Four different times Clodagh began her letter to Barnard. Sitting by the writing-table close to the open window of her bedroom, she watched the various members of the house party depart on their different ways; but the quieter and more deserted the house became, the more impossible it seemed to her to accomplish the task she had in hand. At last, with a gesture of despair, she tore up the half-written letters that lay strewn about her; and, rising from the table with a sigh of vexation, left the room, closing the door softly.
With a frown of unhappiness and perplexity still upon her forehead, she descended the stairs, crossed the hall, and passing round the back of the house, made her way to the rose garden.
The rose garden at Tuffnell was always a place of beauty; but in the month of July it was a paradise of scent and colour. Down its centre ran a long strip of close-cut lawn, flanked on either side by stone seats and stone nymphs and satyrs, brought from an old Italian garden; on the high wall, that preserved to the place an absolute seclusion, a dozen peacocks sunned themselves gorgeously; while over the entire enclosure grew—and climbed—and drooped—roses; roses of every shade and of every size; roses that filled the air with a warm scent that seemed at once to mingle with and to hold the summer sun.
She paused for an instant upon entering this enchanted garden, and drew a deep breath of involuntary delight; then, walking slowly, as though haste might desecrate such beauty, she passed down the long smooth lawn that formed an alley of greenness amid the pink and crimson of the flowers.
Pausing at the farther end, she stood, soothed by the sights and scents about her, until suddenly a harsh, disturbed cry from one of the peacocks broke the spell. She turned sharply, and saw Deerehurst standing close behind her.
"I saw you from my dressing-room window," he said, in answer to her look of surprise. "Was it very presumptuous of me to follow you?"
The cold, familiar voice banished the thought of the roses. Her vexations and perplexities came back upon her abruptly, causing her face to cloud over.
"No!" she said hastily—"no! I—I think I am glad to see you. I am in a hopeless mood to-day. Things won't go right!"
He took her hand and bent over it, with even more than his usual deference, although his cold eyes shot a swift glance at her distressed face.
"But you must not say that," he said softly. "Things can always be compelled to go right."
She shook her head despondently.
"Not for me."
He freed her hand gently, and pointed to one of the stone seats that stood under the shadow of the rose bushes.
"Shall we sit down?" he said. "There is a great deal of repose to be found in this garden of Lady Diana's. She had it copied many years ago from my rose garden at Ambleigh."
Clodagh looked up at him, as they moved together across the grass.
"Indeed!" she said—"from your rose garden?"
"Yes; she and Tuffnell stayed with me at Ambleigh shortly after they were married—when my sister was alive. And Lady Diana fell in love with my rose garden. I remember I sent a couple of my gardeners down here to plant this one for her. It is an exact reproduction, on a smaller scale."
There was silence while they seated themselves; then Clodagh, looking meditatively in front of her at the evil face of one of the stone satyrs, spoke suddenly and impulsively.
"I envy you!" she said.
"You envy me?" There was a curious, almost an eager tone in Deerehurst's voice; but she was too preoccupied to hear it.
"All people are to be envied who have power—and freedom. I get so tired of myself sometimes—so rebellious against myself! I am always doing the things I should not do, and failing to do the things I should. I am hopeless!"
For a space he made no attempt to break in upon her mood; then, very quietly, he bent forward and looked up into her face.
"What is worrying you?" he asked in a whisper. "Confession reallyisvery good for the soul!"
For a moment she answered nothing; then, yielding to an impulse, she met his scrutinising eyes.
"Oh, it's only a letter that won't let itself be written—one of those abominable letters that one has to write. Talking of it does no good!"
"No good? I am not so sure of that. I believe in talking. Tell me about it!"
Clodagh laid her hand nervously on the arm of the seat.
"I have been stupid!" she said almost defiantly. "I have overstepped my allowance, and must ask Mr. Barnard to advance me some money. And—and I, somehow, hate to do it. Am I not a fool?" She laughed unsteadily, and turned to look at her companion; but he had drawn back into the shadow of the seat. "Oh, it's childish! Ridiculous! I am disgusted with myself!" Her glance again crossed the strip of green lawn to where the stone satyr stood.
Quite silently Deerehurst bent forward again.
"What is the amount?" he asked softly.
"A thousand pounds."
"And is Barnard such a very great friend?"
Clodagh started.
"No! Oh no! Why?" She turned quickly and looked at him.
"Because I wish to know why it should be Barnard."
There was a long silence, in which she felt her heart beat uncomfortably fast. A sudden surprise—a sudden confusion—filled her. Then, through the confusion, she was conscious that Deerehurst was speaking again.
"Why should you think of Barnard?" he murmured. "Barnard is not a rich man. To advance you a thousand pounds may possibly inconvenience him; whereas a man who need not consider ways and means——"
Clodagh sat very still.
"Yes. But I think——"
"And why think?" he spoke calmly, considerately, without a tinge of disturbing emotion. "Why think? Why write that troublesome letter? Why ask a favour when, by granting one——"
"Granting one——?"
"Yes. When, by granting a favour, you can make everything smooth. Think what it would be to me, for instance, if some of the money I am saddled with were used to bring you happiness—or peace! Think of the favouryouwould be doingme!"
She half rose, then sank back again.
"Oh, but I couldn't! How could I?"
"And why not? Look! I have only to open my cheque-book"—he very quietly drew a cheque-book from his breast-pocket—"find the all-powerful pen"—he searched for, and produced, a gold pen—"and—look!"
