"Larry—dear cousin,—"I, the worst correspondent in all the world, am going to write you a long letter—because my heart is so full of thoughts that I must unburden it to some one who will listen. Who better than my friend—my brother—of the old dear, dear days?"It was good of you and Aunt Fan to write me those two long affectionate letters; and I needed them. For though there was no horror in James's death, death itself is—and always must be—terrible to me. Terrible—but also very, very wonderful! Wonderful beyond words, when one realises that somebody one has known as good and kind and unselfish—but ordinary, Larry, ordinary as oneself—is suddenly transformed into something infinitely wise and mysterious, with a mystery one can only think about and fear."One month ago, James was in his usual health, going about his little daily tasks, losing himself in his little daily interests. And now he understands the million things that puzzle you and me and the rest of the world of living people!"His death—as I told you in my first short note—was painless and quiet, and unselfish like his life. He held my hand and knew me to the very end, and spoke to me quite lucidly of his affairs half an hour before he died. And, Larry—I think he was happy! You cannot imagine what it is to be able to say that! Death brings so many regrets. It frightens me when I look back now over the years, and think of our marriage. It was so terribly, cruelly unwise. A man of his age, a girl of mine! And, knowing what I know now, the first years must have been very bitter for him. Since then, things have been better—and worse. Two years ago we were perilously near disaster—he and I—when something—it does not matter what—saved us both."How sincerely I thank God, now, that it was so. At the time I suffered horribly; but it was good for me. It made me see that duty is not merely a negative thing. And now it is all over—all over, like a dream that is past. I am as I was. I am free!"I seem heartless to say that. I could not say it to any one except you—or Nance. And I even wonder if Nance could quite understand. I feel that she must be so very much younger than myself. But you will not misunderstand, Larry, will you? You will see that it isn't want of heart, but just the knowledge that there is a future—a future for me, who had ceased to believe in one!"Just before I began this letter I stood for a long time at an open window, looking out over Florence, lying below me in the wonderful sunshine that comes to Italy in the spring; and quite suddenly, Larry, I thought of England in May. England in May! It seems to suggest a hundred, thousand things. Don't say I am disloyal! For, of course, I want to go home to Orristown; but not just yet—not just yet. I feel—I cannot quite explain it to you—just a little afraid of going back to Ireland. Just at the moment it is too full of memories. But I want to see England. I want to live in England."Yes; Ishalllive in England—for the present at least. And you and Aunt Fan must come and stay with me; and then you will report on your stewardship! For, of course, you are still to manage Orristown—as well and capably as you have managed it during the last three years. I always think it was one of James's kindest actions to me to give that management to you, though I shall always regret that you and Aunt Fan will not make use of that big empty house. But what is the good of talking! The Asshlins are all disgustingly proud."I can see you smile as you read this, and perhaps I can hear you say: 'How like Clo!' I hope—oh, Larry, I hope I can!"Give them all my love—Hannah, Burke, the dogs, and Polly. Dear, pretty Polly! How I crave sometimes for just one long, wild gallop. She must be eight years old by now; and yet she looks as fit as ever—you said so in your letter of a month ago. Dear, pretty Polly!"I can do very much as I like now, Larry, in every way. James has been more than generous. I am to have the interest on sixty thousand pounds, although I may not touch the capital. A wise precaution. Was there ever an Asshlin who could keep money? But, as it is, I shall be rich. Two thousand pounds a year! Why, it is wealth. And then again there is another thing in which James has been good to us. He has placed a thousand pounds to my credit, apart from my own money, which I am to give to Nance on her twenty-first birthday, or on her engagement, should she marry with my consent before she comes of age. Was it not a kindly, thoughtful act? But does it not seem incredible to talk about Nance—little Nance—being of an age when she might think of marrying? I often long to see her—and sometimes I feel ridiculously shy and a little bit afraid; it is so strange that we have never in all these years visited England, and that some plan of poor James's should always have prevented her spending her holidays with us—though, so far as that goes, Carrigmore was a more homelike place than Italy to spend them in."What is she really like? You say she has grown very pretty, but you never say more than that. Men don't realise how women crave for details. But I shall see her for myself in a few weeks. She leaves school next month, you know, and will join me at once. Before James's death she had been asked on a visit to America by the mother of a school friend of hers—a girl named Estcoit, who is leaving school on the same day as Nance. But now that is all changed. She writes begging me to let her come to me directly; and her letter has made me know that, beneath all the silly feelings of shyness and uncertainty, I too want her."So now I have said all. Now you see me as I am, Larry—more the old Clodagh than I have been for years. The Clodagh who remembers and loves you always, as her dear cousin—her dear, dear brother."
"Larry—dear cousin,—
"I, the worst correspondent in all the world, am going to write you a long letter—because my heart is so full of thoughts that I must unburden it to some one who will listen. Who better than my friend—my brother—of the old dear, dear days?
"It was good of you and Aunt Fan to write me those two long affectionate letters; and I needed them. For though there was no horror in James's death, death itself is—and always must be—terrible to me. Terrible—but also very, very wonderful! Wonderful beyond words, when one realises that somebody one has known as good and kind and unselfish—but ordinary, Larry, ordinary as oneself—is suddenly transformed into something infinitely wise and mysterious, with a mystery one can only think about and fear.
"One month ago, James was in his usual health, going about his little daily tasks, losing himself in his little daily interests. And now he understands the million things that puzzle you and me and the rest of the world of living people!
"His death—as I told you in my first short note—was painless and quiet, and unselfish like his life. He held my hand and knew me to the very end, and spoke to me quite lucidly of his affairs half an hour before he died. And, Larry—I think he was happy! You cannot imagine what it is to be able to say that! Death brings so many regrets. It frightens me when I look back now over the years, and think of our marriage. It was so terribly, cruelly unwise. A man of his age, a girl of mine! And, knowing what I know now, the first years must have been very bitter for him. Since then, things have been better—and worse. Two years ago we were perilously near disaster—he and I—when something—it does not matter what—saved us both.
