do. As I said, there’s
something so restful in your society. You give me ideas, too. I don’t
feel sluggish as I do at other times.”
He paused again, and again resumed. This time with a rather
pathetic resignation in his voice.
“I suppose Mrs. Clarendon’s advice is the best.”
“What was that?” Ada inquired, her tone colder.
“She said I’d better give up hope in England, and go to some
other country. Texas was proposed.”
The girl kept silence. If Lacour gauged her rightly she was
reflecting upon this advice as coming from Mrs. Clarendon. Her
brows drew together, and there was the phantom of a bitter smile at
her lips.
“Mrs. Clarendon thinks you would be better off in Texas?” she
asked, with indifference not so skilfully assumed but that this shrewd
young man could see through it.
“Yes; she seems to think I should be better off anywhere than in
England. I dare say she’s right, you know. My friends are about
getting tired of me; it’s time I made myself scarce.”
“And what would you do in Texas?”
“Oh, pretty much anything. The kind of work you see farm
labourers doing here—rail-splitting, sheep-washing and driving, and
so on.”
“You feel a call to such occupations?”
“Well, I have Mrs. Clarendon’s advice.”
“Mrs. Clarendon’s advice!” she repeated. “Is Mrs. Clarendon’s
advice decisive with you?”
“I believe she has a friendly interest in me, and I shouldn’t wonder
if she’s right. Other people have advised the same thing. They’ve
given me up, you see, one and all.”
His voice was more pathetic still. He had reseated himself, and
leaned back with his eyes closed. Mr. Lacour did this not
unfrequently when speaking with persons whom he desired to
interest.
She did not speak, and he rose, as if with an effort.
“Well, I’ll be off; I bore you. Will you permit me to make use of
the window for exit?”
“Why not?” she replied mechanically.
He turned and faced her again.
“Of course fellows sometimes make a fortune out there. I might
do that, you know, if only—well, if I only had something to work for.”
“A fortune,” Ada suggested.
“No, I don’t mean that,” he replied, with fine sadness. “That
doesn’t appeal to me. If you can only believe it, I have other needs,
other aspirations. The fortune would be all very well, but only as an
adjunct. A man doesn’t live by bread alone.”
She smiled.
“Of course it’s absurd,” he resumed, making an impatient motion
with his hand; “but if only I had a little more impudence I should like
to tell you that—well, that it was never so hard for me to bring a talk
to an end as this of ours, Miss Warren. You’ve given me what no one
else ever did, but you’ve—you’ve taken something in exchange. I
dare say I shan’t see you again; will you shake hands with me
before I go?”
She stood looking straight into his face, her eyes larger than ever
in their desperate effort to read him. Vincent approached to take her
hand.
“Ah, there you are!” cried a voice from outside the window.
“Vincent, I’ve been looking for you everywhere; you’re keeping us
waiting. Miss Warren, I beg your pardon a thousand times; I was so
taken up with the thought of that boy that I only saw him at first. I
know I shall have your gratitude, however; poor Mr. Lacour is
decidedly ennuyeux to-day.”
His face seemed to indicate a rather more positive state, but it
was only for an instant. Then he shook hands hastily, without
speaking, and vaulted out into the garden.
“Well!” exclaimed Mrs. Bruce Page, “that’s a nice way of leaving a
lady’s presence. But I suppose he’s practising Texan habits. Good-
bye, Miss Warren. Do so wish you’d come over and see us. May I
shake hands with you through the window? Indeed, we are bound to
be off this instant. Good-bye!”
Rhoda Meres was standing by Mrs. Clarendon in front of the house
when Mrs. Bruce Page came round with her captive.
“You’d never believe where I found him!” cried the voluble lady.
“Having exhausted the patience of every one else, he’d positively
tracked poor Miss Warren—who I’m sure isn’t looking very well—to
the library, and was boring her shockingly.”
Lacour did his bowing and hand-shaking with the minimum of
speech. When he touched Rhoda’s hand there was something so
curious in its effect upon his sense of touch that he involuntarily
looked at her face. She was very pale.
CHAPTER VI.
O
n the following morning Robert Asquith returned to London,
to make ready for his grouse-shooting expedition on
Wednesday. Rhoda Meres remained at Knightswell one more
day. On Tuesday she was not at all well. Between Ada and her very
fair relations existed; the girls were not intimate, but they generally
discovered a common ground for companionship, which was more
than could be said of Ada’s attitude towards any other female
acquaintance. When Rhoda kept her room in the morning it was
natural that Ada should go to her, and seek to be of comfort. She
could be of none, it proved; after a few efforts, Rhoda plainly
begged to be left alone with her headache.
At midday Mrs. Clarendon herself entered the room, bringing in
her hand a little tray. Rhoda was by this time sitting in a deep chair,
and professed herself better. She had not slept during the night, she
said, and was feeling the effects; doubtless the unwonted
excitement of the party had been too much for her. Isabel talked to
her quietly, and saw that she ate something, then sat by her, holding
the girl’s hands.
