At the conclusion of dinner that night, the little party of four sat down to bridge. And an hour after midnight Clodagh rose from the card-table, a loser to the extent of over forty pounds.
CHAPTER V
On a certain morning in the last week in June, Lady Frances Hope rode into the courtyard of the Knightsbridge flats. Throwing her bridle to the man-servant who was attending her, she dismounted from her horse, gathered up her habit, and entered the doorway of the building.
Seating herself in the lift, she was borne upwards, and a few seconds later stepped out upon the second floor, and, going briskly forward, pressed the bell of Clodagh's hall door.
The summons was answered by the same maid who had admitted Clodagh on the day of her arrival; and seeing the visitor, she drew back instantly, throwing the door wide.
"Is Mrs. Milbanke up, Barkes?" Lady Frances asked. "I did not see her in the park this morning."
"Mrs. Milbanke didn't ride this morning, my lady. She is having breakfast in her own room. Shall I say your ladyship is here?"
Lady Frances replied by walking into the hall.
"No, thanks! I'll announce myself."
Stepping forward without ceremony she passed down the hall and opened the door of Clodagh's bedroom. But on the threshold she paused, interested by what she saw.
The two windows that looked upon the park were wide open, and through them the beautiful warm sunshine was pouring across the room, touching the old French furniture into a renewal of its glories. Drawn into the full radiance of this light, stood a small round table set with silver, china, and a bowl of flowers; and at the table sat Clodagh. She was wearing a simple dress of black muslin, and her hair—which gleamed almost bronze in the clear, strong sunshine—was twisted into one thick coil. But it was neither her dress nor appearance that attracted her visitor; it was something vaguely disturbing—something subtly suggestive—in her attitude, as she sat close to the table, an array of letters and papers spread before her, a gold pencil held thoughtfully against her lips.
Thinking it was a servant who had entered the room, she did not change her position with the opening of the door; and Lady Frances Hope had a full minute in which to observe her; then, having made her deductions, she allowed her presence to be known.
"Can you tolerate such an early visitor?" she asked.
Clodagh started almost guiltily, and drew the array of papers into a confused heap; then she rose hastily, laughing to cover her momentary confusion.
"How you frightened me!" she said. "I must be developing nerves. But come in! I am delighted!"
She went forward with apparent cordiality, and, taking her visitor's hand, kissed her.
"How nice and energetic you look! You make me feel very lazy. I wasn't in the mood for a ride this morning. Come in! Sit down!"
Lady Frances responded to the suggestion by moving across the room. Pausing by the breakfast-table, she bent forward and buried her face for a moment in the flowers, at the same time stealing a swift glance at the scattered letters beside Clodagh's plate. Then, straightening herself again with apparent nonchalance, she moved to the open window and stood looking down upon the park.
"Clodagh!" she said suddenly. "Are you busy? Can we talk?"
Clodagh turned sharply, and almost with a gesture of surprise. The whole round of her intercourse with Lady Frances Hope had been of so easy, of so superficial a nature—the whole tone of their friendship had been pitched in so unemotional a key—since the one night in the Paris hotel, when they had touched upon things vital to them both—that the suggestion of reality, or even gravity, brought a sudden uneasiness to her mind.
"Oh, of course!" she said uncertainly—"of course! Let us sit down."
She returned to her own seat and indicated another to her visitor with a slightly hurried movement.
But Lady Frances did not respond to the invitation. Instead, she wandered back to the table, and again bent over the bowl of flowers.
"Why are we always climbing—only to slip back again?" she asked irrelevantly.
Again a faint uneasiness touched Clodagh's face.
"I thought you enjoyed climbing."
"Not to-day. Clodagh, you'll think me a horrid nuisance, but it's about that money——"
She paused as she said the word, and involuntarily her quick glance passed once more over the papers on the table.
For a second Clodagh remained silent; then she spoke, a little slowly—a little haltingly.
"Oh yes—the money," she said.
Lady Frances looked at her shrewdly.
"Yes, you remember on Tuesday—when you borrowed that sixty pounds to pay old Lady Shrawle—I said I could wait for everything till August."
"Yes—oh yes!"
"Well, I've had a horrid drop since then—yesterday, in fact."
For a moment longer, Clodagh sat staring aimlessly at the papers in front of her; then she raised her head and looked at her companion. Her face was a little pale, but her eyes and lips looked almost scornfully unconcerned.
"Poor you!" she said easily. "What a bore! You must let me settle up our differences at once—to-day."
She rose and pushed back her chair.
A look of surprise crossed the older woman's face—this time it was surprise tempered with bewilderment.
"To-day! But can you? I know how many little expenses——" She waved her hand expressively towards the breakfast-table, with its many costly adjuncts.
Clodagh made a lofty gesture of denial; and, walking across the room, paused beside her bureau.
For a minute there was no sound in the room save the abrupt opening and shutting of one or two small drawers; then Clodagh turned round again, a cheque-book in her hand.
"Now tell me what I owe you," she said. "I'll write you a cheque and post-date it to July the first. Will that do? I draw my money then, you know."
"Perfectly. But, my dear Clodagh——"
But again Clodagh made a gesture that seemed to relegate the matter to a region of obscure—if not of absolutely contemptible—things.