"How sincerely I thank God, now, that it was so. At the time I suffered horribly; but it was good for me. It made me see that duty is not merely a negative thing. And now it is all over—all over, like a dream that is past. I am as I was. I am free!
"I seem heartless to say that. I could not say it to any one except you—or Nance. And I even wonder if Nance could quite understand. I feel that she must be so very much younger than myself. But you will not misunderstand, Larry, will you? You will see that it isn't want of heart, but just the knowledge that there is a future—a future for me, who had ceased to believe in one!
"Just before I began this letter I stood for a long time at an open window, looking out over Florence, lying below me in the wonderful sunshine that comes to Italy in the spring; and quite suddenly, Larry, I thought of England in May. England in May! It seems to suggest a hundred, thousand things. Don't say I am disloyal! For, of course, I want to go home to Orristown; but not just yet—not just yet. I feel—I cannot quite explain it to you—just a little afraid of going back to Ireland. Just at the moment it is too full of memories. But I want to see England. I want to live in England.
"Yes; Ishalllive in England—for the present at least. And you and Aunt Fan must come and stay with me; and then you will report on your stewardship! For, of course, you are still to manage Orristown—as well and capably as you have managed it during the last three years. I always think it was one of James's kindest actions to me to give that management to you, though I shall always regret that you and Aunt Fan will not make use of that big empty house. But what is the good of talking! The Asshlins are all disgustingly proud.
"I can see you smile as you read this, and perhaps I can hear you say: 'How like Clo!' I hope—oh, Larry, I hope I can!
"Give them all my love—Hannah, Burke, the dogs, and Polly. Dear, pretty Polly! How I crave sometimes for just one long, wild gallop. She must be eight years old by now; and yet she looks as fit as ever—you said so in your letter of a month ago. Dear, pretty Polly!
"I can do very much as I like now, Larry, in every way. James has been more than generous. I am to have the interest on sixty thousand pounds, although I may not touch the capital. A wise precaution. Was there ever an Asshlin who could keep money? But, as it is, I shall be rich. Two thousand pounds a year! Why, it is wealth. And then again there is another thing in which James has been good to us. He has placed a thousand pounds to my credit, apart from my own money, which I am to give to Nance on her twenty-first birthday, or on her engagement, should she marry with my consent before she comes of age. Was it not a kindly, thoughtful act? But does it not seem incredible to talk about Nance—little Nance—being of an age when she might think of marrying? I often long to see her—and sometimes I feel ridiculously shy and a little bit afraid; it is so strange that we have never in all these years visited England, and that some plan of poor James's should always have prevented her spending her holidays with us—though, so far as that goes, Carrigmore was a more homelike place than Italy to spend them in.
"What is she really like? You say she has grown very pretty, but you never say more than that. Men don't realise how women crave for details. But I shall see her for myself in a few weeks. She leaves school next month, you know, and will join me at once. Before James's death she had been asked on a visit to America by the mother of a school friend of hers—a girl named Estcoit, who is leaving school on the same day as Nance. But now that is all changed. She writes begging me to let her come to me directly; and her letter has made me know that, beneath all the silly feelings of shyness and uncertainty, I too want her.
"So now I have said all. Now you see me as I am, Larry—more the old Clodagh than I have been for years. The Clodagh who remembers and loves you always, as her dear cousin—her dear, dear brother."
The letter ended unconventionally, without a signature; but the writing of the last lines was strong and bold, with a vigorous upward curve.
With a touch of impetuosity, Clodagh picked up an envelope and addressed it to Laurence Asshlin at Orristown; then, rising from the bureau, she rang a bell.
An Italian man-servant responded to the summons—the same man-servant who had waited at breakfast on the morning that Milbanke had received Barnard's summons to Venice. Entering the room with sympathetic deference, he paused just inside the door.
"Signora!" he murmured.
Clodagh turned to him, the black-edged envelope in her hand.
"Tell Simonetta to bring me my hat and cloak," she said. "I'm going down into Florence—to post a letter." And without waiting to see what expression her declaration brought to the man's face, she crossed the room and stood once more in the flood of clear, cool sunlight that poured through the open window.
CHAPTER II
Exactly one week later Clodagh arrived in Paris on her way to England. Simonetta Ottolenghi—an Italian woman, who had been in her service as maid for nearly four years—was her only companion; there was no friend to meet or welcome her in the unfamiliar city, and even the dog Mick—the companion of so many solitary hours—had been left behind in Florence until she could conveniently send for him; yet, incongruous as it may sound, her feelings were happy—her mind was free from loneliness as her train steamed into the crowded railway station and she found herself free to drive to her hotel. After all, life undeniably stretched before her, and there was no prohibition against letting her eyes dwell upon the vistas it opened up!
Knowledge of duty done—be the doing ever so tardy—is the best stimulus for the wayfarer in the world's by-ways; and Clodagh, as she stepped from her train on that February afternoon, was conscious of some such reassuring certainty.
In the last two years, life for her had been a thing of physical inaction, accompanied by a subtle process of mental development. The night of tempestuous excitement—when, in a whirl of pain, chagrin, and passionate self-contempt, she had repudiated Venice and her newly made friends—had been the birth of a fresh phase in her existence. With all the ardour, all the enthusiasm, whereof her vivid nature was capable, she had veered from her former point of view to another almost as extreme. The return to Florence, the taking up of existence in the secluded villa, had been like the incidents of a dream; then, in the days that had succeeded—in the early mornings, or the late evenings—as she sat upon the marble rim of the drowsy fountain in the garden, gazed down from Fiesole upon the sleeping Roman amphitheatre, or knelt in a dim recess of the old church of San Dominico, rendered mystical by the smell of incense and the flicker of wax tapers, the dream had shaped itself. It had become a tapestry, into the pictures of which many figures were woven, but where only two took place and prominence—her own and one other.
For in those silent hours the thought of Gore—the remembrance of Gore—had come back to her as tangible things. In that solitude peopled by imagination, she had forgotten the hurt vanity, the bitter disappointment, that had clothed her last interview with him; and remembered only that, seeing fit to reprove her, he had dared to do so—that, seeing the brink upon which she had stood, he had put out his hand to draw her back.
