"Darling, darling Clo!" the letter began,"I must have seemed a wretch last night and to-day! I mean I must have seemed very strange, showing hardly any surprise or sympathy at anything you told me, and taking your going to Ireland as though it were a thing that happened every day. But, Clo, it wasn't because I didn't love and worship you, and feel for you in every tiny thing, but because I was afraid you would guess what was really in my mind—what I was plotting and planning all the time."Clo, I wanted you to go to Ireland because—oh, do forgive me for even writing it!—I wanted to get you away."Dearest, you are to do no more silly things. At the risk of hurting you, I am saying this. You used to say long ago that I saw more than you, because I looked on instead of doing things myself. Clo, you arenotto raise money on Orristown, because you have no need to do it. Lord Deerehurst has been paid his thousand pounds and you are free—quite free."My little sister, imagine that my arms are round your neck so tight that you can't be vexed! When you told me last night that my thousand pounds really belonged to him, my first thought was to say—'Well, let's give him back as much of it as we have left!' But I stopped in time. You were not in the mood last night to take the most loving favour in the world. You wanted to sacrifice yourself; so instead of saying what was in my heart, I locked it up closely and thought about it all night; and before you were awake this morning, I sent for Pierce and asked him to lend me three hundred pounds—the three hundred we had spent out of the thousand."Don't say anything, darling! Don't be angry! Don't even think! Pierce was perfectly sweet; he never asked one question, and at three o'clock to-day, just after we came back from lunch, I sent the thousand pounds in notes to Carlton House Terrace, with a card of yours enclosed."Darling,don'tbe vexed! Don't question it! It is right, I know. It was a debt of honour, in the fullest sense."And now, Clo, it's all finished, all done with, all passed, and you can repay me the money slowly in years and years. Be happy! Oh, darling, be happy! Go back to Orristown, as I would have you to go back, with your heart full of all the great, good, true love that Walter and I have for you."Ride and walk and swim, and be without one care; and in a week or two, when the hateful thought of last night has been swept away by the splendid strong sea winds, come back to us, a newer, wiser, happier Clodagh."Darling, I am, now and always,"Your true sister,"Nance."
"Darling, darling Clo!" the letter began,
"I must have seemed a wretch last night and to-day! I mean I must have seemed very strange, showing hardly any surprise or sympathy at anything you told me, and taking your going to Ireland as though it were a thing that happened every day. But, Clo, it wasn't because I didn't love and worship you, and feel for you in every tiny thing, but because I was afraid you would guess what was really in my mind—what I was plotting and planning all the time.
"Clo, I wanted you to go to Ireland because—oh, do forgive me for even writing it!—I wanted to get you away.
"Dearest, you are to do no more silly things. At the risk of hurting you, I am saying this. You used to say long ago that I saw more than you, because I looked on instead of doing things myself. Clo, you arenotto raise money on Orristown, because you have no need to do it. Lord Deerehurst has been paid his thousand pounds and you are free—quite free.
"My little sister, imagine that my arms are round your neck so tight that you can't be vexed! When you told me last night that my thousand pounds really belonged to him, my first thought was to say—'Well, let's give him back as much of it as we have left!' But I stopped in time. You were not in the mood last night to take the most loving favour in the world. You wanted to sacrifice yourself; so instead of saying what was in my heart, I locked it up closely and thought about it all night; and before you were awake this morning, I sent for Pierce and asked him to lend me three hundred pounds—the three hundred we had spent out of the thousand.
"Don't say anything, darling! Don't be angry! Don't even think! Pierce was perfectly sweet; he never asked one question, and at three o'clock to-day, just after we came back from lunch, I sent the thousand pounds in notes to Carlton House Terrace, with a card of yours enclosed.
"Darling,don'tbe vexed! Don't question it! It is right, I know. It was a debt of honour, in the fullest sense.
"And now, Clo, it's all finished, all done with, all passed, and you can repay me the money slowly in years and years. Be happy! Oh, darling, be happy! Go back to Orristown, as I would have you to go back, with your heart full of all the great, good, true love that Walter and I have for you.
"Ride and walk and swim, and be without one care; and in a week or two, when the hateful thought of last night has been swept away by the splendid strong sea winds, come back to us, a newer, wiser, happier Clodagh.
"Darling, I am, now and always,
"Your true sister,
"Nance."
Clodagh closed the letter; then suddenly she rose from her seat and stepped from the carriage into the narrow corridor.
The engine was swinging forward at great speed; the train itself was swaying to the swift motion; outside, the pleasant English country seemed to fly past the long line of windows. For a second, she stood by the carriage door; then she stepped forward to the open window and, leaning out, let the strong current of air play upon her face, blowing back the hair from her temples.
How good God was! How good the world was! The great machinery of the train—the great wheels of life—ground out the same sudden song. She was free! By the unlimited power of love, she had been made free!
CHAPTER XVII
It was eleven o'clock on the day following when Clodagh's train steamed into the little station of Muskeere. Her boat had arrived in Cork in the early hours of the morning; but she had only given herself time to take a hurried breakfast at one of the hotels, before driving to the railway station. Now that she had set foot in Ireland, the racial love of home had awakened in her, making the hours leaden until she found herself at Orristown.
The great lifting of the spirit that Nance's letter had brought into being, had not subsided since the moment she had arisen from her seat in the train, filled with the knowledge that an insupportable burden had been lifted from her. At Reading she had despatched an answering telegram to her sister; and for nearly an hour afterwards, she had sat in the corner of her carriage, covering sheet after sheet of note-paper with hasty pencilling. Two letters were the result,—one to Nance, all love, all spontaneous gratitude; the other to Gore, full of tenderness, of promise, of almost vehement reassurance.