"Don't trouble!" she said. "Money is never worth an argument. What do I owe?"
During her words, her companion had sat silent—speculative and suspicious. To her worldly mind, Clodagh's grand manner—Clodagh's extraordinary behaviour—indicated but one possibility. She had found means of augmenting her income!
Any knowledge of the false pride, the empty magnificence that will, metaphorically speaking, fling its last coin to a beggar, while passing on to penury, had never come within her experience. It needs the environments of such places as Orristown to bring them to maturity. She looked now at her companion, and her eyes narrowed in a sudden, triumphant satisfaction. Something that she had anticipated had come to pass! At the imagined discovery, she gave a quick laugh.
"If you insist on being so scrupulous——"
Clodagh looked round from the bureau at which she had seated herself.
"How much?" she said laconically.
Lady Frances pretended to knit her brows.
"Well, there was the eight hundred pounds at Nice—and the forty pounds the night of your return to town—the night we played bridge with Val and Deerehurst——"
She looked very quickly at Clodagh.
But Clodagh gave no sign. "And the fifty pounds a fortnight ago—besides the sixty for Lady Shrawle," she interrupted.
"Yes—oh yes! Let me see, that makes——"
"Nine hundred and fifty pounds," Clodagh interjected in a very quiet voice; and picking up a pen, she wrote out the cheque, signing it with her usual bold signature. A moment later she rose, blotted it, and held it out.
As the flimsy slip of paper passed from one to the other, the elder woman permitted a gleam of curiosity to show in her eyes.
"A thousand thanks!" she exclaimed. "And don't think me a wretch if I run away now that I've got it. You know how fidgety my bay mare is. Well, good-bye! I shall see you at Ranelagh?"
But Clodagh was absently studying her cheque-book.
"I don't think so," she said. "Lord Deerehurst offered to take me down, but I shan't go. I—I have some business to attend to."
Lady Frances laughed; picked up her riding whip, which she had laid aside, and, coming forward, kissed Clodagh.
"Then I expect I shall see you. Deerehurst is much more insistent than any business." Once again her shrewd glance travelled over Clodagh's face. "Good-bye! In any case, you'll be at the Ord's for bridge to-night? We can arrange then about going down to Tuffnell."
"Yes"—Clodagh returned the pressure of her hand—"yes; I suppose I shall go to the Ord's. Yes; I shall—good-bye!"
She walked with her visitor to the door of the bedroom, and stood waiting on the threshold until the hall door had closed. Then, almost mechanically, she turned, walked back to the table, and with a sharp, nervous movement gathered up the heap of papers still lying beside her plate.
As she stood there, in the flood of June sunshine, beside the attractive disarray of the pretty breakfast-table, she was aware of a horrible sense of helplessness, of alarm and impotence. For the papers she held between her hands were bills—a sheaf of bills—all unpaid and all pressing.
As she stood there, a swift review of the past months sped before her mind, carrying something like dismay in its train.
In April she had entered upon the tenancy of her furnished flat, having already borrowed eight hundred pounds from her friend and counsellor, Lady Frances Hope; and under the auspices of this same counsellor, had began her career as a woman of fashion.
In social circles the period and the conditions of mourning become more slender every season. And nowadays, although a widow may not attend dances or large dinner-parties, there are a hundred smaller, more exclusive—and possibly more expensive—forms of entertainment at which she may appear in her own intimate set. Very quiet dinners—very small luncheon parties—even friendly bridge parties—are quite permissible, when it is a tacitly accepted fact that the mourner is, by a natural law, barely entering upon her life—that the one mourned has departed from it by an equally natural dispensation.
Under these conditions Clodagh had begun her London career; and for more than a month she had lived—in the most costly sense of the word. Her mourning had been the most distinguished that a famous dressmaker could devise; her electric brougham had possessed all the newest improvements; the flowers that filled her room had been supplied by a fashionable florist at an exorbitant cost. In a word, she had behaved like a child who has been given a pocketful of bright new pennies—and believes them to be golden coins.
Once or twice in the course of those extravagant weeks, a pang of misgiving had crossed her soul; but it had only been a pang of the moment.
The phantom of tradesmen's bills is one so easily dismissed from the Irish mind that, unless it materialises very forcibly, it may almost be considered non-existent.
On July the first she was to receive her half-yearly allowance; and towards July the first she looked with an almost superstitious confidence. A thousand pounds! It was sufficient to settle a planetful of debts; and if any remained as satellites to the planet, well—there was the first of January.
But now her confidence had been rudely shaken. In a sudden moment of pride—of bravado—she had signed away almost the whole of the anticipated half-yearly income. She stood possessed of fifty pounds, with which to dress, to eat, to exist from July to January; and in her hands was the sheaf of unpaid bills!
There is no race of people that undertakes liabilities so lightly, and that is so overwhelmed when retribution falls upon it, as the Irish race. As Clodagh gradually faced her position, panic seized upon her. For weeks she had lived upon the credit that the London tradesman gives to customers who come provided with good references; and now suddenly she had realised—first by the arrival of certain bills couched in a new and imperative strain; later by Lady Frances Hope's unexpected demand for her money—that English credit is not the lax, indefinite credit of such places as Muskeere and Carrigmore: that it is a credit demanding—insisting upon—timely payment.