He wrote rapidly for a moment; then held a fluttering white paper in front of Clodagh's eyes.
"Look!"
With a little start, a little cry of deprecation, she rose from her seat. In a flash of memory she recalled the night on the balcony at Venice, when he had kissed her hand; she recalled the letter she had found awaiting her in her room at the hotel. In sudden fear, she glanced at him. Then her fear faltered. To her searching eyes, he presented the same aspect that he had assumed since their first meeting in London—the aspect of a tried, deferential friend.
"How could I?" she asked again; but unconsciously her tone had weakened.
For answer, Deerehurst folded up the cheque and held it out to her with a respectful—almost a formal bow.
"By extending to me the merest act of friendship."
She sat very still, not attempting to take the cheque.
"I—I could not repay it before January—perhaps not entirely even then."
"January, or any time. I understand the art of patience."
For one moment longer her uncertain glance wandered from the slip of paper to the glowing rose bushes; from the roses to the cold malignant face of the satyr that confronted her across the strip of grass.
"You—you are very kind. In—in January, then."
Deerehurst bowed again. And in complete silence the cheque passed from his hand to hers.
CHAPTER XI
Action—decisive action—always brings relief. An hour after it had come into her possession, Clodagh had dispatched Deerehurst's cheque to her bankers in London; and when, at seven o'clock, she entered Nance's room with the intention of dressing for the night's festivities, she was carrying a cheque from her own book.
As she came into the room, Nance was kneeling before her trunk; but at the sound of the closing door she looked round, and sprang to her feet with a cry of delight.
"Clo!" she cried, running forward—"Clo, how lovely of you to come! Shall we dress together, like long ago?" Then her eyes fell to the folded slip of paper in Clodagh's hand. "What is that?" she asked curiously.
Clodagh looked down at the cheque.
"I have come to do my duty!" she said, with a faint laugh. "Here is your thousand pounds, darling. May it be enough to buy everything in life worth having!"
Her voice faltered on the last words; but the touch of emotion was lost in a sudden embrace from Nance.
"Oh, you darling!—you love!" she cried. "A thousand pounds! I feel a queen!" She drew back a little, flushing with excitement and pleasure; and opened the cheque almost reverently. "And can I really, really get a thousand pounds by signing my name on the back of this? I can't believe it, you know—I simplycan't."
She raised her shining eyes to Clodagh's.
Clodagh's face softened.
"Oh, you child!" she said—"you child! It makes me remember our weekly pennies, just to listen to you. How poor—and how very happy—we were long ago! Do you remember?"
Nance gave a little cry of recollection.
"Remember, Clo!CouldI forget?"
Then followed another impulsive embrace, a kiss, and a whole torrent of reminiscence. And a quarter of an hour had slipped away before the entrance of Simonetta with Clodagh's dress recalled them to the knowledge of present things.
Five minutes before the dinner hour had struck, the sisters entered the hall. At the foot of the stairs Nance was detained by George Tuffnell; while Clodagh, left alone for the moment, was at once claimed by Serracauld.
He came forward from one of the windows, moving with his usual graceful indolence, and, pausing beside her, looked intently into her face.
"You look radiant to-night," he said.
She laughed.
"Can one ever look radiant in black?"
Serracauld's eyes passed slowly from her face to her slim white neck.
"Yes," he said, in his cool, deliberate voice.
She gave another laugh, slightly shorter and more conscious than the last. But before she could speak again, he moved a trifle nearer, and laid his fingers lightly on her fan.
"And how many dances am I to have?"
"I told you I must not dance—yet."
"And I told you that I would not make you dance. How many may I have?"
He bent very close to her; then frowned a little, and drew away again, as Lady Frances Hope, followed by Mrs. Bathurst and Mansfeldt, came towards them across the hall.
"You'll give me the dances?" he asked quickly.
Clodagh glanced at the approaching party; then bent her head in assent.
"And which?"
His tone was eager.
"The first—at least," she said.
With a faint satisfied smile he turned and moved away.
Dinner that night was a very lively meal. Everybody seemed imbued with the spirit of the coming ball, and anxious to display a personal sense of anticipation. After the company had risen from table, Clodagh and Nance met again in the hall by previous arrangement and retired to their rooms, that Simonetta might put some finishing touches to their hair and dresses, and that they might get the bouquets they were to carry at the dance.
As they mounted the staircase side by side, Nance, after the custom of old days, slipped her arm through her sister's.
"Clo!" she said softly, "you are excited too! I can feel it!"
Clodagh smile a little.
"Well, it is my first dance!"
Nance halted and looked at her.
"Why, of course it is! And you must feel like I did the night of Mrs. Estcoit's ball—the night——" She stopped, blushing.
"Oh, darling," she added, "fancy my not realising that you had never been to a dance? It must feel lovely and strange to you!"
Clodagh drew her onward up the stairs.
"Yes; it does feel different from anything else. Of course, I shan't dance; but then people may ask me to—to sit out."
"May?I wonder whowon'task you!"
Nance's eyes spoke volumes, as they travelled from her sister's face to the long lines of her soft black dress.
Arrested by the look, Clodagh spoke again, abruptly and a little anxiously.
"Nance, why do you say that?"
"Say what?"
"That people would ask me for dances—that people would care?"
Again Nance paused and looked at her.