Thus the long and usually monotonous train journey ran itself out; and in the confused darkness of the crowded landing-stage, she went on board the boat at New Milford.
The crossing of the sea had ever been a delight to Clodagh. The love of the sea—the almost mystical knowledge of it—was in her blood. And that night for many hours she had paced the deck, rejoicing after a fashion understood by few in each forward plunge of the vessel—in the sense of exhilaration and action conveyed each time the prow dipped to cut the waves and send the spray flying.
She was going home! There had seemed a curious, thrilling sensation in the knowledge. She was going home! After many experiences, she was returning to the spot where her life had first separated its thread from the great tapestry of existence—the spot where happiness and unhappiness had first presented themselves as differentiated things—where the elemental facts of pain and pleasure had been first demonstrated to her unformed mind. The memory of Orristown had materialised, as she had walked to and fro under the summer sky powdered with faint stars; and she had closed her eyes until the salt sting of the sea had conjured up the square, white house, the green fields, and the long, shelving rocks.
The picture had remained with her long after she retired to her cabin, and had been still before her mind when the first low line of Irish land had broken across her vision in the silvery morning. Then it had been dispersed by more immediate things,—the arrival at Cork—the breakfast—the drive across the town to the Muskeere train; until at last the shrill whistle of the small engine, announcing that her destination was reached, swept everything but the incidents of the moment from her consideration.
As the train stopped, she sprang to her feet and leaned out of the window. How intensely familiar it was!—the narrow platform; the wooden paling, behind which the incursion of summer visitors to Muskeere congregated each day to watch the Cork trains arrive; the slovenly, good-natured porter, absolutely unaltered by the passage of time!
Her thoughts swam, as she tried vainly to reconcile her own many experiences with this amazing changelessness. Then all need for such comparison was brushed aside, as a tall figure came striding down the platform, followed by a couple of dogs; and she recognised Laurence Asshlin.
Her first conscious thought was, "How fine-looking he has grown!" her second, "How badly his clothes are made!" Then she laughed to herself from happiness, and from that sense of comradeship and clannishness to which the Irish nature is so susceptible.
"Larry!" she cried a moment later, as she threw the carriage door open.
But her dog Mick was the first to gain her side. Leaping forward at sound of her voice, he sprang into the carriage, whimpering with joy.
"Mick!—darling Mick! Oh, you bad thing!" She laughed again delightedly; then she turned, flushed and radiant, to greet her cousin.
"Hold him, Larry! That's better! Now, how are you?" She held out her hand and laid it in Asshlin's disengaged one.
Larry flushed with excitement and embarrassment.
"How are you, Clo? You're awfully unchanged! Let me help you out! The trap is waiting!"
As in a dream, she passed through the little station that had seemed so large and imposing to her childish eyes in the time when a day's shopping in Cork had represented the acme of adventure and enterprise; but half-way down the narrow platform she paused.
"Oh, the sea, Larry!" she exclaimed, drawing in a long, deep breath—"the heavenly smell of the sea!" Then she suddenly caught sight of Burke, waiting, as he might have waited six years ago, beside the high, old-fashioned trap.
"The same trap!" she said, with a little gasp.
Asshlin laughed.
"The same, only for a coat of varnish. But won't you speak to Tim?" He added the last a trifle diffidently, with a shy glance at her costly clothes and her general air of refinement and distinction.
Without a word she went forward.
"Tim!" she said very softly.
The old man turned quickly; then drew back.
But Clodagh held out her hand, regardless of the staring summer visitors.
"Tim! I'm not so changed that you don't know me?"
The old man remained motionless.
"I'd know you if I was under the sod, and the sound of your voice come anear me," he said almost solemnly.
Clodagh felt her throat tighten, as the old horny hand was slowly extended to clasp her own.
"I'm glad to be home, Tim!" she said impulsively—"I'm glad to be home!"
There was a delay of several minutes while the porter extricated her luggage from the van; and during this interval, she found time to admire the young horse, which had been bred at Orristown, and to make friends with the Irish terrier that had been Mick's companion on the run to Muskeere, besides asking a dozen questions concerning people and things at Carrigmore. Then at last, the trunk was deposited under the roomy seat of the trap; and Asshlin stepped forward to help her into her place.
"Larry," she said, pausing with her foot on the step, "may I drive? I'd love to drive."
Asshlin gave a ready assent, and, taking his own seat, handed her the reins, while Burke mounted to the back of the trap.
It was wonderful to Clodagh, that first gathering up of reins rendered hard by long service and Irish rain—that first forward start into the strong, sea-scented air. A sudden joy filled her. She was young; the world was a goodly place, when one studied it in this untainted atmosphere; above all, she was possessor of the great prize—love. Far away, in the tumult and press of the greatest city in the world, the man she set above all others thought of her—waited for her—trusted her.
Out of her own bright confidence, she made the sunny morning brighter, as she drove along the well-remembered roads, halting every mile or so to gaze at some thrice-familiar object that stood now as it had stood in the days of her babyhood.
At last Carrigmore was reached. She saw the clustering pink-and-white cottages of the village; the sleeping ruins guarded by the Round Tower; the long, yellow strand and the glassy bay, on whose farther headland stood the house of Orristown—-a square white patch, to be seen for many miles. She looked at it all long and closely.
"Oh, Larry," she said, below her breath, "how wonderfully the same it is! Nance told me, but I couldn't imagine it. Why, there's scarcely a weed changed!"
Asshlin laughed a little.
"We didn't think you'd care much about it, after Italy and places," he said, with a slight touch of shy awkwardness that seemed more than ever to link the present with the past.