“I have a letter from your father this morning,” she said. “He
seems to miss you sadly. But for that, I should keep you longer.”
“I’m afraid he must get used to it,” was Rhoda’s reply, cheerlessly
uttered.
“Why, dear?”
“I shall not stay at home.”
“What shall you do?” Isabel asked quietly.
“Go somewhere—go anywhere—go and find work and earn a
living!”
“But I think you have work enough at home.”
“I am not indispensable.”
“I believe you are. I don’t think your father can do without you.”
“Why can’t he? Hilda is at home quite enough to look after the
servant. What else does he want with me?”
“Much else, dear Rhoda. Your sympathy, your aid in his work, your
child’s love. Remember that your father’s life is not a very happy
one. You are old enough to understand that. You know, I think, that
it never has been very happy. Can’t you find work enough in
cheering him?”
For reply the girl burst into tears.
“Cheer him!” she sobbed. “How can I cheer any one? How can I
give comfort to others when my own life is bare of it? It’s easy for
you to show me my duty, Mrs. Clarendon. Tell me how I am to do
it!”
Isabel put her arm about the shaken form, and there was soothing
in the warm current of her blood.
“I cannot tell you how to do it, Rhoda,” she said, when the sobs
had half stilled themselves. “My own is too much for me. But I can—
with such force of love as is in me—implore you to guard against
mistakes, beseech you not to heap up trouble for yourself through
want of experience, want of knowledge of the world, through refusal
to let older ones see and judge for you. My own life has been full of
lessons, though I dare say I have not suffered as much as others
would have done in my place, for I have a temperament which easily
—only too easily—throws aside care. If only I could live it over again
with all my experience to guide me!”
“You don’t understand me,” said the girl, with a fretfulness she
tried to subdue. “You don’t know what my trials are. No amount of
experience could help me.”
“Not against suffering; no. I won’t talk nonsense, however well it
may sound. But you speak of taking active steps, Rhoda. There
experience can give very real aid.”
“Mrs. Clarendon,” said Rhoda, after a short silence, “I’m afraid I
haven’t a very good disposition. I don’t feel to my father as I ought;
I don’t care as much for anybody as I ought—for any of my
relations, my friends. I’m not happy, and that seems to absorb me.”
“You don’t care for me, Rhoda?—not for me, a little bit of sincere
affection?”
The voice melted the girl’s heart, so wonderful was the power it
had.
“I love you with all my heart!” she cried, throwing her arms about
Isabel. “You make me feel it!”
“Dear, and that is what I cannot live without,” said Isabel. “I must
have friends who love me—simple, pure, unselfish love. I have spent
my life in trying to make such friends. I haven’t always succeeded,
you know, just because I have my faults—oh, heaps of them! and
often I’m as selfish as any one could be. But a good many do love
me, I think and trust. Love has a different meaning for you, hasn’t it,
Rhoda? I don’t think I have ever known that other kind, and now I
certainly never shall. It asks too much, I think; mine is not a
passionate nature. But if you could know how happy I have often
been in the simple affection of young girls who come and tell me
their troubles. If I had had children, I should have spoilt them
dreadfully.”
Her eyes wandered, the speech died for a moment on her lips.
“Rhoda,” she continued, taking both the girl’s hands, “some day,
and before long, I shall want your love and that of all my dear
friends more than ever. Something—never mind, I shall want it, and
I have tried so hard to earn it, because I looked forward and knew.
All selfish calculation, you see,” she added, with a nervous laugh,
“but then it’s only kindness I ask for. You won’t take yours away?
You won’t do anything that will put a distance between us? Nothing
foolish? Nothing ill-considered? You see, I’ll put it all on my own
account. I can’t spare you, I can’t spare one who loves me!”
Mrs. Clarendon accompanied Rhoda next day to Winstoke station.
On her way back she drove to several cottages where it was her
custom to call, and where the dwellers had good cause to welcome
her. Of sundry things which occurred to her in the course of these
visits, she desired to speak with Mr. Vissian, and accordingly stopped
at the rectory before driving through her own gates. The front door
stood open, and with the freedom of intimacy, she walked straight in
and tapped at the parlour door, which was ajar. That room proving
empty, she passed to the next, which was the rectors study, and
here too tapped. A voice bade her enter—to her surprise an
unfamiliar voice. She turned the handle, however, and looked in.
A young man was sitting in the rector’s easy-chair, a book in his
hand. He rose on seeing an unknown lady. They looked at each
other for a moment, with a little natural embarrassment on both
sides. Each rapidly arrived at a conclusion as to the other’s identity,
and the smile in both cases expressed a certain interest.
“Pardon me,” Mrs. Clarendon said; “I am seeking the rector, or
Mrs. Vissian; Can you tell me if either is at home?”
“The rector, I believe, is still away,” was the reply, “but Mrs. Vissian
is in the garden. I will tell her.”