And where was she to turn—where look—for the necessary funds?
In a dazed way she thought of David Barnard, who had returned a month previously from a holiday in Spain; but her pride made her shrink sensitively from the thought of the suave indulgence with which he would listen to her confession of folly. Once the thought of recalling Lady Frances Hope, and explaining the position to her, sped through her mind; but she dismissed it as swiftly as it came. In restless perturbation she turned and walked across the room, pausing once more beside the bureau, which stood in a recess between the windows.
Where could she turn, where look, for the money that would tide over her difficulties? In her mental distraction, she laid aside the bills she was still holding, and aimlessly picked up a half-dozen opened letters that lay awaiting answers. A couple of invitations to lunch; an invitation to play bridge; the offer of a box at the opera; Laurence Asshlin's monthly report from Orristown; Nance's last letter from America.
With a vague preoccupation she raised the last of these and looked at it.
How free and unhampered Nance seemed in her inexperience of life! She looked unseeingly at the closely written lines, her mind in a harassed way contrasting her own and her sister's fate. Then quite suddenly she dropped the letter and lifted her head.
A thought had struck her. As a flash of lightning might rend a night sky, an inspiration had illuminated the darkness of her mind. The thousand pounds which was to be Nance's property when she came of age, or upon her engagement, still lay to her own credit—in her own name—in the bank with which Milbanke had done business.
It is extraordinary how rapidly a thought can mature in a receptive mind. In one moment, as Clodagh stood beside the bureau, all the possibilities comprised in that thousand pounds broke upon her understanding.
How if she withdrew it as a loan? No one—not even Nance herself—need know; and she could refund it within six months, or within a year—long before the thought of marriage could enter the child's mind.
Then suddenly she paused in her mental calculations; and a new expression passed over her face. Was it right, was it honourable, to make use of this money left in her safe-keeping?
Uneasy and distressed, she turned to the open window, as though a study of the life beyond her own might help her in her dilemma. The scene she looked upon was interesting and even beautiful. The grass of the park still retained something of its first greenness; in the distance the clustering bower of chestnuts and copper beeches suggested something far removed from the traffic and toil of the great town; while below the window, under a canopy of leaves, the morning procession of horses and carriages passed incessantly to and fro.
What a curious world it was! How conventional and obvious, and yet in reality how inscrutable! What would it say of her, did it know her true position? What comfort—what aid—would it offer? Involuntarily, almost curiously, she laid her finger-tips upon the window-sill and bent slightly forward. Then, very suddenly, she drew back into the room, her face flushing.
Lord Deerehurst, mounted upon a high black horse, had passed the window at the moment that she had looked out; and raising his head, had seen and bowed to her.
The incident was slight; but at certain moments the Celtic nature is extraordinarily—even mysteriously—open to suggestion. Clodagh could not have defined her thought; but the thought was there, a vague, half-fearful, wholly instinctive thought that suddenly prompted her to shield herself, to ward off the nearer approach to this world that she had leant from her window to study impersonally; and from which she had received so peculiarly personal a response.
She continued to stand for a moment longer in an attitude of doubt; then, swiftly, almost abruptly, she turned round to the bureau and, kneeling down before it, reopened her cheque-book with tremulous hands and wrote out a cheque for one thousand pounds, payable to herself.
CHAPTER VI
The habit of self-deception had become as a cloak in which Clodagh wrapped herself. She desired happiness: therefore she told herself that she was happy; she instinctively wished to live honourably: therefore, through her own persuasion, she believed her actions to be honourable. And under this insidiously sheltering garment, her appropriation of her sister's money was securely hidden away. To her own thinking—once the first misgiving had been buried—there was no real wrong, no real dishonour, in the taking of the thousand pounds. She needed it temporarily, and would, in due time, repay it with interest. The fact that she did not think it necessary to inform Nance of what she had done, certainly weakens the case for her defence; but had she come to be judged from some impersonal source, it is quite possible she would have made as subtle and specious a justification of her conduct as that which she offered to herself. In this light, the act stood recorded in her own conscience. She needed the money; she took the money; and having taken it, she set about banishing the recollection of it from her mind.
For three days after she had signed the cheque, she retired into semi-privacy. She was at home to no one; and although she continued to ride each morning and drive each afternoon in the park, she did so with so cold a demeanour that none of her friends had dared to accost her! For three nights she stayed indoors alone; but on the fourth, the insurmountable restlessness that settles so frequently upon the high-spirited woman devoid of home ties, seized on her remorselessly. The thought of further solitude became unendurable—the idea of another lonely evening something not to be borne. At eight o'clock she rose from her solitary dinner, tingling in every nerve for some companionship; and telephoning to Curzon Street, ascertained that Lady Frances Hope was at home and willing to see her. And a quarter of an hour later she stepped from her brougham at the door of the familiar house.
She was informed that Lady Frances was in her own room, preparing to go out, but would be glad to see her if she would come upstairs. She acquiesced quickly; and before the servant could conduct her down the hall, had brushed past him and begun to run up the stairs.
