Clodagh became the centre of a noisy party until dinner was announced. And during the meal itself, the same air of inconsequent gaiety was maintained in her regard, for she sat between Serracauld and his uncle.
A dozen topics were touched upon during the course of the meal—the latest sporting gossip, the latest social scandal, the latest Parisian play, all were discussed, and all laughed over the triviality of the world that has few prejudices, few responsibilities, fewer ideals.
From time to time, during the easy flow of this light talk, she found herself stealing surreptitious glances down the long table to where Gore was seated between Lady Diana Tuffnell and her sister; but not once did she surprise a glance from him. It seemed that he had very successfully banished her from his mind.
After dinner the whole party left the dining-room together, as was the custom at Tuffnell, some to play billiards, some to stroll in the gardens, others to find their way to the music-room, where Lady Diana usually gathered a little audience to listen to her singing. On this evening Clodagh was amongst the first to pass out of the dining-room; and moving into the centre of the hall, she paused and looked expectantly over her shoulder.
As she had anticipated, Deerehurst appeared almost at once, and came directly to her side.
"What is your pleasure?" he said. "Bridge?"
She looked up swiftly.
"Yes, bridge," she said quickly. "I feel I must have excitement to-night."
He looked at her immovably.
"As you wish," he said calmly. "I shall ask Rose Bathurst and Mansfeldt to play."
He turned away, and at the same moment Lady Diana came forward from a little group that included her husband and Gore. Coming close to Clodagh, she laid her hand kindly on her arm.
"Well, Mrs. Milbanke," she said pleasantly, "how shall we amuse you this evening?"
Clodagh turned swiftly. Her nerves felt so tense and strained that even her hostess's quiet voice set them tingling.
"Oh, I have chosen my amusement," she said. "I want a game of bridge, and Lord Deerehurst has gone to make up a four."
Lady Diana's expression changed, betraying a leaven of disappointment.
"Bridge?" she repeated. "Do you think you are quite wise? Remember your headache!"
Clodagh gave a short, excited laugh.
"Ah, you are not a bridge-player, Lady Diana! If you were, you would know that bridge is a cure for all the ills of humanity. Here comes Lord Deerehurst with two accomplices! Fancy, it is the first time I have met the rich Mr. Mansfeldt!"
Lady Diana was silent. She looked once more at Clodagh—a rapid, penetrating look that might have belonged to her sister. Then she compelled herself to smile.
"I hope your game will be a good one," she said graciously; and moving quietly away, she rejoined her husband.
Almost at the same moment Deerehurst approached, followed at some little distance by Mrs. Bathurst and Mansfeldt—a South African millionaire, who had recently found his way into society.
"Rose is making the running," he remarked in a maliciously amused whisper. "She asked me before dinner exactly what Mansfeldt is worth. Ah, here you are, Mansfeldt!" he added aloud. "Allow me to present you to Mrs. Milbanke! Mrs. Milbanke, will you show us the way to the card-room? I hear you are the spoiled child of the house!"
Clodagh bowed to Mansfeldt; and responding at once to Deerehurst's suggestion, led the way across the hall.
The card-room at Tuffnell was the only room in the big, rambling house that had not preserved an air of old-world repose; here alone, the artistic decorator had been allowed to encroach upon the handiwork of time; and the result, although comfortable and even luxurious, was modern and slightly bizarre. An Oriental carpet, a few divans and coffee stools, half a dozen chairs, and three or four baize-covered tables comprised the somewhat conventional furniture; while the walls were covered in fabric of bright scarlet and decorated with a peculiar and extravagant frieze representing the fifty-two cards of the pack. As Clodagh entered, an irrepressible recollection of London—of the clubs—the card-rooms—the smoking-rooms of London—where men and women idle away their lives and their money, rose to her mind, banishing the pictures of country peace that the last twelve hours had conjured.
Pausing by one of the tables, she looked back at her three companions.
"Let's cut for partners!" she cried quickly, picking up an unused pack of cards. "See! I've cut a ten!"
Mrs. Bathurst came languidly forward and raised a portion of the pack.
"A three!" she said. "Now Mr. Mansfeldt, and Lord Deerehurst!" She looked with graceful interest towards the men.
Deerehurst cut a four; then the millionaire followed with a two.
Her face flushed with pleasure.
"How strange!" she murmured. "Do you mind having a very stupid partner, Mr. Mansfeldt?" Her large brown eyes rested on the rich man's face, exactly as they had rested upon Deerehurst's in the days at Venice.
Observing and comprehending this, by the light of recent knowledge, Clodagh gave a sharp, amused laugh.
"I think every one is satisfied, Rose," she said. "Now, about points! Lord Deerehurst, what points?"
Deerehurst bowed complacently.
"What you like, partner! Our usual forty shillings a hundred?"
"Or twenty shillings a hundred?" suggested Mrs. Bathurst with a deprecating smile at Mansfeldt.