"Not care about it? Larry!" Her voice quivered; then she laughed quickly and touched the horse with the whip.
"Shall we go straight to Orristown? or shall I run in and see Aunt Fan?"
Asshlin looked slightly distressed.
"You're tired after the journey," he said. "And, anyway, it's one of her bad days. They come oftener than ever now. To-morrow she'll enjoy seeing you more."
A quick recollection of her aunt on her bad days swept over Clodagh's mind; and she looked up suddenly into Larry's handsome, spirited face.
"Is she often cross now, Larry?" she asked, as she might have asked when they were children.
Asshlin turned at the sound of her voice; his diffidence forsook him; the old comradeship, the old sense of sympathy and understanding, came rushing back.
"She is harder than ever to get on with," he said. "And every day seems worse than the last. Sometimes——" He stopped; but a shadow of discontent, of depression, had darkened his face.
"Poor Larry!" Clodagh said very softly. And without further comment, she turned the horse's head in the direction of Orristown.
The cousins spoke rather less during the drive along the low, flat road lying parallel to the strand; but, despite the silence, each was conscious of an awakened fellowship; and as they descended the sharp hill that led to the gates of Orristown, Clodagh pointed with her whip to where the sky hung low and brooding over the glassy line of the horizon.
"This heat will break in a storm, Larry," she said, aware of having spoken the same words a hundred times in almost the same spot.
Asshlin scanned the sea thoughtfully.
"I believe you're right!" he answered. "But a puff of wind would do no harm. You'd like a scud across the bay, wouldn't you?"
Clodagh's eyes danced.
"Love it!" she substituted enthusiastically. "Come for me at ten to-morrow, Larry, and we'll sail back together to Carrigmore. We'll have a long day there and see everything; and then you'll come back with me to dinner." She flashed a quick smile at him, as she piloted the trap through the rusty gates.
As they swept up the long, narrow drive, she looked eagerly to right and left; then suddenly she gave a little laugh of pleasure, and waved her whip towards a field that skirted the avenue, in which a very old man had paused in the act of digging potatoes, and now stood in an attitude of rigid salutation, a broken felt hat held above his head.
"Look, Larry! It's Pat Foley! Poor old Pat! Isn't it lovely the way every one remembers?"
Her eyes filled with sudden tears, as they passed the last clump of trees and came full upon the old white house; then, as the horse drew up sharply under the well-remembered iron balcony, she gave a little cry and threw the reins to Asshlin.
Hannah had opened the hall door, and stood broad-faced, honest, beaming as of old.
"My darlin'!" she cried—"my darlin'!"
And in an instant, regardless of her dress and of the eyes of Asshlin and Burke, Clodagh sprang to the ground and rushed into the arms that had so often sheltered her.
At eight o'clock on the same evening, Clodagh, with Mick at her feet, sat in a shabby leather arm-chair by the open window of the bedroom that she had shared with Nance for so many years. Outside, the soft beating of the sea against the rocks came to her ears with strange familiarity; by her side stood a small table set out with a homely tea; while in front of her, jealously watchful that she did justice to the meal, stood Hannah.
"An' 'tis a millonaire they tells me the child is goin' to marry?" she asked in one of her tentative, round-about questions. "Glory be to God! an' she only out of the school!"
Clodagh glanced through the window at the golden evening sky.
"You married me before I had been to school, Hannah," she said, below her breath.
The old shrewd light gleamed in Hannah's eyes. She moved awkwardly and yet softly round the tea-table, and laid her broad hand on Clodagh's shoulder.
"Many's the day I do be ponderin' on that match, Miss Clodagh," she said earnestly. "The ways of God are dark; and what I done, I done for the best."
Clodagh, touched by the deep solicitude of the voice, put her own smooth hand over the old rough one.
"I'm sure God did everything as it should be done, Hannah,—because it—it has all come right in the end."
Hannah's hand dropped from her shoulder in sudden excitement.
"Miss Clodagh!" she said breathlessly—"Miss Clodagh, is it a husband you'll be thinkin' to take?"
Again Clodagh's gaze wandered across the sky, melting now from gold to orange.
"There is a man who wants to take me for his wife, Hannah," she corrected, very gently.
"An' you do be puttin' him before everythin' in the world?"
Clodagh turned swiftly and met the small, anxious eyes.
"So much before everything, that if I were to lose him now I should lose"—she paused for an instant, then added—"myself."
Hannah's eyes narrowed in the intensity of her concern.
"An' he do be carin' for you, Miss Clodagh?"
Clodagh learnt forward; and the warm light from the sunset touched and transfigured her face.
"Yes—he cares," she said very slowly.
CHAPTER XVIII
Late on the afternoon that followed her arrival, Clodagh—with Larry in attendance—climbed up the uneven path that led from the Orristown boat-cove to the house. A considerable change had taken place in the weather since the previous evening. The sky no longer hung low and motionless above the horizon line; the sea no longer shone white and polished as a mirror. A gale had sprung up, breaking the clouds and whipping the sea into small green waves; and more than once, as the cousins clambered up the rugged track, Asshlin paused to look back at his small boat, lying with furled sail and shipped oars on the shingle.
"I hope I've beached her high enough," he said. "There will be a big sea to-night."
Clodagh laughed. The prospect of a storm stirred her. She felt boundlessly happy, boundlessly confident in this free, open life.
The night before, after Larry had left her, and the first tinge of twilight had fallen across the old house, there had been a moment in which the ghosts of memory had threatened to assail her—to come trooping up the gaunt staircase, and through the great, bare rooms. But her will had conquered; she had dispelled the phantoms, and had slept dreamlessly in the big four-post bed.
