CHAPTER I

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[Illustration: He lowered the candles and drew back.]

THE GAMBLER

_A NOVEL_

By

KATHERINE CECIL THURSTON

Author of "The Circle," "The Masquerader," etc.

With Illustrations by JOHN CAMERON

TORONTO

FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY

1905

Entered according to Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year one

thousand nine hundred and five, by FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY, Toronto,

Ontario, in the Office of the Minister of Agriculture.

TO

THE MEMORY

OF

MY MOTHER

Transcriber's Note: Only the Frontispiece and illustration on page 61

are included in this ebook.

ILLUSTRATIONS

He lowered the candles and drew back _Frontispiece_

FACING PAGE

With a fierce gesture he took another step forward 61

The little crowd of curious idlers 123

The younger ... stared at her 141

"The End!" she said to Serracauld 210

Night after night she had sat in the stifling atmosphere 241

The two dogs looked swiftly from her face to their master's 287

She slipped to the door--opened it 337

THE GAMBLER

_PART I_

CHAPTER I

An eight-mile drive over rain-washed Irish roads in the quick-falling

dusk of autumn is an experience trying to the patience, even to the

temper, of the average Saxon. Yet James Milbanke made neither comment

nor objection as mile after mile of roadway spun away like a ribbon

behind him, as the mud rose in showers from the wheels of the

old-fashioned trap in which he sat, and the half-trained mare between

the shafts swerved now to the right, now to the left--her nervous

glance caught by the spectral shapes of the blackthorn hedges or the

motionless forms of the wayside donkeys, lying asleep in the ditches.

Perhaps this stoicism was the outcome of an innate power to endure;

perhaps it was a merely negative quality, illustrating the lack of that

doubtful blessing, imagination. But whatever its origin, it stood him

in good stead as he covered the long stretch of flat country that links

the south-eastern seaport of Muskeere with the remote fishing village

of Carrigmore and its outlying district of Orristown.

His outlook upon Ireland, like his outlook upon life, was untinged by

humour. He had seen no ground for amusement in the fact that he had

been the only passenger to alight from the train at the Muskeere

terminus, and consequently no ground for loneliness in the sight of the

solitary vehicle, dimly silhouetted against the murky sky, that had

awaited his coming. The ludicrous points of the scene: the primitive

railway station with its insufficient flickering lights, its little

knot of inquisitive idlers, its one porter--slovenly, amiable,

incorrigibly lazy--all contributing the unconscious background to his

own neat, conventional, totally alien personality, had left him

untouched.

The only individual to whom the picture had made its appeal had been

the solitary porter. As he relieved Milbanke of his valise and rug on

the step of the first-class carriage, an undeniable twinkle had gleamed

in his eyes.

"Fine, soft night, sir," he had volunteered. "Tim Burke is outside for

you."

For a second Milbanke had stared at him in a mixture of doubt and

displeasure. A month's pilgrimage to the ancient Celtic landmarks had

left him, as it has left many a Saxon before him, unlearned in that

most interesting and most inscrutable of all survivals--the Celt

himself. He had surveyed the face of the porter cautiously and half

distrustfully; then he had made a guarded reply.

"I am certainly expecting a--a conveyance," he had admitted. "But I

have never heard of Tim Burke."

"Why, thin Tim has heard of _you_!" the other had replied with unruffled

suavity. "Isn't it the English gintlemen that's goin' to stop wid Mr.

Asshlin over at Orristown that you are? Sure, Tim told me all about you;

an' I knew you the minute I sat eyes on you--let alone there was no wan

else in the train."

Without more ado he had hoisted Milbanke's belongings to his shoulder,

and lounged out of the station.

"Here you are, Tim, man!" he had exclaimed as he deposited the articles

one after another under the seat of the trap with a lofty disregard of

their owner. "'Tis a soft night an' a long road you have before you! Is

it cold the mare is?" He had paused to eye the impatient young animal

before him, with the Irishman's unfailing appreciation of horse-flesh.

Here Milbanke, feeling that some veiled reproof had been suggested, had

broken in upon the monologue.

"I hope I haven't injured the horse by the delay," he had said hastily.

"The train was exactly twenty-two minutes behind its time."

Then for the first time the old coachman had bent down from his lofty

position.

"An', sure, what harm if it was, sir?" he had exclaimed, voicing the

hospitality due to his master's guest. "What hurry is there at all--so

long as it brought you safe?"

"True for you, Tim!" the porter had interjected softly; and seizing

Milbanke's arm, he had swung him into the trap, precisely as he had

swung the luggage a few seconds previously.

"Thank you, sir!" he had murmured a moment later. "Good-night to you!

Good-night, Tim! Safe road!" And, drawing back, he had looked on with

admiration while Burke had gathered up the reins and the mare had

plunged forward into the misty, sea-scented night.

That had been Milbanke's first introduction into the district where he

proposed to spend a week with a man he had not seen for nearly thirty

years.

As the trap moved forward, leaving the straggling town with its

scattered lights far behind, his thoughts--temporarily distracted by

the incidents of his arrival--reverted to the channel in which they had

run during the greater part of the day. Again his mind returned to the

period of his college career when, as a quiet student, he had been

drawn by the subtle attraction of contrast into a friendship with Denis

Asshlin--the young Irishman whose spirit, whose enthusiasms, whose

exuberant joy in life had shone in such vivid colours beside his own

neutral-tinted personality. His thoughts passed methodically from those

eager, early days to the more sober ones that had followed Asshlin's

recall to Ireland, and thence onward over the succeeding tale of years.

He reviewed his own calm, if somewhat lonely, manhood; his aimless

delving first into one branch of learning, then into another; his

gradually dawning interest in the study of archaeology--an interest

that, fostered by ample leisure and ample means, had become the

temperate and well-ordered passion of his life. The retrospect was

pleasant. There is always an agreeable sensation to a man of Milbanke's

temperament in looking back upon unruffled times. He became oblivious

of the ruts in the road and of the mare's erratic movements as he

traced the course of events to the point where, two months before, the

discovery of a dozen gold platters and as many drinking vessels,

embedded in a bog in the County Tyrone, had turned the eyes of the

archaeological world upon Ireland; and he, with other students of

antiquity, had been bitten with the desire to see the unique and

priceless objects for himself.

The journey to Tyrone had been a pleasant experience; and it was there,

under the mild exaltation of the genuine find, that it had suddenly

been suggested to his mind that certain ancient ruins, including a

remarkable specimen of the Irish round tower, were to be found on the

south-east coast not three miles from the property of his old college

friend.

Whether it was the archaeological instinct to resurrect the past, or

the merely human wish to re-live his own small portion of it, that had

prompted him to write to Asshlin must remain an open question. It is

sufficient that the letter was written and dispatched and that the

answer came in hot haste.

It had reached him in the form of a telegram running as follows: "Come

at once, and stay for a year. Stagnating to death in this isolation.

Asshlin." An hour later another, and a more voluminous message, had

followed, in which--as if by an after-thought--he had been given the

necessary directions as to the means of reaching Orristown.

It was at the point where his musings reached Asshlin's telegrams that

he awakened from his reverie and looked about him. For the first time a

personal interest in the country through which he was passing stirred

him. He realised that the salt sting of the sea had again begun to

mingle with the night mist, and judged thereby that the road had again

emerged upon the coast. He noticed that the hedges had become sparser;

that wherever a tree loomed out of the dusk it bore the mark of the sea

gales in a certain grotesqueness of shape.

This was the isolation of which Asshlin had spoken!

With an impulse extremely uncommon to him, he turned in his seat and

addressed the silent old coachman beside him.

"Has your master altered much in thirty years?" he asked.

There was silence for a while. Old Burke, with the deliberation of his

class, liked to weigh his words before giving them utterance.

"Is it Mister Dinis changed?" he repeated at last. Then almost

immediately he corrected himself. "Sure, 'tis Mister Asshlin I ought to

be sayin', sir. But the ould name slips out. Though the poor master is

gone these twenty-nine year--the Lord have mercy on him!--I can niver

git it into me head that 'tis to Mister Dinis we ought to be lookin'."

More than once during his brief stay in Ireland, Milbanke had been

confronted with this annihilation of time in the Irish mind, and

Burke's statement aroused no surprise.

"Has he changed?" he asked again in his dry, precise voice.

Burke was silent while the mare pulled hard on the reins. And having

regained his mastery over her, he looked down on his companion.

"Is it changed?" he said. "Sure, why wouldn't he be changed? With the

father gone--an' the wife gone--an' the children growin' up. Sure 'tis

changed we all are, an' goin' down the hill fast--God help us!"

Milbanke glanced up sharply.

"Children?" he said. "Children?"

Burke turned in his seat.

"Sure 'tisn't to have the ould stock die out you'd be wantin'?" he

said. "You'd travel the round of the county before you'd see the like

of Mister Dinis's children--though 'tis girls they are."

"Girls?" Milbanke's mind was disturbed by the thought of children.

Denis Asshlin with children! The idea was incongruous.

"Two of 'em!" said Burke laconically.

"Dear me!--dear me! And yet I suppose it's only natural. How old are

they?"

Burke flicked the mare lightly, and the trap lurched forward.

"Miss Clodagh is turned fifteen," he said, "and the youngster is goin'

on ten. 'Twas ten year back, come next December, that she was born.

Sure I remimber it well. An' six weeks after, Mister Dinis was

followin' her poor mother to the churchyard beyant in Carrigmore. The

Lord keep us all! 'Twas she was the nice, quiet creature, and Miss

Nance is the livin' stamp of her. But God bless us, 'tis Miss Clodagh

that's her father's child." He added this last remark with a force that

at the time conveyed nothing, though it was destined to recur later to

Milbanke's mind.

"But your master?" the stranger repeated. The momentary diversion of

the children had ceased to hold him. Again the vision of

Asshlin--Asshlin the impetuous hero of past days--had risen intangible,

mirage-like and yet compelling from his native stretch of rugged

country.

But Burke made no reply. All his energies were directed to the guiding

of the mare down a steep incline. For a space Milbanke was conscious of

a dangerously accelerated pace; then the white piers of a large gate

sped past them, and he was aware of the black shadow of overhanging

trees.

Something unusual, something faintly prophetic and only vaguely

comprehended, touched his prosaic nature at that moment. He was

entering on a new phase of life. Without conscious preparation he was

to see the world from a new point of view. With a fresh spur of anxious

curiosity, he turned again to Burke.

"But your master?" he asked. "Has he changed much? Will I see a great

alteration?"

For an added space the old man remained mute, while he piloted the trap

up the sweep of avenue, with that irresistible desire for a fine finish

that animates every Irish driver. Then, as they spun round the final

curve, as the great square house loomed out of the mist, he replied

without slackening his vigilance.

"Is it changed?" he repeated half to himself. "Sure, if the Almighty

doesn't change a man in thirty year, it stands to rason that the divil

must."

CHAPTER II

To English ears the reply was curious. Yet with all its vagueness, all

its racial inclination towards high colour, it held the germ of truth

that frequently lies in such utterances. With native acuteness it threw

out a suggestion, without betraying a confidence.

An instant after it was spoken, there was a final flourish of the whip,

a scrape of wheels on the wet gravel, a straining and creaking of damp

leather, and the trap drew up before the big white house. Milbanke

caught a fleeting suggestion of a shabby door with pillars on which

rested a square balcony of rusty iron, a number of unlighted windows, a

general air of grandeur and decay curiously blended. Then the hall door

opened, and a voice, whose first note roused a hundred memories, rolled

out across the darkness.

"Is that you, James? Come in!--come in! Keep the mare in hand, Burke.

Steady, now, James! Let me hold the rug and give you a hand down. She's

a little rogue, and might be making a bolt for her stable. Well, you're

as welcome as the flowers in May! Come in!--come in!"

It was over in a flash--the arrival, the tempestuous greeting, the hard

grip of Asshlin's hand; and the two men were facing each other in the

candle-lit hall.

"Well, you're welcome, James!" Asshlin repeated. "You're welcome! Let

me have a look at you. I declare it's younger you are!"

He laid his hand heavily on the other's shoulder, and uttered this

obvious untruth with all the warmth and conviction that Irish

imagination and Irish hospitality could suggest.

"But you're perished after the long drive! Burke!" he called through

the open door. "Burke, when you're done with the mare come round and

carry up Mr. Milbanke's baggage. Now, James!" He wheeled round again,

catching up a silver candlestick from the hall table. "Now, if you come

upstairs, I'll show you where we're going to billet you."

With long, hasty steps he crossed the hall, his tall figure casting

gaunt shadows on the bare and lofty wall.

"We're a trifle unsophisticated here," he went on with a loud, hard

laugh. "But at least we'll give you enough to eat and a bed to lie on.

After all, a decent dinner and a warm welcome are the bone and sinew of

hospitality the world over. Unless they include a drop of something to

put life into a man----"

He paused, turning round upon his guest.

"By Jupiter, that reminds me! Have a small drink before we go another

step, just to take the cold out of you?"

Milbanke, who was close behind him, glanced up. He saw his host's face

more clearly than he had seen it in the hall. His answer when it came

was hurried and a little confused.

"No, Denis. No," he said. "Nothing; nothing, I assure you."

Asshlin laughed again.

"Still the same stickler?" he said. "How virtues cling to a man!"

He turned and began to mount the stairs. Then, reaching the first door

on the wide corridor, he paused.

"Here's your habitation," he said. "Burke will bring up your belongings

and get you whatever you want. We dine in a quarter of an hour."

He nodded; and was turning away, when a fresh thought struck him.

"You may as well take this candle," he said; "we haven't arrived at the

civilisation of gas. You might stumble over something, looking for the

matches. This is practically a bachelor establishment, you

know--without any bachelor comforts."

Once more he laughed; and, thrusting the candle into his guest's hand,

hurried away across the landing.

In silence Milbanke took the candle and, holding it uncertainly, waited

until his host had disappeared. Then slowly he turned and entered the

large, bare bedroom. For a moment he hesitated, his eyes wandering from

the faded window-hangings to the stiff, old-fashioned furniture.

Finally, laying aside the candlestick, he sat down upon the side of the

forbidding-looking four-post bedstead.

What motive prompted him to the action he could scarcely have defined.

He was strangely moved by the scene just gone through--stirred in a

manner he could never have anticipated. For the moment the precise,

matter-of-fact archaeologist was submerged; and the man--dry, narrow,

pedantic perhaps, but nevertheless capable of human sentiments--was

uppermost. The sight of Asshlin, the sound of his voice, and the touch

of his hand had possessed an alchemy all their own. The past, that

years of separation had dimmed and tarnished, had gleamed out from the

shadows and taken shape before his eyes. The influence, the fascination

that Asshlin had once exercised, had touched him again at the first

contact of personalities. But it was an altered fascination. The alloy

of doubt and apprehension had tainted the old feeling. The question he

had been prompted to ask Burke had answered itself at the first glimpse

of his host's face. Indisputably, unmistakably, Asshlin had changed.

And in what lay that change? That was the question he put to himself as

he sat on the bed, unconsciously noting the long, wavering flicker of

the candle-flame against the faded wall-paper. He had aged; but the

change did not lie with age alone. Something more relentless and more

corroding than time had drawn the worn, discontented lines about the

mouth, kindled the unnatural, restless glitter in the eyes, and changed

the note of the voice from spontaneous vitality to recklessness. The

change lay deeper; it lay in the heart and the soul of the man himself.

With a sensation of doubt--of puzzled doubt and inexplicable

disappointment--he rose, crossed the room, and, drawing the curtains

over the windows, shut out the dark, damp night.

CHAPTER III

It was nearly three-quarters of an hour later that a tremendous bell,

clanging through the house, announced that dinner had been served.

A wash, a change of clothes, and a half-hour of solitude had done much

for Milbanke. He felt more normal, less alienated by unfamiliar

surroundings than he had done in the first confused moments that had

followed his arrival. The vague sense of disappointment and

apprehension, the vague suspicion that Asshlin had undergone an immense

alteration still tormented him--as half-apprehended evils ever torment

the minds of those who see and study life as a thing apart from human

nature; but the immediate effect of the feeling was less poignant. He

unconsciously found himself anticipating the next glimpse of his old

friend with a touch of curiosity; and when the announcement of dinner

broke in upon his meditations, he was surprised at the readiness with

which he obeyed the summons.

His first sight of the dining-room came pleasantly to his senses,

numbed by the long drive and the bare coldness of his bedroom. It was

large and lofty: three long curtained windows occupied one of its

walls, while from the others numerous pictures of the dead-and-gone

Asshlins looked out of their canvases from tarnished gold frames; the

mahogany furniture, though of an ugly and ungainly type, was massive;

and over the whole room, softening its severity and hiding the ravages

of time, lay the warm red glow of a huge peat fire and the radiance of

a dozen candles set in heavy silver sconces.

He stood for a moment in the doorway, agreeably conscious of the

mingled shadow and light; then his attention was attracted to two

figures already occupying the room.

Asshlin himself was standing by the hearth, his back to the fire, his

feet apart, while by his side, in evident nervous embarrassment; stood

a little girl of nine or ten. Instantly he saw his guest, Asshlin put

his hand on the child's shoulder and pushed her forward.

"Here's the youngest shoot on the old tree, James!" he cried with a

laugh. "Shake hands with him, Nance!"

Somewhat uncertainly and very shyly the child looked up and smiled. She

was extremely pretty, with a gipsy-like prettiness new to Milbanke. The

only attribute she had inherited from her father's family was the clear

olive skin--that distinguished all the Asshlins. Her dark brown hair,

her deep blue eyes, her peculiarly winning smile, had all come to her

from her dead mother.

With an embarrassment almost equal to her own, Milbanke extended his

hand. The average modern child he ignored with comfortable superiority,

but this small girl, with her warm smile and her overwhelming shyness,

was something infinitely more different to deal with. He shifted his

position uneasily.

"How d'you do?" he hazarded. "How d'you do--Nance?"

The little brown fingers stirred nervously in his clasp, and the child,

still smiling, made some totally unintelligible reply.

With a boisterous laugh, Asshlin ended the situation.

"Easily known you're not a father, James!" he cried. "Why, you'd have

given her a kiss and clinched the business fifty seconds ago. But

you're starving. Where's that scamp Clo?"

He turned again to the little girl who had drawn nearer to him for

protection.

She replied, but in so low a tone that Milbanke heard nothing. A moment

later he was enlightened by Asshlin's loud voice.

"Did you ever hear of a thing like that, James?" he exclaimed. "What

would you say to a daughter who rides races on the strand in the dark

of an October evening, with the mist enough to give your horses their

death? 'Pon my word----" His face reddened; then suddenly he paused and

laughed. "After all, what's bred in the bone--eh, James?" he said. "I

believe I'd have done the same myself at fifteen--maybe worse."

He checked himself, laughed again; then sighed. But catching Milbanke's

eye, he threw off the momentary depression, and turned once more to

Nance.

"Tell Hannah we won't wait any longer, like a good child!" he said.

"There's no counting on that scallywag."

As the child went quickly to the door he motioned Milbanke to the

table, and took his own place at its head.

"No ceremony here," he said. "This is Liberty Hall."

Taking up a decanter, he poured some sherry into his friend's glass;

then, filling his own, drank the wine with evident satisfaction.

"Gradual decay is what we're suffering from here, James," he went on.

"Everything in this country is too damned old. The only things in this

house that have stood it are the wine and the silver. The rest--the

woodwork, myself, and the linen--are unsound, as you see."

He laughed again with a shade of sarcasm, and pointed to where a large

hole in the damask table-cloth was only partially concealed by a

splendid salt-cellar of Irish silver.

"Accumulated time is the disease we're suffering from. 'Tisn't the man

who uses his time in this country, but the man who kills it who's

mastered the art of living. Oh, we're a wonderful people, James!"

He slowly drained and slowly refilled his glass.

As he laid down the decanter, the door opened and Nance appeared and

quietly took her place at table. Almost immediately she was followed by

Burke in a black coat and wearing a clean collar.

For a second Milbanke marvelled at the domestic arrangements that could

compress a valet, a butler, and a coachman into one easy-going

personality; the next, his attention was directed to two enormous

dishes which were placed respectively before his host and himself.

"Just hermit's fare, James--the product of the land!" Asshlin

exclaimed, as Burke uncovered the first dish, revealing a gigantic

turkey. "Will you cut yourself a shaving of ham?"

With a passing sense of impotence Milbanke gazed at the great,

glistening ham; then the healthy appetite that exposure to the sea air

had aroused, lent him courage, and he picked up a carving knife.

But the execution of the ham was destined to postponement. Scarcely had

he straightened himself to the task, than a quick bang of the outer

door was followed by hasty steps across the hall, and the last member

of the household appeared upon the scene.

Almost before he saw her, Milbanke was conscious of her voice--high and

clear with youthful vitality, softened and rendered piquant by native

intonation.

"Oh, father, such a gallop! Such fun! And I won. The bay cob was

nowhere beside Polly. Larry was mad!"

The string of words was poured forth in irresistible excitement before

she had reached the door. Once inside, she paused abruptly--her whole

animated face flushing.

"Oh, I forgot!" she said in sudden naive dismay.

She made a quaint picture as she stood there in the light of the

candles and the fire--her slight, immature figure arrayed in a worn and

old-fashioned riding habit, her hair covered by a boy's cloth cap, her

fingers clasping one of her father's heavy hunting crops. But it was

neither dress nor attitude that drew Milbanke's eyes from the task

before him--that incontinently sent his mind back thirty years to the

days when Denis Asshlin had seemed to stand on the threshold of life

and look forth, as by Right Divine, upon the pageant of the future.

There was little physical likeness between the girl brimming with youth

and vitality and the hard, prematurely-aged man sitting at the head of

the table; but the blood that glowed in the warm olive skin, the spirit

that danced and gleamed in the hazel eyes, was the same blood and the

same spirit that had captivated Milbanke more than a quarter of a

century before.

The unlooked-for sensation held him spell-bound. But almost rudely the

spell was broken. Scarcely had Clodagh's exclamation of dismay escaped

her, than Asshlin broke into one of his boisterous laughs.

"Forgot, did you?" he cried. "Well, 'twas like you. Come here!"

He put out his hand, and as he did so, a sudden expression of pride and

affection softened his hard face.

"Here's the wildest scapegrace of an Asshlin you've met yet, James," he

said.

"Shake hands with him, Clo!" he added in a different voice. "He's a

symbol, if you only knew it. He stands for the great glory we must all

leave behind us. The glory of youth!" His voice sank suddenly to a

lower key, and he raised his glass. "Go on, child!" he added more

quickly. "Shake hands with him; tell him he's welcome."

But Clodagh's flow of speech had been silenced. With a suggestion of

the shyness that marked her sister, she came round the table as

Milbanke rose.

She made no remark as she proffered her hand, and she did not smile as

Nance had done. Instead, her bright eyes scanned his face with a quick,

questioning interest.

In return, he looked at her clear skin, her level eyebrows and proudly

held head; and his awkwardness vanished as he took the slight muscular

hand still cold from the night mist.

"How d'you do?" he said. "I've been hearing of you."

Again Clodagh coloured, and glanced at her father.

"What were you telling him, father?" she asked with native curiosity.

Once more Asshlin laughed loudly.

"Listen to her, James," he said banteringly. "Her conscience is

troubling her. She knows that it's hard to speak well of her. Isn't

that it, scamp? Confess now!"

Clodagh had again passed round the table; and, having thrown her whip

and cap into a chair, had seated herself without ceremony in the vacant

place that awaited her.

"Indeed it isn't!" she replied with immense unconcern. But an instant

later she repeated her question.

"What was it, father? Can't you tell me?"

Asshlin lifted his glass and studied the light through his sherry.

"Ah now, listen to her, James!" he exclaimed again delightedly. "And

women will tell you they aren't inquisitive."

Clodagh flushed.

The little sister, seeing the flush, was suddenly moved to assert

herself.

"'Twasn't anything, Clo," she said quickly. "He only said you were a

scallywag."

Then, as all eyes turned in her direction, she subsided abruptly into

confused silence.

"There you are again, James! Look at the way they stick together. A

poor man hasn't the ghost of a chance when two of them join forces. One

of them ought to have been a boy--if only for the sake of equality."

He shook his head and laughed afresh, while Burke deposited the last

plate upon the table, and dinner began in earnest.

That dinner, like his drive from Muskeere, was an experience to

Milbanke. More than once his eyes travelled involuntarily from the

candle-lit table, with its suggestion of another and an earlier era, to

the high walls where the fire cast long shafts of ruddy light and long

tongues of shadow upon Asshlin's ancestors, painted in garments of silk

and lace that had once found a setting in this same sombre room. There

was something strangely analogous in these dead men and women and their

living representatives. The thought recurred to him again and again, as

he yielded to the pleasant influences of good wine and wholesome food

pressed upon him with unceasing hospitality. It was not the first time

he had pandered to his taste for past things by comparing a man with

his forefathers, but the result had never proved quite so profitable.

In their uncommon setting, Asshlin and his children would have appealed

to the most unobservant as uncommon types; viewed by the eyes of a

student, they became something more; they became types of an uncommon

race--of an uncommon class.

With the spur of the old fascination and the goad of the new-born

misgiving, he glanced again and yet again from his host's hard,

handsome features to the pictures, from the pictures to the

warm-coloured faces of the children. The study was absorbing. It

supplied him with an agreeable undercurrent of interest while the ham

and turkey were removed, and Asshlin, with much dexterity, distributed

portions of an immense apple-pie, deluged in cream; it still occupied

his mind when--cheese having been placed upon the table and partaken

of--Burke proceeded to remove the cloth.

At the moment that the polished surface of the table was laid bare, his

glance, temporarily distracted from its study of the nearer pictures,

was attracted and arrested by one portrait, that hung in partial shadow

above the carved chimneypiece. It was the picture of a tall, slight boy

of sixteen or seventeen years, dressed in the black satin knee

breeches, the diamond shoe buckles, and powdered queue of a past

generation.

Something in the pose of this painted figure, something in the youthful

face, caught and held his attention. In unconscious scrutiny, he leant

forward to study the shadowed features; then Asshlin, suddenly aware of

his interest, leant across the table.

"That was what I meant, James, by saying one of them should have been a

boy," he said sharply. "Haven't I justification?"

He nodded half earnestly, half in malicious humour towards the picture

above the fire.

For a moment Milbanke was at a loss; then all at once he comprehended

his host's meaning. His gaze dropped from the picture to Clodagh,

sitting below it. Above the dark riding habit and above the satin coat,

it seemed that the same olive skin, the same level eyebrows and clear

hazel eyes confronted him.

"I see!" he said quietly. "I see! A very peculiar case of family

likeness."

He spoke affably, casually, in all innocence; but scarcely had the

words left his lips than he precipitately wished them back. With a loud

laugh, Asshlin struck the table with his hand.

"Ah, good!" he exclaimed. "Good! Now, Clo, what have you got to say?"

But with a gesture quite as vehement as his own, the girl raised her

head.

"I say that it's not true," she said. "It isn't true. I'm not like

him."

She glanced from her father to Milbanke with suddenly kindling eyes.

"I'm not like him!" she repeated. "I won't be like him!"

Asshlin leant back quickly in his chair. He was still laughing, but a

shade of temper was audible in the laugh.

"Do you hear that, James?" he said. "We of the present generation are

altogether too good for the past. A slip of a girl nowadays thinks

herself vastly superior to a great-great-grandfather who was the finest

horseman and the most open-handed man in Munster. That's the attitude

of to-day."

He moved aside, as Burke re-entered the room and laid a decanter of

port and two glasses on the shining mahogany table.

"My great-grandfather, Anthony Asshlin," he went on deliberately, "was

as fine a specimen of the Irish gentleman as ever lived--I don't care

who denies it. Have a glass of port, James? An appreciation of good

wine was the one thing he left his descendants."

There was an awkward silence while he filled the two glasses and pushed

one towards his guest.

But Milbanke's ease of mind had already been upset. He held no key to

the disconcerting situation; and it puzzled and perplexed him, as his

first impression of his old friend had done. Both possessed elements

that he vaguely knew to be hidden from his sight--out of focus from his

present point of view. For a space he sat warily fingering his glass,

but making no attempt to drink. Without openly seeming to observe it,

he was conscious of Asshlin's half-humorous, half-aggressive mood; of

the nervous attitude of the younger girl, and of Clodagh's flushed

face.

To a newly arrived guest, the position was strained. With growing

embarrassment he glanced from the rich, dark wine in his glass to its

reflection in the polished surface of the table. Finally the

awkwardness of the prolonged silence moved him to speech.

"A great-grandfather who was a judge of wine is always worthy of

consideration," he murmured amiably, as he lifted the glass to his

lips. "I'm afraid mine was a teetotaller."

But his feeble attempt at humour was not destined to be successful. It

drew a laugh from his host, but it was a laugh that found no echo.

"You're right, James!" Asshlin cried. "By Jupiter, you're right!

Anthony Asshlin was the finest man in the county--and I'm proud of

him."

"He was the worst man in the county--and the greatest fool!"

The words, so sudden and unexpected, came from Clodagh. For several

seconds she had been sitting absolutely still; but now she lifted her

head again, her flushed face glowing, her bright eyes alight with the

quick enthusiasm, the hot temper that she had inherited from her race.

With a swift movement she turned from her father to Milbanke.

"Do you think it great to be a fool--and a gambler?" she demanded.

Asshlin set down his glass noisily.

"Anthony Asshlin was no gambler," he said. "He was a sportsman."

Clodagh's lip curled.

"A sportsman!" she exclaimed. "Is it sport to keep game-cocks, to play

cards, and throw dice? To squander money that belongs to other people?

To mortgage your property and to--to--to kill your brother?"

The last words burst from her impetuously, impulsively; then suddenly

she paused, shocked by her own daring.

The silence that followed was short. With an equal impetuosity, Asshlin

pushed back his chair and rose.

"By Gad, Clo, that's going too far!" he cried. "I'll not hear my

great-grandfather called a murderer."

"All the same, he killed his brother."

"In a duel. Gentlemen had to fight in those days."

"Because of cards! Because they quarrelled over cards!"

Then, with a fresh change of expression, she appealed again to

Milbanke.

"Do you think that's sport?" she asked. "To get no good out of ordinary

things? To get no pleasure out of dogs or horses except the pleasure of

making them fight or race so that you can bet on the one you think

best?"

She stopped breathlessly; and Milbanke, desperately at a loss, gazed

from one angry, excited face to the other. But he was saved the trouble

of finding an answer; for immediately Clodagh ceased to speak,

Asshlin's loud laugh broke in again.

"Bravo!" he cried boisterously. "All the eloquence and all the lack of

logic of your sex! But don't put those propositions to Milbanke; put

them to yourself when you've reached his age. If you can't tell at

fifty-five why poor human creatures play and kill and make fools of

themselves, you'll have been a very lucky woman."

For an instant his voice dropped, the despondency, the restless ennui

that Milbanke had previously noticed falling like a brief shadow over

his anger. But the lapse was brief. With another laugh and a shrug of

the shoulders, he turned suddenly, and, crossing the room, opened the

door.

"Burke!" he called loudly across the hall. "Burke, bring more candles

and another bottle of port--and the cards!"

At the words Clodagh rose.

"Father!" she exclaimed below her breath. Then her voice faltered. The

involuntary note of protest and appeal was checked by some other

emotion. With a swift movement she crossed the hearth, picked up her

whip and cap, and, without another glance or word, walked out of the

room, followed noiselessly by Nance.

Asshlin continued to stand by the door until the figures of his

children had disappeared; then he turned back into the room.

"James," he said suddenly, "perhaps you don't think it, but one hair of

that child's head is more precious to me than life. She's an Asshlin to

the tips of her fingers. She's the whole race of us in one. The very

way she repudiates us is proof enough for any man. I tell you the whole

lot of us--lock, stock, and barrel--are looking at you out of her

eyes."

Again he paused; then again he shook off his passing seriousness with

nervous excitability, reseating himself at the table, as Burke entered.

"Ah, here we are!" he cried. "Here we are! Come along, Burke, and show

the light of heaven to us. Now, James, for any stakes you like--and at

any game! What shall it be? Piquet? Or will we say Euchre, for the sake

of the days that are dead and gone? Very well. Euchre let it be--for

any stakes you like. It's the land of beggars, but, by Gad, you'll

find us game? Pass me your glass for another taste of port."

CHAPTER IV

The unpleasant sensation of moving in the dark remained with Milbanke

while Asshlin, still noisily excited, arranged the stakes, cut for the

deal, and, having won the cut, distributed the cards. By nature he was

lethargic and placid; by habit he was precise, methodical, and

commonplace. The advent into this new atmosphere, with its inexplicable

suggestions and volcanic outbursts, left him distressed and ill at

ease. He was the type of man who, in every relation of life, likes to

know exactly where he stands. Having once satisfied himself upon that

point, he was usually content to follow the routine of existence

without trouble to those around him; but until it was fully defined, he

was a prey to a vague uneasiness.

So absorbed was he by the trend of his own speculations, that for the

first five games he gave but small consideration to the play. Then,

however, his host jogged his attention with no uncertain hand.

Pausing in the shuffling of the cards, he glanced across the table.

"You're playing like an old woman, James. Are your wits wool-gathering,

that you've let me win every blessed game?"

Milbanke looked up. "Forgive me," he said hastily--"forgive me. I was

thinking----"

"--Thinking that a broken-down devil of an Irishman isn't high enough

game to fly at?" Asshlin laughed. "Well, I'll put some life into you.

I'll double the stakes. What do you say to that?"

He leant back in his chair, balancing the pack of cards in his hands.

Milbanke, with suddenly awakened observation, saw that his eyes

glittered with excitement and that his lips were set.

"Double the stakes?" he echoed doubtfully. "Oh, certainly if you think

it will improve the game. For myself I rarely play for money! I always

think that the cards----"

"--Are sufficient in themselves, I suppose?" Asshlin laughed. "Don't

you believe it, James? Or if you do, I'll teach you better. Come along!

In for a penny, in for a pound! Are you agreeable?"

For a moment Milbanke was thoughtful; then he became conscious of the

other's impatient glance.

"Why--why certainly," he said. "Anything you like!"

"Spoken like a man!" Asshlin impulsively threw down the cards, and then

gathered them up again. "I see the embalming process isn't completed

yet. The antiquarians have left a shred or two of frail humanity in

you. Well, we'll have it out. We'll put an edge on it. Come along!" He

leant forward, the reckless brightness deepening in his eyes.

But Milbanke hesitated.

"Hadn't we better settle up the first score and start afresh?" he said.

"How do we stand?"

He put his hand into his pocket. But the other waived the point.

"Is it paying at this hour of the night?" he cried. "Give me a pencil,

and I'll jot down our difference, if you're conscientious. But the

balance will be on the other side before the candles are burned out.

The devil forgot to bring luck to the Asshlins since poor Anthony went

below. But come along, man!--come along! Here's to the youth of us!"

He drained his glass; and turned again to the business of the cards.

During the next half-dozen games neither spoke. With deep absorption,

Asshlin followed the run of the cards. Once or twice an exclamation

escaped him; once or twice he paused to replenish Milbanke's glass or

his own; but in every other respect he had eyes and thoughts for

nothing but the business in hand. Milbanke, on the contrary--gambler

neither by instinct nor training--was infinitely more interested in his

opponent than in the play.

As he watched Asshlin, a score of recollections rose to his

mind--recollections that time and advancing age had all but effaced. He

recalled the numberless occasions upon which the Irishman, in the

exuberance of youth, had sat over a gaming-table until the daylight had

streamed in across the scattered cards, the heaped-up cigar-ashes and

the emptied glasses; he reviewed the rare occasions on which his

cajoleries had drawn him from his own mild pursuits to be a sharer in

these prolonged revels; and with the memory came the thought of the

headache, the sick sense of weariness that had invariably lain in wait

for him the following morning. A wondering admiration for Asshlin had

always held a place in these jaded after-sensations--a species of

hero-worship for one who could turn into bed at four in the morning and

emerge at nine with all the vigour and vitality of the most virtuous

sleeper. He had never fully realised that to men of Asshlin's stamp

dissipation, excitement, and action are potent stimulants, calling

forth all the superfluous nervous energy that by nature they possess.