And, standing in this new light, Gore became an ideal, a being apart, endowed with endless power to inspire high deeds. An idealist born, Clodagh was created to make-believe. The make-believes were probably the swaying of an impulsive mind from one emotional pole to the other; but in this case, at least, benefit accrued. She developed a sudden gentle tolerance of Milbanke—an altogether unprecedented care for his comfort and well-being.
The working of this profoundly subtle emotion was far too deep to be even guessed at by herself. And had any student of human nature told her that the new tenderness for the timid, unassuming husband, who made so few demands upon her consideration, arose from the fact that another man had crossed her life—rousing at once her imagination, her antagonism, and her admiration, showing her new depths in the world around her, new possibilities within herself—she would have been both incredulous and indignant.
But no student of human nature visited the villa. And she lived undisturbed in her atmosphere of dreams. Whether the vague, subconscious thought that Gore, away in his own world, might hear of her graver attitude towards life and might secretly approve, ever lent zest to her self-imposed duties, it would have been impossible to say; but certain it is that if the thought came, it came unbidden and stayed unrecognised.
And now Milbanke was dead. And life—not the mythical life of memories, of dreams, even of ideals, but the life of hope and warm human possibilities—was hers, as it had been long ago, before her husband's name had ever been spoken in her presence.
Her mind was at peace, as she drove through the narrow streets of Paris, with their cheerful characteristic chorus of shouting newsvendors, and cracking whips.
The hotel she had chosen was a small one, close to the Place Vendome; and when her fiacre stopped and she entered the vestibule, her sense of pleasure and contentment increased. The quiet air of the place contrasted agreeably with her previous experience of hotel life.
Still conscious of this impression of security, she turned away from the bureau where she had registered her name, and crossed the vestibule to the lift. Taking her place on the velvet-covered seat, she watched the attendant close the iron doors and turn to set the lift in motion. But at the moment that he laid his hand upon the button, she saw the swinging doors of the hotel open, to admit a lady.
The new-comer, seeing that the lift was about to ascend, hurried towards it; and Clodagh, idly interested by the sound of rustling silk, leaned forward in her seat. But the light in the vestibule was dim, and she caught nothing beyond the outline of a large hat and the suggestion of a pale green dress. Then, suddenly, the stranger spoke, and her heart gave a tremendous leap.
"Wait!" she called in French—"wait! I am coming!"
It needed but the five words, spoken in a clear, dictatorial voice, to assure Clodagh that the speaker was known to her; and as the attendant paused in his task, and, turning promptly, opened the grilled door, her mind was prepared for the vision of Lady Frances Hope.
But if she was prepared for the encounter, the new-comer was taken completely by surprise. Entering the lift, she glanced casually at its other occupant; then her whole face changed.
"It is—— It can't be! ItisMrs. Milbanke!" Her glance passed rapidly over Clodagh's deep mourning and her expression altered in accordance. "My dear Mrs. Milbanke," she said softly, "how thoughtless of me not to realise at once! I heard through Mr. Barnard. How are you?—how are you?"
She pressed the hand Clodagh had offered her, and looked sympathetically into her face. Then, as the lift, gliding upwards, stopped at the first floor and Clodagh rose, her expression changed again.
"Are you located on this floor? How delightful! We are neighbours. I am number five. What are you?"
"Seven," Clodagh said gently, speaking for the first time. There was something very strange to her in this meeting—something not altogether unpleasant. In the two years since they had met—and in the light of her last evening in Venice—the image of Lady Frances Hope had become slightly distorted. And there was a sense of surprise, of reassurance in finding her so kindly, so gracious, so unalarming.
"Seven!" Lady Frances repeated. "Delightful! You must dine with me to-night. I have a private room, and am quite alone. It will be an act of charity. I am on my way south. By the way, where are you bound for?"
Clodagh smiled.
"I am going home."
"Home?"
"To England."
"England! My dear child, not England in February? Why, the atmosphere is a combination of fog and sleet; and the people——" She made a gesture of horror. "Everybody who hasn't influenza is either expecting it or shaking it off."
Clodagh laughed a little.
"I have never had influenza. It will be an experience. But I must look after my maid. Travelling is new to her."
She glanced down the corridor to where Simonetta was awaiting her beside a mountain of luggage.
Lady Frances made haste to echo her laugh.
"Well, well!" she said. "It's good to have the enthusiasm of youth. But you will dine with me? Dinner in an hour."
Clodagh hesitated. Yesterday she would have ardently avoided a meeting with Lady Frances Hope. Now that it had been thrust upon her, it seemed to possess no danger. What was it Gore had said on that memorable night? "I am not depreciating Lady Frances Hope or her social standing——" Very swiftly she recalled the words and construed them in the light of her present feelings. After all, she was not the child she had been two years ago. And it was not Lady Frances, but the set that surrounded her, to which Gore took exception.
Her companion, seeing the hesitation in her eyes, gave a quick, bright smile.
"Do come! I will give you news of—every one."
Clodagh coloured slightly.
"Very well!" she said. "In an hour. Thank you very much!"
And with an agreeable, unfamiliar sense of interest and excitement, she turned and passed down the corridor to where Simonetta stood.
Before opening her own door, Lady Frances Hope stood for a few seconds watching the retreating figure; then, apparently without reason, she frowned, drew her lips together, and pushing her door hastily open, passed out of sight.
Still imbued with the sense of contentment, Clodagh changed her heavy black travelling dress for one of lighter texture, allowed Simonetta to rearrange her hair, and, at the appointed hour, presented herself at Lady Frances Hope's door.
Lady Frances had also discarded her elaborate costume for something lighter and more comfortable, and was ensconced on a low divan, reading a French novel, when her guest was announced. Immediately Clodagh's name reached her, she threw the book aside, and rose with great cordiality.
"How sweet you look!" she exclaimed. "You are the first dark woman I've ever liked in black. But then, of course, you are not exactly dark. Sit down! Dinner will be served in a moment. How did you know of this place? Have you stayed here before?"