Again Clodagh laughed.
"You are getting very modest, Rose! Do you remember the last time we were opponents at bridge? But I won't tell tales out of school!"
Mrs. Bathurst looked annoyed.
"Would it be quite wise——?" she asked sharply.
But Deerehurst intervened.
"Well," he said, "shall we decide on forty-shilling points? Mr. Mansfeldt, do you agree?"
Mansfeldt, who was an intensely reserved and silent man, looked up unemotionally.
"I am in your hands," he said; and following the example already set by Clodagh and Mrs. Bathurst, he seated himself at the card-table.
"Very well! Forty-shilling points." Deerehurst also seated himself, and began to collect the scattered cards.
But with a swift gesture, Clodagh leant across the table and placed a detaining hand over his.
"Wait!" she said. "Let's make it eighty shillings a hundred!"
Deerehurst raised his eyebrows, and the millionaire glanced at her curiously; while Mrs. Bathurst made a little affected exclamation of dismay.
"Clodagh, I couldn't! I'm horribly hard up!"
Once again Clodagh laughed shortly.
"Then trust to luck! You're more lucky than I am." Her voice was high, and charged with excitement; her eyes looked hard and very bright.
Deerehurst's cold glance rested for a moment on her face.
"You really want excitement to-night?" he asked in a low voice.
She threw up her head with a reckless movement.
"Yes; I do want excitement. Rose, will you agree to eighty-shilling points?"
Mrs. Bathurst allowed her gaze to flutter prettily from one face to another, until it finally rested upon Mansfeldt's.
"Will you decide, partner!" she said in a confiding whisper.
Mansfeldt looked at her for an instant in slight embarrassment; then he appeared to regain his stolidity of bearing.
"You may play," he said decisively. And a faint, indescribable smile flitted across Mrs. Bathurst's lips, as she sank back into her chair.
It was nearly two hours before the steady progress of their play was interrupted by any remark not directly connected with the game; then, at the conclusion of the second rubber, Clodagh looked across at Deerehurst, as if obeying a sudden impulse.
"I bring you bad luck, partner!" she said quickly.
Mrs. Bathurst laughed.
"Unlucky at cards, lucky in love! He won't complain, Clodagh."
Deerehurst smiled calmly.
"Is it well to aver that?" he said. "Look at your own score!"
She laughed again—a laugh of complete satisfaction.
"Ah, but I owe that to my partner's play, not to luck! Shall we lower the points, Clodagh? You are a horrible loser."
Clodagh's hot cheeks flushed a deeper red.
"Lower the points! I would rather raise them. But aren't we losing time? Deal, Mr. Mansfeldt, please!" Her excitement was obvious. Her lips were obstinately set; and her fingers tapped the table in nervous impatience.
A third rubber was begun and finished; then a fourth, and a fifth; and very gradually, as the play continued, the sounds throughout the house became fainter and fewer. At first, the tones of Lady Diana's voice had floated up from the music-room, and the usual hum of applause had succeeded, to be followed in its own turn by more music. Song after song had been sung; then had come the sound of talk and laughter, as the party from the music-room had adjourned to the garden. But slowly these sounds had lessened. The laughter had ceased; and the entertainment out-of-doors had died down to the murmuring of two men's voices and the slow pacing of a couple of pairs of feet up and down the terrace beneath the card-room window. At last even this had ended with the heavy shutting of a door; and, save for the occasional distant sound of a closing window, silence reigned in the house.
The sixth rubber was drawing to its close, when the door of the card-room opened quietly and Lady Diana entered, looking slightly tired and pale.
She came forward to the table and stood looking at the players.
"Don't stir!" she said. "I only came to see that you are all right. Who has been lucky?"
Mrs. Bathurst looked up self-confidently.
"We have—enormously," she said. "Mrs. Milbanke was most daring, and doubled our ordinary stakes. The results have been wonderful—for us."
"Indeed!" Lady Diana's voice sounded unusually cold; and Clodagh was conscious that her observant eyes had turned upon her.
But she played on, without looking up.
At last the final trick was won, the score reckoned up, and the players rose.
Deerehurst pushed back his chair, and looked about him speculatively.
"It feels late!" he said. "What is the time, Lady Diana? My conscience begins to trouble me!"
Lady Diana smiled a little conventionally.
"I think it is about half-past two," she answered.
"Oh, Lady Diana, how wicked of us!" Mrs. Bathurst affected a charming penitence.
Mansfeldt looked genuinely uncomfortable and distressed.
"We owe you an apology!" he said. "We have kept you from your rest."
But Lady Diana graciously waived all apologies aside.
"It is nothing!—nothing!" she assured them. "We are not so rustic as all that. Lord Deerehurst, you and Mr. Mansfeldt will find George in the smoking-room." She gave the suggestion with her usual hospitable warmth; but the smile that accompanied the words was not the smile she had given to Clodagh the evening before—or that morning at breakfast.