But in the same moment Mrs. Vissian appeared, carrying a basket
of fruit. She had garden gloves on her hands. Behind her came
Master Percy. There was exchange of greetings; then, in response to
a look from Mrs. Clarendon, the youthful matron went through a
ceremony of introduction. Mrs. Clarendon and Mr. Kingcote were
requested henceforth to know each other, society sanctioning the
acquaintance.
“Your name is already familiar to me,” said Isabel; “I have been
looking forward to the pleasure of meeting you some day. It was in
fear and trembling that I knocked at the sanctuary; Mr. Vissian will
congratulate himself on having left a guardian. Those precious
volumes; who knows, if there had been no one here——?”
“And how are you, Percy?” she asked, turning to the child, who
had come into the library, and holding to him her hand. Percy,
instead of merely giving his own, solemnly knelt upon one knee, and
raised the gloved fingers to his lips. His mother broke into a merry
laugh; Mrs. Clarendon smiled, glanced at Kingcote, and looked back
at the boy with surprise.
“That is most chivalrous behaviour, Percy,” she said.
Mrs. Vissian still laughed. Percy, who had gone red, eyed her
reproachfully.
“You know I am a page to-day, mother,” he said, “that’s how a
page ought to behave. Isn’t it, Mr. Kingcote?”
Isabel drew him to her and kissed him; a glow of pleasure showed
through her smiling.
“Percy is a great many different people in a week,” explained Mrs.
Vissian. “To-morrow he’ll be a pirate, and then I’m afraid he wouldn’t
show such politeness.”
“That shows you don’t understand, mother,” remarked the boy.
“Pirates are always polite to beautiful ladies.”
There was more laughter at this. Kingcote stood leaning against
the mantelpiece, smiling gravely. Percy caught his eye, and, still
confused and rather indignant, went to his side.
“Percy still has ideals,” Kingcote observed, laying his hand on the
child’s head.
“Ah, they’re so hard to preserve!” sighed Isabel. Then, turning to
Mrs. Vissian, “I want a word or two with you about things that are
painfully real. Shall we go into the sitting-room?”
She bowed and said a word of adieu to Kingcote, who stood
looking at the doorway through which she had disappeared.
Two days later fresh guests arrived at Knightswell, and for a week
there was much riding and driving, lawn-tennis, and straying about
the garden and park by moonlight. Then the house of a sudden
emptied itself of all its occupants save Ada Warren. Mrs. Clarendon
herself went to stay at two country places in succession. She was
back again about the middle of September. Ada and she found
themselves once more alone together.
Early on the day after her arrival Isabel took a turn of several
miles on horseback. She had risen in the morning with somewhat
less than her customary flow of spirits, and the exercise would no
doubt help her to become herself again. It was a very soft and
balmy autumn day; the sky was cloudy, but not with presage of
immediate rain, and the distance was wonderfully clear, the rolling
downs pencilled on sky of bluish gray. Sounds seemed unnaturally’
audible; she often stayed her horse to listen, finding something very
consonant with her mood in the voices of the resting year. When she
trotted on again, the sound of the hoofs on the moist road affected
her with its melancholy monotony.
“Am I growing old?” she said to herself.
“It is a bad sign when riding fails to put me into good spirits.
Perhaps I shall not care to hunt; a good thing, if it prove so. I lose
less.”
She was returning to Winstoke by the old road from Salcot East,
and presently rode past the cottage at Wood End. A window on the
ground floor was open, and, as she went by, Kingcote himself came
to it, having no doubt heard the approaching horse. Isabel bowed.
“Why didn’t I stop and speak?” she questioned herself. “It would
have been kind. Indeed, I meant to, but my hands somehow
wouldn’t obey me at the moment.”
A hundred yards farther she met a village lad, carrying a very
unusual burden, nothing less than a book, an octavo volume. Isabel
drew rein.
“What have you got there, Johnny Nancarrow?” she asked.
The youngster turned the book over, regarding it much as if it
were a live thing.
“Fayther picked un oop corner o’ Short’s Aacre,” he replied. “He
says it b’longs to the stranger at Wood End, and I’ve got to taake it
there.”
“Let me look.”
It was a volume of the works of Sir Thomas Browne. Turning to
the fly-leaf, Isabel saw the name, “Bernard Kingcote,” written there.
“How did it come at the corner of Short’s Acre, I wonder?”
“Fayther says the stranger ligs aboot, spellin’ over his books, and
he’ll have left this behind un by hap.”
She turned over the leaves, absently; then her face brightened.
“Don’t trouble to go any farther, Johnny,” she said. “I’ll take the
book to its owner myself; I know him. And here’s something for your
good intention.”
She turned her horse. The boy stood watching her, a gape of
pleasure on his face, and still gazed, cap in hand, till a turn of the
road hid her; then he jogged back home, whistling. The sixpence
had something to do with it, no doubt; yet more, perhaps, the smile
from the Lady of Knightswell.