Clodagh had come forward and seated herself beside her hostess. Now, as she looked about her, she noticed with a feeling of restfulness that the room was pretty and homelike, and that there were flowers on the tables and soft yellow shades on the electric lamps.
"No; I have never been here before. Mr. Barnard gave the address to my—my husband, when we were in Venice; and I came across it among his papers after—after——" She hesitated.
Lady Frances leaned forward sympathetically.
"Poor child!" she murmured. "Don't talk of it! You have had a most trying time. Barny told me all about it only a week ago. But this place is really quite good," she added, in a cheerful voice; "better now than ever. They have just secured the chef from the 'Abbati' Restaurant in Venice. But, of course, you knew 'Abbati's.'"
Her quick glance passed over Clodagh's face. Then she rose and moved to the table, as two waiters entered, and dinner was announced.
Clodagh coloured, and crossed the room in her hostess's wake.
"Yes," she said, taking her seat at the table—"yes; I once dined there. It was a wonderfully fascinating place. Has it been a failure?"
Lady Frances shrugged her shoulders.
"Vanished! But tell me about yourself!" She turned to her guest with a change of manner. "You are not seriously contemplating England at this time of year?"
Clodagh smiled calmly.
"Quite seriously."
"But, my dear child, why, if one may be inquisitive?"
"Because I want to know England—to know the English."
Lady Frances's eyes narrowed very slightly; then she gave one of her bright laughs.
"Then come back with me to the Riviera! Any English people worth studying will be found there. Change your plans! Come back with me!"
Clodagh looked up. She was uncertain whether the suggestion had been made in jest or earnest, and the smiling, searching glance of her hostess did not enlighten her. With a slight feeling of embarrassment, she broke off abruptly into another channel of talk.
"And how is Mr. Barnard?" she asked.
"Barny! Oh, optimistic as ever!"
"Then there is one amusing person left in England!"
Lady Frances laughed.
"Only temporarily. He takes his holiday next month. Last March he joined the Luards and me in Naples, and we all went on to Sicily. It was tremendous fun."
She laughed again over some recollection; and entered upon a history of her Sicilian adventures that occupied the rest of dinner.
At the termination of the meal, however, when the waiters had brought in coffee and silently retired, she dropped her reminiscent tone, and, rising from table, moved back to the divan, which was drawn pleasantly near to a bright wood fire.
"Come here, and let's be comfortable!" she said. "I always have a cigarette after dinner. I forget whether you smoke."
Clodagh smiled, as she came slowly forward.
"Not since my cousin and I used to smoke in the top branches of an apple tree in Ireland. I should be afraid to try the experiment again; I might lose an illusion. No other cigarettes could taste like those stolen ones!"
She gave a little sigh, then a little laugh, and seated herself.
Lady Frances looked up from the cigarette she was drawing from her case.
"Illusions!" she said. "Why, life is all illusions at your age!" She paused; then, after a moment's silence, went on again, but in a slower, more considered voice: "You thought I was jesting at dinner, when I asked you to come south with me. But I wasn't. I meant it." She struck a match and lighted her cigarette. "You don't know how you would enjoy Nice. You lost yourself in the delights of roulette at Venice. Think what Monte Carlo would be!"
With a sudden tumultuous confusion, Clodagh flushed.
"I—I have ceased to care about things like that," she said in a hurried voice.
Lady Frances's expression changed to one of deep interest, sharpened by surprise.
"Ceased to care?" she repeated softly. "Since when? And why?"
"Since"—Clodagh hesitated—"oh, since that time in Venice."
Her hostess flicked the ash from her cigarette.
"Some new influence?"
Clodagh was taken unawares.
"I—I have got to know myself better since that time in Venice," she said below her breath. "Some one—something—has made me see that it was not my true self that showed then. I was foolish in those days. I was carried away——"
A very faint smile flitted across Lady Frances's lips.
"That idea belongs to the some one else?" she said in a quiet, cordial tone that invited confidence.
Moved by a sudden impulse, Clodagh leant forward in her seat and clasped her hands. As on the day in Florence—the day when she had written her letter to Laurence Asshlin—her soul thirsted for confession. After two long years of silent thought, the temptation to open her heart in speech was overmastering. The room was comfortable, dimly lighted, almost homelike; the hour was propitious; her hostess's voice was extraordinarily kind. She stole one half-shy, half-eager glance at the averted face.
"Lady Frances," she said suddenly, "I was very childish, very foolish, that time in Venice. I knew it even before I—before I left."
With extreme tact, Lady Frances refrained from looking at her. Smoking quietly, she made her next remark in a low, reassuring voice.
"Then that was why you left so suddenly?"
"That was why."
"Walter Gore must have been very eloquent!"
Lady Frances spoke in the same even tone; but, as she felt the thrill of surprise with which Clodagh received her words, she turned quickly and decisively, and met her startled eyes.
"I always knew that Walter Gore went back with you to your hotel on that last night," she said. "I always knew that he read you a very moral lecture."
Clodagh drew a quick breath.
"But how did you know?"
Lady Frances studied her face for a moment; then she gave a direct answer to the question put to her.
"Walter himself told me," she said.
After she had spoken there was silence in the room. On her part it was the silence of the experimenter, who has taken a step in a new direction and is waiting for results; on Clodagh's, it was the silence of incredulity, of doubt, of dread. That Gore should have spoken of that last night in Venice to any third person was a circumstance that, at very least, needed explanation. She sat breathlessly waiting that explanation.
During the moment of fruitful silence Lady Frances Hope remained very still, fingering her cigarette, drawing in fitful puffs of smoke, avoiding with elaborate carelessness any observation of her companion's manner.
Then, as if some psychological crisis for which she was waiting had been achieved, she altered her position and her expression; and, turning, laid her hand upon Clodagh's.
"Dear Mrs. Milbanke," she said, "I am glad all this has happened; I am glad we have met. You are at a moment in your life when you need a friend—a friend who understands——"
Her fingers tightened upon Clodagh's in a warm, sympathetic pressure.
"You are young; you are free; you have the whole world at your feet. Don't spoil your life by taking it too seriously!