While the tide of life runs high about such men, they are borne

forward, buoyed up by their own capacity for living and enjoying. To

them, existence at high pressure is a glorious, exalted state, exempt

from satiety or fatigue; it is the quieter phases of existence--the

phases that to ordinary men mean rest, peace, domestic tranquillity and

domestic interests--that these exuberant, ardent human beings have

cause to dread.

An hour went by, and still the idea of a past, curiously reflected and

curiously contradicted, absorbed Milbanke's perceptions. Then gradually

but decisively it was borne in upon his mind that his absorption was

blunting his common sense. He was playing execrably.

It has been said that he was no gambler; but neither was he a fool.

With something of a shock he realised that he stood a loser to the

extent of seven or eight pounds. With the realisation he sat

straighter in his chair. It was not that he grudged the money. He

was generous--and could afford generosity. It was rather that that

admirable quality which urges the Englishman to play a losing game

was stirred within him.

"By Jove, Denis!" he said. "I must look to my laurels! I used to play a

better game than this."

Asshlin's only answer was a laugh--a laugh from which all the

bitterness had dropped away, leaving a buoyant ring of absorption and

delight. Under the stimulus of excitement, he had altered. He was

exalted, lifted above the petty discontent, the pessimism, the

despondency that tainted his empty days.

And so for nearly two hours they played steadily; then Milbanke paused

and drew out his watch.

"I don't know what sort of hours you keep in Ireland," he hazarded;

"but it's nearly twelve o'clock."

Asshlin had paused to snuff one of the candles that had begun to

gutter. At the other's words, he glanced up in undisguised surprise.

"Hours?" he repeated. "Why, any--or none at all. You don't know the

glory of having something to sit up for." He paused for a second in a

sort of ecstasy. "You don't know it; you can't know it! You have never

felt the abomination of desolation."

He laughed feverishly and gathered up the cards afresh.

"Come, James! Your deal!"

And in this manner the night wore on. In the early stages of their play

Asshlin's luck stuck to him determinately; but by degrees his

opponent's more cautious and level play began to tell, and their

positions were gradually reversed. By one o'clock Milbanke had made

good his losses and even stood with some trifling amount to his

advantage. Here again he had mildly suggested a cessation; but Asshlin,

more intoxicated by bad than he had been by good fortune, had demanded

his revenge, and called loudly through the quiet house for more candles

and more wine.

But with the fresh round of play, the luck remained unaltered. Milbanke

continued to win.

With a sleepy face, but no expression of surprise, Burke responded to

his master's call, replenishing the light and setting the port upon the

table. But the players scarcely noticed his entrance or departure.

Asshlin was playing with desperate recklessness; and Milbanke, without

intent or consciousness, was slowly falling under the influence of his

companion's excitement. As minute succeeded minute and Asshlin sat

rigid in his seat--cutting, dealing, marking the result of each game

upon a strip of paper--the elder man became more and more the satellite

of thirty years ago, less and less the placid archaeologist for whom

the follies of the present lie overshadowed by the past.

He forgot the long journey of the afternoon, the peculiar incidents of

his arrival. A slight flush rose to his usually bloodless cheeks; he

found himself watching the run of the cards with a species of reflected

eagerness, roused to an unaccustomed elation when the advantage fell to

him.

At three o'clock they played the last round. And it was only then--when

the last card had been thrown on the table, and he had risen stiff from

long sitting, the winner of something like twenty pounds--that he

realised how completely he had been dominated by this resurrected

influence; dominated to the exclusion of personal prejudice and even

personal comfort. So strong was this impression of past influences that

he was roused to no surprise when, glancing at his companion, he saw

him temporarily rejuvenated--his expression alert, his whole face

vivified by the night's excitement.

Again a touch of the old sympathy arose within him. The reckless,

cynical man before him was momentarily effaced; the bright personality

of long ago seemed to fill the room.

"Good-night, Denis!" he said gently, holding out his hand.

Asshlin caught it enthusiastically.

"Good-night, James!--good-night! And once more a thousand welcomes and

a thousand thanks. You have been a drop of water in the desert to a

parching man. Good-night, and pleasant dreams to you! I'll reckon up my

losses in the morning and write you a cheque. Good-night!"

Milbanke responded to the pressure of his fingers.

"Don't trouble about the money," he said. "Any time will do--any time.

But you're turning in yourself? We'll be upstairs together?"

But Asshlin shook his head.

"Not yet," he said. "Not after this. I'll take a turn across the fields

and have a look at the night on the water. I feel too much awake to be

smothered by sheets and blankets. It isn't often we feel life here--and

the sensation is glorious."

He drew up his tall, powerful figure and stretched out his arms. Then

almost at once he let them fall to his sides.

"But what moonshine this is to you, you prosaic Saxon!" he exclaimed.

"Let me light you to bed."

He laughed quickly; and, picking up one of the massive candlesticks,

moved towards the door.

For an instant Milbanke lingered in the dining-room, grown dimmer with

the departing lights; then, hearing his name in his host's voice, he

hurried after him into the hall.

Asshlin was standing at the foot of the stairs, the glowing candles

held aloft. Above him, the high ceiling loomed shadowy and indistinct;

behind him, the dark wainscoted wall threw his figure into bold relief.

It would have demanded but a slight stretch of fancy to picture him as

his satin-coated great-grandfather grown to a dissipated maturity, as

he stood there, the master spirit in this house of fallen greatness. As

Milbanke reached his side, he laughed once more, precisely as Anthony

Asshlin might have laughed, standing at the foot of the same staircase

nearly a hundred years ago. The taint of heredity seemed to wrap him

round--to gleam in his unnaturally bright eyes, to reverberate in his

voice.

"Up with you, James!" he cried. "I needn't put your hand on the

banister, like I have to do with some of my guests. You never yet drank

a swerve into your steps. Well, I don't blame you for it. It's men like

you that keep heaven a going concern, while poor devils like me are

paving the lower regions. Good-night to you!"

With a fresh laugh he thrust the great candlestick into the other's

hand and turned on his heel.

Milbanke remained motionless, while Asshlin passed across the hall and

opened the door, letting in a breath of fresh, damp air that set the

candle-flames dancing; then, as the door closed again, he turned and

put his hand on the banister.

It was with a feeling of unreality, mingled with the borrowed

excitement still at work within him, that he began his ascent of the

stairs. The natural fatigue consequent on the day's journey had been

temporarily dispelled, and sleep seemed something distant and almost

unattractive. As he mounted the creaking steps, moving cautiously out

of consideration for the sleeping household, he found himself wishing

incontinently that he had offered his company to his host in his stroll

towards the sea.

As the desire came to him, he paused. He could still overtake Asshlin!

He hesitated, glancing from the closed door of his bedroom to the hall

lying below him in a well of shadow. Then suddenly he raised his head,

attracted by a sound, subdued and yet distinct, that came to him

through the silence of the house--the sound of light, hasty steps on an

uncarpeted corridor.

In the wave of surprise that swept over him he forgot his recent

excitement, his recent wish for action and fresh air. Lifting the

candlestick above his head, he peered along the passage that stretched

away beyond his own door. But the scrutiny was momentary. Almost at

once he lowered the candles and drew back, as he recognised the figure

of Clodagh coming towards him out of the gloom. She was wearing a

flowing, old-fashioned dressing-gown of some flowered material; one

strand of her brown hair had been loosened, and fell across her

forehead, shadowing her eyes into something of the beauty they were yet

to wear. And as Milbanke looked at her, he realised with a stirring of

something like embarrassment, that a touch of promise, very gracious

and infinitely feminine, had replaced the first, half-boyish impression

that he had received of her.

But if he felt embarrassment, it was evident that she was conscious of

none. As she came within a few yards of him she halted for an instant

to assure herself of his identity; then, her mind satisfied, she

stepped straight onward into the light of the six candles.

"Oh, I'm so glad!" she said quickly. "I was afraid for a minute that it

was father. I've been waiting up for you," she added hastily. "I

couldn't go to sleep till I'd seen you."

Milbanke was confused. Moved by an undefined impulse, he extinguished

three of the six candles.

"Indeed!" he said. "But it's very late. You must--you must be tired."

He glanced uncertainly round the landing, as if seeking a chair to

offer her. Then an idea struck him.

"Will you come downstairs?" he suggested. "The fire is still alight in

the dining-room. You--you must be cold as well as tired."

He looked hesitatingly at her light gown.

But Clodagh shook her head.

"We mustn't go down," she said. "He might come in and find us--and then

we'd have a row. He and I of course, I mean," she added politely.

Then, as if impatient of the preamble, she plunged into the subject she

had at heart.

"Mr. Milbanke," she said, "will you promise me not to--not to, after

to-night----?"

Milbanke's face looked blank.

"Not to what?" he asked.

"Oh, not to encourage him--not to play with him. He's ruining himself

and ruining us all. Couldn't you guess it from dinner--from the quarrel

we had? Oh, he's so terribly foolish!"

Her voice suddenly trembled.

But he was labouring under the shock her revelation had given him.

"Good heavens!" he stammered. "I had no idea--no idea of such a thing."

"No; I know you hadn't--I was sure you hadn't." Her voice thrilled with

quick relief.

"No, no. Certainly not. But tell me about it. Dear me!--dear me! I had

no idea of such a thing."

"Oh, it began ages ago--before mother died. Burke says 'twas the

life--the quiet life after England. He came home, you know, when his

father died, and he found the place in a bad way. He has never been

rich enough to live out of the country, and he has never stopped

fretting for the things that aren't here. But while mother lived he

kept pretty good; 'twas after she died that he seemed not to care.

First he got gloomy and sad, then he got reckless and terrible. People

were frightened of him. His friends began to drop away."

She paused for a moment, glancing down into the hall to assure herself

that all was quiet.

"It's been the same ever since. Sometimes he's gloomy and depressed,

other times he's wild, like to-night. And when he's wild, he's mad for

cards. Oh, you don't know what it's like! It's like being a

drunkard--only different--and worse. When he's like that, he'd play

with any one--for anything. Last week he had a dreadful man--a

horse-dealer from Muskeere--staying here with him for three days. They

played cards every night--played till three or four in the morning.

Father lost all the ready money in the house, and nearly emptied the

stables."

Milbanke stood before her horrified and absorbed. An understanding of

many things, before obscure, had come to him while she was speaking;

and with the knowledge, a sudden deep pity for this child of his old

friend--a sudden sense of guilt at his own blindness, his own weakness.

"Miss Clodagh," he said quickly, in his stiff, formal voice. Then he

paused, as she raised her hand with a sharp gesture of attention.

A heavy step sounded on the gravel outside the house. There was an

instant's hesitation; then Clodagh leant forward with swift presence of

mind and blew out the three remaining candles.

"You understand now?" she whispered.

"Yes," he murmured, below his breath. "Yes; I understand."

A moment later he heard her flit down the corridor, and heard Asshlin

open the heavy outer door.

CHAPTER V

Thus it was that James Milbanke entered on his first night at

Orristown. The surprise, the excitement, and the culminating incident

of the evening would have been disturbing to a man of even more placid

temperament; and rebel as he might against the weakness, he lay awake

considerably longer than was his wont in the uncomfortable, canopied

bed, listening to the numberless infinitesimal sounds that break the

silence of a sleeping house--from the faint, occasional cracking of the

furniture to the scurrying of a mouse behind the plaster of the walls.

Then gradually, as his ears became accustomed to these minor noises,

another sound, unnoticed in the activity of the earlier hours, obtruded

itself softly but persistently upon his consciousness--the subdued and

regular breaking of the sea on the rocks below the house.

A slight sense of annoyance was his first feeling, for it was many

years since he had slept by the sea; then quietly, lingeringly,

soothingly the rhythmical persistence of the sound began to tell.

Imperceptibly the confusing ideas of the evening became pleasantly

indistinct--the numberless contradictory feelings blurred into one

delightful sensation of indifference and repose. With the salt, moist

air, borne to him through the open window, and the great untiring

lullaby of the ocean rising and falling upon his senses, like the

purring of a gigantic cat, he fell asleep.

His first sensation upon waking the next morning was one of

pleasure--the placid, unquestioning satisfaction that comes to the

untroubled mind with the advent of a fine day. To his simple taste, the

sights and sounds that met his waking consciousness were possessed of

an unaccustomed charm. With daylight, the room that last night had held

grim and even ghostly suggestions, took on a more human and more

friendly air. The ancient mahogany furniture seemed anxious to reflect

the morning sunshine; the massive posts of the bed with their drapery

of faded repp no longer glowered upon the intruder. Each object was

bathed in, and rejuvenated by, the golden warmth, the incomparable

mellow radiance of sea and sky that flowed in at the open window.

For a while he lay in contemplative enjoyment of this early, untainted

atmosphere, while the sounds of the awakening day gradually rose above

the soft beating of the outgoing tide--falling upon his ears in a

pleasant, primitive medley of clacking fowls, joyous, yelping dogs, and

stamping horses. For a space he lay still; then the inevitable wish to

take active part in this world created from the darkness and the

silence of the night aroused him; and, slipping out of bed, he drew on

a dressing-gown and walked to the window.

The sight that met his eyes was one of infinite beauty. The

delicacy--the poetry--the subtle, unnameable charm that lie in the

hollow of Nature's hand were over land and sky and sea; the warmth and

wealth of summer stretched before him, but summer mellowed and softened

by a golden autumnal haze.

There are more inspiring countries than Ireland--countries more richly

dowered in vegetation; countries more radiant in atmosphere and

brilliant in colouring: but there is no land where the Hand of the

Maker is more poignantly felt; where the mystic spirit of creation--the

wonderful, tender, pathetic sense of the Beginning--has been so

strangely preserved. As Milbanke stood at the open window, his eyes

travelled without interruption over the wide green fields--neither lawn

nor meadow--that spread from the house to the shore, owning no boundary

wall beyond the low, shelving rocks of red sandstone that rose a

natural barrier against the encroachments of the tide. And from the

fields his gaze wandered onward, drawn irresistibly and inevitably to

the sea itself--the watchful, tyrannical guardian of the silent land.

It lay before him like a tremendous glassy lake, stretching in one

untroubled sweep from Orristown to the point, three miles away, where

the purple headland of Carrigmore completed the semicircle of the bay.

The silence, the majesty of that sweep of water was indescribable. From

the rim of yellow sand, which the indolent waves were lapping, to the

misted horizon, not one sign of human life marred the smoothness of its

surface. Across the bay at Carrigmore a few spirals of smoke rose from

the cluster of pink and white cottages lying under the shadow of the

Round Tower; on the long, sandy strand a couple of bare-legged boys

were leisurely raking up the sea-weed that the waves had left, and

slowly piling it on a waiting donkey butt; but the sea itself was

undisturbed. It lay as it might have lain on the first day of completed

creation--mystical, sublime, untouched.

Milbanke was no poet, yet the scene impressed him. The extraordinary

sense of an inimitable and impenetrable peace before which man and

man's mere transitory concerns are dwarfed, if not entirely eliminated,

touched him vaguely. It was with a tinge of something bordering upon

reluctance that he at last drew his eyes from the picture and began to

dress.

But once freed from the spell of the ocean, his mind reverted to the

other interests that lay closer at hand. He found himself wondering how

his entertainers would appear on a second inspection; whether, like his

room, they would take on a more commonplace semblance with the advent

of daylight. The touch of irrepressible and human curiosity that the

speculation aroused gave a spur to the business of dressing; and it was

well under the twenty minutes usually devoted to his neat and careful

toilet when he found himself crossing the corridor and descending the

stairs.

He encountered no one as he passed through the hall; and catching a

fresh suggestion of sunshine through the door that stood hospitably

open, he paused for an instant to take a cursory glance at the

gravelled sweep that terminated the drive, and the grassy slope

surmounted by a fringe of beeches that formed the outlook from the

front of the house. Then he turned quickly, and, recrossing the hall,

passed into the dining-room.

None of the household had yet appeared, but here also the daylight had

worked changes.

The curtains were drawn back, permitting the view of fields and sea,

that he had already studied from his bedroom, to break uninterruptedly

through the three lofty windows. The effect was one of extreme airiness

and light; and it was quite a minute before his gaze turned to the

darker side of the room, where the portrait of the famous Anthony

Asshlin hung above the fire.

Realising that he was alone in the big room, he crossed to the table

where breakfast was already laid--the remains of the enormous ham

rising from an untidy paper frill to defy the attacks of the largest

appetite. In the brilliance of the light, the fineness of the table

linen and its state of dilapidation were both accentuated, as was the

genuine beauty and intrinsic value of the badly kept silver.

But Milbanke had no time to absorb these details, for instantly he

reached the table his eye was caught by a folded slip of paper lying by

his place. With a touch of surprise he stooped forward and picked it

up; then a wave of annoyance, almost of guilt, succeeded the surprise

as he realised that it was a cheque made out in Asshlin's straggling

handwriting for his losses of the night before.

As he fingered it uncomfortably a vivid remembrance of his interview

with Clodagh rose to his mind. He thought of the poverty, suggested

rather than expressed by the girl's words; he thought of the Muskeere

horse-dealer who had all but emptied the stables. With a puckered brow

he studied his own name scrawled across the cheque; then, with a sense

of something like duplicity, he hurriedly pushed it under his plate as

he heard the hall door close, and footsteps sound across the hall. A

moment later Asshlin, followed by his two daughters, entered the room.

All three greeted him in turn; then Asshlin crossed to the fire and

proceeded to stir it to a blaze, while Nance and Clodagh passed to

their appointed places.

Both girls looked pleasantly in keeping with the fresh morning--their

rich, youthful colouring having nothing to fear from the searching

light. Nance was dressed in a very clean blue cotton frock that

accentuated the colour of her eyes; but Clodagh was again attired in

the old-fashioned riding-habit, though this time the boy's cap was

absent, and the sunshine caught reflections in her light brown hair.

"I hope you don't mind my being dressed like this," she said, as she

took her seat. "I always have a ride in the mornings, and I generally

tidy up for breakfast; but I'm riding a race at ten with Larry--my

cousin, you know--so 'twouldn't be worth while to change to-day."

She spoke quite naturally, encountering Milbanke's eyes with no

suggestion of embarrassment for last night's adventure.

He met her glance for an instant; then his own wandered guiltily to the

corner of the cheque protruding from under his plate.

"Not at all!" he said hurriedly--"not at all! I hope I may be permitted

to see the race."

Clodagh smiled.

"Of course--if you like," she said. "But it won't be much to look at."

She added this with a quick glance that ineffectually attempted to

gauge the guest's tastes and powers of appreciation.

"'Twill be grand!" murmured Nance softly. "And I know who's going to

win."

"Nonsense!" said Clodagh. "I won in the practice last night, but the

strand was wet, and the cob is only sure on hard ground."

But nevertheless she flushed and threw a quick look of appreciation and

affection at her loyal little partisan.

"What are you two chattering about?" said Asshlin, standing up from the

fire and straightening his shoulders.

"Is that your notion of hospitality? To keep a stranger waiting for his

breakfast? Faith, we knew better in the old days--eh, James?"

He laughed, and passed round the table.

Clodagh presided at the old-fashioned silver urn; and either her

confidences of the night before or the prospect of her coming contest

affected her, for she forgot the diffidence that had marked her at the

dinner of the preceding evening, and talked brightly and with interest

on a variety of subjects. Finally, as she handed Milbanke his second

cup of tea, she touched upon the object of his visit.

"'Twas to see the ruins at Carrigmore, not us, that you came, wasn't

it?" she said with a shade of humour.

He returned her glance seriously.

"Oh no," he said. "At least----"

"Ah, now you've let it out!" she cried, with a laugh. "I knew it. I

said so. Didn't I, Nance? I knew no one would come here just to see

us."

Asshlin laughed.

"'Pon my soul!" he cried, "you haven't learned your market value yet,

Clo! If I were a girl, I'm hanged if I'd rate myself lower than a

fourth-century ruin."

He laughed afresh.

But Clodagh displayed no embarrassment. She was too unversed in the

ways of coquetry to see or resent the point of the remark.

"I?" she said naively. "What have I to do with it?"

After this there was a trifling silence, at the end of which, Asshlin

looked quickly at his guest.

"By the way, James," he exclaimed, "we were too well amused last night

to look ahead. I never thought of asking you about to-day. Have you any

pet plans or schemes? Is it to be a pilgrimage to St. Galen? Or what do

you say to a day in the saddle? There's a meet not five miles away; and

if a good gallop pleases you, I have as neat a little horse for you as

ever carried a saddle. What do you say? Of course if you think the

Round Tower is likely to collapse or be demolished by a tidal wave, I

won't raise a finger; but----"

Milbanke laughed.

"My dear Denis," he said quickly, "don't you trouble on my account." He

glanced deprecatingly over Asshlin's sporting attire. "Don't you

trouble about me. I never was a sportsman, as you know. I'll go to my

own hunting, and you go to yours. Don't let me interfere with any plans

you may have formed. I enjoy a solitary excursion."

But Asshlin's face darkened.

"Oh no," he objected after a short pause--"oh no. If you're not game

for it, then the meet is off so far as I'm concerned. I can't have you

roaming about the country by yourself. Oh no; I hope I remember my

obligations."

Milbanke looked distressed. With a genuine feeling of embarrassment he

turned from one face to the other.

"My dear Denis," he objected feebly, "I must really beg of you----"

"Not another word!--not another word!" Asshlin ostentatiously helped

himself to some ham, "I hope, James, that whatever our environments, we

still understand the traditions of hospitality. If you don't feel on

for it, there's no hunting for me to-day."

After this there was another unpleasant pause. Asshlin attempted to

hide his chagrin, but his face was unmistakably dark with

disappointment.

For a space Milbanke toyed with his breakfast, then he spoke again.

"But, my dear Denis, if you will only allow me----" he ventured.

But before Asshlin could reply, Clodagh's voice broke in.

"Oh! you needn't bother so much, father," she said easily. "You go to

the meet, and I'll take Mr. Milbanke to Carrigmore. I'll drive him over

in the pony-trap, or we'll walk--whichever he likes best."

She spoke fluently and gaily, and it was difficult for Milbanke to

reconcile the high, buoyant tones of her voice with the serious note

struck by her the night before. Filled with relief, however, at her

timely interruption, he was satisfied to let the discrepancy go

unregarded.

"Excellent!" he cried--"an excellent idea, Miss Clodagh! Here's your

difficulty solved, Denis. Your Irish sense of chivalry won't allow you

to deprive me of so charming a guide."

Clodagh laughed frankly at the stilted compliment, and Asshlin's face

brightened perceptibly.

"Oh, well, as you're so amiable," he said magnanimously. "I don't mind

admitting that 'twould have been a bit of a sacrifice to give up the

hunt. Though if I hadn't been overruled by the majority, I'd have

swallowed the ruins without a grimace."

He laughed with restored good-humour, and turned to his daughters.

"When you've done breakfast, Clo," he said, "run round to the stables

and tell Burke he need only saddle the bay."

With the decision that he was, after all, to enjoy his day's sport, his

spirits had risen; and despite the fact that the daylight revealed many

evidences of last night's dissipation that would have been invisible

thirty years ago, Milbanke was pleased and reassured by his appearance.

His movements were energetic, his expression alert. He suggested one

who is interested and attracted by life; and the elder man was too

unimaginative--too single of purpose in his own concerns--to suspect

that the energy, the suggestion of anticipation were due to his own

presence in the house, to the promise of excitement and diversion that

that presence offered.

With the definite arrangement of the day's plans, a fresh energy had

descended on the party, and but a few minutes passed before Clodagh and

Nance rose from table and left the room. Then, as the two men were left

alone, Milbanke put into action the resolution that had been gradually

maturing in his mind.

Not without a certain trepidation--not without an embarrassed distaste

for the task--he bent forward in his precise manner, and drawing the

cheque from beneath his plate, began to smooth it out.

"Denis," he said, "I found this on my plate when I came downstairs----"

Asshlin looked up hastily and laughed. He had all the Irishman's

distaste to money as a topic of conversation. He was as sensitive in

the offering of it to another, as in the accepting of it for himself.

"Oh, that's all right!" he said quickly. "Not another word about that,

James--not another syllable."

But Milbanke continued to finger the cheque.

"Denis," he began again, a shade of nervousness audible in his voice,

"I am uncertain how to say what I want to say. I am extremely anxious

not to offend you, and yet I feel--I fear that you may take offence."

Before replying, Asshlin drained the cup of strong tea that stood

beside his plate; then he glanced again at his companion.

"What in thunder are you driving at?" he asked good-humouredly.

Milbanke looked down.

"That's what I want to explain," he answered without raising his head.

"And you must not allow it to offend you. I want you, for the sake of

old friendship, to let me tear this cheque up. I was excited last

night; I infringed on one of my set rules--that of never playing cards

for high stakes. It is for my own sake that I ask permission to do

this. It--it will put me right with myself."

He laughed deprecatingly.

For a second there was no indication that his laboured explanation had

been even heard; then, with alarming suddenness, Asshlin brought his

hand down upon the table, ripping out an oath.

"And where the devil do I come in?" he demanded. "Is it because you see

the place going to rack and ruin that you think you can insult me in my

own house? I'd have you to know that when an Asshlin needs charity, he

will ask for it." In the spasm of rage that had attacked him, his eyes

blazed and the veins in his forehead swelled. Then, suddenly catching a

glimpse of the consternation on his guest's face, he controlled himself

by an effort, and with a loud laugh pushed back his chair and rose.

"Forgive me, James!" he said roughly. "You don't understand--you never

did understand. It's the cursed pride of a cursed country. The less we

have to be proud of, the more damned proud we are. We have a sense of

humour for everything in creation except ourselves." Again he laughed

harshly; then again his mood changed. "James," he said seriously, "put

that cheque in your pocket, and if you value my friendship, never

mention it again. We may be a bad lot; we may be all Clo says of

us--fools, rakes, spendthrifts; but no Asshlin ever shirked his debts

of honour." The words were bombastic, the sentiment false, but the

natural dignity and distinction of the man--dissipated failure though

he might be--were unmistakable, as he stood with high head and erect

figure.

By the ironic injustice of such circumstances Milbanke--honest,

prosaic, incapable of a dishonourable action--felt suddenly humiliated.

With shame-faced haste he muttered an apology, and thrust the cheque

into his pocket.

At the moment that he did so, Clodagh re-entered the room.

"It's all right, father!" she exclaimed. "The bay will be round in a

second. And Larry has come. Are you ready, Mr. Milbanke?"

He responded with instant alacrity. It was the second time that morning

that she had unconsciously come to his relief.

"Oh! quite," he said--"quite ready. Shall we start?"

"This minute, if you like. Good-bye, father! I hope 'twill be a good

run." She crossed the room quickly, then paused at the door. "Remember,

the race will be nothing at all worth seeing," she added, glancing back

over her shoulder at the guest.

CHAPTER VI

Without ceremony or apology Clodagh led Milbanke to the stables by the

shortest route, which entailed the traversing of several long and windy

passages and the crossing of the great, draughty kitchen where Hannah,

the housekeeper, cook, and general mainstay of the establishment, held

undisputed sway.

As they entered her domain, she was standing by an open window engaged

in the cleaning of a saucepan--an operation to which she brought an

astonishing amount of noisy energy. At sight of the stranger, she

dropped the knife she was holding, and made a furtive attempt to

straighten her ample and somewhat dirty apron.

"Ah, wisha, Miss Clodagh," she began in a voice that trembled between

chagrin and an inherent sense of hospitality, "isn't that a quare thing

for you to be doin' now? To be bringin' the gintleman down here--an' me

in the middle of me pots? Not but what you're welcome, sir--though 'tis

no fit place for you," she added, with a glance that summed the

intruder up from head to heel.

Milbanke laughed a little awkwardly.

"So long as you make no objection," he said with amiable haste, "I see

nothing to find fault with."

But Hannah gave an incredulous shake of her head.

"Ah! you do be sayin' that," she replied sagely. "But 'tis a quare

place you'll be findin' Orristown after England." She added this in a

persuasive tone, making a tentative cast for the stranger's sentiments.

But before the fish could rise to her bait, her attention was claimed

in another direction. A pellet of mud, aimed with extreme accuracy,

came flying through the open window and hit her on the cheek.

Milbanke glanced round quickly; Clodagh laughed; and the victim of the

assault gave a gasp, pushed her saucepans aside, and thrust her head

through the window.

"Wait till I catch you, Masther Larry!" she cried across the yard. "How

can I be doin' the work of six women and three men with the likes of

you trapesin' about? 'Pon my word, I'll tell on you--I'll tell your

uncle on you. Long threatenin' comes at last!"

But the only response that greeted her was a smothered laugh from the

stables opposite--a laugh which Clodagh involuntarily echoed.

Instantly Hannah wheeled round from the window.

"Ah! Miss Clodagh, isn't it a shame for you?" she exclaimed

tremulously. "Isn't it a shame for you now to be encouragin' that brat

of a boy? Sure, 'tis the third time he thrun his marbles of mud at me

this mornin'. So signs, I'll spake to the masther. I will so."

She gave her apron a defiant tug.

Milbanke stood uncertain and embarrassed, nervously curious as to

Clodagh's next move. With a certain misgiving he saw her face brim over

with delight; then with a sense of complete amazement he saw her step

suddenly to the side of the indignant Hannah, throw one arm impulsively

round her neck, and give her a hasty kiss.

"Indeed you won't speak to him, Hannah--and you know you won't," she

said in her most beguiling tones. "And you'll make a griddle cake for

lunch--just to show you aren't angry. Come on, Mr. Milbanke! Larry is

waiting."

As they crossed the kitchen, Hannah defiantly passed the corner of her

apron across her eyes and ostentatiously resumed her interrupted work.

At the door Clodagh looked back.

"Hannah!" she said persuasively.

Hannah began to scrape her saucepan.

"Go on wid you now, Miss Clodagh!" she cried. "Sure 'tis a pair of ye

that's there. I'm out wid ye."

"But the griddle cake, Hannah?"

"Let Betsy over at Mrs. Asshlin's make griddle cake for ye. Maybe she

wouldn't put up wid Masther Larry as aisy as me."

"Of course Betsy would make a griddle cake at any time," said Clodagh

promptly; "only we couldn't eat it--after yours."

For a moment Hannah made no response; then she gave another disdainful

whisk to her apron and attacked the saucepan with renewed force.

Clodagh said nothing, but took a step forward. Her cheeks were bright

and her eyes danced with mischief and amusement. As her foot touched

the paving stones of the yard, Hannah raised her head.

"I suppose 'twill be at wan ye'll be wantin' the lunch?" she said in a

suddenly lowered and mollified voice; and Clodagh responded with a

laugh of triumph and delight.

Outside in the sunshine of the yard, she laughed again.

"Hannah is an old duck!" she said. "She is always getting as cross as

two sticks, and then forgetting all about it. Nobody could help teasing

her. But where's Larry gone to? Larry! Larry!"

There was a pause, a stamping of horse's hoofs, and the sound of a

voice whispering affectionate injunctions to an unseen animal; then

young Laurence Asshlin emerged from the stables, leading his chestnut

cob.

He was a well-made, long-limbed boy of fourteen, with skin as smooth

and eyes as clear as Clodagh's own.

"Hullo, Clo!" he exclaimed. "That was a straight shot, wasn't it? Was

she mad?"

"Pretty mad," responded Clodagh. "This is Mr. Milbanke. He came last

night."

Young Asshlin eyed the stranger frankly and without embarrassment.

"You're not at the meet?" he said with involuntary surprise. "I'd be

there, only mother doesn't let me hunt yet. She thinks I'd break my

neck or something," he laughed. "But I'll go to every meet within

twenty miles when I'm a man," he added. "There's nothing as good as

hunting--except sailing. Are you much of a sailor?"

Milbanke looked back into the bright, fearless eyes and healthy,

spirited face, and again a touch of aloofness, of age, damped him.

There was a buoyancy in this boy and girl, a zest, an enthusiasm

outside which he stood the undeniable alien.

"Yes, I am fond of the sea," he responded; "but probably not as you are

fond of it."

Try as he might to be natural and pleasant, his speech sounded stilted,

his words staid.

The boy looked at him doubtfully.

"Didn't know there were two ways of doing it," he said, rubbing his

face against the cob's sleek neck.

But Clodagh came to her guest's rescue.

"Larry doesn't deserve any credit for liking the sea," she said. "His

father was a sailor. You go on to the fields, Larry," she added;

"you'll find Nance waiting there. I'll saddle Polly in a second, and be

after you with Mr. Milbanke. Run now! you're only wasting time."

Larry hesitated for a moment, then he nodded.

"All right!" he acquiesced. "Only don't be long."

Instantly he was gone, Clodagh handed her whip to Milbanke and darted

into the coach-house, reappearing with a saddle over her arm and a

bridle swinging from her shoulder.

"You are not going to saddle the horse yourself?" he exclaimed in

consternation. "Let me call one of the men. Please let me call one of

the men."

Clodagh laughed.

"There's no one to call," she said. "Burke is the only proper

man-servant we keep, and he drove into Muskeere for provisions as soon

as he brought the bay round for father. You don't think I'd let any of

the labourers touch the horses!" As she said this she laughed again

and, nodding gaily, passed into one of the stalls.

After she had disappeared Milbanke stood silent, listening with an

uncomfortable embarrassment to the soft whinnying of the horse, the

soft murmuring of Clodagh's voice, the straining and creaking of

leather that reached his ears. At last, yielding to his instincts, he

stepped forward and spoke again.

"Miss Clodagh, let me help you," he said. "I'm afraid I'm rather

useless, but you might let me try."

Again Clodagh's soft, humorous laugh answered him.

"It's done now," she said; "and anyway I've known how to saddle a horse

since I was twelve. Stand back a little, please!"

He drew back hastily, and she led out a small grey mare.

"She isn't much to look at," she explained, "but she's grand to go--and

I know she's going to win. She must win."

She kissed the animal impulsively on the soft, quivering nostril.

Together they threaded their way between the scurrying fowls and

innumerable dogs that filled the yard--Clodagh leading the mare,

Milbanke keeping close to her side.

"What is this race for?" he asked, as they passed through the arched

gateway. "A mere trial of strength?"

Clodagh's eyes widened.

"Oh no," she said; "that would be silly. There are stakes of

course--Larry's telescope against my Irish terrier. The telescope

belonged to Uncle Laurence, and is a beauty; but it's nothing at all to

Mick--Mick is a pedigree dog, six months old, with the finest coat and

the loveliest head you ever saw. If I lost him----" But here she

stopped. "It's unlucky to say that, isn't it?" she added quickly. "Of

course I'm not going to lose him."

Again she turned and fondled the mare; and a moment later they came

into view of the long, level fields that lay between the house and the

sea, and saw the erect figure of Larry clearly silhouetted against the

sky, as he sat his cob with the ease of the born horseman.

It took Milbanke but a few minutes to place himself in a safe and

advantageous position on a ditch that, dividing two of the fields, was

to form the last jump of the race. And once ensconced in this pleasant

and not uncomfortable seat, he watched the cousins move across the

fields to the point where little Nance was waiting to arrange the

preliminaries. He saw Clodagh mount the grey mare, observed the one or

two inevitable false starts, then became conscious with a quickening of

interest that the race had begun.

Had he been possessed of the humorous quality he would undoubtedly have

been drawn into a smile at his own position; as it was, he saw nothing

ludicrous in the idea of an elderly student seated on an Irish ditch,

playing umpire to a couple of children. As the horses started, he

merely settled himself more securely in his seat, and drew out his

handkerchief in obedience to the instinct that some expression of

enthusiasm would be demanded by the winner. He could not picture

himself raising a cheer as the conqueror sailed past him; but his

dignity affably bent to the idea of a friendly wave of a handkerchief.

A slight breeze was blowing in from the sea, and the intense freshness

of the atmosphere again obtruded itself upon him as he watched the

horses swing towards him across the fields, the thud of their hoofs

upon the grass gaining in volume with every stride.

For a space they galloped neck to neck; then slowly, almost

imperceptibly, Clodagh drew away. For a couple of seconds the distance

between the animals became noticeable; then young Asshlin, urging the

chestnut, regained his lost position, and to Milbanke's eyes the two

were again abreast as they crossed the last field.