"I am nearly angry with you, for asking anything so silly," she said after a second's pause. "But I won't be. I'll forgive you. Though you know perfectly well that there isn't a man here who wouldn't sit out—or dance—or do anything in the world with you, from now till Doomsday."
She looked up laughingly; but, as she did so, her expression fell.
"Clo, you're angry?"
Clodagh patted the hand that lay upon her wrist.
"Angry, darling? No! Only thinking how wrong you are."
"Wrong?"
"Yes; I know one man who would not dance with me, even if—if I were to offer him a dance——"
She made the confession swiftly, in obedience to a sudden impulse.
Nance looked at her afresh in involuntary curiosity.
"Clo——"
But Clodagh raised her head, in a half-defiant return to reticence.
"Don't mind me!" she said. "After all, no one man should fill anybody's world, should he? Come along! It's half-past nine, and I hear the first carriages."
And without waiting for Nance to reply, she swept her down the corridor to the door of her bedroom.
The presence of Simonetta precluded the possibility of further confidences; and ten minutes later, as the sisters again emerged upon the corridor, the appearance of Lady Frances Hope from the door of her own room deprived Nance of the moment for which she had been waiting.
Seeing them, Lady Frances came forward smilingly.
"How charming!" she said. "A study in black and white! Where did those wonderful roses come from, Clodagh? They are nearly as dark as your dress."
Clodagh looked down at the damask roses in her hand.
"Yes. Aren't they nearly black?" she said easily. "I was saying to Lord Deerehurst the other day that there were no flowers one could wear in mourning. And to-day I found these in my room. He had wired for them to Ambleigh. It was very thoughtful of him."
Lady Frances gave an odd little smile.
"Very," she said. "I wonder if he meant them to be mourning. I believe there was a language of flowers when he was young."
She gave a short amused laugh and turned to Nance.
"And this is your first English dance, Miss Asshlin?"
Nance, whose eyes had been flashing from one face to the other, gave a little start at being so suddenly addressed.
"Yes—yes; it is. I came out in America."
"Then you can tell us in the morning which men make the nicest partners, English or American."
Nance laughed. And Clodagh, with the new, protective instinct, put out her hand and drew her close to her.
"Nance has made her choice," she said impulsively. "The field is not open to Englishmen, But let us go downstairs! We are barely in time."
At the foot of the stairs, the three turned to the left and made their way to the ballroom through the throng of arriving guests.
Entering the long room, they moved slowly forward to where Lady Diana and her husband were receiving their guests.
Reaching Lady Diana's side, Clodagh felt her heart beat quicker, as she caught side of Gore's fair head and tall, straight figure. And a strange sense of repeated sensation surged about her. It might almost have been the night at the Palazzo Ugochini, when Lady Frances Hope had held her reception. Her hand felt a little unsteady as she laid it over Nance's; her voice sounded low and uncertain as she spoke her hostess's name.
"Lady Diana!" she said, "here is Nance! You told me to bring her to you before the first dance."
At her tone, so very soft and pleading, Lady Diana turned; and a smile—the first real smile she had given her since the episode of two nights ago—broke over her face.
"Yes," she said, with sudden geniality—"yes; that is quite right! Leave her with me; I will find her the nicest men." She paused, and her eyes travelled kindly from Clodagh's face to her black dress.
"And you? Won't you have some partners?" Her glance swept the little group about her. "Walter, Mrs. Milbanke won't dance, but——"
At the moment that she spoke, Serracauld's light voice sounded from behind them, and his slim figure emerged from the surrounding crowd.
"Ah, here you are, Mrs. Milbanke! I have a strong suspicion that I am only just in time. Where shall we go? Into the music-room? Or out into the garden?" Supremely ignoring the rest of the group, he offered Clodagh his arm and led her out into the throng, at the moment that the swaying notes of the first waltz floated down from the musicians' gallery.
With a faint disappointment, warring with a faint elation, Clodagh suffered him to guide her down the long ballroom. Life seemed suddenly a brighter thing than it had seemed for days. Nance was with her; Lady Diana had smiled on her again; and only a moment ago she had met Gore's eyes in almost the first direct glance they had exchanged since his coming to Tuffnell. She lifted her head in response to a sudden excited happiness, as the dancers flashed past her over the polished floor, and the deep, long notes of the violins vibrated on the air.
Unconsciously her fingers tightened on Serracauld's arm; and in instant response, he paused.
"Can you resist?" he said.
She looked up at him. The colour had rushed into her face with the emotion of the moment. An inordinate longing to be young—to enjoy—to be as the crowd about her—swept her mind imperiously.
A peculiar look crossed Serracauld's eyes.
"Just for two minutes?" he whispered. "No one will see you in the first crush. There is no waltz like this!" Almost before she was aware of it, he had slipped his arm round her waist.
For an instant a gleam of surprise—of alarm—showed in her face; then the long, persuasive notes of the stringed instruments dropped to a lower, more enticing key. She yielded to the pressure of his arm, and the two glided in amongst the dancers.
They made the half-circuit of the room, escaping the observation of the house party at its further end; and as they reached the door, Clodagh pressed her hand detainingly on Serracauld's arm.
He paused.
"Tired?" he asked, looking down into her flushed face and brilliant eyes.
She shook her head faintly. Her heart was still beating too fast—her brain still felt too elated—to notice the ardour and the intentness of his glance.
"We must stop," she said softly. "You know, even the two minutes were stolen."