Isabel rode at a very gentle pace; once she seemed on the point
of checking her horse. But she was already within sight of the
cottage, and she went at walking pace up to the door. The window
still stood open, and she could see into the room, but it was empty.
Its appearance surprised her. The flagged floor had no kind of
covering; in the middle stood a plain deal table, with a writing desk
and books upon it, and against the opposite wall was a bookcase full
of volumes. A less luxurious abode it would not have been easy to
construct. The sides of the room had no papering, only whitewash;
one did not look for pictures or ornaments, and there were none. A
scent of tobacco, however, came from within.
“One comfort, at all events, poor fellow,” passed through her
mind. “He must have been smoking there a minute or two ago.
Where is he now?”
She knocked at the door with the handle of her whip. At once she
heard a step approaching, and the door was opened. Kingcote stood
gazing at her in surprise; he did not smile, and did not speak. He
had the face of one who has been in reverie, and is with difficulty
collecting himself.
“How do you do, Mr. Kingcote?” began Isabel. “I am come to
restore to you a book which has been found somewhere in the
fields. I fear it has suffered a little, though not so much as it might
have done.”
He took the volume, and reflected for an instant before replying.
“I thank you very much, Mrs. Clarendon. Yes; I had quite
forgotten that I left it behind me. It was yesterday. I should have
been sorry to have lost him.”
“The book is evidently a favourite; you handle it with affection.”
“Yes, I value Sir Thomas. You know him?”
“I grieve to say that I hear his name for the first time.”
“Oh, you would like him; at least, I think you would. He is one of
the masters of prose. I wish I could read you one or two things.”
“I’m sure I should be very glad. Will you come and lunch with us
to-day, and bring the book with you?”
Kingcote had his eyes fixed upon her; a smile gathered in them.
“I’m afraid——” he began; then, raising his eyebrows with a
humorous expression, “I am in no way prepared for the ceremony of
visiting, Mrs. Clarendon.”
“Oh, but it will be in no way a ceremony!” Isabel exclaimed. “You
will do me a great pleasure if you come wholly at your ease, just as
you would visit Mr. Vissian. Why not?” she added quickly. “I am
alone, except for the presence of Miss Warren, who always lives with
me.”
“Thank you,” said Kingcote, “with pleasure I will come.”
“We lunch at half-past one. And you will bring Sir Thomas? And let
me keep him a little, to remove the reproach of my ignorance?”
Kingcote smiled, but made no other reply. She leaned down from
her horse and gave him her hand; he touched it very gently, feeling
that little Percy Vissian’s fashion of courtesy would have been far
more becoming than the mere grasp one gives to equals. Then she
rode away. Isabel was, as we know, a perfect horsewoman, and her
figure showed well in the habit. Kingcote fell back into his reverie.
He had but one change of garments at all better than those he
wore; not having donned them for more than two months, he found
himself very presentable, by comparison, when he had completed
his toilet before the square foot of looking-glass which hung against
the wall in his bedroom. His hair had grown a trifle long, it is true,
but that rather became him, and happily he had not finally
abandoned the razor. His boots were indifferently blacked by the
woman who came each day to straighten things, so he took a turn
with the brushes himself.
“After all,” he reflected, “it is a ceremony. I lack the courage of the
natural man. But I would not have her accuse me of boorishness.”
And again: “So this is the Lady of Knightswell? The water of the
well is enchanted, Percy told me. Have I already drunk the one cup
which is allowed?”
He reached the house-door just before the hour appointed for
luncheon. With heartbeats sensibly quickened he followed the
servant who led him to the drawing-room. Mrs. Clarendon and Ada
were sitting here together. Isabel presented him to Miss Warren,
then took the volume from his hands and looked into it.
“You know Sir Thomas Browne, no doubt, Ada,” she said.
“I know the ‘Urn-burial,’” Ada replied, calmly examining the visitor.
“Ah me, you put me to shame! There’s the kind of thing that I
read,” she continued, pointing to a “Society” journal which lay on the
table. “By-the-bye, what was it that Mr. Asquith said in defence of
such literature? I really mustn’t forget that word. Oh, yes, he said it
was concrete, that it dealt with the concrete. Mr. Kingcote looks
contemptuous.”
“On the whole I think it’s rather more entertaining than Sir
Thomas Browne,” remarked Ada. “At all events, it’s modern.”
“Another argument!” exclaimed Isabel. “You an ally, Ada! But don’t
defend me at the expense of Mr. Kingcote’s respect.”
“Mr. Kingcote would probably respect me just as much, or as little,
for the one taste as for the other.”
“Miss Warren would imply,” said Kingcote in a rather measured
way, due to his habits of solitude, “that after all sincerity is the chief
thing.”
“And a genuine delight in the Newgate Calendar,” added the girl,
“vastly preferable to an affected reverence for Shakespeare.”
Kingcote looked at her sharply. One had clearly to take this young
lady into account.
“You sketch from nature, I believe, Miss Warren?” he asked, to get
the relief of a new subject.