In the morning she had awakened, as James Milbanke had awakened long ago, to a world of light and joy. But with this difference, that to him the world had been a thing to speculate upon and study, while to her it was a thing familiar—understood—possessed. While she partook of breakfast and while she visited the stables, she kept Hannah by her side, learning from her the vicissitudes of the many humble lives around Orristown that had been known to her since childhood; then, before the tales had been half recounted, Larry had arrived in his boat; and the two cousins, like children playing at a long-loved game, had gone down together to the boat-cove to where the little craft flashed its white sail like a seagull in the sun, and danced with impatience to be off across the crisp green waves.
Clodagh's first act on landing, at Carrigmore, had been to visit the little ivy-covered post-office, in the hope that the Orristown letters might possibly be intercepted. But the postman had already left the village, and she had no choice but to wait patiently for Gore's first letter until her return in the evening. But the postponement had not been sufficient to damp her spirits; and she had started on her various expeditions with a very light heart. Last of all, had come the visit to Mrs. Asshlin, who now rarely left her room, but lay all day in the semi-light made by drawn blinds, drinking numerous cups of strong tea and keeping up a fitful murmur of complaint.
With senses that rebelled against the depressing atmosphere, Clodagh had entered the bedroom and had sat for nearly an hour beside her aunt's couch, listening with all the patience she could muster to the oft-repeated tale of discontent and ill-health. Then at last, feeling that duty could demand no more, she had risen and kissed Mrs. Asshlin's worn cheek.
"We must have you over in London, Aunt Fan," she said cheerfully. "We must take you to a really good doctor, and have you made quite well."
But Mrs. Asshlin had shaken her head dubiously.
"I never had faith in really good doctors since Molyneaux came down to see your poor father."
To this, there seemed no possible response; so Clodagh had kissed her aunt once more, and, with a promise that she would return the next day, had slipped silently out of the gloomy room followed by Larry. Outside, in the vivid daylight, the cousins had looked at each other involuntarily.
"Sometimes life seems awful, Clo!" Asshlin had said, in a despondent voice. And with a momentary shock, Clodagh had caught a gleam of the restlessness, the brooding gloom, that used long ago to settle on the face of her father.
"Why don't you leave Carrigmore, Larry?" she had said quickly. "It's a wonderful place to rest in, but it's not the place for the whole of a man's life."
Asshlin had made a descriptive gesture, indicating the house behind him; then, with a sudden impulse of confidence, he had thrust his hand into his pocket, and had drawn out six five-pound notes.
"When this represents the whole exchequer of the next three months, there isn't much question of foreign travel—or fortune-seeking," he had said. "Come along! The gale is freshening!"
And Clodagh had obeyed, depressed for the moment by contact with that hidden poverty of the proud and well-born, that is one of the most pathetic factors in the scheme of Irish social life. She had longed ardently to make some suggestion, some offer of help, to this bright, spirited boy, who was wasting the best years God had given him in coping with an estate that could never be made to pay, and attending upon an invalid who hovered perpetually on the borderland of shadows; but a native comprehension of the position held her dumb. An offer of help made on the moment of his confidence would set an irrevocable barrier between them in the very dawning of their renewed friendship.
So she had talked to him of the crops, of the fishing, of the Orristown live-stock, while the boat carried them back across the bay. And the sail homeward under the scudding clouds, while the little boat danced and dipped to the buffeting of the waves, had erased the passing gloom; and now, as they climbed the steep pathway and passed across the fields to the house, Clodagh's heart was beating high in her own egotistical joy at the mere fact of life.
She laughed out of sheer pleasure, as they passed round the house and four or five dogs rushed forth from the hall to greet them; and stooping impulsively, she drew Mick close to her and kissed his rough head.
"Larry, do you remember how you won him from me long ago, and how nobly you gave him back? I have never forgotten it." She smiled affectionately at her tall young cousin; and, freeing Mick, led the way into the house.
On the shabby hall table, where the silver sconces stood as of old, lay a small heap of letters; and with an exclamation of pleasure, Clodagh ran forward and picked them up, passing them hastily in review.
There was a thick, important-looking one from Nance. And—yes! the first letter from Gore—the letter she had been waiting for!
For an instant her face fell. It felt thin and disappointing, as she held the envelope between her fingers. But almost at once her face cleared. After all, men had not as much time as women for the writing of letters! And this had been written on the day of her departure! She looked at the postmark: "London—10.30." Of course he had only had time to scribble a line. How good and thoughtful of him even to have sent that line! She turned and looked at Larry, her face radiant once more.
"Larry," she said, "will you tell Burke that we'll dine in half an hour, if Hannah has everything ready? And tell them to have candles in all the sconces. It is to be a dinner party, you know!" She gave a pleasant little laugh and turned towards the stairs, closing her fingers over her letters in a delightful, secret sense of anticipation and possession.
Her own room was filled with a cold grey light as she entered it—a peculiar light drawn from the wind-swept sky and the pale, agitated waters; and she noticed, as she crossed the threshold, that the wind roared draughtily down the wide chimney, in a way that suggested autumn and autumnal gales. But the circumstance made little impression; she carried her own world in her heart—and here, in the letter Gore had written.
In a second impulse of love, she laid the others aside, and opened Gore's envelope. Drawing out the letter, she held it for a moment against her face. On this paper his hand had rested when he wrote to her! There was a sense of personal contact in the mere thought. Then, at last, with a smile at her own sentiment, she opened it slowly and smoothed out the pages.
The written lines—scarcely more than a dozen in number—danced for an instant before her eyes; then focused themselves with terrible distinctness.
There was no formal beginning to the letter; it was merely a statement made in sharp, uneven characters, as though the sender had written under great stress—great emotion or resolve.