Once more he settled himself in his place of vantage. Something in the

freshness of the morning, something in the youth and vitality of the

competitors gave the race an interest and attraction it would otherwise

have lacked. With a reluctant sensation--half curiosity, half the

alien's unaccountable attraction towards conditions of life other than

his own--he found himself straining his eyes towards the two slight

figures moving towards him across the short grass. Nearer and nearer

they came, maintaining their level positions; then, as the last ditch

came clearly into view, the grey mare seemed to gather herself together

for the short final gallop and the jump. Leaning forward, he saw

Clodagh straighten herself in the saddle as each stride increased the

advantage she had gained.

Unconsciously--with the nearer pounding of the hoofs--the excitement

of the moment touched him. But it touched him with disastrous results.

As the mare neared the ditch, he suddenly leant forward, losing the

balance he had so carefully preserved.

The action was instantaneous, and it was but the work of another

instant to grasp the sturdy weeds that topped the ditch, and regain his

position; but unwittingly the harmless incident had changed the result

of the race. As he involuntarily steadied himself, the handkerchief,

held in readiness for the victor, slipped from his hand and fluttered

down upon the grass.

It fell at the feet of the grey mare. She paused in sudden alarm, then

hunched herself together, and shied away from it as from a ghost.

No harm was done. Clodagh kept her seat without a tremor; but in that

second of lost time the cob drew level with his rival, then sailed

triumphantly over the ditch.

For Milbanke there was a moment of horrible suspense, and a succeeding

relief that drove all thought of the race and its result far from his

mind. Immediately the field was clear he scrambled from his position

and hurried to where Clodagh was soothing the still frightened Polly.

"Miss Clodagh," he began, "I am so sorry. I assure you it--it was not

my fault."

Clodagh was bending low over the mare's neck, her flushed face

partially hidden. She made no reply to his confused and stammering

speech.

"Miss Clodagh," he began afresh, "you are not angry? You don't think it

was my fault?"

Clodagh laughed a little tremulously.

"Of course not," she said. "How can you be so silly? I hadn't her

properly in hand, that was all."

As she finished young Asshlin cantered back, halting on the further

side of the ditch. His face was also flushed and his eyes looked dark.

"Look here," he said, eyeing Milbanke, "what did you mean by balking

her like that? What were you doing with your beastly handkerchief?

'Twas no race, Clo!"

But Clodagh looked up.

"Oh yes, it was," she said. "It was all my own fault; I hadn't Polly in

hand. I should have pulled her together and sent her over with a touch

of the whip. Apologise, Larry! 'Twas a fair race."

But Larry still hesitated, his glance straying doubtfully from one face

to the other.

"Honour bright, Clo?" he asked at last.

Clodagh nodded.

"Then I'm sorry, sir," he said frankly, "for saying what I said."

Milbanke made a murmur of forgiveness; and a moment later Nance

appeared upon the scene, breathless and full of curiosity. As Larry

entered upon a voluble account of the finish in reply to her eager

questions, Clodagh wheeled the mare round and trotted quickly across

the fields in the direction of the house.

For a moment or two Milbanke stood irresolute; then a sudden impulse to

follow the mare and her rider seized him, and ignoring Nance and

Larry--still absorbed in heated explanation--he took his way slowly

across the green and springy turf.

His crossing of the field was measured and methodical, and he had

barely come within sight of the arched gateway of the yard when Clodagh

reappeared--this time on foot. The tail of her habit was tucked under

one arm, the struggling form of an Irish terrier was held firmly under

the other.

She came straight forward in his direction; and, reaching him, would

have passed on without speaking. But he halted in front of her.

"Miss Clodagh," he said, "you are hurt and disappointed."

Clodagh averted her eyes.

"I'm not," she said shortly.

"But I see that you are."

"No, I'm not."

"Miss Clodagh, you are. Can't I do something?"

Then at last she looked at him. Her cheeks were burning, and her eyes

were brimming with tears that only pride held back.

"It isn't the old race," she said defiantly. "It's--it's Mick."

Two tears suddenly welled over and dropped on the red head of the dog,

who responded with an adoring look and a wild attempt to lick her face.

"Oh, I've had him since he was six weeks old!" she cried impulsively.

"I reared him and trained him myself! He knows every word I say."

Milbanke suddenly looked relieved.

"Is that all?" he exclaimed cheerfully. "Is that all? We'll soon put

that right. Keep your dog. I'll settle matters with your cousin."

He glanced back across the fields to where Larry was walking the cob to

and fro.

But Clodagh's face expressed intense surprise.

"But you don't understand," she said. "Mick was the stake. 'Twas a fair

race, and Larry won. Mick is--is Larry's now."

He laughed a little.

"Oh, nonsense! You raced for fun."

"Yes, for the best fun we could get," she said seriously. "That's why

we staked what we cared most about. Don't you understand?"

For the moment her grief was merged in her unaffected surprise at his

lack of comprehension.

But Milbanke was staring at her interestedly. The scene at the

breakfast-table, and with it Asshlin's offended pride and ridiculous

dignity, had risen before him with her soft, surprised tone, her wide,

incredulous gaze. With total unconsciousness she was voicing the

sentiments of her race. An Asshlin might neglect everything else in the

world, but his debts of honour were sacred things.

He looked more closely at the pretty, distressed face, at the brimming

eyes, and the resolutely set lips.

"And simply because you staked him," he said, "you intend to lose the

dog?"

Clodagh caught her breath, and a fresh tear fell on Mick's head; then

with a defiant lifting of the chin she started forward across the

field.

"'Twas a fair race," she said in an unsteady voice.

CHAPTER VII

Whatever Clodagh may have felt upon the subject, she made no further

allusion to the loss of her dog.

An hour after the race, Milbanke, standing at his bedroom window,

caught a glimpse of Larry riding slowly across the fields towards the

avenue with the evidently unwilling Mick held securely under his arm;

and a few minutes afterwards, a noisy bell, clanging through the house,

informed him that luncheon had been served.

The two girls were already in the dining-room when he entered. Clodagh

had changed her riding habit for a neat holland dress; her hair was

smoothly plaited, and only a lingering trace of the morning's

excitement burned in her cheeks.

As the guest entered, she came forward at once and pointed to his chair

with a pretty touch of gracious hospitality.

"Where is your cousin?" he said, as he responded to her gesture.

She flushed momentarily.

"Gone!" she answered laconically. Then, conscious that the reply was

curt, she made haste to amend it. "He's gone home to lunch," she added.

"Aunt Fan wanted him back. She's a great invalid and always worrying

about him. I suppose invalids are never like other people. Will you

please help yourself?"

She smiled and indicated a steaming stew--sufficient to feed ten hungry

people--that Hannah, acting in Burke's absence, had planted heavily

upon the table.

"We always begin lunch with meat," Clodagh explained; "but we always

finish with tea and whatever Hannah will make for us to eat. If you

stay long enough you'll be able to tell all Hannah's tempers by what we

get at lunch. When she's terribly cross we have bread and jam; when

she's middling we get soda bread; but when she's really and truly nice

we have currant loaf or griddle cake!"

She glanced round mischievously at the red face of the factotum.

Hannah, who had been wavering between offence and amusement, suddenly

succumbed to the look.

"Sure, 'tis a quare notion you'll be givin' him of the place," she

said, amicably joining in the conversation without a shade of

embarrassment. "If I was you, I wouldn't be tellin' a gintleman that I

laves the whole work of the house to wan poor ould woman, an' goes

galavantin' over the country mornin', noon, an' night, instead of

learnin' meself to be a good housekeeper! So signs, 'tis Miss Nance

that'll find the husband first!" With a knowing glance at Milbanke and

a shake of the head she left the room, banging the door behind her.

Clodagh laughed. The insinuation in Hannah's words and look passed

unnoticed by her. She swept them aside unconcernedly, and proceeded

with an inborn tact--an inborn sense of the responsibilities of her

position--to fill her _role_ of hostess and entertain her guest.

So successful was she in this new aspect, that Milbanke found himself

thawing--even growing communicative under her influence as the meal

progressed. Long before the appetising griddle cake and the heavy

silver teapot had been laid upon the table he had begun to feel at

home; to meet Nance's shy, friendly smiles without embarrassment; to

talk with freedom and naturalness of his small, personal ambitions, his

own unimportant, individual researches in his pet study of antiquity.

A reticent man--when once his reticence has been broken down--makes as

egotistical a confidant as any other. Before they rose from the table,

he had been beguiled into forgetting that the Celtic zeal for the

entertainment of a guest may sometimes be mistaken for something more;

that Irish children--with their natural kinship to sun and rain, dogs

and horses, men and women--may assume, but cannot possibly feel, an

interest in monuments of wood or stone, no matter how historic or how

unique.

This erroneous impression remained with him until the time arrived for

Clodagh to pilot him to Carrigmore; and filled with the knowledge of

having a sympathetic listener, he harked back to his earliest

experiences while he covered the two miles of firm yellow sand with his

young hostess walking sedately beside him and half a dozen

dogs--setters, retrievers, and sharp-nosed terriers--careering about

him in a joyous band. He entered upon minute and technical details of

every archaeological discovery of the past decade; he recounted his

personal opinion of each; he even unbent to the extent of relating a

dry anecdote or two during that delightful walk in the mellow warmth of

the afternoon. It was only when the long curve of the strand had at

last been traversed and the rocks of Orristown left far behind, that

discoveries, opinions, and stories alike faded from his mind in the

nearer interest of the Carrigmore ruins.

Even to the pleasure-seeker there is something symbolic and imposing in

the tall, grey, symmetrical tower that tops the hill above Carrigmore

and faces the great sweep of the Atlantic Ocean; something infinitely

ancient and impressive in the crumbling ruins of the church from whose

walls the rudely carved figures look down to-day as they looked down in

primitive Christian times, when Carrigmore was a centre of learning,

and its tower a beacon to the world of Faith. To Milbanke--a student of

such things--they were a revelation.

He scarcely spoke as he climbed the steep hill and entered the

grass-grown churchyard; and once within the precincts of the ruin all

considerations save the consideration of the moment faded from his

thoughts. With the mild enthusiasm that his hobby always awoke in him,

he set about a minute examination of the place, hurriedly unstrapping

the satchel in which he carried his antiquarian's paraphernalia.

During the first half-hour Clodagh sat dutifully on one of the graves,

alternately plaiting grasses and admonishing or petting her dogs; then

her long-tried patience gave out. With a sudden imperative need of

action she rose, shook the grasses from her skirt, and, picking her way

between the half-buried headstones, reached Milbanke's side.

"Mr. Milbanke," she said frankly, "would you mind very much if I went

away and came back for you in an hour? You see, the ruins aren't quite

so new to me as they are to you--people say they've been here since the

fourth century."

She laughed, and called to the dogs.

But Milbanke scarcely heard the laugh. There was a flush of delight on

his thin cheeks as he peered through his magnifying-glass into one of

the carved stones. He waited a moment before replying; then he answered

with bent head.

"Certainly, Miss Clodagh," he said abstractedly--"certainly! But make

it two hours, I beg of you, instead of one."

And with another amused laugh Clodagh took advantage of her dismissal.

Milbanke's absorption was so unfeigned that when Clodagh came running

back nearly three hours later, full of remorse for her long desertion,

he greeted her with something amounting to regret.

Twice she had to remind him that the afternoon was all but spent and

the long walk to Orristown still to be reckoned with, before he could

desist from the fascinating task of completing the notes he had made.

At last, with a little sigh of amiable regret, he shut up his book,

returned the magnifying-glass to his satchel, and slowly followed her

out of the churchyard.

They had covered half a mile of the smooth strand, across which the

first long shadows of evening had begun to fall, before the glamour of

the past centuries had faded from his consideration, permitting the

more material present to obtrude itself.

Then at last, with a little start of compunction, he realised how

silent and uninteresting a companion he must seem to the girl walking

so staidly beside him; and with something of guilt in the movement, he

withdrew his eyes from the long, wet line of sand where the incoming

tide was stealthily encroaching.

"Miss Clodagh," he said abruptly, "what are you thinking of?"

With frank spontaneity, she turned and met his gaze.

"I was wondering," she said candidly, "when you'd forget the Round

Tower and remember about father."

He started, roused to a fresh sense of guilt.

"You--you mustn't think----" he began stammeringly.

But Clodagh laughed.

"Oh, don't bother about it!" she said easily. "I wasn't really

thinking."

For a while he remained silent, watching the noisy dogs as they

ineffectually chased the seagulls that wheeled above the unruffled

waves; then, at last, urged by his awakened conscience, he half paused

and looked again at the girl's bright face.

"Miss Clodagh," he began, "I feel very guilty--I _am_ very guilty."

Clodagh glanced back at him.

"How?" she said simply.

"Because last night I unconsciously did what you disapprove of. I

played with your father for high stakes, and I am ashamed to say that I

won a large sum of money."

For an instant the brightness left her glance; she looked at him with

the serious eyes of the night before.

"Much?" she asked impulsively.

"Twenty pounds." Milbanke felt himself colour. Then he rallied his

courage. "But that isn't all," he added quickly. "I have something

worse to confess. When I came down to breakfast this morning I found a

cheque lying on my plate. I felt intensely remorseful, as you can

imagine; and determined to make reparation. After breakfast I broached

the subject to Denis; I begged him to allow me to cancel our play by

tearing up the cheque. He was furiously angry; and I, instead of

showing the courage of my opinion, was actually weak enough to succumb.

Now, what punishment do you think I deserve?" He paused, looking at her

anxiously.

For a while she looked steadily ahead, absorbed in her own thoughts;

then slowly she looked back at him with interested, incredulous eyes.

"Don't English people pay when they lose?" she asked after a long

pause.

Again he coloured.

"Why, yes," he said hurriedly. "Yes, of course, only----"

"Only what?"

"Nothing--nothing. It was only that I thought you wanted----"

"I wanted you not to encourage him. I never wanted you to think that he

isn't a gentleman."

She made the statement with perfect naturalness, as though the subject

was one of common, everyday discussion. According to her code of

honour, she was justified in putting every possible bar to her father's

weakness; but where the bar had proved useless, where the weakness had

conquered and the deed she disapproved of had been accomplished, then

the matter, to her thinking, had passed out of her hands. Her judgment

ceased to be individual and became the judgment of her race.

As she looked at Milbanke's perplexed, concerned face, her expression

changed, and she smiled. The smile was gracious and reassuring, but

below the graciousness lay a tinge of tolerant indulgence.

"We won't talk about it any more," she said. "I don't suppose you can

be expected to understand." And suddenly raising her head, she whistled

to the dogs.

During the remainder of the walk Milbanke was very silent. Perplexed

and yet fascinated by the problem, his mind dwelt unceasingly upon this

strange position into which the chances of a day or two had thrown him.

The bonds that drew him to his entertainers, and the gulf that

separated him from them, were so tangible and yet so illusive. In every

outward respect they were his fellow beings; they spoke the same

language, wore the same dress, ate the same food, and yet

unquestionably they were creatures of different fibre. He felt

curiously daunted and curiously attracted by the peculiar fact.

To appreciate the difference between the Englishman and the Irishman

one must see the latter in his native atmosphere. It is there that his

faults and his virtues take on their proper values; there that his

innate poetry, his reckless generosity, his prodigal hospitality have

fullest scope; there that his primitive narrowness of outlook, his

antiquated sense of honour and his absurdly sensitive self-esteem are

most vividly backgrounded. Outside his own country, he is merely a

subject of a great Empire, possessing, perhaps, a sharper wit and a

more ingratiating manner than his fellow-subjects of colder

temperament; but in his natural environment he stands out pre-eminently

as a peculiar development--the product of a warm-blooded, intelligent,

imaginative race that by some oversight of Nature has been pushed aside

in the march of the nations.

Milbanke made no attempt to formulate this idea or any portion of it,

as he paced steadily forward across the darkening sands; but

incontinently it did flash across his mind that the girl beside him

claimed more attention in this unsophisticated atmosphere than he might

have given her in conventional surroundings. She was so much part of

the picture--so undeniably a child of the sweeping cliffs, the

magnificent sea, and the hundred traditions that encircled the

primitive land. In her buoyant, youthful figure he seemed, by a curious

retrograde process of the mind, to find the solution to his own early

worship of Asshlin. Asshlin had attracted him, ruled him, domineered

over him by right of superiority--the hereditary, half-barbaric

superiority of the natural aristocrat; the man of ancient lineage in a

country where yesterday--and the glories of yesterday--stand for

everything, where to-day is unreckoned with, and to-morrow does not

exist. Reaching the end of the strand, he turned to her quickly with a

strange sensation of sympathy--almost of apprehension.

"Miss Clodagh," he said gently, as she began to ascend the heaped-up

boulders that separated the road from the beach, "Miss Clodagh, I grant

that I don't quite understand, as you put it; but I knew your father

many years before you were born, and I think that gives me some

privilege. On one point I have quite made up my mind. I shall not play

cards again while I am in your house."

As he spoke, Clodagh paused in her ascent of the boulders and looked at

him. In the softly deepening twilight her eyes again held the

mysterious promise of great beauty; and in their depths a shade of

respect, of surprised admiration had suddenly become visible. As she

gazed at him, her lips parted involuntarily.

"I didn't think you were so plucky," she said; then abruptly she

stopped, glancing over her shoulder.

From the road behind them came the clicking thud of a horse's hoofs,

and a moment later the voice of Asshlin hailed them out of the dusk.

CHAPTER VIII

It would be futile to deny that the unexpected sound of Asshlin's voice

brought a tremor to the mind of his guest. It is disconcerting to the

most valiant to be confronted with his antagonist in the very moment

that he has laid down his challenge; and at best Milbanke was no hero.

Nevertheless he recovered his equanimity with creditable speed, and

exchanging a quick glance with Clodagh, scrambled hastily over the

remaining stones and reached the road.

As he gained it, Asshlin pulled up sharply and dismounted from his big,

bony horse with all the dexterity of a young man. With a loud laugh of

greeting, he slipped the bridle over one hand and linked the other in

Milbanke's arm.

"Hullo!" he cried. "Now who'd have dreamt that I'd meet you like this?

I'm ashamed of you, James. 'Pon my word I am. Philandering across the

strand in the fall of the evening as if you were still in the twenties.

It's with me you should have been. We had the deuce of a fine run!"

He paused to push his hat from his hot forehead and to rearrange the

bridle.

Clodagh, who had followed Milbanke slowly, stepped eagerly forward as

she caught the last words.

"Oh, father," she cried, "tell us about it! Who was there? Was the

sport good? Did the bay carry you well?"

In her suddenly awakened interest it was clear to Milbanke that the

vital question she had been discussing with him--the opinions he had

expressed upon it--his very existence even, were obliterated from her

mind, her natural, youthful exuberance responding to the idea of any

physical action as unfailingly as the needle answers to the magnet. And

again the faintly poignant sense of aloofness and age fell upon him as

he listened uncomprehendingly to Asshlin's excited flow of words, and

watched the bright, ardent face of the girl glowing out of the shadows.

They made a curious trio as they covered the stretch of road that led

to Orristown and passed between the heavy moss-grown piers of the big

gate, entering the deep shade of the avenue. With an instinctive care

for his horse, Asshlin went first, cautiously guiding the animal over

the ruts that time and the heavy rains had ploughed in the soft ground.

Behind him came Clodagh, Milbanke, and their following of dogs.

Once again the thought of what the evening held came unpleasantly to

Milbanke's mind as the shadow of the gaunt beech trees and the outline

of the great square house brought the position home to him afresh. Lack

imagination as he might, he realised that it was no light task to

thwart a man whose faults had been cultivated and whose

peculiarities--racial and personal--had been accentuated by a quarter

of a century of comparative isolation. But instinctively as the thought

came to him, he turned to the girl, whose erect figure had grown

indistinct in the gathering gloom.

"Miss Clodagh," he whispered, "though I may not understand, are you

satisfied to trust me?"

There was a pause; then, with one of the sudden impulses that formed so

large a part of her individuality, Clodagh put out her hand; and for an

instant her fingers and Milbanke's touched.

To every one but Asshlin, the dinner that evening was a strain. But the

silence or the uneasiness of the others was powerless to damp his

enthusiasm. His appetite was tremendous; and as he ate plentifully and

swallowed glass after glass of sherry, his excitement and his spirits

rose. With the ardour of the born sportsman, he recounted again and

again the details of the day's hunt--dwelling lovingly on the behaviour

of the dogs and horses, and the prowess of his own mount in particular.

Finally, he rose from the table with a flushed face, though a perfectly

steady gait, and, crossing the room, pulled the long bell-rope that

hung beside the fireplace.

"Now for our night, James!" he cried. "Now for my revenge!

"Clear the table, Burke," he added, as the old man appeared in answer

to the summons. "Get out the cards, and bring enough candles to light

us all to glory!" He gave a boisterous laugh; and, turning with a touch

of bravado, stood facing the picture of his great-grandfather.

Instinctively, as he turned his back upon the party, little Nance drew

nearer to her sister, and Clodagh glanced at Milbanke.

As their eyes met, he involuntarily stiffened his small, spare figure,

and with a quick, nervous manner nodded towards the door.

For a moment Clodagh hesitated, her fear for her father's self-control

dominated by her native interest in an encounter; then Nance decided

the matter by plucking hurriedly at her sleeve.

"Don't stop, Clo!" she whispered almost inaudibly, her small,

expressive face puckered with anxiety--"don't stop! I'm frightened."

The appeal was instantly effective. Clodagh rose at once, and with one

arm passed reassuringly round the child's shoulder, slipped silently

from the room.

For some moments after the two had departed, Asshlin retained his

position: and Milbanke, intently watchful of his tall figure, held

himself nervously in hand for the coming encounter. At last, when the

cloth had been removed, the candles renewed, and the cards placed upon

the table, Asshlin turned--his face flushed with anticipation.

"That's good!" he exclaimed. "That's good! With a bottle of port and a

pack of cards a man could be happy in Hades! Not that I'm forgetting

the good comrade that gives a flavour to the combination, James. Not

that I'm forgetting that."

His smile had much of the charm, his voice much of the warmth that had

marked them long ago, as he drew his chair to the table and picked up

the cards.

Milbanke straightened himself in his seat.

"Come along, man! Draw up!--draw up to the table! What shall it be?

Euchre again? Are you agreeable to the same stakes?" Asshlin talked on,

heedless of the strangely unresponsive demeanour of his guest.

As he ceased to speak, however, Milbanke took the plunge he had been

contemplating all day. In the silence of the room, broken only by the

faint, comfortable hissing of the peat in the fireplace and the

rustling of the cards as Asshlin mechanically shuffled them, he pulled

his chair forward and laid his clasped hands on the table.

"Denis," he said in his thin, quiet voice, "I am sorry--very sorry to

disappoint you, but I cannot play."

Asshlin paused in the act of shuffling and laid the cards down.

"What in the name of fortune are you talking about?" he asked. His tone

was indulgent and amused; it was evident that the meaning in the

other's words had not definitely reached him.

"It is not a joke," Milbanke interposed quickly. "I cannot--I do not

intend to play."

Then for the first time a shadow of comprehension crossed Asshlin's

face--but it was only a shadow. With a boisterous laugh, he leant

forward and filled the empty glasses that stood upon the table, pushing

one across to Milbanke.

"Have a drop of port, man!" he cried. "Twill give you courage to cut."

He lifted and drained his own glass, and setting it back upon the

table, refilled it.

But Milbanke remained immovable. His thin hands were still clasped, his

pale face looked anxious.

"Go on, James! You're not afraid of a drop of wine?" Again Asshlin

laughed, but this time there was an unpleasant ring audible in his

voice.

Mechanically Milbanke lifted his glass to his lips.

"No," he said with embarrassed deprecation, "no, I'm more afraid of

your displeasure. I--I'm exceedingly sorry to disappoint you."

But once more his host laughed.

"Nonsense, man! I know your little scruples and your little conscience,

and I'm not scared of either. Never meet the devil half way! He covers

the ground too quickly as it is." He caught up the cards again, and

forming them into a pack, held them out. "Cut!" he said laconically.

Milbanke drew back, and his lips came together, in a thin line.

"Come on! Cut!"

The colour of Asshlin's face became a shade deeper.

Still the other sat rigidly still.

For a moment their eyes held each other; then suddenly the blood surged

into Asshlin's neck and face.

"Do you mean to say that you refuse to play?" he asked slowly. "That

you refuse to give me my revenge?"

Milbanke met the attack unsteadily.

"My dear Denis----"

But before the words had left his lips, Asshlin flung the cards upon

the table with a force that sent a score of them flying across the

room.

"And may I ask you for your reasons?" he demanded with alarming calm.

Milbanke fenced.

"I do not wish to play."

"And I don't wish to be treated as a fool."

The other altered his attitude.

"My dear Denis, you surely acknowledge the right of free will? I do not

wish to play cards, and therefore beg to be excused. What could be

simpler?"

His manner was slightly perturbed, his speech hasty. There was the

suggestion of a sleeping volcano in his host's unnatural calm.

In the silence that followed, Asshlin lifted his glass and emptied it

slowly.

"I don't know about that," he said as he set it down. "There are

unwritten codes that all the free will in the world won't dispose of.

One of them is that a gentleman who wins at cards cannot refuse his

opponent the satisfaction of his revenge. But perhaps the etiquette has

changed since my time."

His manner was still controlled, but his eyes glittered.

Milbanke cleared his throat.

"My dear Asshlin," he said, "we are surely friends of too long standing

to split hairs in this fashion. What is this revenge that you talk of?

Nothing--a myth--an imaginary justification of honour."

A quick sound of contempt escaped Asshlin.

"And what is every code and every sentiment in the world but an outcome

of imagination?" he cried. "What is it but imagination that herds us

off from the beasts? I'm satisfied to call it imagination. It tells me

that I was worsted last night, and that I'm capable of better things if

I try my luck again. I'm satisfied to follow its promptings--and demand

my revenge!"

For a while Milbanke sat miserable and undecided; then under the goad

of the other's eyes, he did an ill-judged thing. Fumbling nervously for

his letter-case, he rose from his seat and walked across to the

fireplace.

"There is nothing for you to revenge," he said agitatedly. "There was

no play last night. It's cancelled. I cancel it."

With tremulous haste, he pulled out the letter-case, extricated

Asshlin's cheque, and dropped it into the fire.

There was a pause--a pause of tremendous moment--in which he stood

aghast at his own deed. Then Asshlin turned on him, his face purple and

convulsed with rage.

"You dare to insult me? You dare to insult me in my own house? You dare

to imply that it was the money--the damned money, that I wanted to win

back?"

Milbanke looked up sharply.

"Good God, no!" he exclaimed with unwonted vehemence. "Such a thought

never entered my mind."

"Then what's the meaning of all this? What is it all driving at?"

Asshlin's hard, handsome face was contorted by passion and his hands

shook.

"Nothing. It's driving at nothing. It is simply that I do not wish to

play."

"And why not?" He suddenly rose, his great body towering above the

other's. "Why not? By God, I'll have an answer!"

"There is no answer."

"No answer? We'll see about that. Who's been lying to you about me?

Who's been carrying scandals about me? Out with it!--out with it!"

Then unexpectedly Milbanke's trepidation forsook him. He suddenly

straightened himself.

"No one," he answered.

"No one? Are you quite sure?"

"No-one!"

"Then what do you mean by this? What do you mean by meddling in my

affairs?"

He took a menacing step forward.

[Illustration: With a fierce gesture he took another step forward.]

Milbanke stood firm.

"I have my reasons," he said quietly.

"Your reasons, have you?" Asshlin laughed harshly. "Then I'll have my

answer. What do you mean by it?"

For a second the older man remained silent and unmoved; then a light

gleamed in his colourless eyes.

"All right!" he said. "You shall have it. Perhaps it is as well. I came

here expecting to see the boy I had known grown into a genial,

hospitable, honourable gentleman; instead, I find him an undisciplined,

tyrannical egotist."

He said it quickly in a rush of unusual vehemence. All his

anticipations, all his suspicions, and their subsequent

justification--coupled with the new sense of protection towards the

children of his early friend--found voice in these words.

"You are an egotist, Denis," he repeated distinctly. "A weak, worthless

egotist--not fit to have children--not fit to have a friend----"

Asshlin stared at him for a moment in speechless surprise; then

indignation surmounted every other feeling. With a fierce gesture he

took another step forward, his eyes blazing, his hand menacingly

clenched.

"How--how dare you?" he stammered. "How dare you? By God, if you were a

bigger man I'd--I'd----"

He paused, choked by his fury.

"I know--I know. But I'm not afraid of you. I'm not to be bullied into

subjection."

Milbanke's temper, difficult to rouse, was stirred at last. He gave his

host glance for glance.

"You realise what you have said?" Asshlin's dark face was distorted,

his voice came unsteadily.

"Yes. I regret that I have to say it, but I do not regret saying it. It

is wholesome for a man to hear the truth."

"Oh, it's wholesome to hear the truth, is it?"

"Yes; and I won't see you go to pieces for want of a word. You are a

man with obligations, and you are neglecting your obligations. There

are other things in life besides cards and horses----"

Asshlin suddenly threw back his head.

"By God, you're right!" he cried. "And the other things are a damn

sight worse. I'd put a good horse before a self-righteous preacher any

day."

Milbanke's usually pallid face flushed.

"You mean that for me?" he asked quietly.

Asshlin shrugged his shoulders.

"If you like," he said. "If the cap fits----" For a moment Milbanke

said nothing; then once again he straightened his small, thin figure.

"Very well, Denis," he said, "I quite understand. With your permission

I will say good-bye to you now, and to-morrow morning I will catch the

earliest train from Muskeere."

He looked at his host steadily. Then, through the temper that still

mastered him, a twinge of regret, a sense of parting and loss obtruded

themselves. With all his intolerable faults, Asshlin still stood within

the halo and glamour of the past.

"Denis!" he exclaimed suddenly.

But the appeal was made too late. Uncontrollable fury--the one power

which could efface his sense of hospitality--possessed Asshlin. His

pulses pounded; his senses were blurred. With a seething consciousness

of insult and injury, he turned again upon his guest.

"You can go to hell for all I care!" he cried savagely.

For a second Milbanke continued to look at him; then without a word he

turned, crossed the room, and passed into the hall.

_PART II_

CHAPTER I

It was on a windy March morning three years after his summarily ended

visit to Ireland, that James Milbanke stood in the bedroom of his

London flat. A perturbed frown puckered his forehead and he held an

open letter in his hand.

Outside, the dark sky and cold searching breeze proclaimed the raw

English spring; inside, the partly dismantled walls of the room, the

emptied drawers and wardrobe, the trunks, bags, and rugs standing ready

strapped, all suggested another and more inviting climate. Milbanke was

bound for the south.

Three months earlier he had come to the momentous conclusion that a

solitary life in London--spent no matter how comfortably--becomes a

colourless and somewhat empty thing after a thirty-three years'

experience. He had his club and his friends, but he was not a clubman

born, and friends must be very intimate to be all-sufficing. The

restlessness that sometimes unexpectedly attacks the middle-aged

bachelor had fallen upon him. The suggestion that he craved new

surroundings and new fields of interest had been slow in coming, and

his acceptance of it had been slow. But steadily and inevitably it had

grown into his consciousness, maturing almost against his will, until

at last the day had dawned on which he had admitted to himself that a

change was indispensable. The subsequent events had followed in natural

order. His hobby had urged him to leave his own country for one richer

in association; the damp cold of the English winter, coupled with the

chilled blood of advancing age, had inclined him to the idea of

Southern Europe. The result of his triple suggestion was that he stood

in his room on that spring morning in the last stages of preparation

for a journey to Italy.

He stood there, with the discomfort of packing pleasantly accomplished,

and his belongings neatly surrounding him; yet his attitude and

expression were those of a man who is faced by an unlooked-for

difficulty. With a nervous gesture, he shook out the letter that he

held, and began to read it hastily for the fourth time. It was a long

letter, written in a careless, almost boyish hand on thin paper, and

bore the address of "Orristown, Ireland." It was dated two days

earlier, and began:

"DEAR MR. MILBANKE,--

"You will be very much surprised to get this, but I write for

father, not for myself. He had a bad accident yesterday while out

riding, and is terribly hurt and ill. The doctor from Carrigmore is

with him all the time, and my aunt--as well as Nance and I; so he

is well cared for. But he seems to get worse instead of better, and

we are dreadfully frightened about him.

"There is one thing he constantly craves for--and that is to see

you. Ever since that night, three years ago, when you and he

quarrelled and you went away, I think he has been fretting about

you. Of course, he has never spoken of it, but I don't think he has

ever forgotten that he treated you badly.

"This morning he talked a great deal about the time when you and he

were young together; so much so, that I asked him if he would like

to see you. The moment I spoke his face lighted up, but then at

once it clouded over again, and he muttered something about never

giving any man the chance of refusing him a favour.

"Dear Mr. Milbanke asking you to come here, but I feel differently.

I would risk anything a hundred times over on the chance of bringing

you to him. And if you are in London, please do come, if only for

one night. Don't refuse, for he is very, very bad. Any time you send

me a telegram, the trap can meet you either at Muskeere or Dunhaven.

"This is a dreadful letter, but I have been up all night, and

scarcely know what I am writing.

"Answer as soon as possible,

"Yours,

"CLODAGH ASSHLIN."

Milbanke scanned the letter to the last line; then, as he reached the

signature, the inertia that had pervaded his mind was suddenly

dispersed. His own shock of sorrow and dismay, his own interrupted

plans faded from his consideration; and in their place rose the picture

of a great white house on the lonely Irish coast; of a sick--perhaps a

dying--man; of two frightened children and a couple of faithful,

inefficient servants. With an energy he had not evinced for years he

crossed the room, stumbling over straps and parcels, and rang the bell

with imperative haste.

When a surprised maid appeared at the door he turned to her with

unwonted excitement.

"I have a telegram to send," he said; "one that must go at once."

The rest of that day, with its suddenly altered plans, its long railway

journey from Paddington to New Milford, and its stormy night crossing

from the latter point to the town of Waterford, was too beset with

haste and confusion to contain any definite recollections for Milbanke.

It was not until he had taken his seat at eight o'clock next morning in

the small and leisurely train that transports passengers from Waterford

to the seaport of Dunhaven that he found time to realise the

significance of his journey; and not until he descended from his

carriage at this latter station and was greeted by old Burke, the

Orristown retainer, that he fully appreciated the gravity of the

incident that had occasioned it.

There was no change apparent in Burke's familiar face save the gloom

that overhung his expression. But this was obvious to Milbanke at a

first glance.

"You're welcome, sir!" were his opening words; then the underlying bent

of his thoughts found vent. "'Tis a sorrowful house you'll be findin',"

he added in a subdued voice.

Milbanke glanced up sharply from the rug he was unstrapping.

"How is he?" he asked. "Not worse?"

Burke shook his head.

"'Twouldn't be wishin' for me to give you the bad word----" he began

deprecatingly.

"Then he is bad?"

The old man pursed up his lips.

"Ah, I'm in dread 'tis for his long home he's bound," he said

reluctantly. "Glory be to God an' His Holy Ways! But 'tis of thim two

poor children that I do be thinkin'."

But Milbanke's mind was occupied with his first words.

"But how is he?" he demanded. "What is the injury? Has he an efficient

doctor?"

Again Burke shook his head.

"Docthors?" he said dubiously. "Wisha, I don't put much pass on

docthors! not but what they say Docthor Gallagher from Carrigmore is a

fine hand wid the knife. But, sure, when the Almighty takes the notion

to break every bone in a man's body, 'tisn't for the like of docthors

to be settin' up to mend them."

With this piece of pessimistic philosophy, he picked up Milbanke's bags

and rug, and guided him through the small station into the open, where

the Orristown trap stood waiting in a downpour of rain.

He imparted little more information during the long drive, and Milbanke

had to sit under his dripping umbrella with as much patience as he

could muster while they ploughed forward over an execrable road.

The gateway of Orristown, when at last it was reached, looked mouldy

and forlorn in the chilly damp of the atmosphere; and as they plunged

up the avenue at the usual reckless pace, a perfect torrent of

rain-drops deluged them from the intersecting branches of the trees.

Yet despite the gloom and the discomfort, a thrill of something like

pleasure filled Milbanke as a whiff of pure, cold air brought the scent

of the sea to his nostrils, and the turn of the avenue showed the

square house, white and massive against the grey sky.

But he was given little time to indulge in the pleasure of

reminiscence, for instantly the trap drew up, the hall door was thrown

open, showing a face and figure that sent everything but the moment and

the business in hand far from his mind.