And Clodagh, keenly sensitive to this altered bearing, stood silent, offering no apology. At last, as though the tension of the position compelled her to action, she held out her hand in a half-diffident, half-defiant gesture.
"Good-night, Lady Diana! Good-night, Rose! Good-night, Mr. Mansfeldt. Good-night!" Last of all, her fingers touched Deerehurst's, and as his cold hand closed over hers, he bent his head deferentially.
"Good-night, partner! Sleep well! We will be more fortunate in the future."
But Clodagh gave no sign that she had even heard. Almost ungraciously, she freed her hand; and, without glancing at any of the occupants of the room, moved quickly to the door, and passed out into the corridor.
Her brain seemed to burn, as she mounted the long flight of shallow stairs that led to the bedrooms; her head ached; her senses felt confused. She had lost money to a far greater extent than she could possibly afford; she had alienated the friend she had so ardently desired to make; she had acted wilfully—absurdly—wrongly.
She opened the door of her bedroom with hasty, unsteady fingers. The lamp on the writing-table was lighted, but the rest of the room was dim; through the open windows came a slight breeze that stirred the chintz curtains; in a chair by the dressing-table sat Simonetta in an attitude of weariness.
The sight of the woman's tired figure jarred on Clodagh's over-strained nerves.
"You can go, Simonetta!" she said sharply. "I'll put myself to bed."
Simonetta started up remorsefully.
"Pardon, signora——" she exclaimed.
But Clodagh cut her short.
"You can go!" she said. "Good-night!"
The woman looked at her for a moment in doubt and reluctance; then, instinctively realising that argument was useless, moved softly to the door.
"Good-night, signora!" she ventured; but as Clodagh made no response, she departed, silently closing the door.
Left alone, Clodagh moved aimlessly to the centre of the room, and stood there as if seeking some object which might distract her mind. Her glance passed vaguely over the dressing-table, laden with familiar personal objects; then strayed to a couch, on which lay an open book that she had made a fruitless attempt to read during the hot hours of the afternoon; at last, attracted by the light of the lamp, it turned to the writing-table, on which was placed the heavy leather writing-case that had belonged to her mother, and that had remained with her through all her wanderings since the time of her marriage. It lay unlocked, as she had left it the evening before, the contents protruding untidily from under the thick leather flap. Something intimate and friendly in the shabby object appealed to and attracted her. Without considering the action, she went slowly forward and laid her fingers hesitatingly upon it. All the small records that constituted memory lay side by side in this worn leather case: her cheque-books—her letters—the few souvenirs her life had provided.
She raised the flap lingeringly and lifted out the topmost papers. First to her hand, came a bundle of Laurence Asshlin's monthly reports from Orristown—boyish, spirited records of trivial doings, ill-constructed from a literary point of view, shrewdly humorous in their own peculiar way. These she tossed aside, as things of small account, and turned almost hurriedly to the papers that lay immediately beneath. They proved to be her sister's letters, dating from the time of their parting in London, when Nance had been sent to school. For a space she held them in her hand, while a curious expression, half antagonistic, half tender, touched her face; then, with a little sigh, she laid them down again, without having turned a page.
The next object that she drew forth was the faded telegram that, years ago, at the time of Denis Asshlin's accident, had brought the longed-for news that Milbanke was on his way to Orristown. She opened it, read it, then folded it and replaced it with something of uneasy haste; and again burying her hand in the recesses of the case, brought to light another link with the past—a large envelope into which were crushed a number of things, amongst them the first invitation from Lady Frances Hope in Venice; a ribbon that had tied a bouquet of flowers on the dinner-table at the "Abbati" Restaurant; a Venetian theatre programme; a couple of dry roses that she had worn on the night when Gore had taken her home from the Palazzo Ugochini. Very slowly she drew these trophies forth. Each breathed the romance of things gone by; yet each possessed the poison of present regret. As she lifted up the roses, her expression became suddenly pained and resentful, and with a fierce impulse she crushed the dry, brown leaves between her fingers, flung them from her across the room, and hurriedly lifted the next object from the writing-case. This last was a large bundle of papers, tied together with a black ribbon.
Lifting it into the light, she looked at it for a long time, without attempting to untie the string. It was the collection of her father's scanty correspondence and ill-assorted business letters, which she had bound together the night before her marriage—and had never since opened.
A curious feeling assailed her now, as she looked at these yellowing papers, eloquent of dead days; and at the mourning ribbon, significant of emotions keen and bitter in the living, but buried now under the weight of newer things. How strange, how distant and impersonal, the pages seemed! And yet the time had been when every written line had played its part in some human, personal endeavour! Each document had represented loss or gain to some individual; each letter had conveyed its fragment of earthly sentiment. Moved suddenly by the suggestions of the moment, she untied the string.