He slowly withdrew his arm from her waist, but still kept his eyes on hers.
"I suppose all the things in life worth having are come by dishonestly," he said lightly. Then, in a lower tone, he added, "Do you know that you dance—gloriously?"
Clodagh made no answer. Her mind was more occupied with the dance just gone through than with the partner who had shared it. And for the moment Serracauld was content with her silence.
Leaving the ballroom, they passed together down a long corridor that ended in a short flight of stairs, leading to the card-room.
At the foot of these stairs he paused, struck by a new idea.
"Suppose we look into the card-room?" he said. "I believe it will be deserted at this early hour."
Clodagh assented.
"If you like," she said. "Itwouldbe rather nice to find a quiet spot." And, leading the way with careless unconcern, she began to mount the stairs.
The door of the card-room was open. The baize-covered tables were arranged for play; but only one small, green-shaded lamp had been lighted; and the window was uncurtained and open to the still summer night.
She paused on the threshold, and Serracauld stepped quickly to her side.
"It might almost have been arranged for us," he said. "Won't you go in?"
She waited for a moment longer; then she walked slowly forward and halted beside one of the tables.
Very quietly her companion closed the door, and, crossing the room softly, paused close behind her.
"Do you know that you dance—gloriously?" he said again. "But I always knew you would. A waltz with you is one of the things I promised myself a long time ago."
As he spoke, she was conscious that his shoulder almost brushed hers. With a faintly uneasy movement she raised her head.
"What do you mean?" she asked, turning and meeting his eyes.
In the dim light of the room there was something curious, new, and alarming in the glance she encountered. He was standing exceedingly near; his face looked very pale; the pupils of his eyes were dilated, giving them a peculiar, unfamiliar look.
Embarrassed, and yet doubtful that her embarrassment was justified, she turned away, and, nervously taking a pack of cards from the table, began to pass them through her fingers.
"I don't know what you mean," she said again. "I don't understand."
Quite suddenly Serracauld laughed; and, passing his arms over hers, caught her hands, so that the cards fluttered to the table.
"Nonsense!" he said in a sharp, whispering voice—"nonsense! The prettiest woman of the season not understand!"
He laughed again, and with a swift movement freed her hands; and, clasping her suddenly and closely, forced her head backwards and bent his face to hers.
The action was not so much a kiss, as a vehement, almost painful pressure of his lips upon her mouth—something that stung her to resentment rather than to fear.
For one instant she remained passive; the next, she had freed herself with the muscular activity that had always belonged to her slight, supple frame.
As she drew away from him, she was trembling and her face was white; but there was a look he had never imagined in her eyes and on her lips. For one moment it seemed that she meant to speak; and then her lips closed. She turned away from him and walked out of the room without a word.
CHAPTER XII
Hardly conscious of her movements, Clodagh left the card-room and passed down the corridor.
Her only tangible sensations were anger and self-contempt. The thought that Serracauld, who had seemed less than nothing in the scheme of her life—Serracauld, with whom she had laughed and jested and flirted because he was a boy and of no account—should have treated her lightly; should have presumed to kiss her, to seize her violently in his arms, was something shameful and intolerable. The simplicity of her upbringing—the uncontaminated childhood that her country had given her—rose to confront her in this newest crisis. Vain, frivolous, foolish she might be, but beneath the vanity, the frivolity, the folly, she was—and always had been—good, in the primitive, fundamental sense of the word.
She hurried down the corridor, and down the staircase that she had ascended so short a time before; but, reaching the ground floor, she did not turn towards the ballroom, from which the sound of the violins still floated. Instinctively, she moved in the opposite direction, towards the quieter portion of the house in which stood the music-room.
The door of the room was closed when she reached it, and no sound came to her from within. For a space she stood hesitating outside; then the distant murmur of talk and laughter roused her to action. Her hesitancy fled before her distaste for companionship. She raised her hand and noiselessly opened the door.
To enter the music-room was to enter a region of romance. For, as the card-room upstairs suggested the world and the things of the world, this room seemed to embrace all the repose, all the dignity, all the peace that such places as Tuffnell gather unto themselves with the passage of time. It was a long, low-ceiled room with wainscoted walls and a polished oak floor; and the first object that met the visitor's eye, was an old harpsichord, mutely eloquent of bygone days; for, with rare good taste, Lady Diana had hidden her piano behind a tapestry screen, worked many centuries ago by another lady of the house. Even on this night of festivity, the place retained its peculiar quiet; only half a dozen candles burned in the sconces that hung upon the walls; and the scent of lavender and dried rose-leaves lingered upon the air.
It seemed what it was—a room in which, for numberless generations, women of refinement had made music, read poetry or sung songs, while they wove about them the indescribable atmosphere of home.
And into this room Clodagh stepped, her heart burning, her mind distressed, pained, and hurt.
For an instant she paused upon the threshold, overwhelmed by the contrast between the aloofness, the graceful repose of the place, and tumult of her own thoughts; then, yielding to the spirit of peace, she closed the door resolutely and went forward into the room.
But at sound of the closing door, at sound of her dress upon the polished floor, an answering sound came from behind the tapestry screen—the noise of a chair being quietly pushed back—of some one rising to his feet.
In sudden consternation, she stopped. For one instant she glanced behind her, contemplating flight; the next, a faint exclamation of surprise—the merest audible breath-escaped her; and her figure became motionless.