“To please myself, yes.”
“And to please a good many other people as well,” said Mrs.
Clarendon. “Ada’s drawings are remarkably good.”
“I should so much like to see your drawing of the cottage at Wood
End,” said Kingcote.
“When was that made?” Isabel inquired, with a look of surprise.
Luncheon was announced. As they went to the dining-room,
Kingcote explained that he had passed Miss Warren when she was
engaged on the sketch, before ever he had thought of living in the
cottage.
“Was it that which gave you the idea?” Isabel asked.
“Perhaps it kept the spot in my mind. I was on a walking tour at
the time.”
“Not thinking of such a step?”
“No; the idea came subsequently.”
During the meal, conversation occupied itself with subjects such
as the picturesque spots to be found about Winstoke, the interesting
houses in that part of the county, Mr. Vissian and his bibliomania, the
precocity of Percy Vissian. Ada contented herself with a two-edged
utterance now and then, not given however in a disagreeable way;
on the whole she seemed to like their guest’s talk. Kingcote several
times found her open gaze turned upon himself, and was reminded
of the evening when she parted from Mr. Vissian at the gates of
Knightswell.
The drawing-room had French windows, opening upon the lawn.
When they had repaired thither after lunch, Ada, after sitting in
silence for a few moments, rose and went out into the open air. Mrs.
Clarendon followed her with her eyes, and seemed about to speak,
but in the end let her pass unaddressed.
Kingcote was examining the caryatides on either side of the
fireplace. He turned, saw that his hostess was alone, and came to a
seat near her.
“Are you not very lonely in your cottage?” Isabel asked.
“Sometimes, yes. But then I went there for the sake of loneliness.”
“It isn’t rude to ask you? You are doing literary work, no doubt?”
“No; I am doing no work at all.”
“But however do you spend your time in that dreadful place?”
“Dreadful? Does it show to you in that light?”
“Picturesque, I admit; but——”
She paused, with her head just on one side. “I can well
understand the horror with which you regard such a mode of life,”
said Kingcote, laughing. “But I have never had the habit of luxury,
and, so long as I am free, nothing else matters much.”
“Free from what?”
“From sights and sounds which disgust me, from the contiguity of
mean and hateful people, from suggestions which make life hideous;
free to live with my fancies, and in the thoughts of men I love.”
Isabel regarded him with a half-puzzled smile, and reflected before
she spoke again.
“What and where are all these things which revolt you?” she
asked.
“Wherever men are gathered together; wherever there is what is
called Society, and, along with it, what is called a social question.”
“But you are not a misanthropist?” Kingcote was half amused to
perceive the difficulty she had in understanding him. Suggestions of
this kind were evidently quite new to her; probably she did not even
know what he meant by the phrase “social question.”
“I am not, I believe, a misanthropist, as you understand the word.
But I had rather live alone than mix with men in general.”
“To me it would be dreadful,” said Isabel, after a moment’s
thought. “I cannot bear solitude.”
“The society of refined and cultured people is the habit of your
life.”
“Refined—in a sense. Cultured?—I am not so sure of that. You
would not call them cultured, the people I live amongst. I am not a
clever woman, Mr. Kingcote. My set is not literary nor artistic, nor
anything of that kind. I am disposed to think we should come into
the category of ‘mean and hateful people’—though of course you
wouldn’t like to tell me so.”
“I was thinking of quite other phases of life. My own experience
has not been, on the whole, among people who belong to what is
called society. I have lived—in a haphazard way—with the classes
that have no social standing, so, you see, I have no right to
comment upon your circles.”
Isabel glanced at him, and turned her eyes away. A fan was lying
on the table close by her; she reached it, and played with the folds.
“But at all events,” she resumed, as if to slightly change the tone,
“you have had the Vissians. Don’t you find them delightful? I do so
like Mr. Vissian, with his queer bookhunting, and Mrs. Vissian is
charm itself. These are congenial associates, no doubt?”
“Very; I like them extremely. Has Mr. Vissian told you how my
acquaintance with him began?”
“Nothing, except that you met somehow in connection with the
cottage.”
“The good rector is wonderfully discreet,” said Kingcote, with a
smile. And he related the story of the Midsummer Day on which he
walked from Salcot to Winstoke.
“It really was an act of unexampled generosity on Mr. Vissians
part, to trust a stranger, with so dubious a story. But the first edition
of ‘Venice Preserved’ no doubt seemed to him a guarantee of
respectability. I had the book bound during the few days that I spent
in London, and made him a present of it when I returned.”
“You have friends in London?” Isabel asked. “Relations?”
“A sister—married. My parents are not living.”
“But of friends, companions?”
“One, an artist. Did you visit the Academy this year? There was a
picture of his—his name is Gabriel—a London street scene; perhaps
you didn’t notice it. You would scarcely have liked it. The hanging
committee must have accepted it in a moment of strangely lucid
liberality. By which, Mrs. Clarendon, I don’t mean to reflect upon
your taste. I don’t like the picture myself, but it has great technical
merits.”