A faint, dry odour rose from the loosened papers—the intangible scent that indicates the past. It seemed that some world, distant and forgotten, had suddenly put forth a shadowy hand, pointing she knew not whither. Over her brain, fevered from the night's excitement, fell a stillness—an arresting calm; across her thoughts, distorted by mistaken struggles, glided a memory—a picture. She saw herself as she had been before her marriage, in the far-off isolated days when life had been a simple thing, when the world outside Orristown had been a golden realm lying beyond the sunset.
How young she had been then! How extraordinarily, indescribably young! How untrammelled in her actions and sweeping in her judgments! As the old existence pressed about her in a cloud of images, she opened the first letter. But so unsteadily, so agitatedly, that, in the opening, five or six of the pages slipped from the packet and fluttered to the writing-table, bringing with them a small unframed ivory miniature that had been wrapped within the sheets.
The thin, fragile picture dropped with a faint tinkling sound; Clodagh bent forward to recover it; then paused, leaning over the table in an attitude of attention. The miniature lay face upwards; and, in the strong light of the lamp, its outline and colours shone forth distinctly. It represented the head and shoulders of a man in a scarlet coat and hunting-stock—a man of thirty, with a handsome, defiant face, fine eyes, and an obstinate, unreliable mouth.
It lay, looking up into her face, while she stared back at it, as though a ghost had risen from the faded letters. On the night before her marriage she had come upon this miniature of Denis Asshlin; and in a frenzy of renewed grief had thrust it out of sight amongst the papers she had collected. Then, the picture had seemed pitifully sad in its presentment of the dead man in the days of his strength; now, as she looked upon it in the light of subsequent knowledge, it seemed a thing instinct with portent and dread.
Sharply and cruelly, the glamour cast by death receded from her memory. She saw Asshlin as she had seen him in life—selfish, obstinate, and yet weak. And, quick as the vision came, another followed. The vision of her-self—of her own attitude towards her existence and her responsibilities.
In silent, intent concentration she gazed upon the picture, until at last, seized by an ungovernable impulse, half-instinctive realisation, half-superstitious dread, she caught up the lamp and walked to the dressing-table. There, removing the coloured shade, she laid it upon the table; and, lifting the mirror, looked fixedly at her own reflection, intensified by the crude, strong light.
For several minutes she stood quite motionless, her questioning eyes searching the eyes in the glass, her pale face confronting its own reflection. And as she looked, expressions of doubt, of fear, of conviction chased each other across her features.
The image that confronted her was her father's image, softened by differences of age and sex, but fundamentally the same. The image of one who had wasted his life—ignored his duties—squandered the substance of those who were dependent upon him! One whom even his children had learned to despise!
With a sudden sensation of physical faintness she turned from the table. For every folly of Denis Asshlin's, there sprang to her mind some corresponding folly in her own more brilliant life. How inefficiently she had worked out her own destiny—she who long ago had been so rigid in her condemnation of him!
In sudden terror she moved unsteadily across the room, and stood leaning against the foot of the oak bedstead; then, all at once, she made a swift, passionate gesture, and dropped to her knees.
"O God!" she whispered wildly—"God, who made me!—I am afraid!"
CHAPTER IX
At eleven o'clock on July the fourth, Nance was to arrive at Tuffnell. Her boat reached Liverpool on the third; but it had been arranged that she was to spend the night on board, and take an early train to Buckinghamshire on the following morning.
At ten o' clock Clodagh, wearing a hat and veil, and drawing on her gloves, left her bedroom and descended the stairs. Taking advantage of Lady Diana's arrangement that all the guests were at liberty to breakfast in their own rooms, she had elected to avoid the family meal, at which her instinct told her Gore would be present. After last night's mental crisis, the idea of encountering his polite avoidance had seemed to her intolerable.
As she passed downstairs now, with slow and sobered steps, she half paused as the burly figure of George Tuffnell appeared at the open hall door; but her hesitation was not permitted to last, for instantly her host caught sight of her, he came forward hospitably. And a new shame woke in her, as she realised that Lady Diana Tuffnell had preserved silence even to her husband upon the subject of last night's incident—or at least upon her share in it.
"Hallo, Mrs. Milbanke!" he cried cheerfully. "Has the London atmosphere got imported with our guests? These are London hours, you know!"
He strode up to her, followed closely by a couple of dogs, and seized her hand cordially.
Clodagh gave a little embarrassed laugh; and instantly stooped to caress the dogs.
"I feel ashamed of myself," she said hurriedly. "You and Lady Diana must forgive me. But I was very tired last night."
Tuffnell waived the matter good-naturedly.
"Don't apologise! Don't mention it! But you should be thinking about the train. I was just coming to tell you that the trap is ready, whenever you are. It was Di's idea to give you the trap; she said you'd hate a big conveyance that would tempt people to offer themselves as escorts!" He laughed in his hearty, untroubled way. "One of the men will drive you over, but you can get rid of him at the station. He'll come back in the dog-cart with Miss Asshlin's luggage."