"When I was your age, or only a little older than you, I was left a widow—as you have been left; but I was unlike you in one particular: I had a very wise and far-seeing mother to help me with her advice. Do you know what her advice was?"
Clodagh sat silent.
"It was comprised in one sentence. 'Avoid scandal, but fly from sentiment!' Do you see all the wisdom in that advice to a woman who has just become her own mistress?"
Still Clodagh was silent, filled by a sense of uncertainty, of loneliness, of fear. She waited for Lady Frances's explanation with the numb sense of helplessness that is born of ignorance.
"Of course, I may be wrong," the strong, reliant voice went on; "but I feel you are in need of just such counsel. You are emotional; you are an idealist; you are coming out into life expecting it to be a fairy tale—and it is not a fairy tale. It is a realistic story—sometimes a long one, sometimes a short one, but always realistic. Take my advice! Make the best of it as it is! Don't break your heart because there are no dragons, or castles, or princes."
She paused at last; and at last Clodagh spoke.
"You are very kind—very good. But I don't see what it all has to do with me."
With a frank, almost an affectionate gesture, Lady Frances took both her hands, and, looking into her face, spoke the words for which she had so carefully prepared the way.
"If what I am going to say hurts you, you must forgive me. I feel such centuries older than you, that I can risk a great deal. Don't spoil your life, don't throw away your pleasure, because of one moral lecture! It isn't worth while. I know what I am saying. People like Walter Gore are reprehensible. They take themselves so seriously, that sometimes other people make the mistake of taking them seriously too; and then things go wrong."
Clodagh's face became a shade paler.
"I—I am stupid," she said. "I don't seem to understand."
"My dear! It is so hard to say it bluntly."
"Please say it bluntly."
For an instant the older woman hesitated before the coldness of Clodagh's tone; but the next, she took the opening offered her.
"You are deliberately turning away from the best in life because some one, in a moment of enthusiasm, preached you a sermon. You make the mistake of thinking that Walter Gore did something unusual when he warned you against cards and roulette—against Lord Deerehurst and Val Serracauld and me—whereas, Walter was born to preach!"
Clodagh's lips parted. Lady Frances had justified herself. Gorehadspoken of that last interview. But why? And how?
"Lady Frances," she said very quietly, "why did Sir Walter Gore tell you all these things?"
Lady Frances freed the hands she had continued to hold.
"Oh, we are old friends. He tells me many things. I fought more than one battle for you, while you were in Venice—and afterwards."
"For me? After I left Venice?"
"Oh, many battles. Walter is so extreme in his judgments of men and things. I lose patience with him sometimes."
"And what was Sir Walter Gore's judgment of me—after I left Venice?"
Lady Frances gave a little deprecating laugh.
"Would that be quite fair?"
"Yes, I think so, if I wish to know."
The older woman took a fresh cigarette from the case beside her.
"And you won't be offended?"
"I won't be offended." Clodagh's voice sounded a little dry.
"Well, then—oh, really, it's very stupid! Perhaps I'd better not."
Clodagh rose quietly from the divan and walked to the mantelpiece.
"Please tell me," she said.
At her tone, her hostess ceased to dally. She struck a match and raised the cigarette to her lips.
"Well," she said, with another little apologetic laugh, "I think Walter has always imagined you a very pretty, very fascinating—little fool!"
There was another silence—very short but very tense. Lady Frances laid down her cigarette unlighted, and blew out the match.
"Mrs. Milbanke, you don't mind?"
Clodagh laughed—suddenly and almost loudly.
"Mind? Mind? WhyshouldI mind?"
Had her denial been a shade less intense, its steadiness might have deceived her companion; as it was, the faintest flickering smile touched her lips, as she also rose and came slowly forward.
"My dear child!" she murmured reproachfully—"my dear child, you have misunderstood. I never implied that Walter interested you personally; I merely used him as an illustration—as a means of conveying the folly of taking serious people seriously. But you are tired. I have been cruelly unreasonable. I shall send you straight to bed. You are fagged after that long journey."
She put out her hand and laid it on Clodagh's arm; but Clodagh was not in a mood to be caressed.
"It's all right!" she said abruptly. "I suppose we both misunderstood. Iama little tired. I think Iwillsay good-night!"
"Good-night, dear child!" Lady Frances pressed her hand, and walked with her slowly across the room. As she passed out into the corridor, she waved a gay farewell. "Sleep well!" she called. "But dream of an English February—and wake with a changed mind!"
As she said the last words, Clodagh paused for a moment; then went on again without speaking, and entered her own room.
Tired though she was, she scarcely slept that night; and in the early hours of the morning she saw the bright dawn break over Paris. At eight o'clock she rang for Simonetta, and asked for ink, pen, and note-paper.
Sitting up in bed, she wrote the following note.
"Dear Lady Frances,"As we are both women, I can hope that you won't call me variable. If you still want me as a companion, I think I will, after all, go with you to Nice. Looking into the matter more closely, I find I really have no affinity for sleet or influenza!"Yours,"Clodagh Milbanke."
"Dear Lady Frances,
"As we are both women, I can hope that you won't call me variable. If you still want me as a companion, I think I will, after all, go with you to Nice. Looking into the matter more closely, I find I really have no affinity for sleet or influenza!
"Yours,
"Clodagh Milbanke."
Having despatched the note to Lady Frances Hope, she wrote two long, feverishly hasty letters—one to Laurence Asshlin at Orristown, the other to Nance at her school near London.
CHAPTER III
It was in the middle of February that Clodagh arrived in Paris on her journey home; and it was the end of April before that ardently planned return to England at last took place.
On a fresh, showery April afternoon when all London looked renewed and beautified by soft air and fitful brilliant sunshine, she alighted from the train at Charing Cross.
Her arrival in the lofty, unfamiliar station was very different from her arrival at the bustling, exciting Parisian terminus two months earlier. Then, she had descended from her train with the rapidity of one who sees in the least promising object the hope—if not the certainty—of interest; now, she left her carriage with the quiet indifference to outward circumstance that acquaintance with society teaches. Unconsciously she had learned to move as the women of the world move—the women who know themselves possessed of a certain value, and are faintly flattered, faintly amused, perhaps faintly wearied by the knowledge.