The occupant of the room came quietly round the screen; and in the uncertain light of the candles she recognised Gore.
The position was unusual; the moment was unusual. For the first time since the night at the Palazzo Ugochini, they were entirely alone—for the first time since the night at the Palazzo Ugochini they looked at each other without the commentary of other eyes—without the atmosphere of conventional things.
Involuntarily, inevitably, their eyes met. Clodagh looked into his; and in the contact of glances it seemed that a miracle came to pass. By power of that magnetism that indisputably exists—the magnetism that draws certain natures irrevocably together, although circumstance and time may delay their union—she saw the gleam of comprehension, of question, of acknowledgment spring from his eyes to hers; and she knew, without the need of words, that he stood within the circle of her power, that—whether with, or against his will—his personality claimed response from hers.
She did not move; for it seemed to her, in that instant of understanding, that her life and his were mysteriously suspended. Her heart beat extraordinarily fast, yet her mental vision was curiously clear. By the light of her recent misgivings, by the light of her sudden confidence she seemed to see and to read herself and him with a strange and vivid clearness. Some power, tangible yet invincibly compelling, drew them together. In the personal scheme of things there were only two persons—he and she. Beyond the walls of the music-room life swept forward as relentlessly, as rapidly as before; but inside the walls of the music-room there were only he and she.
Almost unconsciously she took a step towards him.
"Do you remember that night in Venice?" she asked. "The night you said all the things that sounded so hard, and hurt so much, and—and were so true?"
She did not know why she had spoken. She did not know how she had framed her words. She only knew that, exalted by the consciousness of great good within her reach, she was moved to dare greatly.
It was the moment of her life. The moment when all social barriers of prejudice and of etiquette fell away before a tremendous self-knowledge. She realised in that space of time that her thoughts of Gore—her attraction towards him—her reluctant admiration—had been insensibly leading up to this instant of action; that on the evening when they stood together on the terrace of the hotel at Venice, and watched the night steal in from the lagoon, it had been irrevocably written in the book of fate that they should one day look into each other's hearts—for happiness or sorrow.
"Do you remember that night in Venice?" she said again, almost below her breath. And in the pause that followed the whispered words, the most wonderful—the most wholly perfect—incident of her life occurred. The voice that had power to chill or stir her, spoke her name; the hands she had believed closed to her for ever were held out towards her. Gore came slowly forward across the shadowed room.
"I do remember," he said. "I have never forgotten, I never shall forget."
CHAPTER XIII
Nearly three weeks had passed since the night of Lady Diana Tuffnell's dance; and Clodagh was once more occupying her London flat.
The season was long since dead; the fashionable world had betaken itself to its customary haunts; London had, in the eyes of society, become intolerable; and yet it seemed to her, as she woke each morning and looked across the park, lying under a haze of heat, that she had never known the great city until now; that she had never experienced the exhilaration that can lie in its crowded, strenuous life until now, when her own existence—her own soul seemed lifted above it on the wings of happiness.
The hours, the days, the weeks that had followed the night of Lady Diana's dance had been a chain of golden dreams, linked one to the other. From the moment that Gore had made his confession, the face of the world had altered for her. One overwhelming fact had coloured the universe. The fact that he loved—that he needed her.
They had entered into no lucid explanations in the moments that had followed the confession; for men and women in love have no need of such mundane things. With the glorious egotism of nature, they are content with the primitive consciousness that each lives and is close to the other.
Clodagh had, it is true, made some faint and deprecating allusion to the past—to Gore's first disapproval, and subsequent avoidance of her. And he had paused in his flow of talk and looked at her with sudden seriousness.
"I have never disapproved of you," he had said. "I have never felt it was my place to disapprove."
"But you have avoided me?"
"Never intentionally. I have watched you; I have studied you, since we have been here together."
"And what have you seen?"
Clodagh had remembered the card-room and Serracauld—the rose garden and Deerehurst—with a quick, faint sense of fear.
But Gore had taken her hand and, with quiet courtesy, had raised it to his lips.
"I have seen—or believe I have seen—that though you may like these people, may be amused by them, may even court them, not one of them is more to you now than they were in Venice. That is what I believe. Am I right?"
And Clodagh—in sudden relief, in sudden gratitude for his faith—had caught his hand passionately between her own, and looked up confidently into his face.
"You are right!" she had cried. "Oh, you are right! They are nothing to me! Nothing!—nothing!"
And Gore, moved by her vehemence, had leant forward and looked deeply into the eyes that challenged his.
"Not one of them is anything to you—in any way?"
"Not one of them is anything to me—in any way."
That had been the only moment of personal doubt or question that had obtruded itself upon the first hours of mutual comprehension. Until more than half the programme had been danced through, and the older guests had begun to depart, they had walked together up and down the solitary paths of the old garden upon which the music-room opened—a garden where thyme and lavender and a hundred other sweet-smelling plants bordered the prim flower-beds and recalled by their scents the days when the harpsichord had tinkled out across the silence of the night. As they paced slowly to and fro, they had made many confessions, sweet in the confessing, of thoughts and desires and doubts felt by each—when each had believed the other out of reach; and quietly, hesitatingly, eagerly they had touched upon the future, upon the days when Clodagh's mourning should be over and they could permit the world to share their secret—upon the days, still later, when their lives should no longer be separate things, but one perfect whole.