Again Clodagh bent to pat the dogs.
"How kind of Lady Diana!" she murmured. "I haven't seen my little sister for years and years, you know."
"You'll find her changed, I'll guarantee. Children do spring up!" He gave a loud, contented sigh. "But shall I order the trap round? Or do you want to see Di first?"
"I think I'll—I'll see Lady Diana later—if it will not seem ungracious."
"Ungracious! Not a bit! I'll get the trap." He turned and swung across the sunny hall, whistling to his dogs. And Clodagh, still quiet and subdued, walked slowly after him to the door.
No one was about when the small trap was brought round from the stables, followed by Tuffnell and the dogs. And as Clodagh came down the steps the two animals pressed forward with upturned, eager faces; and the friendly appeal in their faithful eyes touched her to remembrance of many grey and misty mornings, when Denis Asshlin's high, old-fashioned trap would sweep round from the Orristown stable-yard, and dogs such as these would plead passionately for a share in the impending journey. A dry, painful sensation seemed to catch her throat.
"May they come with me?" she asked softly. "I love animals. I had to send my own Irish terrier home to Ireland when I gave up my house in Italy—and nothing has ever quite taken his place. Do let them come! They would be so good."
The two dogs looked swiftly from her face to their master's.
But George Tuffnell pretended to be stern.
"No!" he said loudly—"no! Dick and Tom can't go to the station to-day!"
Instantly the two tails dropped.
"Come, Myers!" he called to the groom. "Mrs. Milbanke has no time to spare. Dick! Tom! To heel!" He winked humorously at Clodagh, as she stepped into the trap; and a moment later the groom took his seat and picked up the reins.
Then suddenly he broke into a shout of genial laughter.
"You villains!" he cried. "Off with you! Away with you!" And with a yelp of wild delight, the dogs sped down the avenue.
Clodagh scarcely noticed the details of that swift drive, for a nervous sense of excitement and trepidation banished her powers of observation. And as she stepped from the little trap and entered the small country station, she could scarcely command a steady voice in which to ask whether the train was yet due.
The train proved to be over-due by three minutes, and the knowledge brought an added qualm of apprehension.
"What if little Nance were utterly changed? What if America had spoiled her?" But her thoughts and fears were alike broken in upon by a long, shrill whistle; the expected train loomed round a curve in the line, and a moment later roared its way into the station.
There was a second of uncertainty; then somewhere in the front of the train a door was flung open, a small slight figure in a muslin dress sped down the platform, and two warm arms were thrown about Clodagh's neck, bridging in one moment the gulf of years.
The sisters held and kissed each other, regardless of the one or two country passengers who had alighted from the train, and the two grooms from Tufmell who were waiting for Nance's luggage. Then at last the younger girl drew away; and, still holding Clodagh's hand, looked at her intently.
"Oh, Clo!" she cried, "how lovely you are!"
At the old name, the old candid admiration, tears rushed suddenly to Clodagh's eyes.
"I'm not, darling! I'm not! But you are sweet—and the same, oh, thevery same!"
She laughed with a break in her voice; then, as two porters came down the platform rolling Nance's luggage, she remembered the necessities of the moment.
"Is this yours?"
"Yes; my American clothes. Do I look very American?"
"You look sweet! Myers," she added to the groom, who had come forward, "this is Miss Asshlin's luggage. And will you, please, go back in the dog-cart. I want to drive the pony home."
Myers touched his cap.
"Very good, ma'am!"
He turned, and passed out of the station.
Nance pressed her sister's hand with one of her old shy laughs, that sounded infinitely sweet from grown-up lips.
"Clo, I can never get used to your being called 'ma'am.' Do you remember the people at San Domenico, who would call you 'signorina,' when poor James——?"
She stopped abruptly, colouring at her unconsidered mention of her brother-in-law.
"Clo, tell me all about Tuffnell Place!" she substituted, with another sympathetic pressure of her fingers. "Tell me about Lady Diana and Mr. Tuffnell! I think I should hate to be plain Mister, if my wife had a title! And all about Lady Frances Hope and Lord Deerehurst and Mr. Serracauld! I'm dying to see all the people you put in your letters. They're like characters in a book—and, of course, you are the heroine!
"Oh, I'm so happy, Clo!" she cried ecstatically—"I'm so happy! Do you care for me? Do you want me much—very much?"
Her dark blue eyes searched Clodagh's face, as they had been wont to search it long ago; for, beneath the pretty manner that time had taught her, her warm, loyal nature had remained unchanged.
And as Clodagh returned her glance, her heart suddenly sank. Until the moment of her meeting with Nance, she had been conscious of only one desire in her regard—the desire to fully confess to her appropriation of the thousand pounds. For, in the lull that had followed the previous night's crisis, she had seen this confession as the sole means of regaining self-respect. Her other follies—her gambling and her extravagances—offered no means of redress; but for this one personal act of weakness she could still do penance. And now, by her very faith, by her very love, Nance had shaken the desire.