“Is he young, like yourself?”
“Like myself?” Kingcote repeated, as if struck by the expression.
“Certainly. Are you not young?”
“I suppose so,” said the other, smiling rather grimly. “At all events,
I am not thirty in years. But it sounded curious to hear the word
applied to myself.”
Isabel laughed, opening and closing the fan. “But Gabriel is a fine
fellow,” Kingcote exclaimed. “I wish I possessed a tenth part of his
energy. There he works, day after day and week after week, no
break, no failing of force or purpose, no holiday even—says he
hasn’t time to take one. He will make his way, of course; such a man
is bound to. Resolutely he has put away from himself every
temptation to idleness. He sees no friends, he cares for no
amusement. His power of working is glorious.”
“He is not, of course, married?”
Kingcote shook his head.
“That singleness of purpose—how splendid it is! He and I are
opposite poles. I do not know what it is to have the same mind for
two days together. My enthusiasm of to-day will be my disgust of to-
morrow. I am always seeking, and never finding; I haven’t the force
to pursue a search to the end. My moods are tyrannous; my moods
make my whole life. Others have intellect; I have only
temperament.”
There was no excitement in his way of uttering these confessions,
but he began reflectively and ended in a grave bitterness.
“I think I know something of that,” Isabel said in return. “I, too,
am much subject to moods.”
“But they do not affect the even tenor of your life,” said Kingcote.
“They do not drive you to take one day an irrevocable step which
you will repent the next. They have not made your life a failure.”
“Have they done so in your case?” Isabel asked, with a look of
serious sympathy. “Pray remember your admission that you have not
yet thirty years.”
“The tale of my years is of small account. I shall not change. I
know myself, and I know my future.”
“That you cannot. And, from what you have told me, I think your
present mode of life most unfortunate, most ill-chosen.”
There was a shadow at the window, and Ada re-entered the room.
“Won’t you let us see the sketch that was spoken of?” asked Mrs.
Clarendon, turning to her.
“I don’t know where to find it at present,” Ada replied, moving to
a seat in a remote part of the room.
“Do you think of living in that cottage through the winter?” Isabel
asked of Kingcote, when there had been silence for a moment.
“Probably through many winters.”
“You remember that there is a considerable difference between
our climate at present and what it will be in a couple of months or
less.”
“I shall lay in a stock of fuel. And it will interest me. I have never
spent a winter in the country; I want to study the effects.”
“The effects, I fear,” said Isabel, smiling, “are more likely to be of
interest to our good friend Doctor Grayling.”
“Or even to the respectable undertaker, whose shop is in the High
Street?” added Kingcote, with a laugh. “It doesn’t greatly matter.”
He rose and walked to the window.
“Do you remain here through the winter?” he asked.
“I believe so; though I cannot say with certainty. I like to be here
for the meets.”
“The meets?”
“The hunting, you know.”
“Ah, you hunt?”
“Mr. Kingcote is shocked, Ada. He thinks that at my age I should
have abandoned all such vanities.”
“Or perhaps wonders more,” remarked the girl, “that you ever
indulged in them.”
Kingcote looked from one to the other, but kept silence.
“Oh, but we have altogether forgotten Sir Thomas!” Isabel
exclaimed. “Where is he? Do read us something, Mr. Kingcote.”
Kingcote hesitated.
“There are many passages marked in the book,” he said. “Will you
let me leave it with you, that you may glance through it? Perhaps it
is better suited for reading to oneself.”
“Very well; but I will do more than glance. I once knew what it
was even to study, Mr. Kingcote, though you will have a difficulty in
believing it.”
“The idea is not so incongruous,” he said, half seriously.
“Though passably so. You are not going?”
“I will, if you please.”
A heaviness seemed to have fallen upon him during the last few
minutes; a smile was summoned only with difficulty, and his eyes
had a weary look.
“But now that we know each other by more than hearsay,” said
Isabel, “you will come and see us again?”
“Yourself and Miss Warren, gladly; but if I am remiss in visiting
you will not misunderstand the reason that keeps me away?”
“It shall be as you wish. Ada and I will let you know when we are
alone.”
Kingcote made his way back to Wood End.
CHAPTER VII.
S
ince the disclosure made by Asquith to Ada Warren, the latter
and Mrs. Clarendon had continued to live on precisely the
same terms as before; no reference, however little explicit,
had been made on either side to the subject which naturally
occupied the thoughts of both. Ada was not in herself the same as
before she understood her position; many little indications which had
been wrought in her showed themselves involuntarily. But not in her
behaviour to Mrs. Clarendon; that, as hitherto, was cold and
reserved, at most the familiarity which comes of companionship in
the external things of life.
It had always been so; there was a barrier between the two which
only united effort could remove, and, though there had been
impulses on both sides, a common emotion had never arisen to
overthrow the obstacle. They did not understand each other, and,
after so many years, there was small chance that they ever would.