It was Clodagh who stood there waiting to greet him--Clodagh, curiously

changed and grown in the three years that had passed since their last

meeting. In place of the spirited, unformed child that he remembered,

Milbanke saw a very young girl, whose boyishness of figure had

disappeared in slight feminine curves, whose bright, fearless eyes had

softened into uncommon beauty.

With a glow of relief lighting up her face, she stepped forward as the

horse halted, and, heedless of the rain that fell on her uncovered

head, laid one hand on the shaft of the trap.

"Oh, it's good of you!--it's good of you!" she exclaimed. "We can never

forget it."

Then the colour flooded her cheeks, and her eyes filled.

"Oh, he's so bad!" she added. "It's so terrible to see him--so

terrible."

She looked up with alarm and impotence into Milbanke's face.

But it was not the guest, but old Burke who found words to calm her

fear and grief. Leaning down from his seat, he laid a rough hand on her

shoulder.

"Whist now, Miss Clodagh!" he said softly--"whist now! Sure God is

good. While there's life there's hope. Don't be believin' anythin'

else. Sure, what is he but a young man yet?"

"That's true, Burke--that's true!" Clodagh exclaimed quickly. "Won't

you come in, Mr. Milbanke?" she added. "You know how welcome you are."

Once inside the hall, she turned to him quickly and confidingly.

"I can never forget that you've done this," she said. "It's a really,

really generous thing. But all my mind is full of father. You can

understand, can't you?"

Her agitation, her alarm, her evident helplessness in presence of a

contingency never previously faced, all touched him deeply. His tone

was low and gentle as he responded.

"I understand perfectly--perfectly," he said. "Poor Denis! Poor Denis!

How did the thing occur?"

"Oh, just an accident--just an accident. About six months ago he took a

fancy for riding late at night. He used to ride for miles along the

most dangerous paths of the cliff. I knew it wasn't safe; I said so

over and over again. But you know father!" She gave a little hopeless

shake of her head. "On Monday night he saddled one of the young horses

at about ten o'clock, and went out by himself. It came to twelve and he

hadn't returned. Then we began to get uneasy, and at one o'clock we

started to look for him. After a search all along the cliff, we found

him wedged between two of the upper ledges of the rocks,

terribly--terribly hurt." She shuddered palpably at the recollection.

"We didn't know--we don't know even now--quite how it happened. But we

think the horse must have lost his footing and fallen over the cliff,

throwing father; for the poor thing was found dead on the shingle next

morning. 'Twas a miracle that father escaped with his life, but he's

terribly injured."

She paused again, as though the subject was too painful to be pursued.

Milbanke looked at her compassionately.

"Has he had proper medical advice?" he asked.

"Oh yes! Doctor Gallagher from Carrigmore has done everything, and we

have a trained nurse from Waterford."

"That's right. I must have a talk with the doctor. But how is Denis

now? Will he know me, do you think?"

"Oh yes! Ever since the first night he has been quite conscious. He

expects you. He's longing to see you."

"Then may I go to him?"

Clodagh nodded; and, turning, led the way silently up the remembered

staircase. On the landing, the recollection of their curious interview

on his first night at Orristown recurred forcibly to Milbanke. He

glanced at his guide to see if it had any place in her mind; but her

thoughts were evidently full of other things. With a quick gesture that

enjoined silence, she led him down the corridor, upon which rough fibre

mats had been strewn to deaden sound.

With that peculiar sensation of awe that serious illness always

engenders, he tip-toed after her, a sense of apprehensive depression

growing upon him with every step. As they neared the end of the

passage, a door opened noiselessly, and two figures emerged from a

darkened room. The taller of the two--a pale, emaciated woman, dressed

in mourning--was unknown to him; but a glance told him that the latter

was little Nance, grown to pretty, immature girlhood.

On catching sight of him, she drew back with a passing touch of the old

shyness; but, conquering it almost directly, she came forward and shook

hands in silence. In the momentary greeting, he saw that her vivacious

little face was red and marred by tears; but before he had time for

further observation Clodagh touched his arm.

"My aunt, Mrs. Asshlin!" she whispered.

Milbanke bowed, and Mrs. Asshlin extended her hand.

"We meet on a sad occasion, Mr. Milbanke," she murmured in a low,

querulous voice. "My poor brother-in-law was always such a rash man.

But with some people, you know, there is no such thing as

remonstrating. Even this morning when Mr. Curry, our rector from

Carrigmore, came to have a little talk with him, he was barely polite;

and it was only yesterday that we dared to tell him that Doctor

Gallagher insisted on having a nurse. Now, what can you do with a

patient like that?"

Milbanke murmured something vaguely unintelligible; and Clodagh stirred

impatiently.

"Did you give him the medicine, Aunt Fan?" she asked.

"I did; but with great difficulty. My brother-in-law has always been

averse to medical aid," she explained to Milbanke.

"He's never had any need of it," Clodagh whispered sharply. "Will you

come, Mr. Milbanke? He's quite alone. The nurse is resting."

With great dignity Mrs. Asshlin moved away.

"I shall ask Hannah to get me a cup of tea, Clodagh," she murmured. "I

get such a headache from a sick-room."

Without replying, Clodagh turned again to Milbanke.

"He's not to get excited," she whispered. "And mind--mind--don't say

that you think him looking badly."

She paused and laid her fingers lightly on his arm; then with a swift

movement, she stepped forward, drawing him with her into the big,

darkened room with its sense of preternatural quiet, and its pungent,

suggestive smell of drugs and antiseptic dressings.

CHAPTER II

With a strange blending of curiosity and shrinking, Milbanke obeyed the

pressure of Clodagh's hand, and moved forward into the room. The cold

March daylight was partly excluded by drawn blinds, but a glow from the

fire played upon the walls and the high four-post bedstead.

With the same mingling of curiosity and dread, his eyes fell at once

upon this prominent article of furniture and remained fixed there in

doubt and incredulity. For the moment his senses refused to acknowledge

that the feverish, haggard face that stared at him from the pillows was

the face of Asshlin--Asshlin, tyrannical, passionate, greedy of life.

In the hours of agony that he had passed through, the sick man's

features had become shrunken, causing his eyes to stare forth

preternaturally large and restless; his hair had been cropped close, to

allow of the dressing of a wound over the temple, and the tight white

bandages lent a strange and unfamiliar appearance to his finely shaped

head. With a sick sensation, Milbanke went slowly forward.

The patient made no attempt to move as he drew near the bed, but his

feverishly bright glance seemed to devour his face.

"Here he is, father!" Clodagh exclaimed softly and eagerly. "Here's Mr.

Milbanke! Now, aren't you happy? He's not able to move," she explained,

turning to the guest. "It gives him terrible agony to stir."

Milbanke had reached the bed; and with a sensation of awkwardness and

impotence impossible to describe, he stood looking down upon Asshlin.

"My poor Denis!" he said. "My poor, poor friend! This is a bad

business; I had no idea----"

Then he paused confusedly, remembering Clodagh's warning.

"But we'll see you laughing at it all before we're much older," he

added, in awkward haste to make amends.

A gleam of something like irony crossed Asshlin's watchful eyes.

"I'm done for this time, James!" he said feebly. "I suppose I've had my

day, and, like every other dog, must answer to the whistle. I don't

complain! I'm getting more than my deserts in seeing you again. You're

as welcome as the flowers in----"

His voice failed.

"I know--I know! Don't trouble! Don't try to speak!" Milbanke bent over

him anxiously.

But Asshlin glanced back.

"Ah, but that's what I must do, James!" he said sharply. "That's what I

want you for. I have something that must be said."

Milbanke turned to Clodagh.

"Is it right of him to excite himself?" he asked in distress. "If it's

anything that you reproach yourself with, Denis----"

But Asshlin interrupted with a weak echo of his old intolerance.

"Send Clo away!" he said. "There's something I want to say."

Again Milbanke looked helplessly at Clodagh, but her eyes were fixed

passionately on her father's face.

"He'll excite himself more if we cross him," she said hesitatingly. "I

think I'd better go."

Still Milbanke hesitated.

"But the doctor?" he hazarded. "If the doctor insists on quiet----"

She glanced at him quickly, her clear eyes brimming.

"Oh, I don't know!" she exclaimed; "I can't cross him--I can't cross

him! He's wanted you so badly."

She turned quickly towards the bed.

"Father," she said tenderly, "won't you promise not to talk much? Won't

you promise to take care?"

For answer, Asshlin looked up, meeting her glance.

"I'll promise, child--I'll promise. Run away now--and God bless you!"

He added the expressive native phrase in a suddenly lowered voice.

Clodagh bent quickly and kissed his hot, drawn face with passionate

affection; then, as if fearing to trust herself, she turned hastily and

passed out of the room.

Instantly the two men were alone, Asshlin turned to his guest.

"James," he said agitatedly, "I haven't thought much about the Almighty

in these last years; but I give you my word, I have prayed that I might

see you before I die."

"My dear Denis, don't! I beg you not to excite yourself. I implore

you----"

Asshlin made a harsh sound of impatience.

"Don't waste breath over a dying man," he said roughly. Then, seeing

the distress in the other's face, he altered his tone. "Don't take it

to heart, James! It's the road we must all travel. They think there's

life in me yet, but I know better. You may blindfold a sheep as much as

you like, but 'twill know that you're dragging it to the slaughter. I

tell you I'm done for--as done for as if the undertaker had measured me

for the coffin."

He moved his head slightly and painfully, his feverish glance

brightening.

"James," he exclaimed suddenly, "I'm in a terrible position! But

'tisn't death that's troubling me."

"Denis!"

"'Tis true! I'm not frightened of death--I hope I'm man enough to face

a natural law. 'Twould have been better if I'd had to face it thirty

years ago."

"Denis, don't! I beg you to keep quiet----"

"Quiet? I tell you there's not much quiet for a man like me. 'Tisn't

what I'm going to that's troubling me, but what I'm leaving behind.

I'll be paying me own score on the other side; but here 'tis others

will be paying it for me."

His burning eyes fixed themselves on Milbanke's.

"But, my dear old friend----"

"Don't talk to me, James! Don't waste words on me. I'm broke inside and

out. I'm smashed. I'm done for." A spasm of pain, mental and physical,

twisted his features. "The weak, worthless egotist has come to the end

of his rope!" He tried to laugh.

Milbanke, in deep apprehension, laid his hand lightly on his shoulder.

"Denis," he pleaded, "don't talk like this! Don't torture yourself like

this!"

Asshlin groaned.

"'Tis involuntary!" he cried. "'Tis wrung from me. Every time they come

into the room--every time I see the tears in their eyes--every time

they kiss me, I tell you I taste hell."

"Who?"

"The children. My children." Another spasm crossed his face. "You once

told me I was not fit to have children, James--and you were right. By

God, you were right!"

"Denis, I refuse to listen. I insist--I----"

"Don't bother yourself! 'Tisn't of my damned health I'm thinking."

"Then what is it? What is troubling you?"

"The children--the children. I've been a blackguard, James--a

blackguard." He moved his head sharply, regardless of the agony the

movement caused. "I tell you I don't care what's before myself. I've

always been a reckless fool. But 'tis the children--the children."

"What of the children?"

A sound of mockery and despair escaped Asshlin.

"Ah, you may well ask!" he said--"you may well ask! 'Tis the question

I've been putting to myself every hour since they laid me here. You

know the world, James. You know what the world will be to two pretty,

penniless girls. And they're so unconscious of it all! That's the sting

of it. They're so unconscious of it all! They care for me; they cling

to me as if I were a good man, and in five years' time they may be

cursing the hour they were born." A fresh groan was wrung from him.

A look of apprehension crossed Milbanke's face.

"Oh no, Denis!" he exclaimed quickly. "No. Things can't be as bad as

that. Your suffering has told upon your nerves. Things can't be as bad

as that."

"They are worse. I tell you these two children will face life without a

penny."

"No, no! You exaggerate. Why, even if you were to die they would still

have the place. The place must be worth something."

"Ah, if I could only drug my conscience with that thought! But I

can't--I can't! Before I'm cold in my grave my creditors will be down

on the property like a swarm of rats."

"No, no!"

"Yes! I tell you yes! The children will be homeless as well as

penniless."

Milbanke glanced about him in deep perplexity.

"There's your sister-in-law," he hazarded at length.

"Fan?" Asshlin made a contemptuous grimace. "Fan is as poor as a church

mouse already. Laurence had nothing to leave her: the Navy beggared

him. No, Fan could do nothing for them. And, anyway, she and Clodagh

couldn't stand each other for a twelvemonth. You might as well try to

blend fire and water. No, there's no way out of it. I'm reaping the

whirlwind, James. I'm reaping it with a vengeance."

The fever of his suffering and the excitement of his remorse were

burning in his eyes. In the three days of his illness his natural

exuberance of mind had been directed towards one point--the tardily

aroused knowledge of the future that awaited his children. And the

consequence had been a piteous intermingling of realisation and partial

delirium. His agony and helplessness were pitiable as he turned to his

friend.

"What am I to do, James?" he asked--"what am I to do?"

Milbanke bent over him.

"Denis! Denis!" he pleaded.

"But what am I to do? Advise me while there's time. 'Tis for that I've

wanted you. You've always been a good man. What must I do?"

Milbanke tightened his lips.

"You have friends," he said.

"Ah! but how many? And where?"

There was no response for a moment, as Milbanke slowly straightened

himself and glanced across the room towards the fire. Then very quietly

he turned towards the bed.

"You have one--here," he said in a low voice.

For an instant Asshlin answered nothing; then an odd sound--something

between a laugh and a sob--shook him.

"James!" he cried. "James!"

But Milbanke leant forward hastily.

"Not a word!" he said. "Not one word! If thanks are due, it is from me

to you. It is not every day that human responsibilities fall to an old

bachelor of my age."

Asshlin remained silent. Dissipated, blunted, degenerate though he

might be, his native intuition was unimpaired; and in a flash of

illumination he saw the grade of nobility, the high point of honour to

which this prosaic, unimaginative man had attained in that moment of

need. With a pang of acute pain, he freed his uninjured arm and

shakingly held out his hand.

"There are no friends like the old friends, James!" he said in a broken

voice.

CHAPTER III

Asshlin scarcely spoke again during the early portion of that day. The

immense effort of his explanation to Milbanke left him correspondingly

weak; though through all his exhaustion, a look of peace and

satisfaction was visible in his eyes.

During the whole morning Milbanke remained at his bedside, only leaving

the room to partake--at Clodagh's urgent request--of a hurried meal in

the deserted dining-room. At twelve o'clock the nurse resumed her

duties, and soon afterwards the dispensary doctor from Carrigmore drove

over to see his patient. Before he came into the sick-room Milbanke

left it; but when--his examination over--he departed with a whispered

injunction to the nurse, he found the stranger waiting for him in the

corridor.

Milbanke stepped forward as he appeared, and silently motioned him down

the passage to his own room, inviting him to enter with a punctilious

gesture.

"Doctor Gallagher, I believe?" he said. "Allow me to introduce myself.

My name is Milbanke. I am a very old friend of your patient."

With a slow but friendly gesture, the young man held out his hand.

"Oh, I know all about you!" he said. "I'm glad to make your

acquaintance."

His voice, with its marked Irish accent, was soft and pleasant, and his

glance was good-natured; but his tanned skin and rough shooting-suit

suggested the sportsman rather than the medical practitioner.

Milbanke eyed him quickly.

"Then you won't misunderstand anything I may say?"

Gallagher smiled.

"Not a bit of it!" he answered nonchalantly. "And what's more, I think

I know what it's going to be."

A shade of confusion passed over the Englishman's face. His

understanding was still unattuned to the half-shrewd, half-inquisitive

tendencies of the Irish mind. With a shadowy suspicion that he was

being unobtrusively ridiculed, he became a degree colder.

"I am grieved beyond measure at Mr. Asshlin's condition, Doctor

Gallagher," he said, "and it has struck me--it has been suggested to my

mind that possibly----" He stopped uncertainly. "That possibly----"

"That perhaps there ought to be another opinion?" Gallagher looked at

him complacently. "Well, maybe you're right. 'Tisn't because _I_

condemn him that he shouldn't appeal to a higher court."

Milbanke started.

"Then you think poorly of his chances?"

Gallagher shook his head expressively.

"You despair of him?"

A pang of unexpected grief touched Milbanke. He realised suddenly how

distant, vague, and yet how real a part the ideal of his youth had

played in his life and thoughts; how deep a niche, unknown to them

both, Asshlin had carved for himself. With a sense of loss altogether

disproportionate to circumstances, he turned again to the doctor.

"Yes, I should like another opinion," he said quickly. "The best we can

get--the best in Ireland. We can't get a man from town sooner than

to-morrow, and time is everything. I suppose Dublin is the place to

wire to? Not that I am disparaging you," he added. "I feel confident

you have done everything."

Gallagher smiled.

"Oh, I'm not taking offence. It's only human nature to think what you

do. I'll meet any one you like to name. But he'll say the same as me."

"And that is?"

"That he's done for." Gallagher lowered his voice. "He hasn't the

stamina to pull through, even if we could patch him up. He's been

undermining that big frame of his for the last ten years. No man

nowadays can sit up half the night drinking port without paying heavily

for it. Many a time, driving home from a late call, I've seen the light

in these windows at three in the morning."

Milbanke pulled out his watch.

"But these Dublin doctors," he said. "Tell me their names."

Gallagher pondered a moment.

"Well, there's Dowden-Gregg and Merrick," he said. "And of course

there's Molyneaux. Molyneaux is a magnificent surgeon. If any man in

Ireland can make a suggestion, he will. But of course his fee----"

Milbanke interrupted sharply.

"Molyneaux let it be," he said decisively. "Wire for him when you get

back to Carrigmore. Wire urgently. The expenses will be my affair. What

they may amount to is of no consideration."

A look of involuntary respect crossed Gallagher's face.

"I understand," he said. "I'll wire at once. And you can comfort

yourself that you'll have the best opinion in the country."

He nodded genially, the new considerations for Milbanke tinging his

usually careless manner; and with an inaudible word of farewell, turned

on his heel.

Once alone, Milbanke went in search of Clodagh. He suffered no small

trepidation at the thought of communicating his action to her, and he

bestowed much silent consideration upon the manner in which he should

couch his information. Failing to find her in the house, he wandered

out into the grounds. The rain had ceased, and a watery gleam of

sunshine was falling on the wet gravel of the drive. Picking his way

carefully, he turned in the direction of the yard; but he had scarcely

reached it, when Clodagh's clear voice reached him, directing Burke as

to some provisions required from Muskeere.

On seeing her guest, she came forward at once. Her face looked brighter

and happier than he had seen it since his arrival. Her mercurial nature

had responded instantly to the apparent change in Asshlin.

"Oh, isn't it lovely that he's so much better?" she cried. "You must

have the gift of healing; it's like as if you had set a charm."

Milbanke made no response.

"Why don't you say something?" she asked quickly. "Don't you think he's

better? Doesn't the doctor think he's better?"

Her quick mind sprang like lightning from one conclusion to another.

"Mr. Milbanke," she added, "you're keeping something back! There's

something you don't like to say!"

Then at last Milbanke found voice.

"Indeed no, Miss Clodagh. You are wrong--quite wrong, believe me. There

is nothing to be alarmed at--nothing. It is only----"

"Only what?"

"Now don't be alarmed! I beg you not to be alarmed!" The sudden

whiteness that had overspread her face unnerved him. "It is only that

I, as a Londoner, am a little doubtful of your village doctor. A mere

prejudice, I know. But Gallagher is broadminded and willing to humour

me. And he--I--that is, we both think that another opinion will do no

harm. It's nothing to be alarmed at. Nothing, believe me! A mere

formality."

But Clodagh's lips had paled. She stood looking at him silently, her

large, questioning eyes reminding him disconcertingly of Asshlin's.

"Miss Clodagh," he said again, "don't be alarmed!--don't be alarmed!

It's only to satisfy an old sceptic----"

"Oh no, it isn't!" she said suddenly. "Oh no, it isn't! I know--I know

quite well. It means that he's going to die."

Her voice caught; and, with a swift movement, she turned and fled out

of the yard, leaving Milbanke pained, bewildered, and alarmed.

The afternoon passed in weary, monotonous waiting. Half an hour after

the conversation in the yard, Clodagh appeared in her father's room.

She was pale and subdued, and her eyelids looked suspiciously red, but

she took her place quietly at the foot of the bed. She sat very still,

her eyes fixed on Asshlin's face, apparently heedless of both the

nurse's deft movements and Milbanke's silent, unobtrusive presence. At

three o'clock the acute pains that had tormented the patient at

intervals ever since the accident had occurred, returned with a

violence that seemed accentuated by the respite he had obtained during

the morning. For an hour or more he writhed and groaned in unspeakable

agony, while those about him suffered a reflected torment, and chafed

impotently at the distance that cut off Carrigmore and the possibility

of any fresh medical relief. The nurse was unceasingly vigilant; but

the mild and cautious remedies ordered by Gallagher were powerless to

soothe the violent pain. At last Nature mercifully intervened, and the

exhausted sufferer fell into a sleep that lasted for several hours.

At seven o'clock there was a stir of excitement through the house, as

the whisper passed from one to another that the Dublin surgeon had

arrived. When the news reached the sick-room, Milbanke drew a breath of

intense relief; but Clodagh's pale face went a shade whiter.

The great man arrived attended by Gallagher, and was shown directly to

the patient's room. There was a confused moment of introduction; then

Milbanke and Clodagh slipped quietly into the passage, leaving the

doctors and nurse to their work.

During a long interval of indescribable suspense Molyneaux made his

examination. Then, without a word, he and Gallagher emerged from the

room and descended solemnly into the dining-room.

While this final conference lasted Clodagh--who had returned to her

vigil immediately the doctors had left the sick-room--sat silent and

motionless beside the bed; outside in the corridor, Mrs. Asshlin

wandered to and fro, weakly tearful and agitated, while Nance stood

beside her father's door, afraid to enter and yet reluctant to remain

outside. Downstairs in the hall, Milbanke paced up and down in nervous

perturbation, awaiting his summons to the conclave.

At last the door opened, and Gallagher looked out.

"Mr. Milbanke," he said, "Doctor Molyneaux would like to see you."

With a little start of agitation Milbanke went forward.

In the dining-room a great peat fire was burning as usual, lighting up

the faces of Asshlin's ancestors; but the candles in the silver sconces

were unlighted and the window curtains had not been drawn. In the dull

light from the three long windows the large, placid face of Molyneaux

looked preternaturally long and solemn. Milbanke felt his heart sink.

In formal silence the great man rose and motioned him forward, and the

three sat down at the centre table.

"Mr. Milbanke," he began in slow and unctuous tones, "I suppose you

would like me to come to the point with as little delay as possible?

Professional details will not interest you."

Milbanke nodded mechanically.

Molyneaux hesitated, studying his well-kept hands; then he looked up

with the decorous reserve proper to the occasion.

"I regret to inform you, Mr. Milbanke," he said softly, "that my visit

is of little--I might say of no--avail. Doctor--er--Gallagher's

diagnosis of the case is satisfactory--perfectly satisfactory. Beyond

mitigating his sufferings, I fear we can do nothing for our poor

friend."

"Nothing!" Milbanke felt a sudden dryness in his throat.

Molyneaux shook his head with becoming gravity.

"Nothing, Mr. Milbanke. The injuries to the ribs and hip we might have

coped with, but the seat of the trouble lies deeper. The internal----"

But Milbanke held up his hand.

"I beg you to give me no details," he said weakly. "This--this is a

great shock to me."

He covered his face with his hands and sat silent for a few seconds.

Molyneaux tapped lightly upon the table with his finger-tips.

"It was merely that your mind might be fully satisfied, Mr.

Milbanke----" he said a trifle pompously.

Milbanke started.

"Forgive me! I understand--I fully understand. It is only the thought

of what lies before us--the thought of his children's grief----"

Molyneaux made a gracious gesture of comprehension.

"Ah, yes," he murmured. "Very distressing! Most distressing!"

He looked vaguely round the room; and Gallagher, as if anticipating his

thought, pulled out his watch.

Milbanke rose quickly.

"I thank you very much, Doctor Molyneaux," he said, "for your--your

valuable opinion. I think Miss Asshlin wishes to know if your train

will permit you to partake of some dinner before you leave us?"

Molyneaux smiled with the air of a man who has put an unpleasant duty

aside.

"Ah, thank you!" he said suavely. "Thank you! If Doctor--Gallagher

gives me permission I shall be charmed. He understands your local

time-tables, and has promised that I shall catch the night mail to

Dublin."

He smiled again and glanced genially round the firelit room.

"What interesting family portraits our poor friend possesses!" he added

with pleasant affability.

But Milbanke did not seem to hear.

"If you will excuse me for a moment," he said hastily, "I will see that

you are caused no unnecessary delay. You can understand that we--that

we are a somewhat demoralised household."

His voice was agitated, his step uneven as he crossed the room and

passed into the hall.

Molyneaux followed him with a conventional glance of sympathy; then his

eyes turned again to the pictures with the gratified glance of a

dilettante.

"Do you happen to know if this is a Reynolds?" he said to Gallagher,

rising and crossing the room.

CHAPTER IV

To the last day of his life, that evening, with its horde of harassing

and unfamiliar sensations, remained stamped upon Milbanke's mind; and

not least among the unpleasant recollections was the visit of

Molyneaux, and the dinner at which he himself unwillingly played host.

It may have been that his usually placid susceptibilities had undergone

a strain that rendered him over sensitive; but whatever the cause, the

atmosphere diffused by the great man jarred upon him. In his eyes, it

seemed little short of callous that one who had just passed sentence of

death upon his patient could so far remain unmoved as to partake with

relish of the dinner set before him, and comment with affable

appreciation upon the quality of the patient's wines.

Milbanke spoke little during the course of that meal. Try as he might

to enact the part entrusted to him, his thoughts persistently wandered

to the room upstairs, with its doomed sufferer and its anxious

watchers, as yet mercifully ignorant of the verdict that had been

pronounced. But if the host was silent, the guests made conversation.

Gallagher was assiduous in his attentions to the man who, in his eyes,

stood for the attainment of all ambition; and Molyneaux--under the

unlooked-for stimulus of good, if homely food and wines that even as an

epicure he admitted to be remarkable--was graciously pleased to accept

the homage of his humble colleague, and to display a suave glimpse of

the polished wit for which he was noted in society.

His expressions of regret were perfectly genuine when at last the sound

of wheels on the gravel of the drive broke in upon his discourse, and

Gallagher deprecatingly drew out his watch.

"The way of the world, Mr. Milbanke!" he murmured as he rose. "Our

pleasantest acquaintances end the soonest. I must wish you

good-bye--with many thanks for your delightful hospitality. So far as

our poor friend is concerned," he added, in a correctly altered tone,

"Doctor Gallagher may be relied upon to do everything. In a case like

this, where physical pain is recurrent and violent, we can only have

recourse to narcotics. We have already allayed the suffering consequent

on my examination and you may rely upon some hours of calm; for any

subsequent contingency Doctor Gallagher has my instructions. Of course,

if you wish me to have one more glimpse at him before I go----"

But Milbanke, who had also risen, held out his hand mechanically.

"Oh no," he said quietly. "No, thank you! I don't think we will trouble

you any further. It has been a great satisfaction to have obtained

your--your opinion."

Molyneaux waved his hand magnanimously.

"Do not mention it!" he murmured. "My regret is deep that I have been

of so little avail. Good-bye again, Mr. Milbanke! It has been an honour

as well as a pleasure to meet you."

He smiled blandly, and added the last remark as Gallagher solicitously

helped him into his furlined travelling coat. Then, still suavely

genial, he passed out of the dining-room towards the hall door.

Gallagher hurried after him, but, in passing Milbanke, he paused.

"I'll be back in an hour, Mr. Milbanke," he said. "I'm just going as

far as Carrigmore with Doctor Molyneaux to get an additional supply of

morphia."

Milbanke nodded silently, and in his turn stepped into the hall.

When the two men had entered the waiting vehicle, when Molyneaux had

waved a courtly farewell and the coachman had gathered up the reins, he

turned and slowly began to mount the stairs.

Instantly his foot touched the landing, Mrs. Asshlin darted from the

shadowy corridor.

"What news?" she asked agitatedly. "Oh, Mr. Milbanke, what news? The

suspense has been dreadful."

Her voice trembled. Tears came very easily to Mrs. Asshlin, and her

habitual attitude of mourning had heretofore irritated Milbanke. But

now her thin face and faded black garments came as a curiously welcome

contrast to the bland affluence, the genial, complacent superiority of

Molyneaux. He turned to her with a feeling of warmth.

"Forgive my delay, Mrs. Asshlin!" he said gently. "One is never in a

hurry to impart bad news. Doctor Molyneaux holds out no hope--not a

shadow of hope."

There was a pause; then Mrs. Asshlin made a tragic gesture.

"Oh, the children!" she murmured. "The poor, poor children! What will

become of them?"

"The children will be provided for," Milbanke said hastily. Then,

without giving her time for question or astonishment, he went on again:

"Don't say anything of this to Clodagh," he enjoined. "She must have

these last hours in peace."

"Certainly--certainly! Poor Denis! Poor Denis! I always said he would

have an unfortunate end. But go in and see him, Mr. Milbanke. Clodagh

is in the room."

Milbanke silently acquiesced, and moved slowly down the corridor.

At the door of her father's room, he found Nance still patiently

watchful. He paused, arrested by his new sense of obligation, and

looked down into the upturned, wistful little face.

"What are you doing here, Nance?" he asked kindly.

She made a valiant attempt to conjure up her pretty, winning smile, but

her lips began to tremble.

"I don't know!" she said shyly and softly; then in a sudden burst of

confidence she stepped close to him. "Clo doesn't like me to go in,"

she murmured. "She thinks it makes me sad to see father; and I don't

know where to go. I'd be in Hannah's way in the kitchen, and I don't

like being with Aunt Fan, and--and I'm frightened to be by myself.

There's a horrid sort of feel in the house."

Her dark blue eyes searched Milbanke's face appealingly; and with a

sensation of pity and protection, he stooped and took one of her cold,

limp hands.

"You may come in," he said gently. "It is very lonely out here. I think

we can make Clodagh understand."

Without hesitation her fingers closed round his in a movement of

confidence and gratitude, and together they passed into the room where

Asshlin lay peacefully under the influence of the narcotic administered

by Molyneaux. By Gallagher's orders the nurse--who had been deprived of

her necessary rest in the morning--had retired to her room again in

preparation for the night, and only Clodagh was in attendance. Having

quietly closed the door, Milbanke halted hesitatingly, expecting a

flood of questions. But to his intense surprise she did not even glance

in his direction. She sat motionless and pale, her eyes on her father's

face, her attitude stiff and almost defiant. He wondered for a moment

whether, by the power of instinct, she had divined Molyneaux's verdict,

or whether, through some source unknown to him, the news of it had

already reached her. With a sense of trepidation, he tightened his

fingers round Nance's small hand, and drew her silently into a corner

of the room.

For more than an hour the three watchers sat regarding their patient.

No one attempted to speak--no one appeared to have anything to say.

Once or twice Mrs. Asshlin flitted agitatedly in and out of the room,

but none of them took heed of her presence. Occasionally a clock struck

in the silent house or a cinder fell from the fire, causing them all to

start nervously. But, except for these interruptions, the quiet was

preternatural.

It was with a throb of relief at his heart that Milbanke at last caught

the sound of Gallagher's horse trotting up the avenue, and knew by the

shutting of the hall door that the doctor had entered the house.

He walked into the sick-room a few minutes later, and with a casual nod

to all present, moved at once to the bed.

Bending over Asshlin, he felt his pulse, then glanced significantly at

Milbanke, who had risen on his entrance.

"I think we must inject a stimulant," he said. "The pulse is a little

weak."

With a faint sound of consternation Clodagh stood up.

"Oh, he's not worse?" she said. "Doctor Gallagher, he's not worse?"

Gallagher looked at her, and his expression changed. The distress of a

pretty girl is always difficult to resist.

"No, Miss Asshlin," he said kindly. "No. You see, he has gone through a

lot. We must expect him to be weak."

Clodagh looked relieved, though the alarm still lingered in her eyes.

"Of course," she said. "Yes, of course. Is there anything I can do?"

Gallagher glanced at her again.

"Well," he said quietly, "perhaps you will call the nurse for me?

There's no real need for her, but it is just as well we should have her

on the spot."

Again Clodagh's eyes darkened with apprehension, but she made no

remark. Signalling to Nance to follow her, she left the room.

As the two girls disappeared, Gallagher bent again over Asshlin, making

another rapid examination; then once more he glanced up at Milbanke.

"He may not last the night," he said below his breath. "Molyneaux

expected that it wouldn't be a long business, but we didn't look for

the change so soon as this."

Milbanke did not alter his position.

"You'll stay on, of course?" he said mechanically.

"Yes. Oh yes, I'll stay on!"

As he said the last word Clodagh reappeared.

"The nurse will be here in a minute," she said in a steady voice.

The unrelaxed, monotonous vigil lasted until two o'clock; then, as

Asshlin showed a disposition to rally, the doctor asserted his

authority, and dismissed Mrs. Asshlin, Nance, and Milbanke for a

much-needed rest--Clodagh alone refusing to leave the room.

Though he would not have admitted it, the command came as a boon to

Milbanke. His long and arduous journey, coupled with the strain and

excitement of the day and evening, had culminated in intense weariness;

and when Gallagher's order came, it would have been a superhuman effort

to offer any protest.

Reaching his room, he took off his boots, and, partially undressing,

threw himself upon his bed.

How many hours he slept the deep sleep of utter exhaustion he did not

know. His first effort at awaking consciousness was a thrill of nervous

fright that made him sit up in bed, aware with a sudden shock that some

one was knocking imperatively on his door and calling him by name in

low, agitated tones.

"Mr. Milbanke! Mr. Milbanke! Wake, please! Quick! Mr. Milbanke!"

He stared into the darkness for an instant in dazed apprehension; then

he slid out of bed, fumbling blindly for his dressing-gown.

"Coming!" he called. "Coming!"

Having found the garment, he crossed the room stumblingly, thrusting

his arms into the sleeves as he went.

Opening the door, he realised the situation with a sick sinking of the

heart. Clodagh stood in the corridor with a blanched face, holding a

candle in her shaking hand.

"Oh, come, please!" she exclaimed. "Come quick!"

Without a word he stepped forward, and the two hurried down the

passage.

In the sick-room the fire was glowing and additional candles had been

lighted. For a second Milbanke paused at the door; then, as his eyes

grew accustomed to the access of light, the scene became clear to him.

On the bed lay Asshlin, his head partly propped up by pillows, his eyes

wide, his breath coming in slow, difficult gasps; Gallagher was moving

about the room with more quickness and deftness than the Englishman

could have believed possible; Mrs. Asshlin, unnerved, and yet

fascinated, leaned upon the end of the bed; while Nance--crying

silently--followed the nurse to and fro in dazed, half-comprehending

fear; and Hannah, the household factotum, crouched behind the door,

weeping and murmuring inarticulate prayers.

The picture turned Milbanke cold. With an instinctive gesture he

paused, with the intention of shielding it from Clodagh's sight. But at

the very moment that he turned towards her, a convulsion shook the

dying man. He half-lifted himself in bed, his eyes staring wildly; as

Gallagher rushed forward, a faint sound escaped him, his head fell

forward, and his body collapsed in the doctor's arms.

There was a breathless, appalled silence--a silence that seemed to

extend over years. At last Gallagher looked up.

"It's all over," he said in a hushed voice.

For a minute no one spoke, no one moved. It seemed as if the whole room

was petrified. Then Gallagher quietly laid the body back upon the

pillows, and as though the action broke the spell, Clodagh gave a

sudden sharp cry and ran forward to the bed.

CHAPTER V

The three days that followed Asshlin's death resolved themselves into

so many hours of gloom and confusion, that found their culmination in

the funeral ceremony.

To Irishmen of every class, a funeral is invested with an almost

symbolic importance, and a solemn consideration is bestowed upon its

most minute details. And Milbanke, deeply imbued with the horror and

suddenness of the whole disaster, was filled with a growing

astonishment at the numberless preliminaries--the amount of precedence

and prestige requiring consideration--before one poor human body could

be hidden away. But he rose dutifully to the occasion and proved

himself unfailingly patient and conscientious in every emergency, from

the first repugnant interview with the undertaker to the woeful

breakfast, partaken of in the early hours of the funeral morning, with

the curtains drawn across the dining-room windows and the candles in

the massive silver sconces shedding an unnatural light upon the table

laden with eatables.