"I find," it began, "that you have treated me with an unpardonable want of honour and want of truth on a matter that concerned me very deeply—the matter of Deerehurst; and it seems to me, under the circumstances, only just and right that our engagement should come to an end. A marriage built upon such a basis could only have one termination. If this seems hard or abrupt, I can only say that the knowledge of my mistake has come hardly to me. I shall go abroad again as soon as I can make my plans. I am glad to think that, as no one but your sister knew of our engagement, my action can cause no public comment or unpleasantness for you."Walter Gore."
"I find," it began, "that you have treated me with an unpardonable want of honour and want of truth on a matter that concerned me very deeply—the matter of Deerehurst; and it seems to me, under the circumstances, only just and right that our engagement should come to an end. A marriage built upon such a basis could only have one termination. If this seems hard or abrupt, I can only say that the knowledge of my mistake has come hardly to me. I shall go abroad again as soon as I can make my plans. I am glad to think that, as no one but your sister knew of our engagement, my action can cause no public comment or unpleasantness for you.
"Walter Gore."
Clodagh read the lines—read and re-read them. For the first time in her life, her quick brain failed to respond to a first suggestion; then, at last, as though the cloud that obscured her mind had been rent asunder, conception of all that the letter conveyed sprang to her understanding.
Walter had written this letter! Walter had given her up! Her face became very white; she swayed a little, looking about her vaguely, as if for some physical aid; then suddenly revolt took the place of panic. It was all some horrible mistake. She must go to him—rend the web of doubt that had divided them—if need be, humble herself, show him the greatness of her love, until he must condone—must forgive—must reinstate her in his heart!
Moving swiftly, she crossed the room to the fireplace, drawing out her watch as she went. With a good horse, she might still catch the last train from Muskeere—take the night mail from Cork to Dublin—cross to Holyhead in the morning, and be back in London to-morrow!
She lifted her hand to the frayed and tasselled bell-rope that hung from the ceiling: then, by a strange impulse, her arm dropped to her side.
When her journey was accomplished—when she met Gore, what had she to explain? what had she to confess? The tassel of the bell-rope slipped from between her fingers.
The vision of herself pleading with him rose vividly before her,—she, with her passionate impulsiveness; he, with his grave dignity, his uncompromising integrity. She recalled the peculiar words he had made use of on the day he had discovered Deerehurst's gift of flowers. "I should either believe in you—or disbelieve in you!" His critical attitude in their first acquaintance started to life at the remembrance of the words. He, who expected of others what he himself performed—he who, as Nance had said, was "so honourable himself"—how would he receive the poor, lame story she had to offer? A horrible, confusing dread closed in about her. A week ago, she would have gone forth confidently, to make her confession; but now her faith was less. On the night in Deerehurst's study she had tasted of the tree of knowledge—had seen things as men see them; and her fearlessness had been shaken.
She looked helplessly round the bare room filled with cold grey light.
No; Walter would never believe!—Walter would never believe! The knowledge that she had lied to him even once would stand between them, condemning her hopelessly. An appalling weight seemed to press her to the earth. She was cut adrift. She was separated for ever from all safe, sheltering human things; somewhere in the dim, far regions where the decrees of fate are made, a knell had been sounded!
She glanced once more round the bare, familiar room, from the great four-post bedstead to the long window, beyond which lay the green fields, the wind-swept sky, and the livid line of the sea; then suddenly she turned, and fled through the open door and out into the empty corridor.
Asshlin was still standing in the hall, as she came downstairs; at the sound of her approach he looked up, but in the falling twilight he noticed nothing unusual in her appearance.
"We've made a great illumination!" he said—"quite a blaze of light!"
Clodagh made no answer; but descending the stairs quickly, passed into the dining-room.
As on the night years ago, when Milbanke had come to Orristown, the old room was prepared to do honour to a guest. The tablecloth was laid, places were set for two, and the great silver sconces were filled with candles that glowed so brightly that even the dark portraits on the walls were thrown into relief. But no fire blazed in the wide grate as on the former occasion, and the curtains of the three long windows were drawn back, admitting the light from the stormy evening sky.
Clodagh's first glance, as she entered the room, was for these windows, and her first words concerned them.
"Larry, draw the curtains!" she said.
To her own ears, her voice seemed to come from some distant place—to sound infinitely thin and far away; but Asshlin seemed to observe nothing. He went forward obediently and drew the six long curtains.
As the last was pulled into place Burke entered, and carefully laid two dishes upon the table. A moment later Clodagh took her seat.
"What will you eat, Larry?" she said hurriedly. "Chicken? Ham?"
Asshlin turned to her, as he in his turn took his place.
"What willyouhave?" he said.
"I? Oh—anything! But talk, Larry! Tell me things! Let's—let's be gay!"
Asshlin was busy cutting up the chicken. He did not hear the faintly hysterical note that underran her voice—the note of warning from a mind trying with panic-stricken haste to evade itself.
He helped her to some chicken; and Burke, laying the plate before her, went in search of wine.
She toyed for a moment or two with the food, making pretence to eat.
At last Larry looked at her.
"You're eating nothing. Aren't you hungry?"
She started nervously.
"No; I'm not hungry. I—I had a glass of milk in my room. I couldn't wait for dinner." She tried to laugh, as she told the falsehood.
He accepted the explanation.
"Then you must have a glass of wine now!" he said genially, as Burke re-entered with a dusty bottle of port. "Give me the bottle, Burke!"
He took it from the old man's hands, and poured some wine into Clodagh's glass; and as he leant forward, he suddenly saw by the light of the candles that her eyes were wide and black, her face very white.