Very clear in the memory of both was that day when Ada was first
seen at Knightswell. Mr. Clarendon died at the end of January; a
fortnight later the child was brought over from London by a member
of the deceased man’s firm of solicitors. She was poorly dressed, and
her teeth chattered after the cold journey. She was handed over to a
servant to be attended to, whilst Mrs. Clarendon held a conversation
with the lawyer in the library. When the legal gentleman had
lunched, and was on his way back to town, Ada was sent for to the
boudoir.
An overgrown girl of seven years, with a bad figure, even for a
child of that age when grace is not a common attribute, with arms
which seemed too long, and certainly were so in relation to the
sleeves which cased them, with a thin neck, and a positively ugly
face—that was what Isabel saw when she raised her eyes in
anticipation at the opening of the door. A face decidedly ugly, and,
for Isabel, with something in it more repellent than mere ugliness,
something for which she had at once looked, and which she found
only too unmistakably. The face regarded her half in fear, half in
defiance; there seemed no touch of shyness in the gaze, and Isabel
was not in a mood for perceiving that it was really excess of shyness
which formed the expression. The child had been washed and
warmed, but had not eaten yet; she had refused to eat. She and
Isabel looked at each other for a little space; then the latter
summoned the attendant maid by a gesture to her side.
“Have her properly clothed,” she said in a low voice, “and do what
you can to make her at home in the room upstairs. Her own maid
will be here to-morrow.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said the servant; adding, with a nervous cough,
“must it be mourning, ma’am?”
Mrs. Clarendon uttered a very clear “No,” and gave a few other
directions.
“Let her be put to bed at seven o’clock, and tell me to-morrow
morning how she has passed the night.”
All that was as living to-day in Ada’s memory as if but a week had
intervened. She saw the beautiful black-clad lady sitting by the fire,
holding a fan to guard her face against excessive heat, and she
heard several of the orders given. That night she had gone to bed
hating the beautiful lady with a precocious hatred.
Three days went by before the two met again. Ada was now
neatly attired, and her long hair, previously unkempt, had been done
up and made presentable. It only made her neck look the longer and
thinner, and put into relief the hard lines of her thin face. The
probability was she had hitherto been half-starved. She was brought
to the boudoir, and Mrs. Clarendon bade the servant go.
“Will you come and sit here by the fire?” Isabel said, speaking as
softly as she could.
A low seat had been put by the hearth-rug in readiness. The child
approached, swinging her long arms awkwardly, and seated herself
on the edge of it.
“Your name is Ada, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“You haven’t a father or mother, have you, Ada?”
“No.”
“That is why you are come to live with me. I haven’t a little girl of
my own, so I’m going to take care of you, and treat you like my own
child. Do you think you can be happy with me?”
“I don’t know.”
The child spoke with a detestable London working-class accent,
which made her voice grate on Isabel’s ears even more than it
otherwise would have done.
“I shall do my very best to be kind to you,” Isabel continued, after
a struggle with her feelings. “Have you been happy till now—I mean
with the other people in London?”
“No,” was the decided answer.
“Weren’t they kind to you?”
“I don’t know.”
Isabel rose and walked about the room. The little creature was
loathsome to her.
“Do you like the toys I’ve got for you?” was her next question
from a distance.
“I don’t care for toys.”
There was another silence.
“Would you rather sit here with me, or be up in your own room?”
“Rather be upstairs.”
“Then I’ll take you. Will you go hand-in-hand with me?”
She led the child back to the room which had been made into a
nursery, and where there were dolls, and bricks, and other things of
the kind supposed to be delightful to children.
“Wouldn’t you like to dress this nice doll?” Isabel asked, taking up
one of the unclad abortions.
“No.”
“Have you been to school yet, Ada?”
“Yes.”
“And can you read?”
“Yes.”
Isabel tested her, and found that the reply had been accurate; but
for the ear-jarring pronunciation, the reading was remarkable for a
child of seven.
A person answering to the description of nursery-governess had
been found for the child, and to her care Ada was for a long time
almost exclusively left. Isabel went into the nursery daily and spoke
a few words. More than this she could not do, her soul was in revolt.
She did not quit Knightswell throughout the summer, but in
September she went with friends to the south coast. On her return
she paid an early visit to the nursery. It was afternoon, and darkness
was gathering. Ada was lying on the floor asleep, a book which she
had been reading lying beside her. Isabel knelt down and looked at
the child, whose face was still almost haggard, and had an
expression of suffering beyond her years.
“You poor, poor thing!” she said to herself, pitying at last, though
she could not do more. “I will try hard to do my duty by you. You
will never love me, and will think meanly enough of me some day.”
As Ada grew older, the extreme sullenness, which seemed to be
her disposition, wore off a little. She was outwardly civilised, she
learned to speak the English of refinement, she made for herself all
manner of interests, none of them very childlike; and to Mrs.