Opening the door of her friend's bedroom, she paused on the threshold, and gave a little exclamation of admiration. Lady Frances Hope was standing before a long mirror, while the maid Rees knelt upon the ground beside her, giving the finishing touches to the skirt of a strikingly beautiful dress.
Clodagh clasped her hands in a gesture of delight; then ran forward into the room.
"How splendid you look!" she cried. "Where are you going? What a heavenly dress!"
Lady Frances smiled.
"At last!" she exclaimed, holding out her cheek to be kissed. "What have you been doing with yourself? I have been persecuted with inquiries for you."
Clodagh laughed excitedly.
"I have been paying bills!" she said in a high, light voice.
"So that you may begin to run up new ones?"
"Quite possibly! But where are you going? All this magnificence makes me curious." She sank into a low chair and glanced with bright, interested eyes at her stately companion.
But Lady Frances ignored her question.
"We shall soon be finished with all vain glories!" she said. "The season is dying—even if it's dying hard. Do you pine for the country, now that the heat has come? I shall expect you to love Tuffnell, you know. It really is quaint! Even I am fond of it."
Clodagh looked up eagerly.
"Of course I shall love Tuffnell. It has been sweet of your sister to ask me there—but it has been sweeter still of her to ask Nance. You don't know what it will be for me to meet Nance down there—away from everything." Her voice fell a little.
Lady Frances laughed pleasantly.
"I am so glad you have arranged that she should come right on from Liverpool, instead of staying in town for a night," she said easily. "It will be much the simpler plan. By the way, what day will we arrange to go down? You and I, I mean? Diana's big dance is on the fifth. Suppose we go down a day or two before?"
Clodagh responded instantly.
"Yes," she said—"yes, certainly. But talking of the dance reminds me of my curiosity. Whereareyou going to-night?"
This time evasion was impossible. Lady Frances turned to the dressing-table and picked up a diamond ornament.
"You can fix this in, Rees," she said, "and then go. I am going to the Tamperleighs'," she added carelessly, without looking at Clodagh.
"The Tamperleighs'?"
"In Grosvenor Place. Dull people."
Clodagh picked up a fan that was lying on a table near her, and examined it thoughtfully.
"Isn't Lady Tamperleigh an aunt of Sir Walter Gore's?"
"Yes; and old Lord Tamperleigh is a cousin of my mother's—which connects Walter and me in a roundabout way."
There was a slight silence, while Rees hovered about her mistress with one or two last attentions and then quietly left the room. As she closed the door, Clodagh looked up from the fan she had been studying so attentively.
"Lady Frances," she said quickly, "you know Lady Tamperleigh very well?"
Lady Frances' eyes became vigilant.
"Yes," she said vaguely—"oh, yes!"
"Then take me with you to her party—as you took me to the Hensleys' and the Vibrants' last week? I'm wild to go somewhere—to go anywhere to-night." She paused excitedly; then, as her eyes scanned Lady Frances's face, her expression fell.
"Of course if there's the least—the very least—difficulty——"
With a swift, tactful movement, Lady Frances came towards her.
"My dear Clodagh! Don't! Youknowhow proud I am of you. My hesitation was merely——"
"Merely what?"
Lady Frances laid her hand upon Clodagh's shoulder.
"Walter came back from Russia a week ago. He will be there to-night; and I think—I think"—she seemed to hesitate—"I think that perhaps, in view of his narrow ideas, it might be pleasanter for you——" She left the sentence expressively unfinished.
Clodagh rose rather hastily, her face red.
"Of course!" she said—"of course! Sir Walter Gore is the last man in London I should wish to meet."
Lady Frances said nothing, but moving calmly across the room, took her cloak from a chair.
"Where can I drop you?" she asked. "At the club?"
For a second Clodagh stood, staring with very bright eyes at an open window, across which a lace curtain hung motionless in the still, hot air; then she lifted her head and, in her own turn, crossed the room.
"Yes," she said quietly—"yes, at the club."
Not many days later, Clodagh—in company with Lady Frances Hope—left London for Buckinghamshire, on her promised visit to the latter's sister—Lady Diana Tuffnell.
The house party at Tuffnell Place was to include—beside one or two men and women of personal distinction—a small section of Lady Frances Hope's coterie from the merely fashionable world, comprising Lord Deerehurst, Serracauld, and Mrs. Bathurst. For although Lady Diana Tuffnell was very uncompromising in the choice of her own friends, she had always been a complacent sister; and Tuffnell Place generally opened its doors during the month of July to Lady Frances Hope and her intimates.
It was late in the evening when Clodagh arrived; and the old Elizabethan house, with its many windows of thick, small-paned glass and its fine oak-raftered hall, filled her with delight. After she had been greeted by Lady Diana, and introduced to Mr. Tuffnell—a typical, kindly English squire, who invariably went his own way straightly and was content to assume that others did the same—she passed up the shallow staircase and entered the room that had been allotted to her, with a sense of something nearer to happiness than she had known for months. In the whole air of the house and its inmates there was a suggestion of restfulness, of friendliness, of sincerity to which she had been long a stranger. Unconsciously she warmed and softened under the homelike atmosphere. And when, a quarter of an hour later, Simonetta came softly into the bright, chintz-hung bedroom, she found her mistress busily unpacking her writing-case and sorting her letters at an old-fashioned oak writing-table.