The guests who partook of this meal were men of varied and interesting

types; but whatever their characteristic differences, it was remarkable

that the same air of responsibility and solemnity inspired them all. It

did not matter that many of them had been personal enemies of the dead

man; that many, with that jealous distrust of unconventionality that

reigns in Ireland, had markedly drawn away from him in the last ten

years of his life; death had obliterated everything. Asshlin's

eccentricities, his lawlessness, his contempt for the little world in

which he lived were all forgotten. He was one of themselves--deserving,

in death at least, the same consideration that the county had bestowed

upon his father, his grandfather, and those who had gone before them.

The faces of these men were unfamiliar to Milbanke, though each on

entering the dining-room shook him cordially and sympathetically by the

hand. The meal was partaken of almost in silence; and it was with

obvious relief that, one after another, the members of the party rose

from table and passed into the darkened hall, and from thence to the

sweep of gravelled drive that fronted the house, where the less

privileged of those who had come to do Asshlin honour lounged singly or

in groups.

The funeral was timed to start at nine; but the concourse of

mourners--well accustomed to the delays inevitable on such an

occasion--evinced no sigh of impatience when half-past nine, and then

ten arrived, and no move had yet been made.

But all things come to those who understand the art of patience. At a

quarter past ten a thrill galvanised the lethargic crowd; and with the

recognition of the great moment for which they waited, the men began to

jostle each other and push forward towards the house, while all hats

were respectively removed.

A faint murmur of admiration and awe went up from the gathering as the

great brass-bound coffin was borne solemnly through the door and laid

upon the open bier. In silence Milbanke and young Laurence Asshlin took

their places as chief mourners, and with the inevitable confusion and

uncertainty of such a moment, the crowd of men and vehicles formed up

behind them, the horses under the bier moved slowly forward, and the

body of Denis Asshlin passed for the last time down the avenue and

through the gates of Orristown.

The funeral over, Milbanke walked back from Carrigmore alone. The

servants, who had followed their master to his resting-place in the old

graveyard, had remained in the village to enjoy the importance that the

occasion lent them; young Asshlin had disappeared at the conclusion of

the burial service; while the daughters and sister-in-law of the dead

man--in accordance with the custom of the country--had remained

secluded in their own rooms at Orristown, appearing neither at the

breakfast nor the funeral.

In a house of death, the hours that succeed the burial are, if

possible, even more melancholy than those that precede it. The

sensations of awe and responsibility have been dispersed, but as yet it

is impossible to resume the commonplace routine of life. As Milbanke

passed through the gateway and walked up the drive, ploughed into new

furrows by the long procession of cars that had followed the coffin, he

was deeply sensitive to this impression; and it fell upon him afresh

with a chill of desolation as he entered the door, still standing open,

and moved slowly across the deserted hall.

In the dining-room the curtains had been drawn back and the candles

extinguished; but the daylight seemed to fall tardily and unnaturally

upon the room after its three days' exclusion. He stood for a moment

looking at the debris of the breakfast that had not yet been removed,

at the disarray of the chairs that had been hurriedly vacated; then,

with a fresh and poignant sense of loss and loneliness, he turned

hastily and walked out of the room.

In the hall he attempted to pause afresh; but the sound of muffled

sobbing from the upper portion of the house sent him incontinently

forth into the open. With an overwhelming desire for human

fellowship--for any companionship in this abode of desolation, he

passed without consideration of his dignity round the corner of the

house in the direction of the stable-yard.

He walked calmly, but there was a pucker of anxiety on his usually

placid brow--an expression of concern, apart from actual sorrow, in his

tightly set lips. To the most casual observer it would have been

obvious that something weighed upon his mind.

Still moving with his habitual precision, he entered the yard by the

arched gateway, picking his way between the scattered array of rubbish,

food, and implements that encumbered the ground.

When he appeared, a dozen rough or glossy heads were thrust out of

kennels or outhouses, as the dogs accorded him a noisy welcome; but

paying only partial heed to their demonstrations, he passed on to the

vast coach-house, with the vague hope that some labourer connected with

the farm or stables might possibly have been left behind in the general

exodus. But here again he was doomed to disappointment. The

coach-house, with its walls festooned with rotting harness, its ghostly

row of cumbersome antiquated vehicles, was as empty of human presence

as the yard itself.

Conscious of the isolation that hung over the place--disproportionately

aware of his own aimlessness, he stood uncertain in what direction to

turn. For the moment, the household had no need of him; there were no

legal formalities to succeed the funeral, Asshlin having left no will;

and of personal duties he had none to claim his attention.

He stood by the coach-house door woefully undecided as to his next

move, when all at once relief came to him from the most unexpected

quarter of the outbuildings. One of the dairy windows was opened

sharply, and a head was thrust through the aperture.

"Wisha, what is it you're doin' there, sir?" a voice demanded kindly.

"Sure that ould yard is no fit place for you!"

Turning hastily, Milbanke saw the broad, plain face of Hannah; her

small eyes red, her rough cheeks stained with weeping.

"Why, Hannah!" he exclaimed, "what are you doing here? I thought you

were at the funeral."

Hannah passed the back of her hand across her eyes.

"Wisha, what would I be doin' at it?" she demanded huskily. "Sure I

don't know what they do be seein' in funerals at all."

Milbanke glanced up with interest, recognising the originality of the

remark.

"Why, you and I are of the same opinion," he said. "The Celtic delight

in the obsequies of a friend has been puzzling me for the last three

days----" Then he paused suddenly, conscious of Hannah's fixed regard.

"That is," he substituted quickly--"that is, I have been wondering,

like you, what they see in it."

Hannah's small, observant eyes did not waver in their scrutiny.

"You've been wonderin' about somethin', sure enough!" she said. "I seen

it meself every time I'd be carryin' in the dinner or doin' a turn for

the poor corpse. God be good to him this holy and blessed day!" Again

she wiped her eyes. "But 'tisn't wonderin' alone that's at you," she

added more briskly. "'Tis some other thing that's lyin' heavy on your

mind. I seen it meself at every hand's turn."

Milbanke started. This sympathetic onslaught was as disconcerting as it

was unexpected.

"I--I won't contradict you, Hannah," he said waveringly. "No doubt you

are right."

For the space of a minute Hannah was profoundly silent; then she

broached the subject that had been filling her mind for a day and a

half.

"Wisha, now, is it thrue what they do be tellin' me?" she asked softly

and warily--"that you're goin' to be father and mother an' all to thim

two poor children?"

Again Milbanke started almost guiltily; then the personal anxiety that

mingled with and almost dominated his grief for Asshlin rose

irrepressibly in response to the persuasive tones, the kindly human

interest and curiosity.

"Yes, Hannah," he said quickly. "Yes, it is my intention to try and

fill my poor friend's place."

The tears welled suddenly into Hannah's eyes, and with an awkward

movement she wiped her rough hand in her apron and held it out.

"God Almighty will give it back to you, sir!" she exclaimed, with

impulsive fervour.

Strangely touched by the expression of understanding and appreciation,

he responded to the gesture and took her hand.

But instantly she withdrew it.

"Don't be mindin' an ould woman like me, sir," she said deprecatingly.

"'Twas the thought of the children that come over me. I couldn't help

it. I had the both of thim in me arms before they could cry. Small

wonder me heart would be in thim! Many's the sad day I put over me,

thinkin' what would become of them, wid the poor masther goin' to the

bad. God forgive me for sayin' it! And sure now 'tis all settled and

done for--and the heavth of it off of our minds. Praise be to God!"

She paused to dry her tears.

"And what would you be thinkin' to do wid thim?" she asked presently in

a new and more personal tone.

Milbanke did not answer at once. His eyes strayed uneasily from one

object in the yard to another, while the frown of perplexity that had

puckered his brow since Asshlin's death reappeared more prominently

than before. At last, with a certain expression of puzzled resolution,

he looked up and met Hannah's attentive gaze.

"To tell you the truth, Hannah," he said, "that is the precise question

I have been asking myself ever since your poor master died."

There was a wait of some seconds while his listener digested the

information; then she nodded her head with slow impressiveness.

"I seen it meself," she said again. "Sure, I seen it as plain as

daylight. 'There's somethin' on his mind,' I says to meself. An' if it

isn't the poor masther's death,' I says, 'thin it's nothin' more nor

less than the natural feelin's of a single gentleman that finds himself

wid two grown daughters.'"

It was characteristic of Milbanke that he did not smile. He recognised

only one fact in the old servant's words--the fact that the state of

affairs over which he had been worrying in lonely perplexity had

suddenly been accurately, if roughly, voiced by some one else. He

glanced up with quick relief into the round, red face framed in the

dairy window.

"Hannah," he said honestly, "your surmise was perfectly correct."

For the first time a smile broke over her tear-stained face.

"I was right thin? 'Tis the children was troublin' you?"

A sharp gleam of inquiry shot from her eyes.

"Yes," he answered simply.

"An' why, now?" Again her tone changed, the irrepressible undercurrent

of native humour, native inquisitiveness and familiarity welling out

unconsciously. "Sure, they're good children."

"I do not doubt it. I do not doubt it for one moment."

"But they're troublin' you all the same?"

"Well, yes. Yes, I confess they are troubling me."

"Both of thim?" she asked innocently.

He hesitated.

"Well, no," he replied artlessly. "No, not both of them."

"Ah, I thought that same!" Hannah gave a nod of understanding. "Sure,

'twas to be tormentin' men she was brought into the world for. I said

so meself the first day I took her into me arms."

"But--but I haven't said anything. How do you know that it is----?"

"How do I know that it's Miss Clodagh that's botherin' you? Sure, how

do I know that you're standin' before me? Faith, by the use of me

eyesight! Haven't I seen you lookin' at her and ponderin'--and lookin'

at her agin?"

Milbanke's lips tightened, and he drew himself up.

"I should be sorry if any thought I have bestowed on your young

mistress----" he began coldly; then suddenly the intense need of help

and sympathetic counsel over-balanced dignity. "Hannah," he said

abruptly, "I'm in a terribly awkward position, and that is the simple

truth. My mind is quite at rest about the younger girl. She is a

child--and will be a child for years. A good school is all she needs.

But with the other it's different--with Clodagh it's different. Clodagh

is no longer a child."

Hannah remained discreetly silent.

"If I had a sister," he went on, "or any friend to whom I could entrust

her. But I have none."

Again Hannah shook her head.

"Why, thin, that's a pity!" she murmured. "Sure, 'tis lonesome for a

gintleman to be by himself."

"It is a pity--a great pity. You do not know how it is weighing upon

me. Of course, there is her aunt----"

Hannah made an exclamation of horror.

"Is it Mrs. Laurence?" she cried. "Is it tie her to Mrs. Laurence you

would? Sure, you may as well put her in the grave and be done wid it."

Milbanke's harassed face grew more perplexed.

"No," he said hurriedly--"no; I understand that that arrangement is

impossible. I was merely wondering whether there is any other--any more

distant relative with whom she might be happy----"

He looked anxiously into her broad, shrewd face.

For a moment the small eyes met his seriously, then involuntarily they

twinkled.

"Faith, when I was a young woman, sir," she said slowly, "men wasn't so

sat on findin' relations for a girl like Miss Clodagh--unless maybe

'twas a relation of their own makin'!"

Milbanke suddenly looked away.

"What--what do you mean?" he asked confusedly.

"Why, that 'tisn't aunts and cousins that a girl like Miss Clodagh

wants, but a good husband."

"A--a husband?"

"Why, thin, what else? Instid of throublin' yourself and frettin'

yourself till your heart is scalded out of you, why don't you marry her?

That's what _I've_ been askin' meself ever since the poor masther died.

It's out now, if I'm to be killed for it!"

She eyed him almost defiantly.

But Milbanke stood stammering and confused, his gaze fixed nervously on

the ground, an unaccustomed flush on his worn cheeks.

"But--but, Hannah, I--I am an old man!"

His tone was deprecating and meant to be ironic; but unconsciously it

had an undernote of question; unconsciously, as he raised his eyes to

his mentor's face, he straightened the shoulders that age and study had

combined to bend.

"I am an old man!" he said again. "Why--why, I am five years older than

her father----"

Hannah continued to search his face.

"An' sure what harm is that?" she said. "Wasn't me own poor man as ould

as me grandfather?--an' no woman ever buried a finer husband--God rest

him!"

Milbanke's lack of humorous imagination stood him in good stead.

"But she's a child," he stammered--"a child----"

For answer, Hannah leant out of the window until her face was close to

his.

"Listen here to me!" she said softly. "Child or no child, you thought

about marryin' her before ever I said it. But you'd never riz the

courage to do it. You're not like the Asshlins, that would tear down

the walls of hell if they wanted to be gettin' at the divil; you'd like

somebody to take him be the hand and draw him out nice and aisy for

you----

"There she is up in that lonesome house, frettin' her heart an' cryin'

her eyes out. Why can't you go up an' take her, before somebody else

does?"

As she came to the last words her rough voice dropped. Her loyalty to

her dead master, her anxiety to see his child in a place of safety

poured from her in crude eloquence. To her primitive mind Milbanke

appeared as the ideal husband--a man of dependable years, of wealth, of

good social position; and all her affections, all her energies yearned

to make the marriage. She could not have framed the fear that possessed

her; but her instinct, her acute native intuition warned her

unanswerably that the daughter of Denis Asshlin would need protection,

and would need it before long. With an impulsive gesture she stretched

out her hand, and, touching Milbanke's shoulder, pushed him gently

forward into the yard.

"Go on, sir!" she urged softly. "Go on up an' take her, before somebody

else does!"

CHAPTER VI

It may be surmised without fear of misconception that never during the

smooth course of his uneventful existence had Milbanke been so rudely

shaken into self-comprehension as by Hannah's unlooked-for onslaught.

Left to the placid guidance of unaided instinct, it is almost certain

that he would have left Orristown whenever the hour of departure

arrived, innocently unconscious that any parting pangs could be

attributed to a personal cause. It is possible that, with the passage

of time, he might have acknowledged that somewhere in the inner

recesses of his mind there was a shrine where one face, more changeful

and alluring than any other he had known, reigned in solitary state;

but beyond that tardy acknowledgment he would not have dared to

venture. Later still, perhaps, if circumstances had compelled him to

resign his guardianship over Clodagh in favour of some possible

husband, it is within the bounds of reason to conjecture that

understanding of his feelings might have come to him when, having said

good-bye to the young girl just crossing the threshold of life, he

returned to his home, newly and bitterly alive to his age and

loneliness. But now, in the light of present events, all such

suppositions had become valueless. As if by some powerful outside

pressure, his eyes had been opened, and he stood dazed and elated

before the new road that opened upon his vision.

His brain felt light and unsteady, his limbs were imbued with a

sensation of unaccustomed buoyancy as he turned, impelled by Hannah's

words, and moved across the yard towards the arched gateway. A

half-admitted, intoxicating sense of imminent action possessed him; and

as he walked forward it seemed that he scarcely felt the ground beneath

his feet.

Almost without volition, he passed from the stone-paved courtyard into

the sweep of gravelled pathway that fronted the house. For the first

time in his existence he was conscious of being borne forward on the

tide of his emotions; and the knowledge had an exhilarating, unbalanced

daring that suggested youth.

As though he feared the evaporation of his mood, he made no pause on

gaining the pathway, but went straight forward towards the house with a

haste and impetuosity very foreign to his formal nature. On his second

entry into the hall, he paid no heed to the chill desolation of the

place, but crossing the intervening space, began immediately to mount

the stairs.

Scarcely had he reached the highest step, however, than he halted

incontinently. For, as though in direct response to the thoughts that

were filling his mind, a door on the corridor opened, and Clodagh

appeared.

Seeing him, she too paused; and in the moment of mutual hesitation he

had opportunity to study her.

In her new black dress, she looked slighter and more immature than he

had expected; and the pathetic effect of her appearance was enhanced by

the paleness of her face and the heavy, purple shadows that

sleeplessness and tears had traced below her eyes. As the impression

obtruded itself upon him, his own nervous excitement dropped from him

suddenly.

"My poor child!" he said involuntarily.

At the words and the tone, she turned to him impulsively.

"Oh! Mr. Milbanke----" she began.

Then her loneliness, her sense of bereavement and desolation, inundated

her mind. With a short sob, she moved abruptly away, and turning her

face to the wall, broke into a passion of tears.

The action was the action of a child; and without hesitation Milbanke

responded to it. Stepping across the corridor, he put his arm about her

shoulder and drew her gently towards the stairs.

"Come!" he said soothingly--"come! The house is quite quiet, and you

are badly in want of a little daylight and fresh air. Come! Let me take

you out."

Clodagh sobbed on; but she suffered herself to be led down the stairs

and across the hall towards the open door. There, however, she paused,

newly arrested by her grief.

"Oh, Mr. Milbanke," she cried, "I can't believe it! I can't believe

that we'll never see him again. Poor father! Oh, poor father!"

But Milbanke was equal to the situation.

"You must be brave," he said kindly. "You must remember that he would

like you to be brave."

The words were an inspiration; with marvellous efficacy they checked

the torrent of Clodagh's tears. For a moment she stood looking at him

in a dazed, uncertain way; then she lifted her head in a pathetic

attempt at decisive action.

"You are right," she said unevenly. "He _would_ like to know that I was

brave."

The declaration seemed to cost her an immense effort; for instantly it

was made, she turned away from Milbanke, freeing herself from his

detaining arm. And as though fearing to trust herself to any further

onrush of emotion, she stepped through the open door and walked quickly

forward to where the gravelled drive merged into the long and narrow

glen in which the Orristown woods met the sea.

Down the wide track leading to this glen she walked, with head rigidly

erect and with resolutely set lips, while Milbanke followed. Now that

the immediate need for his protection had been removed, his mind

involuntarily reverted to his earlier and more tumultuous thoughts.

With a strange, half-timid excitement, he acknowledged the personal

element in his surroundings, and exulted with a certain tremulous joy

in the keen air that blew inland from the sea; in the pleasant earthy

smell of the moss that clothed the rough stones of the boundary wall

skirting the path; in the promise of spring, suggested by the hardy

green of the wild violet plants clustering at the roots of the beech

trees. And with his eyes fixed upon Clodagh's slim black figure, he

walked forward in a vaguely intoxicating dream.

For the full course of the path she went on steadily; but reaching the

glen, she paused; and there, as if by a pre-arrangement of destiny,

Milbanke overtook her.

With a quiet, unostentatious movement he stepped to her side, and stood

looking upon the scene that spread before them.

The view was not imposing, but it was beautiful with the brooding,

solemn beauty that emanates from Ireland. Upon one hand, the sea

stretched away green, invincible, and cold as it so often looks in

early spring; upon the other, the woods lay a mass of leafless,

interlacing boughs that formed a clean, brown silhouette against the

grey sky; while directly in front, the first undulation of the rugged

Orristown cliffs stood up, an impregnable rampart against the outer

world.

For a long silent moment Clodagh surveyed the picture; then with one of

the impulsive, unstudied gestures that were so characteristic of her,

she looked round; and for the first time since they had left the house,

her eyes rested on Milbanke's face.

"You are very kind to me," she said suddenly. "Why are you so kind?"

The words, spoken with complete ingenuousness, came at a singularly

appropriate moment. To Milbanke, nervously conscious of his own

emotions, they seemed inspired. With a quick, unsteady gesture he

wheeled round, and putting out his hand, caught hers.

"It--it is easy to be kind to some people," he said, almost

inarticulately.

Clodagh looked at him in some surprise; but it did not occur to her to

withdraw her hand. She stood perfectly calm and unembarrassed; and

presently, as he made no attempt at further speech, her glance wandered

back to the cool stretch of green water.

"Yes," she said slowly, "I suppose it is easy to be nice to some

people; but not to selfish people like me."

At her words, Milbanke's hand tightened abruptly.

"You must not say that," he murmured. "I have never seen any faults

in your character. And even--even if I had"--his voice quickened

confusedly--"even if I had seen them, you would still be the--the child

of my oldest friend."

He spoke disjointedly and agitatedly; but at his words, Clodagh turned

to him afresh with a grateful, impulsive movement.

"Ah, then I understand!" she said warmly. "You are very kind--you are

very good----"

At her movement and her tone, a mental giddiness seized upon Milbanke.

A flush rose to his temples.

"Clodagh," he said suddenly, "let me be kind to you always! Let--let me

marry you--and be kind to you always!"

The appeal came forth with volcanic suddenness. He had not meant to be

precipitate; it was entirely alien to his slow, methodical nature to

plunge headlong into any situation. But the occasion was unprecedented;

circumstances overwhelmed him. For a long space he stood as if

transfixed, his eyes straining to catch the expression on Clodagh's

face, his pale, ascetic features puckered with anxiety.

The pause was long--preternaturally long. Clodagh stood as motionless

as he, her hand still resting passive in his clasp, her clear eyes

staring into his in stupefied amazement. It was plainly evident that no

realisation of the declaration just made had penetrated her

understanding. To her mind--unattuned, even vaguely, to the idea of

love, and temporarily numbed by her grief--the thought that her

father's friend could consider her in any light but that of a child was

too preposterous, too unreal to come spontaneously. The belief that

Milbanke's extraordinary words but needed some explanatory addition

held her attentive and expectant. And under this conviction, she stood

unconscious of his close regard and unembarrassed by the pressure of

his hand.

At last, as some shadowy perception of her thoughts obtruded itself

upon him, he stirred nervously, and the flush upon his face deepened.

"Clodagh," he said, "have I made myself plain? Do you understand that

I--that I wish to marry you? That I want you for my--my wife?"

The final word with its intense incongruity cut suddenly through the

mist of her bewilderment. In a flash of comprehension the meaning of

his declaration sprang to her mind. Her face turned red, then pale;

with a sharp movement she drew away her hand.

"You want to marry me?" she said in a slow, amazed voice.

Before the note of blank, undisguised incredulity, Milbanke shrank into

himself.

"Yes," he said hurriedly--"yes; that is my desire. I know that perhaps

it may--may seem incongruous. You are very young; and I----"

He hesitated with a painful touch of embarrassment. At the hesitation,

Clodagh's voice broke forth.

"But I don't want to marry," she cried; "I don't want to marry--any

one."

There was a sharp, half-frightened note audible in her voice. For the

moment, her whole attitude was that of the inexperienced being who

clings instinctively to the rock of present things, and obstinately

refuses to be cast into the sea of future possibilities. For the

moment, she was blind to the instrument that was forcing her towards

those possibilities. To her immature mind it was the choice between the

known and the unknown. Then suddenly and accidentally her eyes came

back to Milbanke's face, and the personal element in the choice

assailed her abruptly.

"Oh, I couldn't!" she cried involuntarily--"I couldn't!--I couldn't!"

She did not intend to hurt him; but cruelty is the prerogative of the

young, and she failed to see that he winced before the decisive honesty

of her words.

"Am I so--so very distasteful?" he asked in a low, unsteady voice.

She looked at him in silence. It was the inevitable clash of youth and

age. She was warm-hearted, she was capable of generous action; but

before all else, she was young--the triumphant inheritor of the ages.

Life stretched before her, while it lay behind him. She looked at him;

and as she looked a wave of revolt--a strong, sudden sense of her

individual right to happiness--surged through her.

"Oh, I couldn't!" she cried again--"I couldn't!"

And before Milbanke could reply--before he had time to comprehend the

purport of her words--she had turned and fled in the direction of the

house, leaving him standing as he was, dazed and petrified.

Upward along the path, Clodagh ran. Her impulse towards flight had been

childish, and her thoughts as she sped forward were as unreasonable and

confused as a child's. She was vaguely, blindly filled with a desire to

escape--from she knew not what; to evade--she knew not what. Her one

clear thought was that the prop upon which she had leaned in these days

of sorrow and despair had unaccountably and suddenly been withdrawn;

and that she stood woefully alone and unprotected.

On she ran, until the archway of the courtyard broke into view; then,

without a moment's hesitation, she swerved to the left, sped across the

yard, and burst unceremoniously into the kitchen.

In the kitchen Hannah was busying herself over the fire that, in the

confusion of the morning's event, had been suffered to die down. At the

tempestuous opening of the door she turned sharply round, and for a

second stood staring at the disturbed face of her young mistress; then,

with the intuitive tact of her race, she suddenly opened her ample

arms, and with a sob Clodagh rushed towards her.

For a long moment Hannah held her as if she had been a baby, patting

her shoulder and smoothing her ruffled hair, while she cried out her

grief and bewilderment. At last, with a slow sobbing breath, she raised

her head.

"Oh, Hannah, I want father!" she said--"I want father!"

Hannah drew her closer to her broad shoulder.

"Whisht, now!" she murmured tenderly--"whisht, now! Sure, he's betther

off--sure, he's betther off."

But Clodagh's mind was too agitated to take comfort. With a change of

mental attitude, she altered her physical position--freeing herself

abruptly from Hannah's embrace.

"Hannah," she cried suddenly, "Mr. Milbanke wants me to marry him. And

I won't! I can't! I won't!"

Hannah's eyes narrowed sharply. But whatever her emotion, she checked

it, and bent over her charge with another caress.

"Sure you won't, of course, my lamb. Who'd be askin' you?"

"No one."

"Thin why would you be frettin' yourself?"

"I'm not fretting myself. Only----"

"Only what?"

"Only---- Oh! nothing, nothing." With a distressed movement Clodagh

pushed back her hair from her forehead. Then she turned to the old

servant afresh. "Hannah," she demanded, "why does he want to marry me?

Why does he want to?"

Hannah was silent for a space; then her shrewd, ugly face puckered into

an expression of profound wisdom.

"Men are quare," she said oracularly. "The oulder, the quarer. Maybe

he's thinkin' of himself in the matther; but maybe"--her voice dropped

impressively--"maybe, Miss Clodagh, 'tis the way he's thinkin' of

you----"

She paused with deep significance.

The effort after effect was not wasted. Clodagh looked up sharply.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"Mane?" Hannah turned away, and, picking up a poker, began softly to

rake the ashes from the fire. "Sure, what would I be manin'?"

"But you do mean something. What is it?"

Hannah went on with her task.

Clodagh stamped her foot.

"Hannah, what is it?"

"Nothin'. Sure, nothin' at all. I'm only sayin' what quare notions men

takes."

"But you mean something else. What is it?"

Hannah stolidly continued to rake out the remnants of the fire.

"I know nothin'," she said obstinately. "Ask Mrs. Laurence."

"But you do. I know by your voice. What is it?"

An alert, unconscious note of apprehension had crept into Clodagh's

tone. Her lips suddenly tightened, her eyes became wide.

"What is it, Hannah?" she exclaimed. "What's the reason he wants to

marry me?"

"Sure no rason at all."

"Oh!"

Clodagh made a gesture of anger and disgust. Then she made a fresh

appeal.

"Hannah, please----"

But Hannah went on with her work. Years of shrewd observation had

taught her the power of silence.

"Then you won't tell me?"

There was no response.

"Hannah!"

At last the old servant turned, as though pressed beyond endurance.

"Well," she said, with seeming reluctance, "maybe he'd be thinkin'

'twould be aisier for wan of the Asshlins to be drawin' out of her

husband's pocket than to be----"

But Clodagh interrupted. She turned suddenly, her cheeks burning, her

eyes ablaze.

"Hannah!" she cried in sharp, pained alarm.

But Hannah had said her say. With her old, imperturbable gesture she

turned once more to her task.

"I know nothin'," she murmured obstinately. "If you're wantin' more,

ask Mrs. Laurence."

For a while Clodagh stood, transfixed by the idea presented to her

mind. Then, action and certainty becoming suddenly indispensable, she

turned on her heel. "Very well!" she said tersely--"very well! I will

ask Aunt Fan."

And with as scant ceremony as she had entered it, she swept out of the

kitchen.

As the door banged, Hannah glanced over her shoulder, her red face

brimming with tenderness.

"Wisha, 'tis all for the best!" she murmured aloud--"'tis all for the

best. But God forgive me for hurtin' a hair of her head!"

With feet that scarcely felt the ground beneath them, Clodagh sped

along the stone passages that led to the hall, and from thence ascended

to the bedrooms. Her senses were acutely alive, her mind alert with an

unbearable apprehension. A new dread that, by the power of intuition,

had almost become a certainty impelled her forward without the

conscious action of her will. Without any hesitancy or indecision, she

traversed the long corridor, and, pausing before the room occupied by

her aunt, knocked peremptorily upon the door.

After a moment's wait Mrs. Asshlin's querulous voice was raised in

response.

"Well?" she asked. "What is it? Who's there?"

"Clodagh."

There was an audible sigh. And the usual "Come in!" followed somewhat

tardily.

Clodagh instantly turned the handle and opened the door.

In this room the blinds had not yet been drawn up, and only a yellowish

light filtered in from outside; in the grate a fire burned unevenly;

and close beside sat Mrs. Asshlin, a cup of tea in her hand, a black

woollen shawl wrapped about her shoulders. As her niece entered, she

glanced round irritably, drawing the wrap more closely round her.

"Shut the door, Clodagh!" she said. "I hate these big, draughty

houses."

Clodagh obeyed in silence; then walking deliberately across the room,

paused by her aunt's chair. Her face was still burning, her heart was

beating unpleasantly fast.

"Aunt Fan," she said, "I want to ask you something. Why should Mr.

Milbanke bother about me--about us?"

Mrs. Asshlin, startled by the suddenness of the unlooked-for attack,

turned in her seat and peered through the yellow twilight into her

niece's excited face.

"What on earth is the matter with you, child?" she demanded.

"Nothing. But I want to know."

Mrs. Asshlin made a gesture tantamount to shrugging her shoulders.

"It is quite natural that Mr. Milbanke should be interested in you. He

was your father's oldest friend."

"Yes, yes." Clodagh bent forward uncontrollably. "And, Aunt Fan, has

father died poor? Has--has he left debts? That's what I want to know."

Mrs. Asshlin moved nervously in her chair.

"My dear child----" she began weakly.

"Has he? Oh! Aunt Fan, has he left debts?"

Mrs. Asshlin was taken at a disadvantage.

"Well," she stammered--"well----"

"He has left debts?"

"Well, yes. If you must know--he has."

Clodagh caught her breath.

"Of course, as I often said," Mrs. Asshlin continued, "poor Denis was a

terribly improvident man----"

But Clodagh checked her.

"Don't!" she said faintly. "I couldn't bear it--just to-day. Are the

debts big?"

"Immense."

Mrs. Asshlin made the reply sharply. She was not an ill-natured woman,

but her sense of dignity had been hurt.

As the word was spoken, Clodagh swayed a little. The black cloud of

vague liabilities that hangs over so many Irish houses had suddenly

descended upon her. And in the consequent shock, it seemed that the

ground rocked under her feet. After a moment she steadied herself.

"Must the place go?" she asked in an intensely quiet voice.

"Yes. At least----"

"What?"

"It would have had to go, only----"

"Only for what?" In her keen anxiety Clodagh stooped forward and laid

her hand on her aunt's shoulder. "Only for what, Aunt Fan?"

Shaken and unnerved at the interrogation, Mrs. Asshlin sat up with a

start.

"Why do you do that, Clodagh?" she cried--"why do you do that? You gave

me a palpitation of the heart."

But Clodagh's eyes still burned with inquiry.

"Why won't the place have to go?" she demanded. "How will the debts be

paid?"

Mrs. Asshlin freed herself nervously from her niece's hand.

"Mr. Milbanke will pay them," she said impulsively; then instantly she

checked herself. "Oh! what have I said?" she exclaimed. "Don't pretend

that I told you, Clodagh. He is so particular that you shouldn't know."

But Clodagh scarcely heard. Her hand had dropped to her side, and she

stood staring blankly at her aunt.

"You mean to say that he's going to pay father's debts--our debts?"

"Yes. He even wants to put the place into good repair. Poor Denis seems

to have cast a perfect spell over him."

"Then we'll owe him something we can never possibly repay!"

Mrs. Asshlin drew herself up.

"Not exactly owe," she corrected. "It is an--an act of friendship. The

Asshlins have never been indebted to any one for a favour. Of course

Mr. Milbanke is a wealthy man; and it's easy to be generous when you

have money----"

She heaved a sigh.

But Clodagh stood staring vacantly at the opposite wall.

"It's a debt all the same," she said, after a long pause. "I suppose it

is what father used to call a debt of honour."

She spoke in a slow, mechanical voice; then, as if moved to action by

her train of thought, she turned without waiting for her aunt's

comment, and walked out of the room.

Traversing the corridor, she descended the stairs and passed straight

to the hall door. Once in the open, she wheeled to the right with a

steady deliberate movement and began slowly to retrace the steps she

had taken nearly half an hour earlier.

Steadily and unemotionally she went forward, skirting the courtyard,

until, at the dip of the path, the glen came into view, and with it

Milbanke's precise, black figure, standing exactly as she had seen it

last.

The fact caused her no surprise. That he should still be there seemed

the natural--the anticipated thing; and without any pause--any moment

of hesitation or delay--she moved directly towards him.

As she reached his side, her cheeks were hot, her heart was still

beating unevenly; and, absorbed by her own emotion, she failed to see

the dejected droop of his shoulders, the slight, pathetic suggestion of

age in his bent back.

Her footsteps were scarcely audible on the damp earth, and she was

close beside him before he became conscious of her presence; as he did

so, however, he started violently, and the blood rushed incontinently

over his forehead and cheeks.

"Clodagh!" he stammered.

But Clodagh checked him, laying her hand quickly on his arm.

"Mr. Milbanke," she said hurriedly, "will you forgive me for what I

said? I want to take it back. I want to say that, if you still like,

I--I will marry you."

CHAPTER VII

And thus it came about that Clodagh Asshlin entered upon a new phase of

that precarious condition that we call life. The impulse that had

induced her to accept Milbanke's proposal was in no way complex. The

knowledge had suddenly been conveyed to her that, through no act of her

own, she had been placed under a deep obligation; and her primary--her

inherited--instinct had been to pay her debt as speedily and as fully

as lay within her power, ignoring, in her lack of worldly wisdom, the

fact that such a bargain must of necessity possess obligations other

than personal, which would demand subsequent settlement.

However unversed she may be in the world's ways, it is scarcely to be

supposed that any young girl, under normal conditions, can look upon

her own marriage as an abstract thing. But the circumstances of

Clodagh's case were essentially abnormal. Milbanke's proposal--and the

facts that brought her to accept it--came at a time when her mind and

her emotions were numbed by her first poignant encounter with death and

grief; and for the time being her outlook upon existence was clouded.

The present seemed something sombre, desolate, and impalpable; the

future something absolutely void.

For two days after the scene in the glen, she and Milbanke avoided all

allusion to what had taken place between them. He appeared possessed by

an insurmountable nervous reticence; while she, immersed in her

trouble, seemed almost to have forgotten what had occurred.

On the evening of the third day, however, the subject was again

broached.

Milbanke was sitting by one of the long, dining-room windows, reading

by the faint twilight that filtered in from the fast-darkening sky. The

light in the room was fitful; for though the table was already laid for

dinner, the candles had not yet been lighted.

With his book held close to his eyes, he had been reading studiously

for close upon an hour, when the quick opening of the door behind him

caused him to look round. As he did so, he closed his book somewhat

hastily and rose with a slight gesture of embarrassment, for the

disturber of his peace was Clodagh. But it was not so much the fact of

her entry that had startled him, as the fact that, for the first time

since her father's death, she was arrayed in her riding-habit.

Shaken out of his calm, he turned to her at once.

"Are you--are you going for a ride?" he asked in unconcealed surprise.

Clodagh nodded. She was drawing on her thick chamois gloves, and her

riding-crop was held under her arm. Had the light in the room been

stronger, he would have seen that her lips were firmly set and her eyes

bright with resolution. But his mind was absorbed by his surprise.

"But is it not rather--late?" he hazarded anxiously, with a glance

towards the window.

She looked up astonished.

"Late?" she repeated incredulously.

Then the look of faintly contemptuous tolerance that sometimes touched

her with regard to him passed over her face.

"Oh no; not at all!" she explained. "I'm used to riding in the evening.