As she walked down the platform a momentary glimmering of disappointment crossed her face; and she turned to Simonetta who had come hurrying towards her.
"I thought Lady Frances would have met us," she said. "But I suppose she is waiting at the flat."
Simonetta looked up solicitously at her mistress. "And the signora?" she hazarded. "She is not tired?"
Clodagh smiled a little absently.
"Oh no, Simonetta! You must not trouble about me. I have come home, you know!" She gave a little laugh. "But we must not delay," she added. "Have you the keys of all the boxes?"
"Yes, signora."
"Then you can see to the examining of the luggage. When it is done, this porter will put you into a cab. I have given him the address."
"Yes, signora."
"Then I shall see you at the flat?"
"Yes, signora."
Clodagh smiled again; and, turning away, wended her way through the crowd of passengers surrounded by eager relatives and friends.
Reaching the courtyard of the station, she unostentatiously hailed a hansom, and, having given her new address to the cabman, took her seat. A moment later, the cab swung out into London—became one with the concourse of traffic that, in the season, seems to overflow the streets. For the instant Clodagh felt herself merged in the teeming life, which the open doors of the vehicle permitted to approach so nearly; for the instant she stifled the sense of isolation that had been slowly gathering force. And, leaning forward in her seat, fixed her attention upon the passing scene.
Across Trafalgar Square, up Waterloo Place, and into the traffic of Piccadilly she was borne with exhilarating speed—the cabman avoiding with extreme dexterity the throng of carriages, motor cars, and omnibuses that seemed momentarily to increase. To Clodagh, sitting rigidly attentive, the scene appeared like an impressive pageant—a pageant of magnificent wealth and abundant prosperity, a splendid, characteristic picture, in which the budding English trees, the imposing English clubs, the gorgeous English equipages, and the beautiful English women made up the background and the central figures. It was the great procession of a life she had seen only in imagination; and as her curious eyes drank in its details, she found herself almost mechanically repeating in her mind the formula to which for the past two months she had clung with passionate persistence.
"Iwilllive! Iwillenjoy!"
For the two months this had been her philosophy. Unconsciously, it had been her philosophy since the night in Paris, when, in one hour, her castle of imagination had fallen about her feet, and she had stood, as it were, houseless. In that brief space of time she had realised that she had been inhabiting a fool's paradise. A fool's paradise! The name had seemed curiously apt; and through the long, dark hours of that hateful night her cheeks had burned as she recalled how she had peopled her enchanted realm, while all the time its unconscious creator had forgotten its creation—or remembered it only as one self-righteous act among many. Lady Frances Hope was right! Deerehurst had been right! Barnard had been right! Ideals were a mistake—things made to be shattered, as hopes were made to be broken! To live—to live fully, heedlessly, extravagantly—was the only wisdom. Gore had spoken truly! She had been a fool. She had been wrong in supposing that she had a debt to work off; on the contrary, life was her debtor. It was she who had a score against life!
In this fever of mind, she had written the letters that sent Nance on her interrupted journey to America; cancelled her invitation to her aunt and cousin to stay with her in England; and set her own feet on the road to the south. And in the weeks that followed, the same fever had burned in her blood. During the preparations for the Riviera and during the journey to Nice, she had been possessed by a frenzy of energy. She had craved for incessant action and excitement with a pertinacity that had seemed insatiable.
And in the crowded Casino at Monte Carlo she had at last attained her object—she had at last succeeded in losing herself; there, day after day, night after night, she had sat in the stifling, scented atmosphere, listening to the incessant, significant click of gold and silver, watching the artificial light glare down upon the hideously artificial faces pressed in densely packed circles round the long green tables. The place had fascinated her with its outward immobility, its hidden sea of greedy passion. It was, she had fiercely told herself, life!
After six weeks, Lady Frances Hope had announced her intention of returning to London. But Clodagh had implored her to postpone her departure for another week; and when she had laughingly declared the delay impossible, had announced her own determination to remain on alone—a determination which no argument of her companion's had been powerful enough to alter.
And now, after nearly eight weeks spent between Monte Carlo and Nice, she was returning to take up her residence in a London flat, chosen for her by Lady Frances.
Her brain felt feverishly active as the cab, having skirted the park railings from Hyde Park Corner to Knightsbridge, turned into the square courtyard belonging to the large, quiet building where she was to find her home.
Descending quickly, she entered the big doorway and glanced curiously at her new surroundings. The vestibule was imposing, but a little lonely. And although the hall porter came almost immediately to her assistance, and listened attentively to the information that she was the new tenant of the second floor flat, and that her maid and her luggage were following in another cab, his impersonal air daunted her. She was annoyed—and almost frightened—by the sudden, poignant desire that assailed her to see even one familiar face.
However, she listened in her own turn to the polite assurance that all was in readiness for her arrival; and in due course she passed sedately to the lift, and was borne upwards.
As she stepped out upon the richly carpeted passage that led to her own door, she looked round in the half-formed expectation that Lady Frances Hope might be waiting for her outside her rooms; but almost at once she dismissed the idea. English people were not demonstrative! She would find Lady Frances awaiting her beside a cosy tea-table—or a bright fire! With the haste of anticipation, she crossed the corridor, and pressed the electric bell.
There was a slight delay before the summons was answered; then the door was opened by a well-dressed, unemotional-looking maid.
Clodagh stepped forward.
"I am Mrs. Milbanke—your mistress," she said quickly.
The woman looked at her without curiosity.
"Will you kindly walk in, madam?" she said. "I hope you will find everything in order."
A chill—a chill that painfully suggested home-sickness—fell upon Clodagh; but she thrust it resentfully aside and entered the pretty panelled hall of the flat.
"Where is Lady Frances Hope?" she asked, pausing just inside the threshold.
The maid came forward respectfully, but without enthusiasm.
"Her ladyship has not been here to-day, madam. Can I attend to you, madam, until your maid arrives?"
Clodagh stood very still. She was conscious of a horrible, inordinate disappointment; but aware that the servant's eyes were still upon her, she rallied her self-control.