Clarendon she assumed the demeanour which was to persist, with
very slight alteration, from that time onwards. When she was ten
years old Isabel engaged a better governess for her. It became
evident that the girl had brains. She showed, too, a pronounced
faculty for drawing; a teacher accordingly came over once a week
from the nearest town. At the age of fourteen she for the first time
accompanied Mrs. Clarendon to London, and stayed with her there
for the couple of months which were all that Isabel permitted herself
that year. Ada had her own rooms, and only saw Isabel’s most
intimate acquaintances; her time was chiefly devoted to lessons of
various kinds.
Isabel took this step in consequence of troublous symptoms in the
girl’s life. Ada had always been a perfectly tractable child and had
given as little trouble as a child could. She never cried; her way of
expressing indignation or misery was to hide herself in the remotest
corner she could find, and there remain till she was discovered,
when she suffered herself to be led away in silence. Only once had
Isabel, softly approaching the half-open door of Ada’s bedroom at
night, believed that she heard a sob. She entered and spoke; Ada
was awake, but indignantly protested that she had not been crying.
Isabel felt that there was not a little obscure suffering in the child’s
existence, and once or twice, overcome by her compassionate
instincts, tried to speak warmly, if perchance she might find a means
of winning the confidence which she had not felt able to seek; but
the result was not encouraging. At length it seemed that the hidden
misery was taking a form which could not be disregarded, which
demanded sympathy and motherly tenderness. Hitherto Ada had
shown no objection to meet and speak with the visitors or guests at
Knightswell; all at once she refused to see any stranger, and
resolutely kept her own rooms whenever Mrs. Clarendon had
company. She would give no explanation; her eyes flashed
passionately, as if in irrepressible irritation, when she was appealed
to. And, for the first time in her life, she suffered from ill-health;
severe headache racked her for days in succession.
The attempt which Isabel made to draw near to her in this crisis
was the occasion of a scene entirely new in their relations, and not
thereafter to be repeated. There were guests at Knightswell, and
Ada did not appear. Isabel went to the girl’s room, and obtained
admission.
“Have you a headache, Ada?” she asked.
The reply was a short negative.
“Then, why don’t you come down? I very much wish you would.
Will you come down to please me?”
The girl was sitting at a table, seemingly engaged with her books.
In reality she had been motionless and unemployed for a couple of
hours. She was pale and her eyes bloodshot.
“No, Mrs. Clarendon,” she exclaimed; “I cannot come down to
please you! Why should I torture myself to give you pleasure?”
She had risen, and stood with a face of passionate anguish.
“Torture yourself?” Isabel repeated, almost in fear.
“Yes; it is torture, and you might know it. You ask me to meet
your friends because you think it, I suppose, a duty to do so; in
truth, you are ashamed of me, you had far rather not see me
downstairs. I know myself well enough, and I have glasses in my
room. I know what these people say and think of me. I can bear it
no longer; I want to leave you! I cannot live with you!”
Isabel could not find words to reply. There was a horrible element
of truth in the girls suspicions, though Ada did not and could not
know its meaning. It was, indeed, out of mere consideration for her
feelings that Isabel was pressing her to show herself.
“You can’t live with me, Ada?” she said at length, in despair that
she could not speak with the utterance of true feeling. “Am I unkind
to you?”
“You are nothing to me!” was the passionate reply. “Neither kind
nor unkind—you are nothing to me, and I am nothing to you! Why
did you take me into your house? What interest had you in me? Who
am I?”
“Ada, you are the child of a friend of Mr. Clarendon’s. Mr.
Clarendon desired that I should take you and bring you up, as you
had lost your own parents. That is all I know of you—all.”
“Then you have done your best, and now let me go. We shall
never like each other. You took me from a poor home, and I suppose
my parents were poor people. It is not in my blood to like you, or to
live your life. When I was a child it didn’t matter; but, now I see and
understand, I know the difference between us. I will never meet
people who look on me with contempt! Let me go. I will be a
servant; it is what I am suited for. You can’t keep me against my
will, and I wish to leave you!”
For more than an hour Isabel strove against this resolve. Her task
was a hard one. By mere cold reasoning she had to face the
outburst of a nature which was all at once proving itself so deep and
vehement. Could she but have called emotion to her aid! Her own
impassiveness was her despair. That Ada should leave her was out of
the question, yet by what means could she restrain the girl if the
latter proved persistent? She could not tell her the truth; that was
something she had put off to an indefinite future, it was beyond her
strength to face it as a present necessity. The only appeal she could
make was one which it cost her unspeakable self-contempt to utter.
To tell Ada that it would be gross ingratitude to make this return to
her mother by adoption. Well, what else could be said? The misery
of degradation brought the first tears to her eyes.
“You don’t care whether I am grateful or not,” Ada replied, calmer
at length, because weak from nervous overstrain. “You care for me
less than for your servants. No soul cares for me.”
It was this feeling of desolation which had suddenly taken hold of
the developed girl. A heart craving for warmth had come to life
within her; her senses had awakened to desperate hunger. The
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