That night the two visitors—who had preceded the other members of the house party by a day—dined alone with their host and hostess.
They were a very small party for the great dining-hall; but Clodagh was conscious that at many a crowded restaurant she would have been less well amused. There was a feeling of sincerity in the atmosphere, an honest desire on the part of the entertainers to put their guest at her ease, that precluded dulness and artificiality.
After dinner, Lady Frances wandered off to the billiard-room with her brother-in-law, and Clodagh followed her hostess into the drawing-room—a long, tapestried room full of the scent of roses.
The lamps were lighting when they entered; but the windows were set wide open, admitting the fragrance of the garden. Involuntarily Clodagh crossed the room, and paused beside one of these broad windows.
A moment later her hostess followed her.
"Well, Mrs. Milbanke," she said, "what do you think of England? Isn't it a place to be happy in?" She spoke with something of the strength and domination of her sister; but it was a softened strength, as her face, although possessing the same bold outline as Lady Frances's, was softer, gentler, more sympathetic.
Clodagh turned and looked at her.
"I think it is a place to becontentin," she said after a moment's pause.
Lady Diana Tuirnell's glance rested upon her interestedly. And, as the thought of her youth and her mourning rose to her mind, something like pity touched her face.
"You are very right!" she said. "We women make a great mistake in dissociating happiness and contentment. There is too much struggle in many of our lives, and too little peace. Frances, for instance! Her life is one restless race after something that is unattainable!"
"But Lady Frances is happy! She likes struggling!"
Lady Diana smiled.
"She thinks she does. But the truly contented woman does not need to persuade herself that she is satisfied. Happiness is a fact, not an attainment." With a quiet, kindly movement she turned aside and picked up two photographs that stood upon a side-table.
"Mrs. Milbanke, this is the happiness that comes—and stays. The happiness that needs no expounding." She held out the photographs.
Clodagh took them and looked at them. One was the picture of her host; the other the photograph of three plain-looking, honest-eyed boys, who each possessed in an almost ridiculous degree their mother's outline of feature. She looked at them intently for a long time; then she handed them back.
"Thank you!" she said almost inaudibly. Then, moved by a sudden thought, she looked up into Lady Diana's face.
"Lady Diana," she said, "I want you to like my little sister! Will you like her? I don't want her to be one of the struggling women——" Then she paused suddenly, as the drawing-room door opened and Lady Frances Hope entered, followed by her brother-in-law.
At the sound of the opening door, Lady Diana gave her a quick smile of sympathy and understanding; and turned to greet the new-comers.
"What, Frances!" she exclaimed laughingly, as she caught sight of her sister's face. "Has George been beating you?"
Lady Frances came forward frowning.
"How ridiculous you are, Di! Your mind never soars above George." Then, realising that her annoyance had carried her away, she gave a short laugh and suddenly recovered her composure.
"I am angry because our game was spoiled. I was making a really excellent break, when we were interrupted by a stupid telegram from Walter Gore."
Almost abruptly, Clodagh turned back to the open window, conscious that her face and ears were suddenly burning and that her heart had given a great unsteady throb.
Lady Diana looked quickly from her sister to her husband.
"From Walter?" she said in surprise.
"Yes, from Walter." George Tuffnell came forward with an open telegram in his hand. "Listen to this! 'Back from Russia. Town insufferably hot. Gore Bridges in tradesmen's hands. No plans for immediate week. Can you put me up from to-morrow?—Walter Gore.' Luck, isn't it! Why, we haven't seen him for a year. Dear old Walter!" Tuffnell's good-natured face beamed with hospitable enthusiasm. "What do you say, Di?" he added. "Of course we can manage it?"
"Of course! Why, it will make our party complete." Lady Diana glanced at her sister. But, to her surprise, there was no response in Lady Frances's expression.
With a movement of sudden decision, she had stepped forward.
"Di, wait a moment!" she said. "You know Walter and Val Serracauld never hit it off—and Walter and Deerehurst detest each other. Do you think it would be wise?"
Lady Diana looked perplexed.
"It is a little difficult," she said. "But we cannot refuse Walter." She looked at her husband.
George Tuffnell responded with a laugh.
"Refuse Walter! Why, I'd as soon refuse to have the boys home for the holidays! The house is big enough for everybody! What do you say, Mrs. Milbanke?"
Clodagh turned from the open window. From being red, her face was now very pale.
"I," she stammered—"I——"
Again Tuffnell laughed good-naturedly.
"Certainly! Don't you think, Di, that Mrs. Milbanke could give us an expert opinion on the management of man?"
Clodagh laughed unsteadily. Then, all at once, her mental balance was shaken by a wave of feeling. The thought of Gore—the remembrance of Gore—rose like tangible things, blotting out all else. She lifted her eyes to her host's.
"I agree with you," she swiftly said. "I should say that—that the house is big enough."
CHAPTER VII
The remaining hours of that night passed like a dream for Clodagh. Condemn herself as she might for the weakness, there was no subduing the tumultuous excitement kindled by the thought that she was to see Gore again.