This spontaneous, unsuspicious admiration was the sweetest experience that had come into her life. She involuntarily returned the pressure of the clinging fingers, as she drew her sister through the small gate of the station. She was glad to think that there was the drive home, the moments of arrival and of unpacking, before any mention of personal matters could break in upon the present calm.
Outside the station, Nance saw the two dogs for the first time, and insisted upon making friends with them before entering the trap.
"Did you miss Mick dreadfully, when you sent him back to Orristown?" she asked, when at last she took her seat.
"Dreadfully," Clodagh answered, taking the reins from the groom. "But I didn't know what to do with him when I left the villa. You see, I had no real plans."
"No; no, of course not. But you'll get him back soon?"
"Yes; I want to." Clodagh gathered up the reins, and the pony started forward at a swift trot. "But, do you know, Nance, I have thought of going to Orristown in a month or so. Would you like to come to Ireland?"
"Like to? Oh, Clo, I have dreamt and dreamt of our being at Orristown together—just you and me. Can you picture it? Wearing our oldest clothes—riding and walking and sailing all day long; and making Hannah cook us the most heavenly cakes for tea!"
She clasped her hands rapturously, regardless of her new white gloves.
Clodagh laughed softly and affectionately.
"Oh, you child!" she said, almost enviously.
How sweet and pretty and unaffected she was—this little sister who had suddenly stepped back into her life! An overwhelmingly tender feeling of protectiveness welled up within her—a sudden deep longing to shelter and guard her, to hedge her round with all that is sacred and fine.
"Nance!" she said impulsively, "have you ever thought that I behaved badly to you—behaved unfairly in any way?"
"Unfairly?"
"Yes."
Nance laughed.
"You're dreaming, Clo! How couldyoubehave unfairly?"
"Suppose some one were to tell you that I had?"
"I shouldn't believe, that's all."
"If I were to tell you?" Clodagh's fingers tightened on the reins.
"If you were to tell me that," Nance said, very slowly, "I think it would spoil everything in the world. I believe so—so dreadfully in you. But why talk about it, when it's nonsense?" She shook off the momentary shadow that had fallen between them. "I hate 'ifs,' unless they're very happy ones."
So Clodagh struggled no more with her conscience during the drive along the shady Buckinghamshire roads. Yielding to the spell of Nance's voice, she lulled the knowledge of impending difficulties and opened her ears to the tale of her sister's experiences—of her friends, her acquaintances, her pleasures, her occupations—all poured forth with a perfectly ingenuous egotism that was a refreshment and delight.
Though they remained together all through the morning and afternoon, the sisters had no further opportunity of atête-à-tête. Immediately on their arrival at Tuffnell, Lady Diana had made Nance welcome and had introduced her to her fellow-guests; and the remainder of the day had been spent, first in tennis and croquet, later in a long coach drive, which included a call upon some neighbours of the Tuffnells. Almost immediately after dinner, however, Clodagh had pleaded that Nance was tired, and had borne her off to her own room. There she dismissed Simonetta, and, closing the door, drew forward two chairs to the open window.
"Now!" she said—"at last! What do you think of Tuffnell—and of everybody?" She sank into one of the chairs with a little sigh.
But Nance, instead of answering, tip-toed across the room; and, bending over the back of her chair, gave her a long, impulsive kiss.
"Darling!" she cried. "Clo! You are so lovely. I am so proud of you."
Clodagh pressed her cheeks against the warm lips; then drew Nance round to the side of her chair.
"Talk to me!" she said. "Tell me whether you like Tuffnell?"
Nance gave a little laugh of inconsequent happiness, and nestled down at her sister's feet.
"Tuffnell is heavenly! But there are only four nice people here."
"Four nice people? What do you mean?"
"What I say. There are only four nice people here—you, of course"—she lifted one of Clodagh's hands, and pressed it against her lips—"and Lady Diana Tuffnell—and Mr. Tuffnell—and that nice, fair man with the sunburnt face."
Clodagh withdrew her hand from her sister's.
"Sir Walter Gore?"
"Yes. Don't you think him nice?"
"I——? Oh, I—I don't know."
"But why? He likes you."
Clodagh gave a quick, unsteady laugh, and sank back into her chair.
"Dear little Nance! What a baby you are! If there is one person in the world who does not like me, it is Sir Walter Gore!"
With a sudden movement of interest Nance sat up, and looked at her sister.
"But he does, Clo," she said. "I saw him looking at you over and over again, when you were talking to other people. He likes you. Oh, hedoeslike you! And he doesn't care one bit for Lady Frances Hope, though she follows him everywhere he goes——"
But Clodagh sat suddenly upright, and with an abrupt gesture put her hand on her sister's shoulder.