Gore was an unusual, and a very delightful lover. The slight suggestion of reticence that marked him in ordinary life clung to him even in these intimate moments. He gave the impression that behind his extreme quiet, his almost gentle deference of manner, lay reserves of feeling, of dignity, of strength that he himself had, perhaps, never fathomed.
And for this very reserve—this courtliness—this indescribable fineness of bearing, Clodagh felt her own nature leap forth in renewed admiration.
At last, at one o'clock, they had parted, he to smoke and pace the garden paths until the early summer dawn broke over the woods; she to wait by the open window of Nance's bedroom, with her face buried in her hands, her whole being alive and tingling with the tumult, the excitement of the joy that had come to her.
At six o'clock next morning, before any member of the house party was awake, Gore had made his way to the stables; and a few minutes later had emerged, leading two saddled horses. In the drive he had been joined by Clodagh, dressed in her riding habit, and fresh and buoyant as on the first morning when she had ridden alone through the great gates, and had dreamed of his coming to Tuffnell.
No companionship can be more delightful than that of two people wholly occupied with each other, who ride together on a summer morning. To Clodagh, the frank happiness of that stolen ride—the intoxicating sense of reality conveyed by Gore's glance, as she met it in the searching sunlight, had been things that possessed no parallel. Her natural, spontaneous capacity for joy had wakened within her like a flood of light. The misgivings—the dark hours—the feverish artificiality of the past months had been dispersed as if by magic. She had become as a child who, by the fervour of its own delight, sheds delight upon all around.
And so it had been with the days that had elapsed before their departure from Buckinghamshire. They had met as often as chance would permit; but, with the exception of the first stolen ride, they had arranged no more secret meetings. And to Clodagh the half-furtive, ever-expectant existence had been fraught with new pleasure. To talk and laugh with others, to watch Gore do likewise, and all the while to know that, unseen by any eyes, unsuspected by those around them, their lives were linked together—their thoughts belonged to each other—was a source of intense excitement, of unending joy.
To Nance alone did she confide her secret; and here lay another source of happiness. For every night, when the house party had retired, when Simonetta had been dismissed, and the house given over to the great sheltering stillness of the country, the sisters had exchanged such confidences as all women love—talking of their hopes, their fears, their pasts, their futures, in the half-reluctant, half-eager confessions that the dark suggests.
Then at last these days of mystery and possibility had come to an end. Gore had received a letter from his mother asking him to join her in Scotland; and almost at the same hour had come a cablegram from Pierce Estcoit saying that he, with his mother and sister, had sailed for England a fortnight earlier than they had at first intended.
So bidding good-bye to the Tuffnells, to her fellow guests, and to Gore, Clodagh had returned to London. And now, a fortnight later, she and Nance were driving homeward through the park in the warmth of an early afternoon.
The morning had been devoted to the preparation of Nance's trousseau—a matter which, in these days, claimed absorbed attention; and, later, the sisters had lunched together at one of the restaurants.
The day—or at least the earlier portion of it—had been a complete success. But now, as Clodagh's motor car sped along under the canopy of trees, already whitened with summer dust, a cloud seemed to have fallen upon the sisters' gaiety. Clodagh lay back in her corner, looking straight in front of her; Nance sat stiffly upright, her face flushed, her head held at an aggressive angle.
At last, unable to maintain the silence longer, she turned and looked at her sister.
"It—it seems to me so stupid!" she said.
Clodagh took up a parasol that lay beside her, and opened it with a little jerk.
"Was it my fault that he lunched at 'Prince's'? Was it my fault that he sat at the table next to ours? You know perfectly well that I don't care where he lunches—or whether he ever lunches——"
Nance maintained her rigid attitude.
"I wonder if he is of that opinion," she said dryly.
Clodagh flushed suddenly.
"It is you who are being stupid! Lord Deerehurst is one of my best friends. It's impossible to treat him rudely when we chance to meet."
Nance gave a little angry laugh.
"When you chance to meet!" she repeated with immense scorn. Then she turned afresh and looked at her sister. "Do you think engaged people ought to have best friends? I wonder what Pierce would say if I were to get flowers and books and things every day——"
Clodagh shut her parasol sharply.
"How can you, Nance! Books and flowers and things everyday! Four times Lord Deerehurst has sent me flowers since we came back to town."
"And how many times has he written to you? And how many times has he called? And why did he come back to town from Tuffnell, instead of going to France with Mr. Serracauld?"
Clodagh looked away across the park.
"He had business in town."
"Business! Was it business that brought him to the flat at nine o'clock the second day after we arrived—and that made you ride with him? Oh, Clo, I wonder, when you think of Walter, that you're—you're not ashamed!" She brought the last word forth with a little gasp.
For a moment Clodagh's face was suffused with red.
"I do not need anybody to tell me how I should care for Walter," she said, after a moment's pause.
At the low, hurt tone, Nance's antagonistic attitude suddenly deserted her. The expression of her face changed, her figure unbent.
"Clo! Clo! I was a wretch!—I was a wretch! Forgive me! It's only that, knowing Walter is coming back to-morrow, knowing that he hates Lord Deerehurst, and seeing you allow him to go everywhere that you go—— Oh, Clo, I can't properly explain, but sometimes I have felt—afraid. Walter is so—so honourable himself."
Clodagh put out her hand and laid it for a moment upon her sister's.
"When one loves like I do, Nance," she said, "one simply doesn'tseeanybody but the person that one cares for. Other people don't count—other people don't exist!"