It was not to be denied that time, intervening incidents, and a sub-conscious personal desire had blunted the first resentment that Lady Frances Hope's disclosures had engendered. In the reckless pursuit of excitement that had marked the past three months, she had imagined him banished from her mind; but now, at the knowledge of his promised advent, she realised that it had only been an imagination; that, despite everything, his place in her mind had never been usurped.
When at last she fell asleep, long after midnight, her thoughts were strange, exciting, almost happy; and when next morning the entrance of Simonetta roused her to consciousness, it was with something like hopefulness and anticipation that she turned her eyes to the open window, through which the clear country sunlight was breaking between the gay chintz curtains.
With a quick, eager wakefulness she sat up in bed and pushed back her loosened hair. A feeling, long forgotten, was stirring in her heart—the vague, delicious hope of future things that had been wont to thrill her long ago, when she rode her father's horses along the strand at Orristown in the untarnished dawn of an Irish day.
During the process of dressing, this sense of anticipation grew; and with it came a spontaneous wish for action. She became imbued with the same desire for light and air and freedom that had possessed her on the day in Florence when she had gazed out upon the distant hills from the window of the villa.
Something of her eager energy was shining in her eyes, as she descended the stairs and entered the sunny morning-room, where breakfast was always served when the party at Tufnell was small.
Lady Diana and her husband were already in the room, glancing through their morning letters, the former wearing a plain linen dress, the latter an old shooting suit that had seen much service. At the moment that she opened the door, Lady Diana was reading aloud from the letter in her hand, while George Tuffnell was laughing with enormous amusement. They made a very homely, pleasant picture of contented, successful married life.
Seeing their guest, they both came forward cordially, and George Tuffnell smiled warm-heartedly as he took her hand.
"Well, Mrs. Milbanke, and what is Tuffnell like in daylight? Isn't it worth a hundred Londons? Haven't you got an appetite for breakfast?"
Lady Diana laughed, as she led Clodagh to the table.
"George is a horrible egoist," she said cheerfully. "He thinks the only things in the world worthy of consideration are Tuffnell—and the Tuffnells."
Clodagh smiled as she took her seat.
"He is very much justified," she said softly. Then she glanced round the table. "But where's Lady Frances?"
Her hostess smiled.
"Breakfasting in bed. I knocked at her door at seven to ask whether she would care for a canter before breakfast, or whether she would like to walk over to the home farm with George, but she literally drove me away. She's out of sorts to-day. Poor Frances!"
"Oh, I am sorry!" Clodagh looked distressed. "Just to-day, when everybody's coming!"
George Tuffnell turned to her with his habitual bluff kindliness.
"Don't trouble, Mrs. Milbanke!" he said. "She'll be all right by the afternoon. It's the mornings that Society plays the deuce with. Look at Di! Look what a country life has done for her!"
Clodagh looked almost shyly at her hostess's straight shoulders and healthy, happy face.
"Don't make me more envious than I am!" she said gently. "Lady Diana has everything."
With a sympathetic gesture, Lady Diana extended her hand, and touched hers lightly.
"My dear," she said, "you have no reason to repine. And Tuffnell is to bring you enjoyment, not regret. What amusement can we plan for the morning, George?"
George Tuffnell looked up from the omelette to which he was helping himself.
"What would Mrs. Milbanke like? You may do anything you like here, Mrs. Milbanke—except be unhappy."
Clodagh smiled brightly.
"Anything?"
"Anything—in wisdom."
She hesitated for a moment, looking down at her plate; then, with a quick, winning movement, she lifted her head, glancing from one of her entertainers to the other.
"Then give me a horse," she said quickly, "and let me ride by myself till lunch time."
Lady Diana looked distressed.
"What, alone?" she asked.
But her husband laughed cheerily.
"Why not—if she wishes? Tuffnell is Liberty Hall, Mrs. Milbanke. You shall have the best horse in the stables."
Lady Diana smiled indulgently.
"I hope we are doing right! Four hours by oneself in the saddle is rather a lonely thing."
"Oh, but I won't be alone!" Clodagh cried. "A good horse is the best company in the world."
At the conclusion of breakfast, she rose to go upstairs and change into her habit. As she passed her hostess, she paused.
"Shall I run in and see Lady Frances?" she asked.
Lady Diana looked up at her.
"I think not. Frances called through the door this morning that no one was to go near her before twelve o'clock. I'd wait till then, if I were you."
And Clodagh nodded comprehendingly and left the room.
Half an hour later, she rode down a long avenue of chestnuts, mounted on a splendid bay horse of Lady Diana's, and emerged upon the road that skirted the park wall.
Tuffnell Place was situated in one of the richest corners of Buckinghamshire; and as she drew rein for a moment outside the large gates and surveyed the surrounding country, it seemed to her that, as far as the eye could reach, the land stretched away in one great tract of prosperous, well-tilled fields and sweeping meadow-land, broken by high hedges and low wooded hills.
The day was one to revel in; the scene one to bring complete repose. And as she gathered up her reins and allowed the bay horse to sweep down the gently sloping road into this land of plenty, she permitted the atmosphere to take full possession of her. For the moment, the thought of London, of her fellow-beings, even of herself, fell away from her conscious consideration; and she dreamed—as an Irishwoman can always dream—with her eyes open and her senses alert to her horse's slightest movement; yet wrapped in a world of her own, created from the warm blue haze of summer that lay over the rich country—from the summer sun that warmed her blood—from the close, instinctive comprehension of nature, that no artificiality has power to eradicate.