You see, Polly must be exercised; and I'd rather it was dark, the first

time I rode after----"

Her voice faltered.

Milbanke heard the tremor, and, as once before, his sense of personal

timidity fled before his spontaneous pity.

"Clodagh," he said suddenly, "allow me to ride with you. I was a fairly

good horseman in--in my day."

There was pathos in the deprecating justification; but Clodagh's

attention was caught by the words alone.

"You!" she said in blank amazement.

Then something in the crudeness of her tone struck upon her, and she

made haste to amend her exclamation.

"Of course it's very, very kind of you," she added awkwardly.

At her lowered tone, Milbanke coloured, and took a step forward.

"Clodagh," he began, with a flash of courage, "I think you might allow

me to be more kind to you than you do. I think I might give you more

protection. And it has occurred to me that perhaps we ought to announce

our--our engagement----"

He halted nervously.

As soon as he had begun to speak, Clodagh had walked away from him

across the room; and now she stood by the mantelpiece looking down

steadily into the fire.

"Do you agree with me?" he asked, moving nervously towards her.

There was an embarrassed silence. And in his perturbation he glanced

from her bent head to the picture above the chimneypiece from which

Anthony Asshlin's ardent face showed out a vague patch of colour

against its black background.

"Clodagh," he said suddenly, "allow me to tell Mrs. Asshlin that you

have promised to marry me."

But still Clodagh did not answer; still she stood gazing enigmatically

into the burning logs, her slight figure and warm youthful face

fitfully lighted by the capricious, spurting flames.

"Clodagh!" he exclaimed. And there was a note of uneasiness in his low,

deprecating voice.

Then at last she turned, and their eyes met.

"Very well!" she said quietly. "You may tell Aunt Fan. But, if you

don't mind, I'll ride by myself."

That night, at the conclusion of dinner, the engagement was announced.

All the members of the Asshlin family were seated round the table when

Milbanke, who had practically eaten nothing during the meal, summoned

his wavering courage and leaned across the table towards Mrs. Asshlin,

who was sitting at his right hand.

"Mrs. Asshlin," he began almost inaudibly, "I--that is, Clodagh and

I"--he glanced timidly to where Clodagh sat erect and immovable, at the

head of the table--"Clodagh and I have--have an announcement to make.

We, that is I----" He stammered hopelessly. "Mrs. Asshlin, Clodagh has

made me very--very proud and very happy. She has consented to--to be my

wife."

He took a deep, agitated breath of wordless relief that the confession

was made.

There was a long pause. Then suddenly Mrs. Asshlin extended both hands

towards him in an hysterical outburst of feeling.

"My dear--dear Mr. Milbanke," she said. "What a shock! What a surprise,

I should say! What would my poor brother-in-law have thought! But

Providence ordains everything. I'm sure I congratulate you--congratulate

you both." She turned to Clodagh. "Though of course it is not the time

for congratulations----" She hastily drew out her handkerchief.

As she did so, little Nance rose softly from table and slipped

unobserved from the room. At Milbanke's words, the child's face had

turned terribly white, and she had cast an appealing, incredulous look

at Clodagh. But Clodagh, in her self-imposed stolidity, had seen

nothing of the expressions round her; and now, as her sister left her

place and crossed the room, the significance of the action went

unnoticed.

For a moment the only sound audible in the room was the cracking of the

fire and Mrs. Asshlin's muffled weeping; but at last, Milbanke,

agonised into action, put out his hand and touched her arm.

"Please do not give way to your feelings, Mrs. Asshlin!" he urged.

"Think--think of Clodagh!"

Thus appealed to, Mrs. Asshlin wiped away the half-dozen tears that had

trickled down her cheek.

"You must forgive me," she murmured. "We Irish take things too much to

heart. It--it brought my own engagement back to me--and of course my

poor Laurence's death. I hope indeed that it will be a very long time

before Clodagh----"

But the words were broken by a clatter from the other side of the

table, as young Laurence Asshlin opportunely knocked one wine-glass

against another. And in the moment of interruption, Clodagh pushed back

her chair and stood up.

"If you don't mind, Aunt Fan," she said, "I think I'll go to bed.

The--the ride has tired me. Good-night!" And without a glance at any

one, she walked out of the room.

But she had scarcely crossed the hall, when a step behind her caused

her to pause; and, looking back, she saw the figure of her cousin, a

pace or two in the rear.

In the half light of the place, the two confronted each other; and

Clodagh lifted her head in a movement that was common to them both.

"What do you want?" she asked.

Asshlin stepped forward.

"'Tisn't true, Clo?" he asked breathlessly.

Clodagh looked at him defiantly and nodded.

"Yes," she said. "'Tis true."

For a moment he stared at her incredulously, then his incredulity drove

him to speech.

"But, Clo," he cried, "he's sixty, if he's a day! And you----"

Clodagh flushed.

"Stop, Larry!" she said unevenly. "Father was nearly sixty."

But Asshlin's sense of the fitness of things had been aroused.

"That's all very well!" he cried. "Uncle Denis was all right for a

father or an uncle. But to marry! Clo, you're mad!"

Clodagh turned upon him.

"How dare you, Larry?" she cried. "You are horrible! I hate you!"

Her voice caught, and with a sudden passionate gesture she wheeled away

from him and began to mount the stairs.

The action sobered him. With impetuous remorse, he thrust out his hand

to detain her.

"Clo!" he said. "I say, Clo!"

But she swept his hand aside.

"No!--no!" she exclaimed. "I don't want you!--I don't want you! I never

want to speak to you again. You are hateful--detestable----"

With a swift movement, she pushed past his outstretched arm and flew up

the stairs.

In her bedroom Hannah was hovering about between the washstand and

dressing-table, a lighted candle in one hand, a carafe of water in the

other. At the sight of her mistress she laid both her burdens down with

a cry of delight.

"My darlin'!" she exclaimed. "An' is it thrue? Tim heard the word of it

an' he carryin' the cheese out of the dinin'-room; but sure I wouldn't

belave him----"

But Clodagh checked her.

"Don't be a fool, Hannah!" she cried, almost fiercely; and turning her

face from the old servant's scrutinising eyes, she walked across the

room towards the bed.

For a moment Hannah stood like an ungainly statue; then she nodded to

herself--a nod of profound and silent wisdom--and tip-toeing out of the

room, closed the door behind her.

Instantly she was alone, Clodagh began to undress. With hysterical

impetuosity she tore off each garment and threw it untidily upon the

floor; then slipping into bed, she buried her hot face in the pillows

and burst into a violent, unreasoning torrent of tears.

For ten minutes she cried unceasingly; then the storm of her misery was

checked. The door handle was very softly turned, and little Nance stole

into the room.

She entered eagerly, then paused, frightened by the scene before her;

but her hesitation was very brief. With a sudden movement of resolution

she sped across the space that divided her from the bed, and laid a

cold, tremulous hand on Clodagh's shoulder.

"Clo," she said, "is it true? Are you going to marry him? Are you going

away from here?" Her voice sounded thin and far away.

Clodagh raised herself on one elbow, and looked at her sister. Her face

was flushed, her eyes were preternaturally bright.

"Why do you want to know?" she demanded angrily. "Why is everybody

bothering me like this? Can't I do what I like? Can't I marry if I

like?"

Her voice rose excitedly. Then suddenly she caught sight of Nance's

quivering, wistful little face; and her anger melted. With a warm,

quick movement, she held out her arms.

"Nance!" she cried wildly--"little Nance!--the only person in the world

that I really love!"

CHAPTER VIII

That night Clodagh fell asleep with her wet cheek pressed against her

sister's, and her arms clasped closely round her.

Next morning she woke calmed and soothed by her outburst of the night

before; and after breakfast she was able to enter into the primary

discussion concerning her marriage without any show of emotion. The

conclave, at which she, her aunt, and Milbanke alone were present, took

place in the drawing-room and was of a weighty and solemn character.

The first suggestion was put forward by Mrs. Asshlin, who, with the

native distaste for all hurried and definite action, pleaded that an

engagement of six months at least would be demanded by the

conventionalities before a marriage could take place; but here, to the

surprise of his listeners, Milbanke displayed a fresh gleam of the

determination and firmness that had inspired him during the days of

sickness and death. With a reasonableness that could not be gainsaid,

he refuted and disposed of Mrs. Asshlin's arguments; and, with a daring

born of his new position, made the startling proposal that the wedding

ceremony should be performed within the shortest possible time; and

that, to obviate all difficulties, Clodagh and he should leave Ireland

immediately, journeying to Italy to take up their residence in the

villa that he had already rented at Florence for his own use.

Immediately the suggestion was made, Mrs. Asshlin broke forth in

irresistible objection.

"Oh, but what would people say?" she cried. "Think of what people would

say, with the funeral scarcely over."

Milbanke looked at her gravely. His matter-of-fact mind was as far as

ever from comprehending the ramifications of the Irish character.

"But, my dear Mrs. Asshlin," he urged, "do you think we need really

consider whether people talk or not? Surely we who knew and loved poor

Denis----"

"Oh, it isn't that! No one knows better than I do what a friend you

have been----"

Milbanke stirred uncomfortably.

"Please do not speak of it. I--I did no more than any Christian would

have done. What I mean to suggest----"

But again she interrupted.

"Yes, yes; I know. But we must consider the county--we must consider

the county."

But here Clodagh, who was standing by the window, turned swiftly round.

"Why must we?" she asked. "The county never remembered father till he

was dead. If I'm going to be married, it's all the same to me whether

it's in three weeks or three months or three years."

Milbanke coloured--not quite sure whether the declaration was

propitious or the reverse.

"Certainly!--certainly!" he broke in nervously. "I think your view is

a--a very sensible one."

Mrs. Asshlin shook her head in speechless disapproval.

"And what is to become of Nance?" she asked, after a moment's pause.

Again Milbanke glanced uncertainly at Clodagh.

"My idea," he began deprecatingly, "was to place the child at a good

English school. But for the first year or two I think that perhaps

Clodagh might be allowed to veto any arrangement I may make."

Clodagh stepped forward suddenly and impulsively.

"Do you mean that?" she asked.

He bent his head gravely.

"Then--then let us take her with us to Florence. 'Twould make me

happier than anything under the sun."

The words were followed by a slightly dismayed pause. Although he

strove bravely to conceal the fact, Milbanke's face fell. And Mrs.

Asshlin became newly and markedly shocked.

"My dear Clodagh----" she began sternly.

But Milbanke put up his hand.

"Pray say nothing, Mrs. Asshlin!" he broke in gently. "Clodagh's wishes

are mine."

The blood surged into Clodagh's face in a wake of spontaneous relief.

"You mean that?" she said again.

Once more he bent his head.

"Then I'll marry you any time you like," she said with a sudden,

impulsive warmth.

And in due time the day of the marriage dawned. After careful

consideration, every detail had been arranged and all difficulties

smoothed away. The ceremony was to take place in the small,

unpretentious Protestant church at Carrigmore, where, Sunday after

Sunday, since the days of her early childhood, Clodagh had listened to

the Word of God, and had sent up her own immature supplications to

heaven. The marriage--which of necessity was to be of the most private

nature--was fixed for the forenoon; and it had been arranged that

immediately upon its conclusion, Clodagh, Nance, and Milbanke should

repair to Mrs. Asshlin's cottage, from which--having partaken of

lunch--they were to start upon their journey without returning to

Orristown.

The wedding morning broke grey and mild, presaging a typical Irish day.

After a night of broken and restless sleep, Clodagh woke at six; and

slipped out of bed without disturbing Nance.

For the first moment or two she sat on the side of her bed, her hands

locked behind her head, her bare feet resting upon the uncarpeted

floor. Then suddenly the sight of the long cardboard box that had

arrived from Dublin the day before, containing the new grey dress in

which she was to be married, roused her to the significance of the

hour. With a swift movement she rose, and crossed the room to the

window.

The view across the bay was neutral and calm. Over the sea to the east

a pale and silvery sun was emerging from a film of mist; while on the

water itself a white, almost spiritual radiance lay like a mystic veil.

Clodagh took one long, comprehensive glance at the familiar scene;

then, as if afraid to trust herself too far, she turned away quickly

and began to dress with noiseless haste.

Twenty minutes later, she crept downstairs arrayed in her old black

riding-habit.

Where she rode on that morning of her marriage; what strange and

speculative thoughts burned in her brain; and what secrets--regretful

or anticipatory--she whispered into Polly's sensitive ears, no one ever

knew! At half-past eight she re-entered the stable-yard, slipped from

the saddle unaided, and threw the mare's bridle to Burke.

For a full minute she stood with her gloved hand upon the neck of the

animal that had carried her so often and so well; then, with a sudden,

almost furtive movement, she bent forward and pressed her face against

the cropped mane.

"Take care of her, Tim!" she said unsteadily--"take care of her! I'll

come back some day, you know."

And without looking at the old man, she turned and walked out of the

yard.

She met no one on her way to the house; but as she passed across the

hall, she was suddenly arrested by the sight of Milbanke descending the

stairs, already arrayed in a conventional frock-coat.

Unconsciously she paused. From the first she had vaguely understood

that he would discard his usual serge suit on the day of the wedding;

but the actual sight of these unfamiliar clothes came as a shock,

bringing home to her the imminence of the great event as nothing else

could possibly have done. He looked unusually old, thin, and precise in

the stiff, well-cut garments--a circumstance that was unkindly enhanced

by the fact that he was palpably and uncontrollably nervous.

There was a moment of embarrassed silence. Then, mastering her

emotions, Clodagh advanced to the foot of the stairs, holding out her

hand.

He responded to the gesture with something like gratitude.

"You have been out early," he said hurriedly. "Have you been taking a

last look round?"

Clodagh nodded and turned aside. The pain of her recent farewell still

burned in her eyes and throat.

He saw and interpreted the action.

"Don't take it to heart, my dear!" he said quickly. "You shall return

whenever you like. And--and it will be my proud privilege to know that

you will always find everything in readiness for you."

Clodagh's head drooped.

"You are very good," she said in a low, mechanical voice.

For a space Milbanke made no response; then suddenly his fingers

tightened nervously over the hand he was still holding.

"Clodagh," he said anxiously, "you do not regret anything? You know it

is not too late--even now."

Clodagh glanced up, and for one instant a sudden light leapt into her

eyes; the next, her lashes had drooped again.

"No," she said, "I regret nothing."

Milbanke's fingers tightened spasmodically.

"God bless you!" he said tremulously. And leaning forward suddenly, he

pressed his thin lips to her forehead.

The hours that followed breakfast and saw the departure from Orristown

were too filled with haste and confusion to make any deep impression

upon Clodagh's mind. The last frenzied packing of things that had been

overlooked, the innumerable farewells, all more or less harassing, the

scramble to be dressed, and the entering of the musty old barouche,

that had done duty upon great occasions in the Asshlin family for close

upon half a century, were all hopelessly--and mercifully--confused.

Even the drive to Carrigmore with her aunt and sister filled her with a

sense of dazed unreality. She sat very straight and stiff in the new

grey dress, one hand clasped tenaciously round Nance's warm fingers,

the other holding the cold and unfamiliar ivory prayer-book that had

been one of Milbanke's gifts. It was only when at last the carriage

drew up before the little church, and she passed to the open gateway

between two knots of gaping and whispering villagers, that she realised

with any vividness the inevitable nature of the moment. As she walked

up the narrow path to the church door, she turned suddenly to her

little sister.

"Nance----" she said breathlessly.

But the time for speech was passed. As Nance raised a questioning,

excited face to hers, Mrs. Asshlin hurried after them across the grass;

and together the three entered the church. A moment later Clodagh saw

with a faint sense of perturbation that the building was not empty. In

a shadowy corner close to the altar rails Milbanke was talking in

nervous whispers to the rector, who was to perform the ceremony.

A few minutes later, the little party was conducted up the aisle with

the usual murmur of voices and rustle of garments; and, in what seemed

an incredibly--a preposterously--short space of time, the service had

begun.

During the first portion of it Clodagh's eyes never left the brown,

clean-shaven, benevolent face of the rector. Try as she might, she

could not realise that the serious words, pouring forth in the voice

that a lifetime had rendered familiar, could be meant for her who,

until the day of her father's accident, had never personally understood

that life held any serious responsibilities. It was only when the first

solemn question was put to her; and, startled out of her dream, she

responded almost inaudibly, that her eyes turned upon Milbanke standing

opposite to her--earnest, agitated, precise. For one second a sense of

panic seized her; the next, she had blindly extended her left hand in

obedience to the rector's injunction, and felt the chill of the new

gold ring as it was slipped over her third finger.

After that all-important incident, it seemed but a moment before the

ceremony was over, and the whole party gathered together in the vestry.

With a steady hand she signed her name in the register; then, instantly

the act was accomplished, she turned instinctively towards the spot

where Nance was standing.

But before she could reach her sister's side, she was intercepted by

Mrs. Asshlin, who stepped forward, half tearful, half exultant, and

embraced her effusively.

"My dear child!--my dear, dear child!" she murmured disjointedly. "May

your future be very happy!"

Clodagh submitted silently to the embrace; then, as her aunt

reluctantly withdrew into the background, she became conscious of the

old rector's kindly presence. Looking closely into her face, he took

her hand in both his own.

"God bless you, my child!" he said simply. "I did not preach you a

sermon just now, because I do not think you require one. You are a

dutiful child; and I believe that you have found a very worthy

husband."

At the word husband, Clodagh looked up quickly; then her eyes dropped

to her wedding ring.

"Thank you!" she said almost inaudibly. And an instant later Milbanke

stepped forward deferentially and offered her his arm.

In silence they passed down the aisle of the church, in the centre of

which stood the old stone font at which Clodagh had been christened,

and on which she had been wont to fix her eyes during the Sunday

service while the rector preached. All at once this inanimate friendly

object seemed to take a new and unfamiliar air--seemed to whisper that

Clodagh Asshlin existed no more, and that the stranger who filled her

place was an alien. Her fingers tightened nervously on her husband's

arm and her steps involuntarily quickened.

Outside, in the calm, grey, misty atmosphere, they lingered for a

moment by the church door, in order to give Nance and Mrs. Asshlin the

opportunity of gaining the cottage before them; but both were ill at

ease, self-conscious, and acutely anxious to curtail the enforced

solitude. And it was with a sigh of relief, that Clodagh saw Milbanke

draw out his watch as an indication that they might start.

About the gate, the little group of curious idlers had been augmented.

And as Clodagh stepped to the carriage an irrepressible murmur of

admiration passed from lip to lip, succeeded by a cold and critical

silence as the bridegroom--well bred, well dressed, but obviously and

incongruously old--followed in her wake.

Clodagh comprehended and construed this chilling silence by the light

of her own warm appreciation of things young, strong, and beautiful.

And as she stepped hastily into the waiting carriage a flush of

something like shame rose hotly to her face.

The drive to the cottage scarcely occupied five minutes; and even had

they desired it, there was no time for conversation. Milbanke sat

upright and embarrassed; Clodagh lay back in her corner of the roomy

barouche, her eyes fixed resolutely upon the window, her fingers

tightly clasping the ivory prayer-book. One fact was occupying her mind

with a sense of anger and loneliness--the fact that her cousin Larry

had not been present in the church. Since the night on which her

engagement had been announced, the feud between the cousins had

continued. During the weeks of preparation for the wedding Larry had

avoided Orristown; but though no overtures had been made, Clodagh had

never doubted that he would be present at the ceremony itself. And now

that the excitement was passed, she realised with a shock of surprise

that she had been openly and unmistakably deserted.

The thought was uppermost in her mind as the carriage stopped; and when

her aunt came forward to greet them, her first question concerned the

absent member of the family.

"Where's Larry, Aunt Fan?" she asked.

"My dear child, that's just what I have been asking myself. But come

in!--come into the house!"

Mrs. Asshlin was fluttered by the responsibilities of the moment.

"Why wasn't he in church?" Clodagh asked, as she followed her into the

narrow hall.

Mrs. Asshlin threw out her hands in a gesture of perplexity.

"How can I tell?" she said. "Boys are incomprehensible things. I'm

sure--er--James is not old enough to have forgotten that?"

She glanced archly over her shoulder.

Milbanke looked intensely embarrassed, and Clodagh coloured.

"Well, we'd better not wait for Larry," she interposed hastily. "You

know what a time it takes to get round to Muskeere with that big

barouche."

Mrs. Asshlin became all assiduity.

"Certainly!--certainly, my dear child! Mr. Curry and his brother are

already waiting. Won't you come in?"

With hospitable excitement she marshalled them into the dining-room.

The room into which they were ushered, though small, was bright and

cheerful; and, notwithstanding the season, there were flowers upon the

table and mantelpiece. But even under these favourable conditions, the

lunch was scarcely a success. Mrs. Asshlin was genuine enough in her

efforts at entertainment; but the guests were not in a condition to be

entertained. Milbanke was intensely nervous; Clodagh sat straight and

rigid in her chair, uncomfortably conscious of insubordinate emotions

that crowded up at every added suggestion of departure. Even the

rector's brother--a bluff and hearty personage, who, out of old

friendship for the Asshlin family, had consented to act as best man at

the hurriedly arranged wedding--felt his spirits damped; while little

Nance, who sat close to her sister, made no pretence whatever at hiding

the tears that kept welling into her eyes.

It was with universal relief that at length they rose from the table

and filed out into the hall. There, however, a new interruption awaited

them. In the shadow of a doorway they caught sight of Hannah, arrayed

in her Sunday bonnet and shawl, and still breathless from the walk from

Orristown.

At sight of the little party she came forward with a certain ungainly

shyness; but catching a glimpse of Clodagh, love conquered every lesser

feeling.

"Let me have wan last look at her!" she exclaimed softly. "That's all

I'm wantin'."

And as Clodagh turned impulsively towards her, she held out her arms.

"Sure, I knew her before any wan of ye ever sat eyes on her!" she

explained, the tears running down her cheeks. "Go on now, miss--ma'am,"

she added brokenly, pushing Clodagh forward towards the door, and

turning to Milbanke with an outstretched hand. "Good-bye, sir! And God

bless you!" Her sing-song voice fell, and her hard hand tightened over

his. "Take care of her!" she added. "An' don't be forgettin' that she's

nothin' but a child still, for all her fine height and her good looks."

She spoke with crude, rough earnestness; but at the last words her

feelings overcame her. With another spasmodic pressure, she released

his fingers and, turning incontinently, disappeared into the back

regions of the cottage.

For a moment Milbanke remained where she had left him, moved and

perplexed by her hurried words; then, suddenly remembering his duties,

he crossed the hall and punctiliously offered his arm to Clodagh. "The

carriage is waiting," he said gently. But Clodagh shook her head.

"Please take Nance first," she murmured in a low, constrained voice.

He acquiesced silently, and as he moved away from her, she turned to

Mrs. Asshlin.

"Good-bye, Aunt Fan!" she said. "And tell Larry that I'm--that I'm

sorry. He'll know what it means."

Her carefully controlled voice shook suddenly, as pride struggled with

affection and association. Suddenly putting her arms round Mrs.

Asshlin's neck she kissed her thin cheek; and, turning quickly, walked

forward to the waiting carriage.

There was a moment of excitement; a spasmodic waving of handkerchiefs,

the sound of a stifled sob and the tardy throwing of a slipper; then,

with a swish of the long driving whip, the horses bounded forward, and

the great lumbering carriage swung down the hill that led to the

Muskeere road.

As they bowled through the village street, Clodagh shrank back into her

corner, refusing to look her last on the scene that for nearly eighteen

years had formed a portion of her life's horizon. The instinctive

clinging to familiar things that forms so integral a part of the Celtic

nature, was swelling in her throat and tightening about her heart. She

resolutely refused to be conquered by her emotion; but the

emotion--stronger for her obstinate suppression of it--threatened to

dominate her. For the moment she was unconscious of Milbanke, sitting

opposite to her, anxious and deprecating; and she dared not permit

herself to press the small, warm fingers that Nance had insinuated into

her own.

With a lurch, the carriage swept round the curve of the street, and

emerged upon the Muskeere road. But scarcely had Burke gathered the

reins securely into his hands, scarcely had the horses settled into a

swinging trot, than the little party became suddenly aware that a check

had been placed upon their progress. There was an exclamation--from

Burke; a clatter of hoofs, as the horses were hastily pulled up; and

the barouche came to a halt.

With a movement of surprise, Clodagh turned to the open window. But on

the instant there was a scuffle of paws, the sharp, eager yap of a dog,

and something rough and warm thrust itself against her face.

"Mick!" she cried in breathless, incredulous rapture. Then she glanced

quickly over the dog's red head to the hands that had lifted him to the

carriage window.

"Larry!" she said below her breath.

Young Asshlin was standing in the middle of the road--red, shy, and

excited.

"I want you to take him, Clo," he said awkwardly, "for a--for a wedding

present."

For one instant Clodagh sat overwhelmed by the suggestion; and next her

eyes unconsciously sought Milbanke's.

"May I?" she said hesitatingly. It was her first faltering

acknowledgment that her actions were no longer quite her own.

Milbanke started.

"Oh, assuredly!" he said--"assuredly!"

And Clodagh opened the carriage door, and took Mick into her arms.

For one moment the joy of reunion submerged every other feeling; then

she raised a glowing, grateful face to her cousin.

"Larry----" she began softly.

But old Burke leant down from his seat.

"We'll be late for the thrain," he announced imperturbably.

Again Milbanke started nervously.

"Perhaps, Clodagh----" he began.

Clodagh bent her head.

"Shut the door, Larry," she said. "And--and you were a darling to think

of it."

Asshlin closed the door.

"Good-bye, Nance! Good-bye, sir! Good-bye, Clo!"

He looked bravely into the carriage; but his face was still

preternaturally red.

Clodagh turned to him impulsively.

"Larry----" she began again.

But the horses started forward; and the boy, lifting his cap, stepped

back into the roadway.

Clodagh stooped forward, waved her hand unevenly, then dropped back

into her seat.

While the horses covered a quarter of a mile, she sat without movement

or speech. But at last, lifting his adoring eyes to her face, Mick

ventured to touch her hand with a warm, reminding tongue.

The gentle appeal of the action--the hundred memories it evoked--was

instantaneous and supreme. In a sudden irrepressible tide, her grief,

her uncertainty of the future, her home-sickness inundated her soul.

With a quick gesture she flung away both pride and restraint; and,

hiding her face against the dog's rough coat, cried as if she had been

a child.

PART III

CHAPTER I

It was nine o'clock on a morning four years after the wedding at

Carrigmore; the season was late spring; the scene was Italy; and

Florence--the city of tranquillity made manifest--lay at rest under its

coverlet of sun and roses. In the soft, early light, the massed

buildings of the town seemed to blend together until, to the dazzled

eyes, the Arno looked a mere ribbon of silver as it wound under its

bridges; and the splendid proportions of the Duomo became lost in the

blue haze that presaged the hot day to come.

The scene was vaguely beautiful, viewed from any of the hills that

guard the city; but from no point was its soft picturesqueness more

remarkable than from the terraces and windows of a villa that nestled

in a curve of the narrow, winding road between San Domenico and

Fiesole. This villa, unlike its neighbours, was long and low in

structure; and in addition to the stone urns, luxurious flowering

plants, and wide, painted jalousies common to Italian houses, it

boasted other and more individual attractions--to be found in a flight

of singularly old marble steps that led from one level of its garden to

another; and in the unusual magnificence of the cypresses that grew in

an imposing semi-circle upon the upper terrace.

It was under the shade of these sombre trees that a breakfast table

stood, awaiting occupation, on this particular morning at the hour of

nine. The table in itself formed a picture, for in the warm shafts of

sun that slipped between the cypress trees, silver and glass gleamed

invitingly, while in their midst an immense Venetian bowl filled with

roses made a patch of burning colour. Everything was attractive,

refined, appetising; and yet, for some undiscernible reason, the

inmates of the villa appeared in no haste to enjoy the meal that

awaited them.

For fully ten minutes after the coffee had been laid upon the table,

the Italian man-servant stood immovably attentive, his back stiff, his

glance resting expectantly upon the verandah; then his natural interest

in the meal caused him to alter his position and cast a sympathetic eye

upon the coffee in imminent danger of growing cold.

Five more minutes passed. He looked again at the villa; sighed, and

gracefully flicked a fly from the basket of crisp rolls. Then suddenly

he stood newly erect and attentive, as his quick ear caught the swish

of a skirt and the sound of a light step. A moment later Clodagh

emerged upon the sunny terrace, followed by her dog Mick.

At any period of existence, four years is a span of time to be reckoned

with. But when four years serves to bridge the gulf between childhood

and womanhood, its power is well-nigh limitless. As Clodagh stepped

through the long window of her room and came slowly out into the

morning light, it would have been a close observer who would, at a

first glance, have recognised the unformed girl of four years ago in

the graceful, well-dressed woman moving forward through the Italian

sunshine. On a second glance, or a third, one would undoubtedly have

seen traces of the long, undeveloped limbs in the tall, supple figure;

caught a suggestion of the rough luxurious plait in the golden-brown

hair coiled about the well-shaped head; and have been fascinated by

numerous undeniable and haunting suggestions in contour and colouring.

But there memory would have hesitated. The Clodagh who had scoured the

woods, scrambled over the rocks, and galloped across the lands of

Orristown was no longer visible. Another being, infinitely more

distinguished, infinitely more attractive--and yet vaguely deprived of

some essential quality--had taken her place. In the four years that had

passed since she left Ireland she had, from being a child, become a

woman; and below the new beauty that nature had painted upon her face

lay an intangible, a poignantly suggested regret for the girlhood that

had been denied her.

As she stepped out upon the terrace, she paused for a moment and her

eyes travelled mechanically over Florence--warm, beautiful, inert.

Then, with the same uninterested calm, she turned slowly towards the

breakfast table; but there her glance brightened.

"Oh, letters!" she said aloud; and with an impulsive movement, she

hurried forward, letting her elaborate muslin dress trail unheeded

behind her.

Scarcely seeing the profound bow with which the man-servant greeted

her, she picked up the letters, and scanned them one by one. Then as

she disappointedly threw the last back upon the table, she half turned,

in acknowledgment of a measured step that came across the terrace from

the direction of the house. At the same moment Mick pricked up his ears

and slowly wagged his tail, while the Italian servant bent his body in

a fresh salutation.

Milbanke--for his was the second step that had disturbed the

silence--came forward without haste. Reaching the table, he took

Clodagh's left hand and pressed it; then he stooped methodically and

patted the dog's head.

"Good-morning!" he said gravely. "Are there any letters?"

"Yes, four; and all for you--as usual."

He smiled, unobservant of the slightly tired irritability of Clodagh's

tone.

"Ah, indeed!" he said. "That is pleasant. Is there one from Sicily?

Scarpio promised to let me have the latest details of the great work."

He took up the four letters and carefully studied the envelopes. As he

came to the last, his thin face became animated.

"Ah, this is satisfactory!" he exclaimed. "I knew he would not fail me.

What wonderful--what fascinating work it must be!"

He tore the envelope open and began to peruse the letter.

While he scanned the opening lines, Clodagh watched him absently; but

as the first page fluttered between his fingers, she gave a slight,

involuntary shrug of the shoulders and, moving round the table, sank

into the seat that the servant drew forward for her. Then, with an

uninterested gesture, she poured out two cups of coffee.

For a while there was silence save for the turning of the letter in its

recipient's hand; the occasional snap of Mick's teeth as he attempted

to catch a fly; and the thousand, impersonal sounds of lazy, outdoor

life that rose about them. At last Milbanke looked up, his face tinged

with mild excitement.

"This discovery is very remarkable," he said. "Sicily will obtain a new

importance."

Clodagh smiled faintly.

"In the antiquarian's eyes," she said with unconscious irony. There was

no bitterness and no impatience in her voice. She spoke as if stating a

fact that long familiarity had rendered absolutely barren.

Looking back over the four years of her marriage, it seemed to her that

her life had been one round of archaeological discoveries--all timed to

take place at the wrong season. She vividly remembered the first of

these events; the discovery of some subterranean passages in the

neighbourhood of Carrara, which had taken place two months after her

arrival in Italy, while life yet retained something of the dark, vague

semblance usually associated with a nightmare. Still desperately

home-sick and unreasonably miserable in her new position, she had

eagerly grasped at Milbanke's suggestion that they should visit the

scene of these excavations. But with this first essay, her interest in

discoveries had taken permanent flight.

The heat had been tremendous; the country parched and unsympathetic;

the associations terribly uncongenial. She remembered the first

morning, when she and Nance, stifling in their black dresses, had by

tacit consent stolen away from the party of fellow enthusiasts to which

Milbanke had attached himself; and climbing to the summit of a low,

olive-crowned hill, had sat tired, silent, and unutterably wretched,

looking out upon the arid land.

But that excursion had been the prelude to a new era. Visits to various

antiquities had succeeded each other with dull regularity, broken by

long, uneventful sojourns in the green seclusion of the villa at

Florence. Then the first break had occurred in the companionship of the

trio. Nance had been sent home to an English school.

Clodagh's acceptance of this fiat had been curiously interesting--as

had been her whole attitude towards Milbanke and his wishes. From the

day on which she recognised that the state of matrimony was something

irrevocably serious, she had taken upon herself an attitude of reserved

surrender that was difficult to analyse--difficult even to

superficially understand. By a strangely immature process of deduction,

she had satisfied herself that marriage was a state of bondage, more or

less distasteful as chance decreed--a state in which, by a fundamental

law of nature, submission and self-repression were the chief factors

necessary upon the woman's side.

As sometimes happens when there is a great disparity in years, the

wedded state had widened instead of lessening the gulf between Milbanke

and herself. It had cast a sudden, awkward restraint upon the affection

and respect that his actions had kindled in her mind, while inspiring

no new or ardent feelings to take its place. Ridiculously--and yet

naturally--her husband had become an infinitely more distant and

unapproachable being than her father's friend had been. And to this new

key she had, perforce, attuned her existence.

With a greater number of years--even with a little more worldly

experience--she might have made a vastly different business of her

life; for, at the time of his marriage, Milbanke had been hovering upon

the borderland of that fatuous love in which an old man can lose

himself so completely. If, in those first months, she had permitted any

of the ardour, any of the fascination of her nature to shine upon him,

she might have led him by a silken thread in whatever direction she

pleased. But three factors had precluded this--her youth, her

inexperience, her entire ignorance of artifice. In her primary

encounter with the realities of life, she had lost her strongest

weapon--her frank, unswerving fearlessness; and in lieu of this she

had, in the moment of first panic, seized upon the nearest substitute,

and had wrapped herself in an armour of reserve.

And on this armour, the weapons of Milbanke's love had been turned

aside. There had been no scenes, no harassing disillusionment; but

gradually, inevitably his original attitude with regard to her--his shy

reticence, his uncertainty, as in the presence of some incomprehensible

quality--had returned. He had slowly but surely withdrawn into himself,

turning with a pathetic eagerness to the interests that had previously

usurped his thoughts. With the nervous sensitiveness that warred

continuously with his matter-of-fact precision, he became uncomfortably

conscious of occupying a false position, of having made an

indisputable--almost a ridiculous--mistake; and he had taken a blind

leap towards the quarter in which he believed compensation to lie.

While Clodagh, vaguely divining this--vaguely remorseful, of what she

scarcely knew--had held her own enthusiasms more rigidly in check,

schooling herself into acquiescence with every impersonal suggestion

that he chose to make.

From this had arisen the pursuit of the antique in whatever corner of

Europe--and at whatever season of the year--circumstances might decree.

To Clodagh, the pilgrimages had seemed unutterably wearisome and

unutterably foolish; but there is a great capacity for silent endurance

in the Irish nature. Quick-blooded though it may be, it possesses that

strong fatalistic instinct that accepts without question the decree of

the gods. The spirit of revolt is not lacking in it; but it requires a

given atmosphere--a given sequence of events--to bring it into

activity. At two-and-twenty Clodagh was weary of her husband, of

herself, of her life. But precisely as her father had fretted out his

existence in the quiet monotony of Orristown, she had accepted her fate

without thought of question.

In the second year, when they had travelled to England with Nance,

Milbanke had suggested a visit to Ireland, but this proposal she had

declined. The days when every fibre of her being had yearned for her

own country were passed; and the idea of return had lost its savour.