Nance looked down at the hand still resting upon her own.
"Perhaps not," she said wisely, "but the point is that the person one cares for may not be quite so blind."
Clodagh withdrew her hand.
"You mean that Walter might imagine—you mean that Walter might bejealousof Lord Deerehurst?"
"I do mean that."
With a sudden gesture of amusement, Clodagh threw up her head and laughed. Then almost as suddenly her face became grave.
"Nance!" she said in a new voice.
Very sharply Nance turned.
"Yes?"
But Clodagh's mood had veered once more.
"Nothing, darling!" she said—"nothing! Here we are at home! Aren't you longing for a nice, cool room and a cup of tea?"
CHAPTER XIV
The fragmentary quarrel between the sisters was very suggestive. Nance's anger, and Clodagh's irritable repudiation of her advice, had each been fraught with its own significance. For, much as the former might busy herself in the happiness of her own engagement and the preparations for her marriage, she could not blind herself to the fact that Clodagh was acting, if not with genuine folly, at least with something that might readily be mistaken for it; and much as the latter might resent a criticism of her action, she could not mentally deny that possibly the criticism was justified.
Yet, when the matter came to be sifted, it was hard to say exactly the point to which exception could reasonably be taken.
Undoubtedly Deerehurst did obtrude himself with curious—with almost intimate—frequency into the plans of each day; but then the intrusion was so natural—so simple—so subtle, if one might use so extreme a word. If London is large in one sense, it is socially as small as any other capital; and the man who wishes to seek the society of a member of his own set finds his way rendered very easy.
And in all matters of tact and subtlety Deerehurst was an adept. If, in Nance's eyes, his comings and goings were things to cavil at, he knew exactly how to arrange them for Clodagh's consideration, so that the gift of a bunch of flowers—the offer of seats at a theatre—the loan of a horse—or the retailing of an amusing bit of gossip seemed the merest courtesies from one friend to another. For in one fact lay his advantage—the fact of a really great favour, secretly given and secretly accepted, in comparison with which all trivial civilities became as nothing.
Not that he ever pressed this advantage home. He was far too wise to allude to it by look or word. But the very passivity of his attitude served to fix the consciousness of his generosity deeper in Clodagh's mind. Not that the knowledge of it galled her; she was too exultantly happy in her own life to be hampered by any debt. But the knowledge of its existence was there—unconsciously bearing upon her ideas and her actions.
On the morning following her return from Tufînell, a faint thrill of surprise and uneasiness had touched her when her eyes had fallen upon a big square envelope, bearing a black coronet, that lay amongst her letters on the breakfast table. And another remembrance of Venice had caused her fingers to tremble slightly as she tore the letter open.
But at the first line her face had cleared—her confidence in life and in herself had flowed back in full tide. There was not a word in the letter that Gore himself might not have read.
So great had been her relief, that a new wave of kindly feeling for Deerehurst had awakened in her mind; and when, on the following morning, he had joined her in her early ride, she had received him with friendly warmth.
And from that, things had drifted, until Deerehurst's presence—Deerehurst's discreet, deferential, amusing personality—had become a factor in the day's routine. The Estcoits had arrived from America, and, with their advent, she had been compelled to see less of Nance; the majority of her friends had already left town, so that even had she desired the old existence, amusements and occupations were less easy to find than they had been a month ago. There was, of course, her daily letter from Gore—the most precious thing in her existence—and there was also her daily letter to him. But even a woman in love cannot read and write—or even dream—all day; and in the intervals of idleness there invariably seemed to be—Deerehurst.
But now at last the day had arrived upon which Gore was to return to London. It was four o'clock in the afternoon; the hot summer air was beating upon the green-and-white sunblinds of the flat; and Nance was standing at a table in the window, arranging a bowl of heliotrope, when Clodagh opened the door of the drawing-room.
She was dressed in her riding habit; her riding crop was under one arm; and as she came forward into the room she was drawing off a pair of chamois gloves.
"He hasn't come?" she asked quickly. "Oh, I'm so glad! I was terrified that that last gallop might have made me late! How lovely life is!" She came quickly across the room; and, linking her arm in Nance's, buried her face in the heliotrope.
"How lovely life is! And summer! And flowers! Do you know, the sun to-day made me long for Orristown. Think of it all, Nance! Burke and Hannah, and Polly and the dogs! Oh, we must all go there together—you and I, and Pierce and Walter——" She paused suddenly and looked at her sister.
"Nance! You're cross!"
Nance refused to look up.
"Nance, you're cross!" Her voice was less sure—less confident.
Nance caught the tone of hesitancy, and turned quickly round.
"I wish Walter had driven through the park ten minutes ago," she said. "I do—I really, really do."
Clodagh's face flamed, and she drew away from her sister.
"And I wish——" she began hotly. Then she paused.
The door of the drawing-room was thrown open; and Gore was announced.
For one instant, Clodagh stood hesitating with a new and charming diffidence; the next, all thoughts of self were blotted out by the consciousness of his presence—his bright, strong presence, typified by his frank eyes, his clear, healthy skin, his close-cropped fair hair. With a little exclamation of greeting, she hurried towards him.
In quick, warm response, he took both her hands.
"Well!" he said—"well! It's good to see you! How splendid you look! And Nance, too!" He turned to the window with quiet cordiality.
"Can Nance find time to shake hands with a mere Englishman?"