"Clo, you're not feeling ill?" he asked, in quick concern.
Clodagh put her hand to her face with a startled gesture.
"No! Do I look ill? It's the storm. The storm has got on my nerves. We develop nerves in London, you know!" Again she attempted to laugh.
Once more Asshlin accepted her explanation, as something he had no authority to question.
"I want you to talk, Larry!" she added hurriedly. "I want you to talk. Say anything! Take me out of myself!"
She raised her glass to her lips and drank some of the wine. It brought a faint tinge of colour to her cheeks, but only increased the bright darkness of her eyes.
While Asshlin consumed his dinner, she sat very upright in her chair, sipping her wine from time to time or breaking small mouthfuls from her bread.
At last, having hovered anxiously about her, Burke made bold to speak his thoughts.
"Is it the way the chicken isn't nice, ma'am?" he ventured.
She started, as she had started each time she had been directly addressed.
"No, Burke! Oh no!" she said hastily. "The chicken is very nice. It's only that the storm has—has given me a headache."
Burke shook his head sympathetically, as a sudden gale swept round the house.
"'Tis lookin' for a bad night, sure enough!" he said, as he passed round the table with the next course.
When the pudding had been served and partaken of by Asshlin, Clodagh at last pushed back her chair, and with a curiously unstrung movement walked across the room to the fireplace.
"Larry," she said suddenly, "will you play cards with me when Burke takes the things away?"
Asshlin looked up with interest.
"By Jove!" he said, "what a good idea!"
When Burke reappeared, solemnly carrying some cheese, Clodagh turned to him quickly.
"Is there a pack of cards in the house, Tim?" she asked.
He glanced at her white face and upright figure, but his expression betrayed nothing.
"I do be thinkin' there's a deck some place, if I could lay me mind on it."
Asshlin leant across the table.
"There's a pack in the drawer of the side-board."
Burke crossed the room, but not over-eagerly; and, opening the drawer, produced the cards.
"'Tis the deck poor Misther Dinis got from Cork the self-same day——" he began. Then he stopped considerately; and added under his breath, "The Almighty God be good to us all!"
Clodagh took the cards from him, and stood very still, fingering them nervously. At any other time, the thought of playing with cards that belonged to the dead would have filled her with repugnance; but to-night all ordinary standards had been lost—all the world was chaos. She was like one who is slipping down into a bottomless abyss, and stretches desperate hands towards any straw that might offer respite.
She never changed her position while the table was being cleared; her only sign of emotion still being shown by the spasmodic way in which she passed the cards between her fingers. When at last the cloth had been removed and the candles replaced, she came quickly across the room and stood looking down upon her cousin.
She still mechanically shuffled the cards; but her glance, as it rested on Asshlin, was unconscious and absorbed, seeing only its own mental pictures.
"What shall we play, Larry? What game can two people play?"
Asshlin looked up.
"Piquet," he said, "or euchre."
She nodded.
"Euchre! Yes, euchre!" She drew a chair up to the table and sat down. "What stakes?"
Asshlin looked uncertain.
"You say!" he suggested a little diffidently.
She gave a nervous start, as a fresh gale shook the windows.
"Thirty shillings a game? Twenty shillings a game?"
For an instant he looked at her amazed; but seeing the unconsciousness of her expression, his breeding forbade him to offer any objection. With a reckless excitement he had never before had opportunity to feel, he leant back in his chair, and taking up the glass Burke had set beside him, poured out some port and drank it.
"Thirty shillings a game!" he said magnificently.
Clodagh did not seem to hear; certainly she saw nothing of his scruple and his yielding. Her own thoughts rode and spurred her, pressing her forward in a wild, panic-stricken search for oblivion.
"Come, Larry! Play!—play! I feel"—she paused and laughed hysterically—"I feel that, if I were a man to-night, I should drink all the port in that bottle! I want to forget everything. Play!—play!"
Asshlin picked up the cards that she had laid upon the table. He could not understand her in this new mood; but he was satisfied not to understand her. He felt stimulated—lifted above himself—as he had never been before.
For two hours they played, with luck evenly balanced; then Asshlin made a reluctant attempt to draw out his watch.
"Did you hear that?" he said, as the wind roared up from the sea like an invading army. "I ought to be getting home. She'll be worrying about me."
He spoke firmly enough, but his eyes wandered back to the cards.
Clodagh rose, and, crossing to the sideboard, poured some water into a glass and drank it.
"No! no!" she said eagerly. "It's quite early. It's only eleven. She won't expect you yet."
He put his watch back into his pocket; Clodagh returned to her place at the table; and the play went on.
By twelve o'clock a change had come in their positions. Fortune was no longer impartial; and Clodagh stood the winner by several games. Again Asshlin made a movement towards departure. His face was flushed now, and a look of alarm had begun to mingle with his excitement.
"I—I ought to be going now, Clo," he said a little huskily.
Clodagh gave a sharp laugh. At last it seemed to her that she was drowning thought—holding at bay the black sense of loss and agony that threatened to inundate her soul. She threw up her head, and her eyes challenged her cousin's.
"You are a coward if you go now, Larry! You are afraid to take your revenge!"
He coloured like a girl, and gave a half-angry, half-embarrassed laugh.
"Don't say that, Clo!"
"Then will you play?"
"I—I oughtn't to."
Again Clodagh laughed—a laugh so nervous and high-pitched that it rang almost harshly across the room.
"Then you're not an Asshlin!"
"Am I not?" He tilted his chair forward, and leaned upon the table. "Let's see! Come along! I'm game for anything after that!"
There was a new note in his voice—a fiery note, that seemed to challenge fate and throw reason to the winds.