As she sat now, sipping her coffee and gazing abstractedly down to

where the hot sun glinted on the Arno, it seemed to her that her

life--the glorious, exuberant state that she had been accustomed to

call her life--had drifted incredibly far away; that it lay asleep, if

not already dead, in some intangible realm widely beyond her reach. She

thought of Nance away at her English school, and unconsciously she

envied her. To be fifteen, and to be surrounded by young people!

Involuntarily she sighed; and Mick, ever acutely sensitive to her

change of mood, turned and pressed his cold nose against her knee.

Mechanically she put down her hand and pulled one of his soft ears;

then suddenly she raised her head, attracted by an exclamation of

impatience in Milbanke's usually placid voice. Looking up, she saw that

he had opened a second letter.

"What is it?" she asked, her momentary curiosity dropping back to

indifference. "Was that last intaglio unauthentic after all?"

Milbanke glanced up with an annoyed expression. "This does not concern

the intaglio," he said. "This is from Barnard--David Barnard, who acts

as my broker, and looks after my business affairs. You have heard me

speak of him."

"Of course. Often." An expression of interest awakened in Clodagh's

face.

"Well, this letter is from him--written from Milan. Most tiresome and

annoying its coming at this juncture!" He scanned the letter for the

second time. "I particularly want to run down into Sicily before

Scarpio leaves."

"And does the letter prevent you?" There was interest and a slight

hopefulness in the tone of Clodagh's voice.

"I am very much afraid that it does."

"But why?"

He folded the letter carefully and returned it to its envelope.

"Because Barnard is coming to Venice in two days, and suggests that I

should meet him there."

"Venice!" Clodagh said the word softly.

"Yes. Most tiresome!--most annoying! But he thinks it an opportunity

that should not be lost. I have not had an interview with him since we

left Nance at school. He came then to our hotel in London; I do not

think you met him."

"No. But I remember his coming to see you. I remember Nance and I

thought he had such a jolly laugh; we heard it from her bedroom--the

one that opened off our sitting-room."

With the mention of this new subject, trivial though it was, Clodagh's

manner had changed.

"But what about Venice?" she asked, after a moment's pause. "Will you

go?"

Milbanke looked thoughtful.

"Well, I--I scarcely know what to say. Of course I could refuse on the

ground of this business in Sicily. But it is a question of expediency.

A few days with Barnard now may save me a journey to London next year.

Still it is very provoking!"

"But Venice!" Clodagh suggested, and again her tone was soft. More than

any other in Italy, the beautiful city of the Adriatic had appealed to

her curiosity and her imagination. With a quick glance her eyes

travelled over the sheltered, drowsy garden, sloping downward, terrace

below terrace.

"I should love to see Venice," she said suddenly. "I always picture it

so wide and silent and mysterious."

Milbanke looked up from the opening of his third letter.

"Venice is unhealthy," he said prosaically.

For one moment her lip curled.

"Perhaps that is why it appeals to me," she said with a flash of the

old, insubordinate spirit. Then suddenly her eyes met her husband's

quiet, puzzled gaze and the passing light died out of her face. With a

hasty gesture she lifted her coffee cup to her lips and set it down

empty.

"Come along, Mick!" she said, pushing back her chair and speaking with

unconscious sarcasm. "Come and let us see whether we can find any roses

in the garden!"

CHAPTER II

Clodagh's manner was careless and her gait nonchalant as she rose from

table and crossed the terrace followed by her dog; but inwardly she

burned with a newly kindled sense of anticipation. There was no

particular reason why the idea of a journey to Venice, for the purpose

of seeing a stock-broker--even though that stock-broker was a personal

friend of Milbanke's--should be instinct with any promise; yet the idea

excited her. With the exception of the journey to England with Nance,

it was the first time in four years that her husband had seriously

contemplated any move not ostensibly connected with his hobby. And the

thought of Venice; the suggestion of encountering any one whose

interests lay outside antiquities, had power to elate her. As she left

the breakfast table, her steps unconsciously quickened; and Mick,

attentively sensitive to her altered gait, wagged his short tail, gave

one sharp, incisive bark of question, and looked up at her with ears

inquisitively pricked.

She paused and looked down at him.

"Mick, darling," she whispered, "imagine Venice at night--the music and

the water and the romance! And just think--" her voice dropped still

lower--"just think what it would be to meet some one--any one at

all--who might happen to notice that one's clothes were new, and that

one's hair was properly done up!"

She bent down in a sudden impulse of excitement and kissed his upraised

head; then with a quick laugh at her own impetuosity, she turned and

ran down the first flight of time-worn marble steps.

That was her private and personal reception of the news. Later,

returning with her arms full of the roses that ran riot in the garden,

she was able to meet Milbanke with a demeanour of dignified calm; and

to answer his questions as to whether her boxes could be packed in two

days, in a voice that was dutifully submissive and unmoved.

But the two days of preparation were imbued with a secret joy. There

was a new and unending delight in selecting the most beautiful of the

dresses in her elaborate wardrobe, and in feeling that at last they

were to be seen by eyes that would understand their value. For

Milbanke, while never restraining her craving for costly clothes, had,

since the day of their marriage, been totally unobservant and

indifferent as to whether she wore silk or home-spun; and on the

occasions when outside opinions might have been brought to bear upon

the matter--namely, the moments when the archaeological excursions were

undertaken--necessities of season or expediency had invariably limited

her supply of garments to the clothes that would not show the dust or

the clothes that would keep out the rain. But now the prospect was

different. It was still the season in Venice; she would be justified in

bringing the best and most attractive clothes she possessed. The

thought was exhilarating; life became a thing of bustle and interest.

Two and three times a day she drove into Florence to make totally

unnecessary purchases; she wrote more than one long letter to Nance;

and indulged in many a protracted and confidential talk with Mick as

they sat together on the edge of the old marble fountain that dripped

and dozed in the sun.

By a hundred actions, obvious or obscure, she made it plain in those

days of preparation that, despite the fact that her childhood lay

behind her, and that she had known none of the intermediate pleasures

of ordinary girlhood, she was a being whose heart, whose capacity for

enjoyment, whose comprehension of life was extraordinarily--even

dangerously--young.

At last the day dawned upon which they left the villa on the sunny

hill--said good-bye to the wide, slow river, the riotous roses and the

slow-tolling bells of Florence--and took train for the north.

Through the hours of that railway journey Clodagh sat almost silent. To

her eager mind, already springing forward towards the enchanted city,

there was no need for speech; and the quiet, prim husband seated

opposite to her, made no call upon her imagination. He was essential to

the journey--as the padded cushion behind her head, or the English

books and magazines by her side were essential to it--and for this

reason he occupied that most fatal of all positions, the position of an

accepted, familiar accessory. The early days of their marriage, when in

her eyes, he had taken in a new and dreaded aspect, were entirely past.

With his super-sensitiveness and constitutional self-distrust, he had

withdrawn somewhat hastily from the position of lover, to shelter

behind the cloak of his former guardianship. And Clodagh had hailed the

change of attitude with obvious relief.

Now, as she sat eagerly alert to gain her first glimpse of Venice, she

had almost forgotten that those early days had ever existed. For the

moment Milbanke was a cipher; and she an ardent appreciative individual

undergoing a new sensation.

Such was her precise mental position when at last the scene for which

she waited broke upon her view. Rising straight out of the water,

Venice seemed to her ardent eyes even more the product of a visionary

world than her dreams had made it. The hour was seven; and from the

many spires and domes of the city warm gleams of bronze or gold shot

forth at the touch of the setting sun. But the prevailing note of

colour that gleamed through the mauve twilight was white--the

wonderful, semi-transparent white of ancient marble back-grounded by

sea and sky.

The effect made upon Clodagh's mind by this white city wrapped in its

evening veil was instantaneous and deep. With the exception of

Florence, her knowledge of the beauties of Italy was very limited; and

her first glimpse of Florence had been gained under such unpropitious

circumstances that its sheltered loveliness had never appealed to her

as it might otherwise have done. Now, however, her condition of mind

was tranquil, if not happy; and as the train sped forward, she gazed

spell-bound at this beauty at once so tangible and so unreal.

To every traveller it must come with the sense of desecration, that

this most magical of cities is approached by nothing less prosaic than

an ordinary railway terminus. And Clodagh gave a little involuntary

gasp of disappointment as the train swerved suddenly, exchanging the

glamour of the outer world for a noisy station that might have belonged

to any town; and as she rose from her seat, arranged her hat, and

collected her books, she wondered for one moment whether the vision

just hidden from her view was in reality the handiwork of man and not

some mirage conjured up by her own imagination. So strong was the

feeling, that she remained silent as she descended from the train, and

waited while Milbanke saw to the collecting of the luggage; then, still

without speaking, she followed him down the flight of steps that lead

to the water. But there, as the station vanished from consideration,

and the picturesque crowd of waiting gondolas met her gaze, her

pleasure and excitement woke again; and with a quick gesture, she laid

her hand on her husband's arm.

"Oh, isn't it wonderful?" she said in a hushed voice.

Milbanke turned to her uncertainly.

"Yes, my dear," he said absently--"yes. But----" He sniffed

critically--"but do you not detect a distinctly unhealthy odour?"

Clodagh's hand dropped suddenly and expressively to her side, and she

wheeled round with unnecessary haste towards the gondola into which the

luggage was being piled.

But even this jarring incident could not mar the first journey in the

stately black boat. Every portion of the way was instinct with its own

especial charm. From the wide dignity of the Grand Canal with its

ancient palaces, its mysterious stream of silent traffic, its

occasional note of modern life, to the fascinating glimpses of narrower

waterways where the women of the people, with uncovered heads, leaned

out of their windows to exchange the day's gossip with a neighbour

across the water--all was a delight, something engrossing and unique.

Clodagh had no desire to speak as they glided forward; and when the

hotel steps were reached, she suffered herself to be assisted from the

gondola scarcely certain whether she was dreaming or awake.

Outside the hotel, half a dozen visitors were seated upon the small

stone terrace, indolently watching the arrival of new guests; but so

absorbed was Clodagh in the scene before her, that she scarcely

observed their presence. And when Milbanke, murmuring an excuse,

departed to see after their rooms, she turned again towards the canal

that she had just left; and, leaning over the balustrade of the

terrace, paused for a moment to study the picture afresh.

But as she stood there, unconscious of everything but the wonderful,

noiseless pageant passing ceaselessly through the purple twilight, more

than one glance strayed in her own direction. And two at least among

the hotel visitors changed their lounging attitudes for the purpose of

observing her more closely.

The two--both men--were simultaneously and noticeably attracted. The

elder, who, by his extremely fastidious and studied appearance, might

almost have belonged to another and earlier era than our own, was a man

of nearly seventy; the younger was his junior by forty-five years.

But--so levelling a thing is spontaneous admiration--the expression

upon the two faces, as they leant suddenly forward, was strikingly

similar.

The old man held a gold-rimmed eyeglass close to his eye; the younger

meditatively removed his cigarette from his mouth. But at this critical

moment of their close observation, Milbanke reappeared, and, moving

stiffly across the terrace, touched Clodagh's arm.

"My dear," he said, "our rooms are ready. If you will go upstairs, I

will find Barnard. I will not dress for dinner to-night. It is after

seven o'clock."

Clodagh turned, her face glowing with the enthusiasm that filled her

mind.

"All right!" she said. "But I think I'll just change into something

cool. It won't take ten minutes."

Without waiting for his assent, she turned quickly and Walked across

the terrace to the vestibule of the hotel.

As she passed the two men in the lounge chairs, the elder again lifted

his eyeglass; while the younger, leaning forward, stared at her with

that superb lack of embarrassment or reserve that the young Englishman

can at times assume.

"By Jove!" he said very softly, as the two new arrivals disappeared

into the hotel.

His companion turned to him with a thin laugh that belied his carefully

preserved appearance.

"Attractive--eh?" he said.

The other replaced his cigarette in his mouth.

"What nationality is she?" he asked after a moment's pause. "I'd feel

inclined to say Italian myself, but the old father's so

uncompromisingly Saxon."

Again the older man laughed--a laugh that expressed unfathomable

worldly wisdom.

"Father!" he said satirically. "Fathers don't shuffle round their

womenfolk like that. They are husband and wife."

"Husband and wife!" The other smiled. But the older man pursed up his

lips.

"You'll find I'm right," he said. "She walked three steps ahead of him,

to avoid seeing him--and she did it unconsciously. Proof conclusive!"

The young man laughed.

"Doesn't carry conviction, uncle!" he said. "I'll bet you a fiver

you're wrong. Will you take me on?"

His companion smiled languidly.

"As you like," he responded.

The young man nodded; then he looked down lazily at his flannel suit.

"I suppose it's time to change," he said reluctantly. "Awful bore being

conventional abroad."

With another careless nod, he lounged off in the direction of the hall.

Exactly a quarter of an hour later, Clodagh emerged from her bedroom,

looking fresh and cool in a dress of rose-coloured gauze that, cut high

in the neck and possessing sleeves that reached the wrist, was yet

light and diaphanous in effect. She opened her door and, mindful of the

lateness of the hour, moved quickly out into the corridor. But scarcely

had she taken a step in the direction of the stairs, than a door

exactly opposite to her own was opened with equal haste; and the young

Englishman of the terrace appeared before her. Seeing her, he halted

involuntarily, and for a second their eyes met.

The glance was momentary; there was not a word spoken; but irresistibly

the colour rushed into Clodagh's face. It took her but an instant to

regain her composure, and to pass down the empty corridor with a touch

of hauteur; but long after she had gained the stairs, her heart was

beating with a new excitement. The glance that the stranger had given

her had been almost ill-bred in its absolute directness; but ill or

well bred, there had been no mistaking the unqualified admiration it

conveyed. The personality of the man had escaped her attention; the

fact that his hair was dark, his face attractive, and his figure tall,

slight, and graceful had made no impression upon her. All she was

conscious of--all that set her pulses throbbing, was the suddenly

awakened knowledge that, within herself, she possessed some subtle, and

previously unrealised power that could compel a man's regard.

She descended the stairs with a new sensation of elasticity and

elation; and at its foot found Milbanke awaiting her in conversation

with a suave, elderly man.

As she came within speaking distance, the two turned towards her.

"My dear!" Milbanke said quickly, "allow me to introduce Mr. David

Barnard! David, this is my--my wife!"

Clodagh looked up curiously, and met the florid face, bland smile, and

observant eyes of Barnard--a man who for nearly a quarter of a century

had managed to prosper in his profession, and at the same time to

retain a prominent place in fashionable society. As their glances met,

she held out her hand.

"How d'you do!" she said. "I believe I've been wanting to know you ever

since I heard you laugh one day two years ago."

She spoke warmly--impulsively--almost as Denis Asshlin might have

spoken. Involuntarily Milbanke glanced at her with a species of

surprise. In that moment she was neither the frank, fearless child he

had first known, nor the self-contained, unfathomable girl who had

since become his daily companion. In the crowded, cosmopolitan

atmosphere of the hotel, she seemed suddenly to display a new

individuality.

Barnard took her outstretched hand, and bowed over it impressively.

"It is very charming of you to say that, Mrs. Milbanke," he murmured.

"But I'm afraid James has told me that you come from Ireland!"

Clodagh laughed.

"He'll also tell you that I lived quite forty miles from the Blarney

stone!"

She looked up, her face brimming with animation. Then suddenly and

involuntarily she coloured. The young Englishman of the terrace was

coming slowly down the stairs.

He descended nonchalantly, and as he reached the hall, he deliberately

paused in front of the little group.

"Hallo, Barney!" he said easily. "Been playing much bridge this

afternoon?"

Barnard looked round with his tactfully affable smile.

"Haven't had one rubber," he said.

"No?"

"No."

There was a pause--a seemingly unnecessary and pointless pause--in

which Barnard looked suavely at the newcomer; the newcomer looked at

Clodagh; and Clodagh looked fixedly out across the hall. Then at last

the older man seemed to realise that something was expected of him.

With a gay gesture, he metaphorically swept the silence aside.

"Mrs. Milbanke," he said affably, "will you permit me to present my

friend Mr. Valentine Serracauld?"

CHAPTER III

Clodagh looked up, colouring afresh; and the young man bowed quickly

and eagerly. He belonged to a type new to her, but familiar to every

social Londoner: the type of young Englishman who, gifted with unusual

height and fine possibilities of muscular development, saunters through

life--physically and morally--exerting his energy and his strength in

one direction only--the eternal, aimless, enervating search after

personal pleasure.

To be explicit, the Honourable Valentine Serracauld was suffering from

that most modern of complaints--the lack of surmountable obstacles. The

nephew of one of the richest peers in England, he had started life

heavily handicapped. A sufficiency of money had rendered work

unnecessary; good looks and a naturally ingratiating manner had

precluded the need for mental equipment; while his social position had

unfairly protected him from any share in the rough and tumble existence

that moulds and hardens a man's character. At fifteen, he had been an

average healthy public schoolboy; at five-and-twenty, he was a

fashionable young aristocrat, whose only business in life was the

aiding and abetting of his uncle in the absorbing pursuit of killing

time.

He bowed now to Clodagh with the extreme impressiveness that men of his

type bestow upon a new and promising introduction.

"Charmed to meet you, Mrs. Milbanke!" he said. "Are you a resident

here--or a bird of passage like ourselves?" He indicated Barnard.

Clodagh met his intent gaze with a renewed thrill of speculative

pleasure.

"My husband and I live at Florence," she explained. "We are only here

on business--which sounds a desecration."

Serracauld continued to watch her.

"Not if you have any share in it," he said in a low voice.

She laughed and blushed.

"I'm afraid you speak from inexperience," she said. "To the people who

know me, I am a very prosaic person."

She looked involuntarily at Milbanke.

But Milbanke's eyes were on the groups of hotel guests, already moving

towards the dining-room.

"Don't you think we might--might make a move----?" he hazarded vaguely.

There was a very slight pause; then Serracauld responded to the

suggestion.

"You are quite right!" he said easily. "I expect my uncle is looking

for me; he usually gets fidgety about feeding time. Will you excuse me,

Mrs. Milbanke? Perhaps later on I shall have the chance of correcting

that inexperience you accuse me of."

He laughed pleasantly; and with a courteous gesture, disappeared into

the crowd that was fast filing out of the hall.

As he disappeared, Clodagh turned towards the dining-room, leaving

Milbanke and Barnard to follow; but she had scarcely crossed the hall,

when the latter overtook her.

"Well, Mrs. Milbanke," he said genially, "what do you think of our

young friend? I believe he usually finds favour in ladies' eyes."

She glanced up.

"I think him very charming," she said candidly. "Who is he? Do you know

him well?"

Barnard smiled.

"I have known him since he was a boy at Eton. He is nephew of the

famous Earl of Deerehurst who, according to rumour, spends three

hundred a year on silk socks, and bathes every morning in scented

milk."

Clodagh made an exclamation of disgust.

"What an abominable person!"

Again Barnard smiled.

"Well, I don't quite know," he said tolerantly. "Rumour is generally

a yard or two in front of reality. Perhaps Deerehurst is rather a

mummified old _roue_; but then, you know, embalming is a clean process,

Mrs. Milbanke, before, as well as after, death. I sometimes wonder

whether Valentine won't put the family money to even less harmless use

if he ever succeeds to the title. He is next in the succession, but for

one feeble life."

Clodagh's eyes opened.

"Really!" she said. "I should never have connected him with so much

responsibility."

Barnard looked down at her.

"Responsibility!" he said. "I don't think I should call it

responsibility! But what has become of James?"

He paused, and glanced round the fast emptying hall.

As he did so, Milbanke hurried up, his manner newly interested, his

thin face flushed.

"Who do you think I have just seen, Clodagh?" he asked excitedly. "Mr.

Angelo Tombs--that interesting scientist who joined our party at Pisa

last year!"

Clodagh looked round.

"What?" she said in surprise. "The big, untidy-looking man, who had

written a book on something terribly unpronounceable?"

Milbanke nodded gravely.

"Yes," he said. "A most interesting and exhaustive work. I shall make a

point of congratulating him upon it directly we have finished dinner."

"And what about me?" Barnard eyed him quizzically.

"You! Oh, you must wait, David! You will understand that a man like Mr.

Tombs is not to be met with every day."

They were entering the dining-room as Milbanke spoke; and involuntarily

Barnard glanced from the precise, formal figure of his friend, to the

youthful, attractive form of his friend's wife.

"And you, Mrs. Milbanke?" he asked in a undertone. "Are you an equally

great enthusiast? Does the antique appeal very forcibly to you?"

As he put the question, he was conscious of its irony; but an

irrepressible curiosity forced him to utter it. He was still labouring

under an intense surprise at Milbanke's choice of a wife; and the

desire to probe the nature of the relationship was strong within him.

"Are you like the man in the Eastern story?" he added. "Would you

barter new lamps for old?"

Clodagh was walking in front of him as he put the question, and

Milbanke was left momentarily behind. For a second she made no reply;

then suddenly she turned and cast a bright glance over her shoulder.

"If you had asked me that question this morning, Mr. Barnard," she

said, "I don't believe I could have answered it. But now I can. I would

not part with one new, bright lamp for a hundred old ones--no matter

how rare. Am I a great vandal?"

Her eyes were shining with the excitement of the moment, and her face

looked beautifully and eagerly alive.

"Am I a great vandal?" she repeated softly.

There was an instant's pause; then Barnard stepped closer to her side.

"No, Mrs. Milbanke," he said. "But you are a very unmistakable child of

Eve."

The dinner that night was a feast to Clodagh. She sat between Milbanke

and Barnard; and though the former was silently engrossed in the

thought of his coming interview; and, for the time being, the latter

confined his talk to impersonal subjects, she felt as she had never

felt before in the span of her twenty-two years. For the first time she

was conscious of being a woman--privileged to receive the homage and

the consideration of men. It was a wonderful, a thrilling discovery;

all the more thrilling and all the more wonderful because shrouded as

yet in a veil of mystery.

Dinner was half way through before Barnard returned to his task of

studying her individually; then he turned to her with his most suavely

confidential manner.

"Have you been very gay in Florence this season?" he asked.

She looked up quickly.

"Gay?" she repeated. "Oh no! I don't think we are ever exactly gay."

He raised his eyebrows.

"Indeed!" he said. "You surprise me. There used to be quite an amusing

English crowd at Florence."

Clodagh coloured, feeling vaguely conscious of some want in her social

equipment.

"Oh, I didn't mean the other English residents," she corrected hastily.

"I meant ourselves--James and I."

Barnard's face became profoundly interested.

"But don't you care for society?" he said, his eyes travelling

expressively over her pretty dress.

Again she coloured.

"It isn't that," she said in a low, quick voice. "James doesn't care

about parties--or people----"

Barnard's lips parted to express surprise or sympathy; but she finished

her sentence hastily.

"--And of course I like what he likes."

Barnard bent his head.

"Of course," he said enigmatically, and dropped back into silence.

For a time he remained apparently absorbed in his dinner. Then, as

Clodagh began to wonder uncomfortably whether she had unwittingly

offended him, he turned to her again.

"Mrs. Milbanke," he said softly, "would you think me very presumptuous

if I were to make a little proposal?"

Clodagh brightened.

"Of course not! Say anything you like."

"You will be here for a week?"

"I--I hope so." She glanced covertly at Milbanke.

"Oh yes, you will! I shall arrange it."

She looked at him quickly.

"You?" she said. "How?"

"Never mind how!" He smiled reassuringly. "You will be here for a week;

and my proposal is that, while Milbanke is settling his business, I

should be allowed to introduce you to some English friends of mine who

are in Venice just now. It may be presumptuous, but I seem to feel"--he

hesitated for a moment--"I seem to feel that you want to make some new

friends--that you want to have a good time. Forgive my being so very

blunt!"

Clodagh sat silent. She felt no resentment at his words, but they

vaguely embarrassed her. The new possibility thrilled her; yet

insensibly she hesitated before it.

"But ought I to want new friends?" she asked at last in a very low and

undecided voice.

Barnard laid down the glass that he was lifting to his lips, and looked

at her quickly. Her freshness charmed, while her _naivete_ puzzled

him.

"Well, Mrs. Milbanke," he said suddenly, "suppose we find that out?"

And, leaning forward, he addressed Milbanke.

"James," he said, "I have just been making a little suggestion. While

you and I are putting our ancient heads together, don't you think Mrs.

Milbanke ought to study her Venice--local colour--atmosphere--all that

sort of thing?"

Milbanke turned in his seat.

"Eh, David?" he exclaimed. "What's that you say?"

"I was suggesting that Mrs. Milbanke should see a little of Venice now

that she is here."

He indicated the long windows of the dining-room through which the

sound of voices and music was already being borne on the purple

twilight.

Milbanke's face became slightly disturbed.

"Of course!--of course!" he said vaguely. "But--but neither of us care

much for conventional sight-seeing; and then, you know, my time here is

limited."

"Exactly!--exactly what I was saying. Your time is valuable. All the

more danger of Mrs. Milbanke's hanging heavy on her hands. Now, there

are some charming people staying here at present, who would only be too

delighted to make her visit pleasant."

Milbanke's expression cleared.

"Oh, well----" he began in a relieved voice.

"Exactly! Lady Frances Hope is here. You remember Lady Frances who

married my cousin Sammy Hope--the red-headed little beggar who went

into the Navy? She would be intensely interested in Mrs. Milbanke. I

wish you would let me make them known to each other."

He smiled suavely, thoroughly in his element at the prospect of working

a little social scheme.

Milbanke looked at Clodagh.

"What do you think, my dear?" he asked vaguely.

Clodagh looked down at her plate.

"I don't quite know," she murmured.

Barnard leant close to her in a confiding manner.

"Quite right, Mrs. Milbanke!" he said. "Never trouble to analyse your

feelings. Just give them a free rein. Lady Frances Hope is a most

charming woman. Always bright, always good-natured, always in the

swim--if you understand that very expressive phrase."

Clodagh smiled as she helped herself to an ice. During their

conversation, the dinner had drawn to its close; and here and there

people were already rising from table and moving towards the hall or

the long windows that opened on to the canal. Unconsciously her eyes

turned in the direction of these open windows, through which a flood of

light streamed out upon the water, bringing into prominence the dark

gondolas that flitted perpetually to and fro like great black bats.

Seeing her glance, Barnard turned to her again.

"Shall we charter a gondola?" he asked. "It's the thing to do here?"

Her eyes sparkled.

"Oh, how lovely!" she said; then involuntarily her face fell and she

looked at her husband.

"But perhaps----" she began deprecatingly.

As the word escaped her, Milbanke--who had been oblivious of the

conversation--pushed back his chair and rose from table with a faint

exclamation of excitement.

"Ah, there he is!" he said, his eyes fixed upon a distant corner of the

room. "There he is! I must not run the risk of missing him!"

Clodagh turned to him eagerly.

"James," she began, "Mr. Barnard says----"

But Milbanke's mind was elsewhere.

"My dear," he said hurriedly, "you must really excuse me. A man like

Mr. Angelo Tombs is a personage of importance."

"Yes; but, James----"

She paused, disconcerted. Milbanke had left the table.

For quite a minute she sat silent, her cheeks burning with a sudden

sense of mortification and neglect. To a reasoning and experienced

mind, the incident would have carried no weight; at most it would have

offered grounds for a passing amusement. But with Clodagh the case was

different. Circumstances had never demanded the cultivation of her

reason, and experience was an asset she was not possessed of. To her

sensitive, youthful susceptibilities, the incident could only wear one

complexion. Her husband had obviously and wittingly humiliated her in

presence of his friend.

She sat with tightened lips, staring unseeingly at the table.

Then suddenly and softly some one crossed the room behind her, and

paused beside her chair. Turning with a little start, she saw the pale,

clean-cut features and searching dark eyes of Valentine Serracauld.

"Mrs. Milbanke," he said at once in his easy, ingratiating voice. "If

you are not doing anything else this evening, may I place my uncle's

gondola at your disposal? Both he and I would be considerably honoured

if you and your husband----"

Clodagh looked up into his face with a quick glance of pleasure and

relief.

"Oh, thank you!" she said. "Thank you so very much! I should love to

come, only my husband is--is busy to-night."

She paused; and in the pause Barnard leaned close to her again, with

his most friendly and reassuring manner.

"After all, Mrs. Milbanke," he said, "do you think that need preclude

you from the enjoyment? James is perfectly happy; Lord Deerehurst's

gondola is quite the most comfortable in Venice; and I'm sure _I'm_

staid enough to play propriety! Suppose we make a party of four?"

Serracauld laughed delightedly.

"How splendid!" he said. "Mrs. Milbanke, may I find my uncle and bring

him to be introduced?"

He bent forward quickly, leaning across Milbanke's empty chair.

For one second Clodagh sat irresolute; then she glanced swiftly from

one interested, admiring face to the other, and again the blood rushed

into her face in a wave of self-conscious pleasure.

"Yes," she said softly--"yes. Bring your uncle to be introduced."

CHAPTER IV

Serracauld smiled his acknowledgment of the granted permission, and

departed in search of his uncle; while Barnard looked at Clodagh with

amused interest.

"If you can waive your prejudices against the milk baths, Mrs.

Milbanke," he said, "you'll find old Deerehurst quite a delightful

person. But, of course, when one is very young, prejudices are adhesive

things."

He finished his coffee meditatively, stealing a glance at her from the

corner of his eye.

She remained silent for a moment, tentatively fingering her cup.

"Do I seem so very young?" she asked at last, without raising her eyes.

At the words, he turned and looked at her fully.

"Do you know, Mrs. Milbanke," he said seriously, "I am literally

devoured by a desire to ask you your age? When I saw you come

downstairs to-night, I felt--pardon the rudeness!--like laughing in

James's face when he introduced you as his wife. You scarcely looked

eighteen. But a little while ago, when you spoke of your life at

Florence, I suddenly felt out in my calculations. Your face, of course,

seemed just as fascinatingly young; but from your expression I could

have believed you to be twenty-four. And now again--Please _do_ be

lenient to my impertinence!--now again, as you spoke to Serracauld, you

looked like a child turning the first page in the book of life. Are you

an enigma?"

During the first portion of his speech, Clodagh had looked grave; but

at his last words she laughed with a touch of constraint.

"No," she answered. "I am nothing half so interesting--and it's four

years since I was eighteen. But hadn't I better get my cloak before Mr.

Serracauld comes back?"

With another slightly embarrassed laugh, she rose; and without waiting

for Barnard's escort, walked out of the room.

Ten minutes later, she descended the stairs, wrapped in a light evening

cloak. Her cheeks were still flushed with excitement, and her hazel

eyes were dark with anticipation. Yesterday--only yesterday--she had

been a mere item in the secluded, unimportant life of the villa at

Florence; now, to-night, three men--each one of whom must, in his time,

have known superlatively interesting and beautiful women--awaited her

pleasure!

As she stepped across the hall, Serracauld darted forward to meet her.

"This is very gracious of you!" he murmured. "I hear it is your first

evening in Venice."

She glanced up at him, as they moved slowly forward across the hall.

"My very first evening," she said softly. "And I so want to enjoy it."

He paused deliberately, and looked at her.

"May I take that as permission to make it enjoyable--if I can?"

Her lashes drooped in instinctive, native coquetry.

"Aren't you going to introduce your uncle to me?" she said in a lowered

voice.

He looked at her, mystified and attracted.

"If I knew you better, Mrs. Milbanke----" he began.

But without replying, Clodagh moved away from him across the hall and

out on to the terrace. There, transfixed by a new impression, she

paused involuntarily.

Venice is beautiful in the morning and exquisite in the twilight, but

it is at night that the mystery of Venice--that most subtle of its many

charms--enwraps and envelops it like a magic web. There is nothing in

Europe to rival the literal, tangible romance of Venice at night: the

faint, idle, infinitely suggestive lap of water against a thousand

unseen steps; the secret darkness, revealed rather than dispersed by

the furtive, uneven lights shed forth from windows or open doors; the

throb of music that seems woven into the picture--an inseparable,

integral part of the enchanted life. All is a wonder and a joy.

To Clodagh, with her inherent love of things mystic and beautiful, the

scene was curiously impressive. In an ecstasy of appreciation, she

stood drinking it in; then, suddenly touched with the warm desire of

sharing her sensations, she turned to her companion.

"Isn't it--wonderful?" she said below her breath.

Serracauld looked at her for a moment in puzzled doubt; then he smiled

indulgently.

"Yes!" he said vaguely. "Yes! It is rather great--the water and the

gondolas and--and all that sort of thing----"

Her large, clear eyes rested on his face, then slowly returned to their

scrutiny of the canal. A momentary sense of disappointment had assailed

her--she was conscious of a momentary jar. But as she stood, silent and

uncertain, a burst of low, throbbing music broke across the darkness,

and at the same moment she became conscious of a large gondola gliding

up to the hotel steps.

With the excitement of anticipation, the cloud passed from her face.

"Come!" she cried--"come! I see Mr. Barnard."

It was at the head of the flight of stone steps leading to the water,

that Lord Deerehurst was introduced to her; and in the semi-darkness,

it struck her that he made a distinctly interesting figure, with his

black hair worn a shade lower on the forehead than modern fashion

permits; his pale, aristocratic, unemotional face; his cold,

penetrating eyes; and the somewhat unusual evening clothes that fitted

his tall figure closely and, by a clever touch of the tailor's art,

conveyed the suggestion of a period more picturesque than our own. She

studied him with deep attention; and bent her head in gratified

acknowledgment of the profound bow with which he marked the

introduction. A moment later, he offered her his hand, and himself

assisted her to the waiting gondola.

With a pleasant, excited sense of dignity and importance, she passed

down the steps and entered the boat, noting, as she took her seat, its

costly and elaborate fittings and the sombre livery of the two

gondoliers; then, as she leant back against the cushions, her eyes

passed back interestedly to the three men to whom she owed the night's

adventure.

Lord Deerehurst came first, moving with a certain stiff dignity, and

appropriated the seat by her side; Barnard and Serracauld followed,

placing themselves on the two smaller seats that flank the stern; and a

moment later, she saw the gondoliers swing lithely round into their

allotted positions, and felt the gondola shoot out swiftly and silently

into the dark waters.

Following the custom of the place, they headed for the point where the

idle and the pleasure-seeking of Venice gather nightly to listen to the

music, and lazily watch the swaying paper lanterns of the musician's

gondolas.

Clodagh sat silent as they skimmed onward. She was bending slightly

forward, her whole attitude an unconscious typifying of expectancy; her

hands were lightly clasped in her lap, and again the hazel of her eyes

was darkened by their dilated pupils.

As the gondola slackened speed and the music became nearer, more

distinct, Lord Deerehurst, who had been covertly studying her, leant

suddenly close to her.

"You are a great appreciator of the beautiful, Mrs. Milbanke!" he said

in his thin, high-bred voice.

Clodagh started; and, glancing from one to the other of the three men,

laughed shyly.

"Why do you say that?" she asked.

"Because I have presumed to watch your face."

She blushed; and Barnard, feeling rather than seeing her embarrassment,

made haste to reassure her.

"Mrs. Milbanke is an adept in the appreciation of beauty," he said with

a laugh. "She was brought up on the study of it."

Again Clodagh coloured, and again she gave a shy laugh.

"If you say that, Mr. Barnard," she said, "I shall accuse you of being

a fellow-countryman. I am Irish, you know." She turned and looked up at

Deerehurst.

The old peer again bent forward interestedly.

"Indeed!" he exclaimed. "Then we have a bond of sympathy. Some of my

best friends come from Ireland."

His voice was high and possessed no fulness, but he had the same

courteously ingratiating manner that belonged to his nephew; while a

larger acquaintance with the world had taught him an adaptability to

circumstances--and persons--that Serracauld had not troubled to

acquire. As he spoke now, he brought a tone of deference and

friendliness into his words that touched Clodagh to a feeling of

companionship.

"Then you know Ireland?" she said quickly.

"Very well indeed."

Her expression softened.

"When were you there last?" she asked in a low voice.

"Last autumn. I was staying at Arranmore with----"

"--With Lord Muskeere. I know--I know. Why, you were in our county. My

father often and often stayed at Arranmore before----" She checked

herself hastily. "Oh, long ago, before--before I was born," she added a

little awkwardly. "It was from a stream that runs near there that he

took my name--Clodagh."

"Indeed! What a charming idea!"

Deerehurst raised his gold-rimmed eyeglass, and peered at her through

the dusk.