It was more than three hours later when she rode back to the gates of Tuffnell, having covered many miles of country, and revelled for a long delicious stretch of time in her own musings. The air and the hot sun had warmed her face to a splendid healthy colour, her lips were parted eagerly, and across her saddle she was carrying a spray of honeysuckle, plucked from the tall hedgerows. Her mood was generous, pliable, brimming with high impulses; if, in that moment, one loving hand had been stretched forth to hers—one honest soul come out of the sunlight to meet her own, many things might have been different. But the moment came—and the moment passed.
Riding quickly up the avenue, she drew rein at the hall door; and at the same instant Lady Frances Hope crossed the wide sunny hall.
Clodagh saw her at once, and a shade of disappointment touched her face. Lady Frances was so intensely suggestive of the world she had been trying to forget. Her impulses of a minute ago shrank instinctively; the habit of indifference came back to her by suggestion. She suddenly felt ashamed of her sunburned face and of the spray of honeysuckle.
But Lady Frances came forward to the hall door, and at the same moment a groom hurried round from the stables.
Clodagh slipped easily from her horse; took her flowers from the saddle; and then turned to greet her friend.
"How are you?" she said. "I was so sorry not to have seen you this morning. I have had a glorious ride."
Lady Frances did not respond to the words with her habitual smile. And, on closer scrutiny, Clodagh observed that, despite a very careful toilet, she looked tired and annoyed.
"You've been away an age," she said irritably. "It's after twelve."
"Then perhaps I'd better change. The coach is to be back from the station at half-past twelve."
"No. Never mind! Diana isn't conventional. You can meet the people—and lunch too—in your habit. I want to talk to you."
Clodagh's eyes opened. It was new to find Lady Frances's manner either hasty or perturbed.
"To me? What about?"
The other hesitated for a moment, then looked straight at her companion.
"About Walter Gore."
The onslaught was so sudden that Clodagh had no time to guard her feelings. She flushed—a deep, painful flush, that spread over her cheeks, her ears, her forehead.
Lady Frances looked at her mercilessly.
"I have been worrying so about his coming—worrying so about you."
"About me?"
Clodagh said the words consciously and uncomfortably.
"Yes. I feel so much for you—you, who are so sensitive. Clodagh!"—she laid her fingers lightly on Clodagh's arm—"Clodagh! I am your best friend. You believe that?"
"You—you have always been very good to me."
"And alwaysshallbe good to you. Look here!" Her voice suddenly took on the tone of seeming frankness that is the clever woman's best weapon. "I'm enormously fond of you—enormously fond of you. I should hate to see you hurt or—or——"
She paused judiciously.
"But who would hurt me? Why should I be hurt?"
"Youshouldn'tbe, of course. But sometimes circumstances—chances—people—hurt one. Oh, my dear girl, I'm unhappy at this unlucky coming of Walter's. It's hard—it's really hard—on you."
As the words were uttered, it seemed to Clodagh that a faint cold wind blew from some unseen quarter, chilling the summer warmth—chilling her own happiness.
"Why—why hard on me?" she asked.
"Dear child!" Lady Frances's tone was deep and kind. "Do you remember the night in town when you asked me to take you to the Tamperleigh's party?"
"Yes. I remember."
"You remember why I refused?"
"Yes, I remember."
"But you did not know my full reason for refusing. I had met Walter a day or two before. We had discussed you."
"And what had Sir Walter Gore to say of me?"
"He said—oh, dear child, don't ask me to be too literal."
"But I do."
Clodagh freed her arm.
"Is it worth while? I tried to keep you two apart while I could. Now that it has become impossible——"
"But why should we be kept apart? What have I done?"
"Dear Clodagh! you know Walter—you know how entirely he disapproves——"
"Disapproves!—disapproves! What right has Sir Walter Gore to disapprove of me?—to criticise—to speak of me?"
Her voice shook, not—as she herself imagined—with outraged pride, but with uncontrollable disappointment and pain.
"Oh, I resent it!" she cried—"I resent it!"
Then suddenly she paused, turning to her companion with an almost frightened gesture. Up the long avenue came the sound of wheels and the rapid clatter of many hoofs.
Lady Frances put out her hand again, and touched Clodagh's wrist.
"Here they are!" she said. "I am glad to see your courage. I admire it."
As she had intended, the sharp concise words braced her companion. She stood for an instant longer in an attitude of nervous panic; then suddenly she threw up her head with a touch of the boyish spirit that had marked her long ago.
"I—I am not a coward, Lady Frances!" she said.
Side by side they waited, while the big yellow coach, piloted by George Tuffnell, swung round the bend of the drive. And as Clodagh stood there, watching the great vehicle sweep round to the hall door, her face became pale and her fingers closed tightly round the handle of her riding crop. It was her world—her world in miniature—that swayed towards her, while she impotently waited its approach!