"Thanks!" she said. "I shan't want anything but a cup of tea. Bring me some tea to my own room. Did Lady Frances Hope leave no message?"
"No message, madam."
The maid hesitated for an instant longer; then, feeling herself dismissed, moved noiselessly away to the servant's quarters.
Left alone, Clodagh stood irresolute. This was her home! Her eyes wandered round the hall, from the walls of which the pictures of the former tenant looked down as though they criticised the intruder. This was her home coming! A home coming devoid of one friendly hand, one welcoming word! Unable to quell the passion of loneliness that swelled within her, she turned blindly and opened the door that stood nearest to her.
It was the dining-room that she had chanced upon—a charming white-panelled room, furnished with Sheraton furniture. But in her present mood, its graceful severity failed to please her; to her lonely gaze it had an uninhabited look—it seemed almost to resemble a very perfect room upon the stage. Drawing back hastily, she closed the door; and, moving down the hall, entered another room.
This proved to be her own bedroom—a bright, high-ceiled apartment decorated and furnished in old French fashion and possessing two large windows, looking upon Hyde Park. But here again she was confronted by the sensation of unfamiliarity. And as she paused just inside the door, looking from the long windows to the stately bed, she was suddenly and completely dominated by her feelings. In a tempestuous wave of emotion, her hunger for happiness rose menacingly, while the tide of her philosophy suddenly ebbed. In that moment, as she stood alone in the wide room, she swayed between trust in her own heart and faith in the world's healing power. Then, as so frequently happens, the world snatched the laurels before they had been held out.
With the same unmoved demeanour, the maid who had admitted her, appeared at the door.
"If you please, madam, the housemaid tells me that her ladyshipdidsend a note for you this morning. You'll find it on the dressing-table."
At the woman's words, Clodagh started, and her whole face coloured and changed. Hurrying across the room, she saw the letter, picked it up, and tore it open.
"Dearest Clodagh," she read."I must seem a perfect beast. But my old Aunt Deborah—with whom I can't afford to quarrel!—has announced her stupid intention of spending a day in town. And of course it must be this day of all days!Dobe a darling and show you forgive me by coming round to dine at eight-thirty. Lord Deerehurst returned yesterday from the famous two months' rest-cure, looking younger than ever. He and Val will be here to-night. Bridge after dinner. Don't fail to come."Yours,"F. H."
"Dearest Clodagh," she read.
"I must seem a perfect beast. But my old Aunt Deborah—with whom I can't afford to quarrel!—has announced her stupid intention of spending a day in town. And of course it must be this day of all days!Dobe a darling and show you forgive me by coming round to dine at eight-thirty. Lord Deerehurst returned yesterday from the famous two months' rest-cure, looking younger than ever. He and Val will be here to-night. Bridge after dinner. Don't fail to come.
"Yours,
"F. H."
As Clodagh read the last line of the letter, she lifted her head, and turned with a quick gesture to the maid who was waiting by the door.
"I want a fire lighted here and my tea brought to me immediately it is ready," she cried in a changed voice. "And send my maid in directly she arrives. I'm dining out!"
Without waiting for a reply, she crossed the room and paused beside one of the windows, looking down upon the park. Her spirits had risen; her excitement had been rekindled; she had been saved from the companionship she had learned to dread—companionship with herself.
CHAPTER IV
Lady Frances Hope's house was situated in Curzon Street; and thither Clodagh departed shortly after eight o'clock.
Again she chose a hansom as a means of conveyance, for as yet there had been no question of her procuring a carriage of her own; and again she became conscious of the peculiar stimulus, the peculiar power that the great tide of London life exercises upon its observers. The last glimmering of daylight was lingering in the sky as the cab passed up Knightsbridge, but already the houses and hotels were brilliantly lighted, and the stream of diners and theatre-goers was forming into its nightly procession.
During that short drive, she encountered many glances—glances of interest, criticism or curiosity from women well-dressed as herself and bound upon some such mission as her own—glances of sharp speculation or sudden admiration from men driving, west or southward. And something of London's immensity, something of London's secrecy, came to her in those brief moments; she was stirred by the fact that has moved many another dweller in the vast city—the fact that every day, every night, some thousands of lives brush our own in a passing glance, in a stray word, in a chance touch, and then drift on into mystery, never to reappear.
Her thoughts were confused and excited as she descended from the cab and entered the Curzon Street house; but on the moment that she stepped into the hall, her dreams were banished. A door on her right opened, and her hostess hurried forward and kissed her effusively.
"You dear thing!" she cried. "Wasn't it abominable of me? Was the arrival desperately weary? Come up to my bedroom. The men haven't come yet. What ages it seems since we said good-bye at Nice! How are you?" She talked in her masterful voice, without waiting for a reply, until they entered the bedroom. There her maid, who was busying herself at the dressing-table, came forward to assist Clodagh; but Lady Frances checked her at once.
"Mrs. Milbanke won't need you, Rees. I'll take off her cloak."
Rees moved obediently towards the door; but there she ventured to pause for a moment.
"I hope you had a comfortable journey, madam," she said.
Clodagh, invariably gracious to her inferiors, turned to her warmly.
"Thank you, Rees! An excellent journey! But I'm glad to see everybody look so well." She added the last with a little smile, to which the maid responded as she closed the door.
Lady Frances laughed.
"You have bewitched Rees!" she said. "But you do that as you eat or sleep—by instinct. Let me look at you!" She laid her hands on Clodagh's shoulders and turned her towards the light.
"You've been playing every night since I left you," she said with decision.
Clodagh laughed with some constraint.
"And losing?"
Clodagh flushed.
"I have no luck," she said shortly. Then, almost at once, she turned away, freeing herself from her companion's detaining hands.
"Lady Frances," she said in a different tone, "please don't think I forget about—about——" she hesitated. "I get my first allowance at the beginning of July, you know——"
She paused; and Lady Frances gave a seemingly careless laugh. "My good child, don't speak of it! Any time!—any time!"