"Nance," she said sharply, "you are talking about things that you don't understand. Don't talk about them! It—it annoys me!"
"But, Clo——"
For answer Clodagh stooped and kissed her almost nervously.
"When you are older, Nance, you will know that it is tactless to talk of certain things to certain people. Don't talk to me again of Sir Walter Gore. He and I have nothing to do with each other. We—we belong to different worlds."
Once more she bent and kissed Nance's startled, penitent face; and, putting her gently from her, rose and walked to the window.
For some minutes there was silence in the room; then Clodagh spoke in a completely different voice.
"Nance," she said, "there is something I want to tell you—something I should have written to you, and didn't——"
Nance, in the swift relief of her sister's altered tone, sprang to her feet; and, running across the room, threw her arms about her.
"And, Clo, there's something I ought to have written to you, only I was too shy—and had to wait till I could say it like this, with my arms round you——"
It was Clodagh's turn to look startled. She tried to hold Nance away from her, that she might see her face; but Nance only clung the closer.
"Clo, you love me? Oh, say you love me!"
"Of course I love you."
"And you won't be vexed?"
"Nance, what is it? You frighten me! What is it?"
"Oh, it's nothing frightening. It's—it's about Pierce—Pierce Estcoit——"
The words came forth with a tremendous gasp.
"What is it?"
"He—Clo, he wants to marry me. You're not vexed? Oh, Clo, you're not vexed?"
At last Nance's arms relaxed, and she looked up beseechingly into her sister's face.
In sudden nervous relief and amusement, Clodagh laughed; then her face became grave again, and she drew her sister to her with deep, impulsive tenderness.
"Vexed, darling?" she said—"vexed?"
Nance kissed her ecstatically.
"Oh, the relief of having it said!" she cried. "I have felt like a criminal, keeping it to myself. But Pierce said I could do more with one word than a dozen letters."
Clodagh looked down into the pretty, eager face, and laughed again softly, though her eyes were full of tears.
"Pierce was right," she said. "I don't think any one could say more in one word than you could. But do you love him, Nance? Do you love him? That is the great, great thing. And you are so very young." A look of keen anxiety crossed her face, and she gazed into Nance's eyes, as if striving to read her heart.
Nance returned her look with a steadfast gravity, curious in one so young.
"Next to you, Clo, he's the best person in all the world," she said.
The tears in Clodagh's eyes brimmed over.
"You put me first? Really, Nance? Really?"
Nance nodded seriously.
"And next to you, he's the very best! But, Clo"—she blushed deeply—"he wants me to marry him soon—fearfully soon—in the autumn. He's coming over with Mrs. Estcoit and Daisy in three weeks' time, to try to persuade you. Clo, you're not vexed? He has promised that we shall be together more than half every year, if you wish."
Clodagh, touched by a pang of loneliness, turned away and gazed through the open window across the sleeping country.
"And you love him? You are certain that you love him?" She turned again and laid her hands on her sister's shoulders.
Nance's gaze, wise in its very youthfulness, met hers unflinchingly.
"I care for him like I care for you, Clo. And I've cared for you always."
Clodagh drew a long breath.
"Then I am satisfied. I shall not keep you from happiness." With a quiet movement she bent forward and kissed the soft hair above Nance's forehead.
After this seal of love, both were silent for a minute or two; then Nance spoke again, her lashes lowered, her fingers twisted tightly about her sister's.
"Clo, doesn't it seem wonderful that he should care for me—he, who is so bright and clever and rich? But I've been lucky in everything, haven't I? I haven't liked to say it before, but wasn't it awfully kind—awfully good of James——?"
Clodagh half withdrew her hand. In the surprising news that Nance had given her, she had forgotten the confession she had still to make.
"Clo, wasn't it awfully kind of him?"
Clodagh did not answer at once; and when she did so, her voice was strained.
"—To leave you that money? That thousand pounds?"
"Yes; the thousand pounds. Clo, you don't know the dozens and dozens of times it has made me happy to think of that since—since Pierce has cared for me. It isn't that I like money for itself; but, when one is horribly poor, one is sensitive about marrying a millionaire. I mean, you know——" Again her fingers clung to her sister's.
"Yes?"
"One feels that one would like to come to him with everything that—well—that his sister would have, if she married. It's very silly, of course. Clodagh, do I seem very silly?"
At any other time, Clodagh would have smiled at the ingenuousness of the words; but now some feeling within herself banished amusement.
"What is it, darling?" she asked. "There's something you are trying to say."
Nance looked up into her face.
"Clo, it's all this stupid pride. Of course Pierce and Daisy and Mrs. Estcoit know that I have nothing, except my share in Orristown—which, of course,isnothing. And I know that for all the rest of my life I shall be dependent on Pierce for everything. But it's just because of that, that I want to come to him with all the things—the clothes and things—that other girls have. Oh, I know it's hateful of me—it's weak and vain."
Clodagh pressed her hand suddenly.