It stirred some latent power in Clodagh's brain. A faint colour crossed the pallor of her face; she half rose from her seat.
"Shall we 'play like the devil,' as father used to say?"
Asshlin threw up his head. It was as if flint and steel had struck—the spark followed inevitably.
"Yes!" he cried; "we'll play like the devil!"
At one o'clock they rose from the table. Clodagh's face was white again; but Asshlin's was deeply flushed; and as he stood up, confronting his cousin, it almost seemed that he had drunk more than the two glasses of port to which the bottle testified.
"I must go now, Clo," he said. "May I ring for Burke to get me a lantern?"
Clodagh took a step forward.
"Stay the night, Larry? You can have father's room."
He shook his head and crossed to the fireplace.
"I owe you forty pounds," he said in an unsteady voice. "I'll leave thirty here"—he drew out the notes he had shown her at Carrigmore, and laid them under the clock on the mantelpiece—"the other ten I'll—I'll give you to-morrow."
But Clodagh scarcely heard.
"Do stay! Oh, do stay!"
Again he shook his head, and pulled the bell-rope.
"I've put the notes here—under the clock."
"All right!—all right! But, Larry, can't you stay? It's a horrible night."
"I can't!" Then, as the door opened and Burke appeared, he turned to him hastily: "Burke, bring me a lantern. I want to get the boat out."
At last Clodagh's mind was torn from its own concerns.
"The boat! You're not going to cross the bay on a night like this?"
Old Burke came forward, looking from one to the other.
"Wisha, Masther Larry, is it crazy you are?"
Asshlin turned his flushed face on the old servant.
"We're all a bit crazy now and then, Tim. But I was never afraid of the sea. Get me the lantern!"
Still Burke hesitated. But suddenly Asshlin stepped forward, with a look so full of pride and domination, that by instinct he succumbed.
"As quick as you can, Burke!"
And the old man hobbled off.
There was silence between the cousins after he had gone. Asshlin leaned upon the mantelpiece, with his face averted; Clodagh walked nervously about the room, changing the arrangement of the silver on the sideboard, snuffing the candles that had begun to gutter, doing any aimless and unnecessary thing that could blur her sense of impending solitude. At last she paused in the middle of the room.
"Larry——" she began desperately.
But at the same instant Burke's step sounded in the hall, and his voice came to them through the open door.
"The lanthern is here, Masther Larry!"
Asshlin started.
"All right! I'm coming!" he called. "Good-night, Clo!" He walked forward almost awkwardly, and took her cold hand.
She looked up into his face, her own misery blotting out all other things.
"Larry! can't you stay?"
Asshlin passed his hand across his forehead.
"Don't ask me, Clo! Good-night!"
An instant later he was gone.
She ran out into the hall on the moment that she realised her desertion.
"Larry!" she called—"Larry!"
But her voice was drowned in the gale, as Burke opened the hall door and the wind rushed in, filling the wide black hall. There was a confused suggestion of storm and lantern-light; a vague silhouetted vision of Burke, bent and small, and of Asshlin, straight, lithe, and tall. Then the door closed with a thud. Lantern, figures, and storm were alike shut out from her knowledge. She was alone in the great house.
CHAPTER XIX
Almost at the same hour that Clodagh sat down to play cards with Laurence Asshlin at Orristown, Nance was seated with Daisy Estcoit in the lounge of the Carlton. After her sister's departure, Mrs. Estcoit had borne her off to be her guest at the hotel; and now, the little party of four having dined in the restaurant, she had gone to her room to discuss a business letter with her son, leaving the two girls ensconced under one of the big palm-trees.
It was very pleasant and interesting to sit there, and watch the groups seated on the low couches beside the little coffee-tables, or to study the throng of people that moved constantly through the large glass doors of the vestibule, and up the flight of shallow steps to the restaurant itself, with its shaded lights and pretty artificial garden. The crowd was unusually large for the time of year: the band was playing a waltz: the whole atmosphere seemed gay and happy to one who only that morning had performed a great act of love.
"How lovely life is, Daisy!" Nance said suddenly, unconsciously echoing Clodagh's words on the day of Gore's return to London.
Daisy Estcoit laughed.
"Of course it is—with a trousseau like yours! But look over there—by the big palm!"
Nance had bent to rearrange some roses in her belt.
"Where? What?" she said, glancing up.
"Don't you see?"
"No. What?"
"Sir Walter Gore. He just rushed through and into the restaurant. He seems in tremendous haste."
"Walter! Where?" Nance looked round eagerly.
"I've just told you. In the restaurant. But here he is back again! He must have been looking for some one."
Nance rose from the quiet corner in which they were sitting, and stepped forward to greet Gore; but, as he came towards her down the flight of shallow steps, her smile of welcome died, and a look of surprise and concern crossed her eyes.
"Walter," she said softly.
He looked round at sound of his name.
"Oh! Nance!" he said. His manner was as quiet as usual, but he looked like a man who has undergone some great fatigue and has not yet found time to rest.
They shook hands in silence, Nance's dark blue eyes scanning his face.
"Have you heard from Clo?" she said, at last. "I have. Such a dear letter—written in the train."
He flushed.
"Yes," he said laconically, "I have heard. But I can't wait to talk about the letter now. I only came here hoping to find a man I know; they told me at his rooms that he was dining here, but 'twas evidently a mistake. I must say good-night!"
He held out his hand, and Nance took it mechanically; but as their fingers fell apart, she stepped forward and walked with him resolutely across the lounge.
In the vestibule she paused, and compelled him to meet her eyes.
"Walter," she said, "something is wrong!"
Gore's face hardened.
"Nothing is wrong."