"You are very kind. I had hoped to settle up on my return, but the last week was shocking. But everything will be right at the beginning of July. She walked over to the dressing-table and looked at herself in the long glass.
"What a sweet house you have!" she said suddenly in an entirely different voice.
Lady Frances had been watching her with a close scrutiny; but now, with a good deal of ready dissimulation, she threw off her attentive manner and answered in Clodagh's own light tone.
"Yes; it is a nice little place. But what about the flat? Isn't that perfect?"
"Yes."
"You are not enthusiastic? Oh, Iamdisappointed!"
Clodagh turned from the mirror.
"Forgive me!" she said impulsively. "Of course the flat is perfectly sweet—and exactly what I want. It was just the arriving alone that made it seem a little—a little——"
"Of course!—of course! Poor dear child! But wait!—wait till you begin to know people!"
Clodagh's expressive face brightened.
"Yes. And when Nance—when my sister comes back! Oh! Imustenjoy myself! Imustbe happy!"
"Why should you be anything else? When have you heard from your sister?"
"The day I left Nice—a most dear letter. She is having a heavenly time in America. The Estcoits are such delightful companions; the girl is seven months younger than she is—and the boy is seven years older. Curious difference, isn't it?"
"Very. But I didn't know there was a boy. I thought it was only the school friend and the mother."
"Oh no! There's the brother—Pierce. Nance's letters are full of him."
Lady Frances gave a little half-sarcastic laugh.
"Then Nance is presumably still learning—though she has left school?"
Something in the utterance of the words made Clodagh flush.
"Don't!" she said involuntarily—"don't! Nance is—is different from me."
Then, as her hostess remained silent, she turned and looked at her.
"Don't be offended!" she added. "It is only that I can't have anything cynical said of Nance. I know you don't understand. It seems that because I sent her to America, I don't really care——" She halted again.
"But I don't make you understand!—I don't seem to make any one understand." Her voice dropped slightly; and Lady Frances, as though fearing some emotional outburst, broke in hastily.
"My dear child!—my dear Clodagh!" Then she paused, for the door opened and her maid Rees reappeared.
"Excuse me, my lady! But Lord Deerehurst and Mr. Serracauld are in the drawing-room. Franks thought your ladyship would wish to know."
"Quite right. Thank you, Rees! Clodagh, are you ready?"
Clodagh's face was slightly flushed from her momentary outbreak, as she left the bedroom. Descending the stairs, Lady Frances moved to her side and passed her hand through her arm: and at the touch, a sharp repulsion to this friendship—this fair weather, effusive, superficial friendship—surged through her. And yet where was she to find a firmer sentiment? Where, in all the world, was there a being who had any real need of her? Her aunt? Her cousin? She knew instinctively that their world and her own were inevitably sundered. Nance? Had not even Nance—the little Nance of childish days—already begun to gather interests of her own—to form her own friendships? No; there was no niche that especially claimed, that especially needed her!
At this point in her hasty and confused speculations, the door of the drawing-room was thrown open: and, after an interval of two years, she saw Lord Deerehurst and Serracauld.
More than once she had pictured the meeting with the old peer; but, as is invariably the case, the reality was much more vivid than the imagination had been. Deerehurst came forward with the stiff, courtly manner that brought back with almost painful clearness the balcony of the Venetian palace—the Venetian salon with its polished floor and glittering chandeliers—the Venetian night-music borne across the waters. It all surged back in a wave of memory—first a pang of pain, then a pang of reckless self-contempt. After all, who cared? What did her action—her manner of living—even her existence—matter to any living soul? She held out her hand and allowed him to bow over it.
He bowed over it for a long time; then he raised his head and looked at her. His pale, inscrutable face was as waxlike as ever; his eyes were as cold, as penetrating, as old in their look of supreme wisdom.
"So we meet again," he said. "My hope has been fulfilled!"
For a moment Clodagh stood, permitting him to clasp her fingers and look into her face, while she herself made no effort to speak; then, as if suddenly conscious of something strange in the position, she freed her hand with a little, nervous laugh, and turned to where Serracauld was waiting to greet her.
With a smile and a gesture of easy familiarity the younger man came forward.
"Welcome to England!" he said. "Only yesterday a man at my club was telling me of the prettiest woman on the Riviera this year. I won't be personal, but the lady was at Monte Carlo only a week ago—turning other people's heads and emptying her own pockets with the most delightful impartiality."
Clodagh laughed, but this time without embarrassment.
"Be as personal as you like!" she said carelessly. "It wasn't my fault if luck was dead against me."
Deerehurst came forward slowly.
"But the turned heads?" he asked.
She smiled.
"Was it my business to put them straight again? I'm not a surgeon."
They all laughed; and at that moment dinner was announced.
Lady Frances Hope touched Clodagh's arm.
"Lord Deerehurst will play host, Clodagh! Val, I consign myself to you!"
Serracauld moved to her side with his usual indolent ease; and Deerehurst offered Clodagh his arm.
They had to traverse the length of a large double drawing-room before the dining-room was reached. And during that passage he found opportunity for a whispered word or two. As they moved forward he avoided looking at Clodagh; but his arm slightly and unmistakably pressed hers.
"Am I not forgiving—to be so glad to see you?" he murmured in his thin, cold voice. "I waited on the terrace until twelve o'clock, that night in Venice."
Involuntarily her face flushed. His voice was as potent as ever to express infinitely more than the words it uttered.
"I—I wish to forget Venice," she said.
He stole a swift glance at her.
"Then shall we make a compact? Shall we forget it jointly?"
She said nothing.
Again, almost imperceptibly, his arm pressed hers.
"Why try to ignore me? I am in your life."
The words were few and very simple: so simple and so few that they conveyed a peculiar impression of power—of weight.
A faint, half-comprehended chill fell upon Clodagh; such a chill as had fallen upon her once before in the "Abbati" Restaurant, when Deerehurst had drunk to their next meeting as host and guest.
She laughed suddenly, with a quick, nervous lifting of the head.
"But it is life itself that I wish to ignore."
Again he glanced at her—very swiftly, very searchingly.
"So be it!" he said. "I take that as a challenge—to life and to me."