"No, darling! I understand."
"You do? Oh, Clo! dear Clo! Then you know what the thousand pounds seems like. A thousand pounds all my own! Money of my own to buy beautiful things with—things like Daisy's—things like yours! I, who have never had a penny that really belonged to me! And Clodagh, may I have it soon? That's what I want to say. May I have it soon? I won't spend it all, of course—not half—nor quarter——" She laughed. "But may I have it soon? It—it would be heaven!"
With a swift, involuntary movement, Clodagh freed her hand.
"Clo, I have said too much! I have asked too much!"
"No, darling! No! No!"
"Then I've tired you? Clo, you're tired!" She caught Clodagh's hand again. "Andyouwanted to tellmesomething. Oh, I've been selfish! Won't you forgive me, and say it now?"
But Clodagh turned from her and walked to the writing-table—the table on which her father's miniature had rested the night before.
"No, I won't talk to-night, darling," she said, without looking round. "I—I think I have forgotten what I was going to say."
CHAPTER X
The key-note of Clodagh's character was impulse. She loved, she hated, she was generous, she was foolish, with a wide impulsiveness.
When Nance had spoken of her engagement, her unselfish joy and relief in the security it promised had aroused a renewed desire for self-sacrifice, as represented by confession of her weakness; but a moment later, when Nance had spoken of Milbanke's legacy—of her innocent joy in its existence—of her innocent desire for its possession—the wish had faltered. She had given her tacit agreement that the thousand pounds should be placed in Nance's hands—the thousand pounds, of which the greater portion had already gone to swell the coffers of London tradesmen or fill the pockets of her friends!
That was her position on the night of Nance's confidence; and on the following morning she woke with an oppressive sense that action must be taken in some direction.
The whole house party, with the exception of Deerehurst, put in an appearance at the early breakfast. And as Clodagh entered the breakfast-room, her spirits rallied a little at the sight of the crowded table; and she took her place between George Tuffnell and Serracauld with a sense of respite.
Lady Diana, who was occupying her usual place at the head of the table, had borne Nance off to sit beside her; while Lady Frances, looking a little worn in the searching morning light, was keeping Mrs. Bathurst, Mansfeldt, and Gore amused.
The breakfast was not a long meal; and at its conclusion Lady Diana looked round the table.
"Now, people!" she said amiably, "what are the morning's plans? You know, you are none of you to forget my dance to-night, and tire yourselves!"
Mrs. Bathurst turned to her with her pretty, languid smile.
"I'm going to play croquet with Mr. Mansfeldt," she announced. "Nice, lazy, old-fashioned croquet. We shall turn up at lunch time."
"And you, Walter?" Lady Diana asked. "Will you drive over with me to Wynchley? We might take Frances and"—again she looked round the party—"and Miss Asshlin."
But Nance glanced quickly down the table to where her sister sat.
Clodagh caught the questioning look, and bent her head.
"Yes. Go with Lady Diana," she said affectionately. "It's very sweet of her to take you."
Nance smiled shyly.
"I know," she said, looking from Clodagh to her hostess.
Lady Diana returned the smile.
"It's sweet of your sister to spare you to me."
While she was speaking, Serracauld turned to Clodagh.
"Will you givemethe morning?" he said in an undertone.
She drew back and laughed a little.
"What a conceited suggestion! Fancy throwing my little sister over, to spend the morning with you!"
He looked at her unabashed. And, as Tuffnell turned to address his neighbour, he bent close to her again.
"You're very hard on me! When will you be really, properly kind?"
"Oh, sometime—perhaps!" Clodagh's tone was careless and light.
"This morning, then? Come for a ride with me."
She laughed once more, and shook her head.
"I have a letter—a terrible business letter—that must be written—a letter to Mr. Barnard."
Serracauld raised his eyebrows a trifle satirically.
"To Barny? Ah, then I shan't press the point. But how many dances am I to have to-night?"
"Dances? You know I shan't dance." She glanced down at her black linen dress.
He smiled a little.
"Am I a schoolboy, that I should want to dance? How many dances are we to sit out?"
"To sit out? Oh, I'll—I'll tell you that when we've sat out one." Without looking at him, she pushed back her chair, as Lady Diana rose.
"Then let that be the first dance?"
She nodded inconsequently.
"Perhaps! The first dance!" She stood up, and joining the rest of the company, moved down the room.
As she gained the door, Nance ran to her.
"Clo, darling! Can't I stay with you?"
Clodagh smiled down into the eager upturned face.
"Not this morning. I have a business letter to write."
"Then Imustgo?" Nance's face fell.
"Must, darling."
"But, Clo, you'll think of me—and love me—all the time you're writing the horrid thing?"
Clodagh laughed; then all at once her face looked grave.
"Dearest," she said suddenly, "you don't know how much!" And without explaining her words, or waiting for Nance to speak again, she passed quickly across the hall and up the stairs.