On the box, beside George Tuffnell, sat Mrs. Bathurst, radiant in summer garments; behind were Deerehurst, Serracauld, Gore, and a middle-aged man who was unknown to her. As her eyes passed from one face to another, Tuffnell drew the horses up with great dexterity; the servants sprang to the ground; and Lady Diana came hospitably forward from the recesses of the hall.
The first guest to descend from the coach was Serracauld. Reaching the ground, he paused for a second to brush some dust from his light flannel suit; then he came forward to his hostess.
"How d'you do, Lady Diana!—and Lady Frances!"
He shook hands with both; then he turned to Clodagh with rather more impressiveness.
"How tremendously fit you look!" he said.
Before she could answer, Deerehurst joined them, calmly taking her hand as though it were his right.
"Well,—Circe!" he said below his breath. "We have followed!"
Clodagh turned her eyes hastily, almost nervously, from Serracauld's attentive face to the cold features of the older man.
"I—I should feel very flattered," she said lightly.
Her eyes were on Deerehurst's, her hand was in his, but her mind was poignantly conscious of Gore's figure standing close behind her—of Gore's voice exchanging grettings with Lady Diana Tuffnell.
A moment later, she knew that he had turned and had seen the tableau made by the old peer, Serracauld, and herself.
"How d'you do, Mrs. Milbanke? It is a long time since we have met."
It was not until he had directly addressed her, not until she had turned and met his glance, that Clodagh realised how deeply, how peculiarly he had influenced her. She drew her fingers sharply from Deerehurst's.
"It is a long time," she said very softly.
Gore took her hand.
At the same moment Deerehurst laughed—his laugh of unfathomable cynical wisdom.
"Mrs. Milbanke was the chrysalis in those old days, Gore!" he said lightly. "Now you see the butterfly!"
At the laugh and the tone, Gore's expression became cold, and he released Clodagh's hand.
"So I have been told," he said a little stiffly. "I must congratulate Mrs. Milbanke on her development." He gave a slightly constrained laugh and moved back to Lady Diana's side.
Deerehurst looked after him—a malicious, humorous look.
"Isn't it too lenient of the prettiest lady in London to allow a young puritan to take her to task in public?" he asked in his satirical voice.
Clodagh flushed; and turning, as if to answer, let the spray of honeysuckle slip inadvertently from between her fingers.
Instantly both Deerehurst and Serracauld stooped to recover it. The younger man was successful; and, straightening himself quickly, wheeled round to return it. Then his face fell; and again Deerehurst laughed.
Without a word, Clodagh had left the little group and disappeared into the house.
CHAPTER VIII
At lunch time Clodagh sent word to Lady Diana Tuffnell that the long ride in the morning sun had given her a headache, and that she would be glad of a few hours' rest.
On receipt of the message, her hostess was much concerned, and came herself to Clodagh's bedroom door to inquire whether she could be of any use to the sufferer; but there, she was met by Simonetta, who conveyed the intelligence that her mistress was asleep.
But in reality Clodagh was not sleeping—was not even lying down; she was sitting in a low chair in the shadow of the drawn chintz curtains, striving to solve the question of her future conduct. Would she remain at Tuffnell and face the difficulties of her position? Would she turn coward—and run away?
She passed in review the incidents of the morning, until, by persistent contemplation of them, her humiliation kindled to anger. First, anger against herself; then, anger against the world at large; lastly, anger against Gore.
By the time afternoon tea was brought to her, the headache she had feigned had become a reality; and before dinner time arrived she had fallen into a state of miserable despondency. But scarcely had this black mood taken possession of her, than a new and more intolerable distress assailed her. She suddenly realised the gossip to which her abrupt retirement might give rise. What would the house party think of her disappearance? Would not Lady Frances Hope—if no one else—presume that she was suffering from wounded vanity? The thought was unendurable. No sooner did it present itself, than she sprang from her chair in a fever of apprehension, and rang hastily for Simonetta.
Ten minutes before the dinner hour, she emerged from her room and passed downstairs. Faint daylight was still filling the house, but everywhere the lamps had been lighted, and the mellow double illumination gave a curious softening effect to the old raftered ceilings and panelled walls.
In the hall she was met by Lady Frances Hope, who paused and looked at her scrutinisingly.
"What is the matter with you?" she asked, with unusual brusqueness. "You almost look as if you had a fever. Your eyes are glittering."
Clodagh laughed nervously, and put one hand to her cheek.
"Nothing is the matter."
Lady Frances's lip curled slightly.
"You should go to bed early."
"Yes. Early in the morning! I feel I could sit up all night."
"Playing bridge?"
Again Clodagh laughed, this time a little recklessly.
"Why not?" she asked. "Will you play to-night?"
"Not here. George is rather a stickler—where his relations are concerned."
"And his guests?"
Clodagh's question was quick and a little anxious.
"Oh, his guests can amuse themselves as they like, of course."
"Then I shall play to-night—if I can find any one to play with."
Lady Frances looked over her shoulder, attracted by the sound of voices.
"Well, here comes Rose!" she said. "Press her into your service! She won't refuse, if you give her Mr. Mansfeldt as a partner. The set she has made on that man the whole afternoon is perfectly disgraceful."
She turned with a smile to Mrs. Bathurst.
"Ah, Rose! How nice to see you! And you are just in time. We have been taking your name in vain."