Nance laid down the bunch of heliotrope she was still holding.
And at the same moment, Clodagh looked round impulsively.
"Nance and I were quarrelling," she said.
"Quarrelling! What on earth about?" Gore looked amusedly from one to the other.
"Oh, about——"
But Nance interrupted by stepping quickly forward.
"About nothing!" she said hastily. "How are you, Walter? I'm so glad to see you! But I must wash my hands before I even try to talk. Heliotrope is much stickier than you'd think." She looked down at her fingers, then laughed and moved across the room. But as Gore hurried forward to open the door for her, she glanced up into his face with an almost serious look.
"I'm so glad you have come back!" she whispered. "Make up to her for the time you've been away!"
Gore's feelings were very pleasant, very protective, as he closed the door and turned back into the room. He was too essentially an Englishman to be very demonstrative; but the leaven of sentiment that so often lies in the English character had always held a place in his nature. In confessing his love to Clodagh—in acknowledging that love to himself—he had indisputably swept aside some difficulties—difficulties born of inherent prejudice, of a certain stiff-necked distrust of what he had begun by criticising. But they had been thrust aside. He had acknowledged himself stirred to the depths of nature by something brilliant and vivid in her personality. He had made his choice.
His whole expression, his whole bearing, was attractive as he came towards her; he seemed to carry about him a breath of the country—the clean, open spaces of the country. And her heart gave a throb of pride and satisfaction, of complete, ungrudging admiration, as he took her hands again and drew her to him.
"Well!" he said fondly—"well! Have you really missed me as much as your letters said?"
For a moment she remained silent, drinking in the joy of his presence.
"Won't you tell me?"
"In a moment—in one moment. Oh, Walter, the heavenly rest of knowing that you care!"
Then suddenly shaking off her seriousness, she drew away from him, looking up into his face with eyes that shone strangely.
"I'm not crying, Walter!" she exclaimed. "I'm only—frantically happy!" She gave a little gasp, followed by a little laugh.
And Gore, carried away by her charm, by the unconscious flattery of her words, caught her suddenly in his arms, and, bending his face to hers, kissed her passionately.
At last they drew apart, laughing; and Clodagh moved across the room to the open window, and sat down upon the low sill.
A second or two later, he followed her.
"Well! And so the fiancé is perfection?" he said smilingly. "Little Nance looks very happy." He seated himself on the edge of the table, strewn with thedébrisof the heliotrope.
Clodagh glanced up, pleased and interested.
"Yes, Pierce is charming," she said eagerly. "And so are his mother and sister. I told you, didn't I?"
"Yes."
"We dined with them at the Carlton last night. And they're coming here to tea this afternoon. I know you'll love them. Mrs. Estcoit has the most fascinating——"
But Gore made a rueful face.
"To-day!" he said. "Oh, you might have given me the first day!"
Clodagh laughed happily.
"How greedy of you! This is to be a family party."
Gore smiled.
"And Nance was decorating the room for the sacrifice?" He idly gathered the stalks and leaves of the heliotrope into a little heap.
The action was purely mechanical, purely inadvertent. But as he drew the broken stems together, a small object, hitherto hidden under the scattered leaves, was suddenly brought to light.
It was very trivial, very uninteresting—merely a man's visiting-card. Without consideration he picked it up and looked at it. Then, with an extremely quiet gesture, he laid it down again.
It bore the name of the Earl of Deerehurst; and across it Clodagh's name and address had been scribbled in pencil.
"So you owe the decorations to Deerehurst?" he said in a low voice.
There was a short silence. Then suddenly he rose and stepped to Clodagh's side.
"Dear, forgive me!" he said.
At the unexpected words, Clodagh's heart swelled. With a sudden impulse she caught the hand he had laid upon her shoulder and pressed it against her face.
"No, Walter!" she said. "Say all that was in your mind! Be angry, if you like!"
For answer, Gore seated himself beside her on the window-sill.
"I don't think I should ever be angry with you," he said gently. "Anger seems to belong to lesser things than—love. I should either believe in you or disbelieve in you."
He said the somewhat curious words gravely.
Clodagh turned to him swiftly.
"Walter, there was no doubt of me in your mind then?"
He met her searching eyes quietly.
"Not one doubt. Do you think I have forgotten that night at Tuffnell?"
He spoke almost gently; but at his words, the remembrance of the night at Tuffnell rushed back upon Clodagh with an almost exaggerated vividness. On that night love had shone upon her—love, with its coveted accompaniments of trust and protection. She remembered the dimly-lit music-room, the dark garden with its old-fashioned scents; she remembered Gore's quiet, distinct question. "Not one of these people is anything to you—in any way?"
She remembered this; and she remembered also the infinitesimal pause that had divided his question from her answer, when the images of Lady Frances Hope, of Serracauld, of Deerehurst, had flitted across her imagination. Then, last of all, she recalled her own answer—
"Not one of them is anything to me—in any way."
The moment that had brought forth that answer had been crucial—had been, psychologically, intensely interesting. It had been the triumph of love—the triumph of the egotism that is, and ever must be, a component part of love.
And now, as she reviewed the incident in the colder light of day—as she turned involuntarily and looked at Gore—she was suddenly mastered by the certain knowledge that, were the circumstance to be repeated, her action would be the same.
With a swift movement, she held out her hand.
"Walter," she said impulsively, "you are the only person in the world! No one else exists!"