She tightened her fingers round the fan she was carrying.
"That is untrue, Walter."
Something in the entire candour of the words touched him. He looked at her with new eyes.
"You are right," he said quietly. "It was untrue."
"Then something has happened? Something about Clo?"
"Yes. Something—something that will break our engagement."
Nance turned very pale.
"Walter!" she said faintly, after a moment's pause. Then, before he could speak again, she looked up at him. "Wait for a minute!" she said sharply—"wait for a minute!" And turning, she hurried back to where Daisy Estcoit was still sitting.
"Daisy," she said, "tell Pierce that I have gone out with Walter, and that I'll be back in half an hour. Tell him that it's something most—most important." She spoke hastily; and, without waiting to see the effect of her words, turned again, and threaded her way between the groups of people back to where Gore was standing.
"Call a cab, Waiter!" she said. "Wemusttalk."
"But, Nance——"
"A hansom, please!"
She turned without embarrassment to one of the attendants.
"But Nance——"
"You cannot refuse me, Walter. Clo is everything in the world to me."
The jingle of harness sounded, as the hansom drew up; and, walking deliberately forward, she got into the vehicle.
"Tell him to drive anywhere that will take half an hour," she said to Gore, as he reluctantly followed.
"Out Holland Park way!" he said, pausing on the step. "I'll tell you when to stop."
He took his seat and closed the doors of the cab.
"Won't you be cold without a wrap?"
Nance ignored the question.
"Now," she said, "what is it? Is it about Deerehurst?"
At the sudden onslaught, Gore started, and turning round, looked at her.
"I don't intend to discuss this matter," he said in his coldest voice.
"But I mean to discuss it." She met his glance with a resolution that was not to be denied. "Is it about Deerehurst?"
"If you wish to know, it is about Deerehurst."
In his voice there was all the reserve, all the coldness of the Englishman who has been very sorely wounded.
"And what about him?"
Quite suddenly Gore's reserve flamed to anger.
"Do you think I am going to talk of such things with a child like you?"
Nance clasped her hands on the closed doors of the cab, formulating a sudden prayer that help might be vouchsafed her; then she spoke, with eyes fixed steadily in front of her.
"I am not a child, Walter," she said in a very low voice. "And youmustspeak to me—for Clo's sake. And if you won't, then I must tell you that I know all about her staying away from the theatre the other night—about her having no headache, but wanting to see Deerehurst—about her going to Carlton House Terrace at nine o'clock—I know it all, because she told me——"
Gore drew a quick, amazed breath.
"She told you?"
She nodded. Her throat felt very dry.
"Clodagh told you that?"
"Yes. Who toldyou?"
He made no answer.
"Walter, was it Lady Frances Hope?"
"What does that matter?"
"It was Lady Frances?"
He put his hand wearily over his eyes.
"If you wish to know, it was."
"I guessed so. I always hated her. The other day, as we drove from Paddington after seeing Clodagh off, we passed her in the Park with Valentine Serracauld. He must have seen or guessed, or heard from Deerehurst—and told her. He is an enemy of Clo's, too, since the time at Tuffnell.
"Oh, Walter!" She turned suddenly, and looked at him—"Walter, have you ever really known Clodagh?"
The pain and question in her voice broke through his wounded self-esteem.
"Clodagh has made a fool of me, Nance," he said harshly. "She has never been straight with me—never from the very first."
"And do you know why?"
"No; I can't pretend that I know why."
His tone was very bitter.
"Because she cares too much. She idealises too much."
Gore made a sound that might have been meant for a laugh.
"I think it is I who have idealised."
Nance straightened her small figure.
"Then you have always treated her wrongly. What Clo needs is not to be idealised, but to be taken care of; not to be praised or blamed, but to be taken care of." Her brown fingers were tightly clasped, as they rested on the cab doors. "All her life she has wanted to be taken care of—and all her life she has been thrown back upon herself. When I was little, I had her; but when she was little, she had no one. Our mother died when I was born."
Something in the simple pathos of this statement stirred Gore's ever-present sense of the sacredness of home ties.
"I never knew that," he said very quietly.
"Yes, our mother died when I was born; and Clo grew up in our father's care. Did she ever tell you about our father?"
"No. At least——"
"Then I shall. I've told Pierce. People ought to know. It helps them to understand.
"Our father was a spendthrift—a gambler—a man without any principles. If somebody stronger than himself had taken him in hand when he was young, things might have been different. But he began by ruling everybody who came in contact with him, until at last nobody dared to rule him.
"Can you imagine how a man like that would bring up a daughter—you who had a mother to help you in every year of your life?"
Her blue eyes darkened with intensity.
"Our home in Ireland is a big lonely house on the sea-coast. Imagine growing up in a house like that, without care or money or friends—for father drove all his friends away. Imagine Clo's life! Her only learning was what she got with our cousin from the schoolmaster of the nearest village; her only amusements were sailing and riding and fishing. She never had the love or friendship of a woman of her own class; she never knew what it was to be without the dread of debt or disgrace; and then, at eighteen, she married the first man who came into her life—not because she liked him—not because she wanted to marry, or knew what marrying was—but because he had saved our father's honour by paying his debt!"
She paused to take breath; but before Gore could speak, she went on again:
"Do you know what I always wonder, Walter, when I think of Clodagh?"
Gore made a low murmur.
"I wonder, considering everything, that she hasn't done really wrong things, instead of just terribly foolish ones! It doesn't seem strange to me that she should have behaved like a child, when she first felt what it was to be free and flattered and admired. Listen, Walter! There have been too many clouds between you and Clodagh. Neither of you has understood. You have been too proud; and she has been too much afraid. But I am not afraid!"