At the same moment, Serracauld leaned forward in his seat.

"Clodagh!" he repeated--"Clodagh! What a pretty name!"

Once more, and without apparent reason, Clodagh felt her heart beat

unevenly. With a short laugh, she turned to Barnard.

"And you, Mr. Barnard," she said hastily, "do you like the name?"

Barnard made a suave gesture.

"I say that it fits its owner."

Once more she laughed with a tinge of nervous excitement.

"A very guarded statement!" she said brightly. "I think we had better

talk about something else. Who are the people I am to meet here? Mr.

Barnard kindly wants to provide me with new friends."

She turned again to Deerehurst.

"Indeed!" Once more he lifted the gold-rimmed glass, this time to study

Barnard.

"Yes," broke in Barnard genially. "Mrs. Milbanke's husband and I have

met here to talk shop; and I have a shrewd presentiment that, unless we

provide her with a diverting channel or two, Mrs. Milbanke may find

Venice a bore."

"I could never do that."

Clodagh turned an animated face towards the dark flotilla, on the

outskirts of which their own gondola was hovering.

"But, my dear lady, even Venice can become uninteresting and

dry--paradoxical as it may sound," Barnard returned airily. "My

proposal," he explained, "is that I should make Frances Hope and Mrs.

Milbanke known to each other. Don't you think the idea brilliant?"

"Quite!--quite!" Serracauld looked up interestedly. "You are a man of

ideas, Barny!"

Lord Deerehurst said nothing, but again his eyeglass gleamed in the

uncertain light.

"What is Lady Frances Hope like?" Clodagh asked, suddenly withdrawing

her gaze from the massed gondolas that swayed in the musicians' lantern

light.

"Like?" Serracauld repeated vaguely. "How would you describe her,

uncle? The sort of woman who does everything twice as well as anybody

else--and at half the cost--eh?"

Lord Deerehurst gave one of his thin, metallic laughs.

"I always think," he said slowly, "that if Frances Hope had been the

child of a milkman instead of a marquis, she would have made a

singularly successful adventuress. No reflections cast upon the late

Sammy, my dear Barnard!"

He waved his white hand, and the dim, uncertain light gleamed on a

magnificent diamond ring.

Barnard laughed with a tolerant air.

"Rather an apt deduction!" he admitted. "I am inclined to agree with

you. Frances is just one of those shrewd, plain-looking, attractive

women who enjoy climbing steep ladders. It is rather a pity she was

born on the top rung. But I believe we have frightened Mrs. Milbanke!"

He turned suddenly and caught Clodagh's expression, as she sat forward,

listening intently.

At the mention of her name, she laughed quickly, and leant back against

the cushions of her seat.

"What do you mean?" she asked with a touch of constraint. "Am I as

childish as all that?"

They all looked at her; and Barnard gave an amused laugh.

"Come!" he cried banteringly. "There's no use telling me you weren't

just a little shocked."

"Shocked?"

"Yes, shocked." He nodded his head once or twice in genial gaiety.

"There's no denying that the word 'adventuress' has a daunting sound.

There was a danger signal in the very thought of a lady who

might--under any conditions--have been notorious. Come now, confess!"

Clodagh looked from his amused, quizzical eyes to Serracauld's

satirical, laughing ones, and a shadow of uncertainty--of

doubt--crossed her own bright face. There was an element in this social

atmosphere that she did not quite understand.

"Indeed----" she began hotly.

But Serracauld, whose glance had never left her own, bent forward

quickly, looking up into her face.

"I say, Mrs. Milbanke," he cried, "let's refute the insinuation of this

old inquisitor! Let's waive ceremony, and storm Lady Frances Hope in

her citadel! She is always at home at this hour of night."

Clodagh looked up.

"To-night?" she said. "Oh, but how could I? I don't know her!"

Serracauld laughed.

"Oh, as for that, we're abroad, not in England! The greatest stickler

for etiquette allows that there's a difference in the two conditions."

"But I couldn't. How could I?" Her eyes sought Barnard's.

"Oh yes!" he cried. "I knew it!--I knew it! We have frightened you

off!"

She flushed uncomfortably.

"It isn't that!" she cried in distress. "You know it isn't that!"

Involuntarily she turned to Lord Deerehurst; but in the dim light she

detected a smile on his pale, cold face.

With a sudden change of emotion, self-reliance came to her.

"Where does Lady Frances Hope live?" she asked in a careless voice.

Barnard was studying her intently.

"She has apartments in the Palazzo Ugochini," he said. "Quite close at

hand."

For a moment Clodagh looked fixedly in front of her; then her lips

closed suddenly, and she raised her head.

"Very well!" she said shortly. "Take me to the Palazzo Ugochini--just

to prove that you were wrong."

CHAPTER V

The decision was no sooner made, than it was carried into execution.

The order was given to the gondoliers, and instantly the long dark

gondola swung round, disengaging itself from the tangle of surrounding

craft, and headed for the quieter spaces of the middle stream.

The Palazzo Ugochini was on the Grand Canal; and as they glided

westward, past the beautiful church of Santa Maria della Salute,

Barnard leant forward and directed her attention to their destination.

"There is the Palace of the Ugochini," he said. "It contains some of

the finest frescoes in Italy. It was bought up some years ago by an

enterprising Frenchman who lets it out in sections. Just now Lady

Frances Hope is the proud occupier of the first floor."

With a movement of interest, she followed his glance looking silently

at the long line of irregular, imposing buildings that stretched away

before her.

"What a beautiful old place!" she said. "Are those your friend's

windows?"

She indicated the first floor of the palace, from the open windows of

which a warm stream of light poured downwards upon the water.

"Yes. I expect they're playing bridge up there. Frances is an

enthusiast. By the way, do you gamble, Mrs. Milbanke?"

Involuntarily Clodagh started and looked round; then, as she met

Barnard's bland, amiable face, she blushed at her own emotions.

"Oh no!" she said in a low voice. "I--I never play cards."

Serracauld looked up quickly.

"What!" he exclaimed. "You don't play bridge?"

"I have never played any game of cards since I was a child."

The three men looked at her in unfeigned surprise.

"Not really, Mrs. Milbanke?"

Serracauld's eyes were wide with astonishment.

"Really !--quite really!"

"Why you are ethereal, Mrs. Milbanke," Barnard said laughingly, as the

gondola glided up to the palace steps. "The passport to humanity

nowadays is an inordinate love of risk."

Clodagh laughed nervously.

"Then I must be inhuman," she said.

The gondola stopped, and Lord Deerehurst rose. As he offered her his

hand, he looked searchingly into her face.

"Only time can prove the truth of that statement, Mrs. Milbanke!" he

said in his thin voice.

In the mystery of her surroundings, the words seemed to Clodagh to

possess a curious, almost a prophetic ring; and their echo lingered in

her ears as she stepped from the gondola and entered the palace. But

she was young; and to the young, action must ever outweigh suggestion.

She had scarcely mounted the old marble staircase before the excitement

of her impending ordeal sent all other ideas spinning into oblivion.

There was adventure and experience in every succeeding moment.

At the head of the stairs they were met by an English man-servant. He

stepped forward gravely, as if accustomed to the arrival of late

callers; and, relieving Clodagh of her cloak, ushered her down a long

corridor and through an arched doorway hidden by a velvet curtain.

The salon into which they were shown was large and high ceiled. The

walls displayed some allegorical studies in the fresco work of which

Barnard had spoken; the floor was bare of carpet and highly polished,

reflecting the elaborately designed but scanty furniture and the

wonderful glass chandeliers that hung from the ceiling; and in the

three long windows that opened on the canal, stood groups of statuary.

During the moment that followed their entrance, Clodagh almost believed

that the room was unoccupied, so wide and formal did it look; but a

second glance convinced her of her mistake. At its further end four

persons were playing cards at a small table, partly sheltered from the

rest of the room by a massive leather screen.

When their names were announced, no one at the table moved or even

looked round; but immediately afterwards there was a stir amongst the

players, and the light sound of cards thrown hastily down, followed by

a quick laugh in a woman's voice.

"Game--and rubber! Well done, partner! How does the score stand, Tory?"

The owner of the laugh rose from her seat, and almost instantly turned

to the door, revealing to Clodagh's curious eyes a strong, energetic

face, redeemed from ugliness by a pair of intensely intelligent eyes

and a mouth that displayed strong white teeth. It was the somewhat

disconcerting face of a clever woman to whom life represents an

undeniable--if an invigorating--struggle. Seeing the little group by

the doorway, she hurried forward with an almost masculine assurance.

"You poor, dear people!" she exclaimed in her strong voice. "A thousand

apologies! We were on the point of finishing a most exciting

rubber----" Her voice broke off short, as her eyes rested on Clodagh.

"Who is this, Barny?" she asked interestedly.

Barnard stepped forward, laying his hand smilingly on Clodagh's arm.

"This, my dear Frances," he said, "is a new friend that I want you to

make! The wife of an old friend of mine. You may have met her

husband--Mr. Milbanke--one of the Somerset Milbankes. Poor Sammy knew

him well."

Lady Frances Hope puckered her strong, assertive eyebrows.

"I believe I do remember meeting a Mr. Milbanke, but I scarcely

think----" She looked scrutinisingly at Clodagh.

"Oh yes, it's the same!--it's the same!" Barnard's interruption was

somewhat hasty. "Mr. Milbanke is a great archaeologist. He and Mrs.

Milbanke are only in Venice for a week. I had intended bringing you to

call formally at their hotel; but circumstances----"

Here Clodagh broke in.

"You must please, please forgive my doing such a very extraordinary

thing as this," she said. "It was all Mr. Barnard's fault----"

But Lady Frances Hope cut the explanation short by holding out her

hand.

"You are extremely welcome!" she said cordially. "And if the truth must

be told, I owe you a debt of gratitude for saving me an afternoon call.

It's a hundred times pleasanter to meet like this. Now, let me see! You

play bridge, of course. We can make up another four."

She glanced over her guests with an organising eye.

Clodagh stepped forward deprecatingly and cast a beseeching look at

Barnard. But in the slight pause that followed, it was Lord Deerehurst

who came to her rescue.

"Mrs. Milbanke has just been confessing to us that she never plays

cards," he said smoothly. "If you will go on with your game, Lady

Frances, I shall do my best to amuse her."

He turned his unemotional glance from one to the other.

The surprise that his announcement had brought to their hostess's face,

changed instantly to an expression of hospitality.

"No!--no, indeed!" she cried. "I would infinitely prefer to talk to

Mrs. Milbanke. Come!" she added, smiling at Clodagh. "Come and let me

introduce you to these bridge-playing people. Perhaps they will convert

you."

She laughed, and followed by the four, moved across the salon.

At their approach, the three at the card-table--two women and a

man--turned to look at them, and the latter, a square-built, thick-set

youth, wearing a pince-nez and possessing a quick, inquisitive manner,

rose to his feet.

"Mrs. Milbanke!" said Lady Frances, "this is Mr. Victor Luard! Miss

Luard! Mrs. Bathurst!"

Luard bowed; and the two women looked at Clodagh, each acknowledging

the introduction after her own fashion. Miss Luard gave a quick,

friendly nod, Mrs. Bathurst a slow and graceful inclination of the

head, accompanied by a faint, insincere smile.

"Are you a bridge player?" she asked, raising a pair of pretty, languid

brown eyes to Clodagh's. "I wish so much you would take my place. I've

been having the most appalling luck."

Her glance wandered on to Serracauld, Barnard, and Deerehurst.

"Ah, here is Lord Deerehurst!" she cried in a suddenly animated voice.

"Lord Deerehurst, do come and tell me what you would have done with a

hand like this!"

She picked up her scattered cards, and began to sort them; then, with a

graceful movement, she drew her skirts aside, and indicated a vacant

chair that stood beside her own.

Lord Deerehurst hesitated, lifted his eyeglass, and scrutinised her

pretty pink and white face, then languidly dropped into the empty

chair. At the same moment Clodagh, Serracauld, Luard, and his sister

fell into conversation; and Lady Frances and Barnard moved away

together towards one of the open windows.

For a quarter of an hour the formation of the party remained unchanged;

then a slight incident caused a distraction in the assembly.

Clodagh--who had shaken off her first shyness, and was beginning to

enjoy the conversation of her new acquaintance--heard the curtain at

the arched entrance drawn back; and, looking round, was surprised to

see two servants enter, solemnly carrying a table and a painted board,

which they proceeded to set up in the middle of the room.

Her wonder and curiosity were depicted on her face, for Luard looked at

her quickly and interestedly.

"Don't you know what that is, Mrs. Milbanke?" he asked. "Hasn't Barny

told you of Lady Frances' famous roulette? Lady Frances!" he called,

"come and initiate Mrs. Milbanke!"

At the words, every one turned and looked at Clodagh. And Lord

Deerehurst, with a murmured word to Mrs. Bathurst, rose and came round

the card-table.

"Are you going to tempt the gods?" he asked in his peculiar voice.

Clodagh looked round, a little embarrassed by the general interest.

"Well, I--I suppose I should like to see roulette played," she admitted

guardedly.

He bent his head, and looked at her with his cold, penetrating smile.

"Ah, I see!" he said softly. "Judicious reservations!"

But at that moment Lady Frances crossed the room, and pausing by the

roulette-table, set the ball spinning.

"Come along, people!" she cried gaily. "Fortune smiles!"

They all laughed and strolled across the room.

"Come along!" Lady Frances urged again--"come, Rose!" She smiled at

Mrs. Bathurst. "Unlucky at bridge, lucky at roulette! Come,

Tory!--come, Val!"

She glanced from Luard to Serracauld.

There was another amused laugh, and all the party with the exception of

Clodagh stepped forward and placed one or many coins upon the table.

Lady Frances' eyes were quick to detect the exception. With her fingers

poised above the board, she waited smilingly.

"Won't you stake, Mrs. Milbanke?" she asked.

Clodagh blushed, and stepped back shyly. At the same instant,

Serracauld moved forward to her side.

"Oh, Mrs. Milbanke, but you must!" he cried.

Again confusion covered Clodagh, as all eyes were turned upon her.

"No, please!" she said. "I--I think I'd rather not."

Barnard laughed suavely.

"Mrs. Milbanke is wise!" he said. "She wants to see which way the gods

are pointing."

"Then Mrs. Milbanke is unwise! The gods are jealous beings; we must not

treat them with suspicion. I'll stake for her!"

It was Lord Deerehurst who spoke. And regardless of Clodagh's quick,

half-frightened expostulation, he stepped forward out of the little

circle, and placed a gold coin on the number thirteen. A moment later

Lady Frances gave a short amused laugh, and with a dexterous movement

of the fingers set the ball whizzing.

To Clodagh it was a supreme--an extraordinary--moment. Until Lord

Deerehurst had made the stake--until the first click of the spinning

ball had struck upon her ear--she had been conscious of only one

feeling: a prejudiced, innate dread of every game--whether of chance or

skill--upon which money could be staked; but the simple placing of the

coin, the simple turning of the pivot had marked for her a

psychological moment. With a quick catching of the breath, she stepped

involuntarily forward, aware of but one fact--the keen, exhilarating

knowledge that the stopping of the ball must mean loss or

gain--individual loss or gain.

During the dozen seconds that it spun round the circle, she stood

silent; then a faint sound of uncontrollable excitement slipped from

between her lips. Hers was the winning number!

As in a dream, she extended her hand, and took the little heap of money

from the fingers of Luard, who had come to Lady Frances' assistance;

then, on the instant that the coins touched her palm, her excitement

evaporated; her sense of elation fell away, to be succeeded by the

first instinctive shrinking that had swayed her imagination.

Acting purely upon impulse, she turned to Lord Deerehurst; and before

he could remonstrate, pressed the money into his hand.

"Please take it!" she said urgently--"please take it! It isn't mine. It

oughtn't to be mine. I--I don't wish to play."

CHAPTER VI

The little incident, trivial in itself, damped the general ardour for

roulette. After a dozen turns of the wheel, Lady Frances declared

herself satisfied.

"Mrs. Milbanke has regenerated us--for the moment!" she cried. "I can't

play roulette to-night. But our turn will come; Mrs. Milbanke. We will

be revenged on you!"

Her shrewd, smiling glance passed rapidly over Clodagh's face.

Again the whole company laughed.

"Mrs. Milbanke is a feminine Sir Galahad!" said Luard. "By the way,

Lady Frances, when is our irreproachable knight to honour Venice with

his presence?"

He turned and looked banteringly at his hostess.

Lady Frances smiled.

"Oh, any day now," she returned. "But aren't you rather incorrigible?"

"So Sir Galahad thinks!" he retorted, unabashed. "Is he an acquaintance

of yours, Mrs. Milbanke?"

Clodagh smiled uncertainly; and Lady Frances laughed.

"How ridiculous of you to expect Mrs. Milbanke to read your riddles!"

she said sharply. "The person this very disrespectful young man is

speaking of, Mrs. Milbanke, is Sir Walter Gore----"

"The most admirable Sir Walter Gore!" interjected Luard.

Lady Frances' sallow face flushed very slightly.

"--Sir Walter Gore," she went on, ignoring the interruption, "who is

only twenty-nine--has been ten times round the world--and is imbued

with the deepest contempt for all modern social things."

She laughed again, as she finished; but a fleeting change of expression

had passed over her face.

Clodagh looked up smilingly.

"And where is the likeness to me?" she asked.

"Oh, you are both above mere human temptations, Mrs. Milbanke!" Luard

broke in irrepressibly.

Lord Deerehurst, who had been listening to the conversation, lifted his

eyeglass.

"But then Sir Walter Gore has been ten times round the world," he

remarked in his thin, dry voice. "And this is Mrs. Milbanke's first

visit to Venice."

Again they all laughed, and Clodagh coloured.

"You think my stoicism would not wear well?" she asked.

Deerehurst looked at her searchingly.

"Stoicism may be born of many characteristics," he said. "I am not in a

position to say from what yours springs. But"--he lowered his

voice.--"I do not think you are a natural stoic."

She laughed and glanced uneasily round the little company, already

beginning to break up into groups of two and three.

Observing the look, Lady Frances turned to her tactfully. "Come, Lord

Deerehurst!" she cried. "We are getting too serious. If you _must_

philosophise, take Mrs. Milbanke on to the balcony, where she will have

something to distract her thoughts. For myself, I want to hear

Valentine sing. Val!" she called. "Come to the piano and make some

music! I'm surfeited with stringed instruments and Italian voices."

She moved across the salon; and Lord Deerehurst turned to Clodagh.

"May I follow our hostess's suggestion? May I talk philosophy on the

balcony?"

She smiled. The slight strain, of which she had been conscious ever

since the incident of the roulette, lifted suddenly, and her earlier

sensation of elated excitement returned.

"Yes, if you like," she responded brightly. "The balcony sounds very

tempting. And as for the philosophy, I can promise to listen--if I

can't promise to understand."

She smiled afresh, and crossed the wide room, Deerehurst following

closely.

As she passed the group of statuary and stepped through the open

window, Serracauld struck a chord or two on the piano, and an instant

later, his voice--a full strong voice, intensely passionate and

youthful--drifted across the salon and out into the night.

At the first note Clodagh halted, surprised and enchanted by the sound;

and sinking silently into one of the balcony chairs, rested one arm on

the iron railing.

The music Serracauld sang was French, and possessed much of the

distinction that marks that nation's art. The song was a hymn to

life--and its indispensable coadjutors, youth and love; and it went

with a peculiar lilt that stirred the blood and stimulated the fancy.

He sang it as it should be sung--easily and arrogantly; for, as

frequently happens with those who possess voices, he could express in

music thoughts, ideas, and emotions that never crossed his own selfish,

somewhat narrow soul.

Clodagh, staring down into the dark waters in an attitude of wrapt

attention, drank in the song to its last note; and as the final

vibration died away, she looked round at Deerehurst with an expression

infinitely softened and enhanced.

"How beautiful!" she said. "Oh, how beautiful!"

Deerehurst, who had seated himself beside her, leant forward and rested

his own arm upon the balcony railing.

"It is not the song that is beautiful, Mrs. Milbanke," he said, "but

the thoughts it has wakened in you."

Clodagh looked at him in silent question. She was still under the spell

of the music, and saw nothing to resent in his cold gaze.

"You were the instrument," he went on in the same lowered voice. "The

notes were not played upon the piano, but upon your brain. Your brain

is a network of sensitive strings, waiting to be played on by every

factor in life--music, colour, sunshine, emotion----" His tone sank.

Clodagh glanced quickly at his tall, thin figure, seated so close to

her own, and at the wax-like, inscrutable face showing through the

dusk.

"You seem to know me better than I know myself," she said uncertainly.

He watched her intently for a moment; then he leant forward, his long,

pale fingers toying with the ribbon of his eyeglass.

"I do know you better than you know yourself."

She gave a little embarrassed laugh.

"Then explain me to myself!"

Again he seemed to study her; then he leant back in his chair with a

decisive movement.

"No!" he said--"no! Not now! In a year--or two--or even three, perhaps.

But not now."

She laughed again; and unconsciously a note of relief underran her

laugh--a relief that, by a natural sequence of emotion, brought a fresh

reaction to the coquetry of an hour ago.

With a quick turn of the head, she looked up at him. "But how shall I

find you in a year--or two--or three?"

She was distinctly conscious that the words held a challenge; but the

thought was fraught with the new intoxication that the evening had

created.

With a swift movement, he bent closer to her.

"The world is very small, Mrs. Milbanke--when one desires to make it

so."

In the half light of the balcony, his pale eyes seemed to search hers.

Involuntarily she blushed, but her glance met his steadily enough.

"Not until one has been ten times round it!" she reminded him.

He laughed his thin, amused laugh; then suddenly he became grave again.

"Don't you feel," he said, "that when we desire a thing very greatly,

our own will power may bend circumstances?"

Her eyes faltered, and her gaze moved to the gondolas flitting silently

below them.

"I think I have given up desiring things greatly," she said in a low,

uneven voice.

Deerehurst's eyelids narrowed.

"Would it be presumptuous to ask why?"

"No. Oh no!"

"But you will not throw light upon my darkness?"

She turned her head, and once more her gaze rested on his face.

"No," she said softly, "it isn't that. It is that I don't believe I

could enlighten you--even if I would. I am a puzzle to myself."

"The deeper a riddle, the more tempting its solution."

Very quietly he drew still nearer, until his foot touched the hem of

her skirt.

The action, more than the words, startled her. With a little laugh, she

drew back into her seat.

"Perhaps it is no riddle after all!" she said quickly. "Perhaps it is

the lack of human nature--the likeness to Mr. Luard's 'Sir Galahad.'"

She laughed again nervously. Then suddenly her own words suggested to

her a new and less dangerous channel of talk.

"When is this wonderful person to be in Venice?" she asked. "I should

like to see him."

But Lord Deerehurst had no intention of allowing another man's name to

interfere with his pleasure.

"Mrs. Milbanke," he said earnestly, "may I ask you another question---a

serious one?"

"Not till you've answered mine."

"But this is personal--personal to you and me. The other is not."

He bent over her chair; and, seemingly by accident, his hand brushed

her sleeve.

"Mrs. Milbanke----"

But even as his thin voice articulated her name, a shadow fell across

the lighted window behind them; and Serracauld, characteristically easy

and nonchalant in his movements, stepped on to the balcony.

Clodagh turned with a short, faint laugh. The beating of her heart was

uneven, and her face felt hot.

"Mr. Serracauld," she said impulsively, "when is Sir Walter Gore coming

to Venice? I have been asking Lord Deerehurst, but he cannot--or will

not tell me."

Deerehurst, who at his nephew's approach had drawn quietly back into

his seat, looked up with perfect composure.

"Yes, Valentine," he said smoothly, "I believe Gore has been making an

impression by proxy."

Serracauld laughed.

"Really!" he said. "How interesting! I shall look forward to the

meeting in the flesh."

Again he laughed, as at something intensely amusing. And as Clodagh

turned towards him doubtfully, she saw him shoot a swift, satirical

glance at his uncle.

"Why?" she asked quickly--"why should our meeting be interesting?"

Once more a vague sense of antagonism assailed her--a vague distrust of

this new atmosphere.

Serracauld answered at once in his light, ingratiating tone.

"For no reason, Mrs. Milbanke, that you can possibly cavil at!"

"But for what reason?" Her glance rested inquiringly on his face. "Do

tell me. I hate things that I cannot understand."

Deerehurst smiled a little cynically.

"A very youthful sentiment!" he murmured. "The older one grows, the

more one seeks the incomprehensible."

His eyes rested upon her with a fixed regard.

For a space she sat very still, attempting no rejoinder. Then, as if

suddenly moved to decisive action, she rose and turned towards the

lighted salon.

"It's very late," she said quickly. "I must think about getting home."

Serracauld stepped aside, and Deerehurst, who had risen with her, moved

forward.

But with a swift gesture that ignored them both, she crossed the

balcony and stepped through the open window.

After she had left them, the two men stood for a moment looking at each

other; then, with an elaborately careless gesture, Lord Deerehurst

raised his eyeglass and peered out across the dark canal.

"Rather a pleasant little gathering to-night!" he said casually. "Rose

Bathurst looks particularly well."

Serracauld's lips parted; then pursed themselves together, while he

cast one comprehensive glance at his uncle's stiff back.

"Oh yes!--yes! Quite!" he rejoined vaguely; then, very swiftly, he

turned and hurried across the salon after Clodagh.

She was bidding her hostess good-night as he reached her side; and his

attentive glance noted her heightened colour and her nervously alert

manner.

"To-morrow night, then!" Lady Frances was saying; and he saw Clodagh

nod and smile.

"To-morrow night!" she repeated. "Mr. Barnard, are you ready?"

As she looked round for her cavalier, Serracauld stepped softly to her

side.

"Mrs. Milbanke," he said, "you will not discard my uncle's gondola? He

is waiting to know if we may convey you home."

She looked up at him with a faint suggestion of coldness and distrust.

Then, across the silence of her indecision, the low notes of the

Venetian night music broke forth again, as the musicians' gondola

passed the Palazzo Ugochini on its way homeward. For one moment it

seemed to sweep across the salon through the open windows; then it

faded into the distance, as the boat passed on up the canal. At the

sound, Clodagh's face involuntarily softened, her lips parted, and she

smiled.

"Very well!" she acquiesced below her breath. "Tell Lord Deerehurst

that he may take me home."

CHAPTER VII

During the night that followed, Clodagh's excited thoughts scarcely

permitted her to sleep; but with that extraordinary reserve of strength

that springs from the combination of youth and health, she rose next

morning as fresh and untired as though she had enjoyed unbroken rest.

Coming downstairs at half-past eight, the first person she encountered

was Milbanke, entering the hotel from the terrace. And spurred by her

own exuberant spirits, roused to a sense of general good-will by her

own rosy outlook upon life, she went quickly forward to greet him.

"Good-morning, James!" she said. "I hope you haven't been tiring

yourself."

It struck her as an after impression that he looked slightly worn and

fatigued.

As he took her hand, he smiled, gratified by her concern.

"Not at all, my dear!" he responded--"not at all! I have had an hour's

excursion with Mr. Tomes. I assure you I had no idea that the bye-ways

of Venice were so interesting."

"All Venice is heavenly."

Clodagh's glance wandered across the terrace to the canal, radiant in

the early light.

Milbanke raised his head, arrested by the fervour of her tone.

"Then you--you enjoyed yourself last night?" he ventured with unusual

penetration.

"Oh, so much!" She turned to him with a glowing smile that betrayed a

warm desire for universal confidence and sympathy. "So much! Mr.

Barnard and the tall, dark-haired boy that you met last evening took me

round the canals in the most beautiful gondola belonging to Lord

Deerehurst. We saw all the interesting people from the hotels, and

heard the music; and afterwards Mr. Barnard brought me to the Palazzo

Ugochini and introduced me to Lady Frances Hope. She was charmingly

kind and hospitable; and made me promise to go again to-night--and to

bring you."

Milbanke's face fell.

"But, my dear----" he began deprecatingly.

"Oh, you must come!--you must! Lady Frances Hope feels sure she has met

you before. You must come!"

Milbanke looked distressed.

"But, my dear----"

"Yes, I know you hate society. But just this once--I--I _wish_ you to

come----"

She made the appeal with a sudden anxious gesture, born of a very

subtle, a very instinctive motive--a motive that had for its basis an

obscure and quite unacknowledged sense of self-protection.

Milbanke--materialist born--heard only the words, noting nothing of the

undermeaning.

"But, my dear," he expostulated, "the thing is--is impossible. Mr.

Angelo Tomes has promised to expound his theories to me after dinner

to-night----"

He looked at her nervously.

She was silent for a minute or two--suddenly and profoundly conscious

that, in all the radiant glory of her surroundings, she stood alone. At

the painful consciousness, she felt her throat swell, but with a

defiant refusal to be conquered by her feelings, she gave a quick, high

laugh.

"Oh, very well!" she cried--"very well! As you like!"

And without looking at him again, she turned and entered the

coffee-room of the hotel.

Having partaken very hastily of her morning meal, she returned to the

terrace, where--among the other early loungers--she found Barnard,

reading his English newspapers. Seeing her, he threw the papers down,

jumped to his feet, and came forward with evident pleasure.

"Good-morning!" he said cordially--"good-morning. You look as fresh as

a flower, after last night's dissipation."

She took his hand and met his suave smile with a sense of relief.

"Good-morning!" she returned softly. "Have you seen James? He

breakfasted hours ago."

"Yes," he said--"oh yes! I was talking to him just now. He has gone to

write letters."

"To write letters!"

There was no curiosity and very little interest audible in Clodagh's

tone.

"So he said. And you? What are you going to do?"

She looked up and smiled again.

"To idle," she said. "I have an inherited gift for idling."

Barnard smiled, then glanced along the terrace with an air of pretended

secrecy.

"Take me into partnership!" he said in a whisper. "My clients don't

know it, but I'm constitutionally the laziest beggar alive. Do let me

idle in your company for half an hour? The canals are delightful in the

early morning----"

He indicated the flight of stone steps, round which one or two gondolas

were hovering in expectation of a fare.

Clodagh's glance followed his; and her face insensibly brightened.

"I should love it," she said.

"Truly?"

She nodded.

"Right! Then the thing is done."

He hurried forward. And with a little thrill of pleasureable

anticipation, she saw one of the loitering gondolas glide up to the

steps.

For the first few moments after they had entered the boat, she was

silent; for in the iridescent morning light, Venice made a new appeal;

then gradually--insidiously--as the charm of her surroundings began to

soothe her senses, the encounter with Milbanke melted from her mind;

and the subtle environment bred of last night's adulation rose again,

turning the world golden.

As they passed the Palazzo Ugochini, she looked up at the closed

windows of the first floor; then almost immediately she turned to her

companion.

"Mr. Barnard," she said suddenly, "I want to ask you a question. I want

you to explain something."

And Barnard, closely studious of her demeanour, felt insensibly that

her mood had changed--that, by a fine connection of suggestions, she

was not the same being who had stepped into the gondola from the hotel

steps. With a genial movement, he bent his head.

"Command me!" he said.

Before replying, she took another swift glance at the closed windows;

then she turned again and met his eyes.

"Tell me why this friend of Lady Frances Hope's is called 'Sir

Galahad'?"

He smiled.

"Gore?" he said with slightly amused surprise. "I didn't know you were

interested in Gore."

"I am not. But please tell me. I want to know!"

His smile broadened.

"The nick-name surely explains itself."

"Somebody with an ideal? Somebody above temptation?"

"Precisely."

She pondered over this reply for a moment; then she opened a fresh

attack.

"Then why should Lord Deerehurst and Mr. Serracauld have smiled when

they spoke of his meeting me?"

Barnard looked up in unfeigned astonishment; then he laughed.

"Upon my word, Mrs. Milbanke," he cried, "you are absolutely unique!"

Clodagh flushed. For one second she wavered on the borderland of

offence; then her mood--her sense of the ridiculous and the sunny

atmosphere of the morning--conquered. She responded with a laugh.

"I suppose I'm not like other people," she said.

"--For which you should say grace every hour of your life!" Barnard

turned and looked into her glowing face. "But I'll satisfy your

curiosity. Gore is known in his own set as a man who obstinately--and

against all reason--refuses to believe in--well, for instance, in the

interesting young married woman."

Clodagh's lips parted.

"But what----" she began impetuously; then she stopped.

Barnard continued to look at her.

"Isn't the inference of the smile somewhat obvious?"

Her glance fell.

"Oh!" she said--"oh! I suppose--I suppose I see."

"Precisely."

"But surely----" she began afresh; then again intuition interfered,

though this time to a different end. It was not the moment--it was not

the atmosphere--in which to parade one's sentiments! With the too ready

facility of her nation for adapting itself to environment, she laughed

suddenly and gaily at her own passing prudery, and raised a bright face

to Barnard's.

"And when he meets these interesting young married women?" she asked

amusedly.

"Ah, there he dubs himself 'Sir Galahad'! Some people call him a saint,

for keeping his eyes on the ground; others call him a sinner, for not

picking up what he sees there. In reality, he is neither sinner nor

saint; but just that enviable creation--a man who is self-sufficing."

While he spoke, and for some time after he had ceased to speak, Clodagh

sat silent. She was leaning over the side of the gondola and looking

down into the calm water, her warm face touched by a mischievous

expression, her hazel eyes half closed. At last she spoke, but without

raising her head.

"And you are all waiting for the person who will make him see the need

for some one else?"

She waited for Barnard's answer, but it did not come. Sensitive to the

silence, she raised her head. Then her self-consciousness left her,

superseded by curiosity. As she looked up, she saw her companion lean

forward and wave a cheerful greeting to the occupant of a gondola

approaching them from the direction of the railway station.

Involuntarily she changed her position and her glance followed his.

The passing of the two gondolas occupied no more than a minute. But the

incidents comprised in some minutes remain with us all our lives. The

approaching boat was a large one, rowed by two gondoliers; for, though

it had only one passenger, it carried a pile of luggage, much

travel-worn. Clodagh's eyes noted this, but they did so very briefly;

for instantly the gondola drew level with her own, her glance lifted

itself to the owner of the luggage--the man to whom Barnard had waved

his greeting.

She saw him with great distinctness, for the early light in Italy is

peculiarly penetrating; and her first thought--a purely instinctive

one--was that he possessed a sailor's face. His strong, clean-cut

features suggested a keen and intimate relationship with natural

elements; his healthily clear skin was tanned by sun and wind; and his

eyes looked out upon the world with the quiet reliance that seems a

reflexion of the steadfast ocean. The first impression of the man was

vaguely daunting. There was something self-contained, even cold, in the

erect pose of his tall, muscular figure, in the manner in which he held

his head. Then, quite unexpectedly, his critic gained a new impression

of him. As the gondolas passed each other, he leant forward in his seat

and his lips parted in a very pleasant smile.

"Ubiquitous as usual, Barnard!" he called in a strong, fresh voice. "I

might have known you would be the first man I should run across!"

He raised his cap, and Clodagh saw that his hair was crisp, close-cut,

and very fair, giving an agreeable touch of youthfulness to his

sunburnt face.

Barnard laughed, and responded with some words of welcome.

The stranger smiled and nodded.

"Come round and see me this afternoon!" he cried, as the gondolas drew

apart. "I'm staying at the Danieli!"

"Who was that?" Clodagh asked involuntarily, as the stranger's boat

glided out of sight. Then she blushed suddenly. "Why are you laughing?"

she demanded.

Barnard smiled.

"I am not laughing, Mrs. Milbanke," he murmured. "I assure you I am not

laughing. It is the merest smile at nature's little bit of stage

management. That interestingly bronzed young Englishman is Sir Walter

Gore!"

CHAPTER VIII

This little incident--this small and yet significant interlude--in

Clodagh's day of new-born freedom, possessed a weight and an importance

all its own. It is quite possible that, taken as a mere note in the

tuneful, inconsequent symphony of her social life in Venice, Barnard's

expression of his sentiments might have glanced across her mind,

leaving no definite impression. But the web of fate is wonderfully

woven. Barnard had propounded those sentiments through the medium of a

name--a name which was to be indelibly printed upon Clodagh's memory by

the strangely opportune appearance of its owner.

At the moment when the gondolas passed, at the moment when Barnard

laughingly explained the stranger's identity, the name of Walter Gore

took on a new significance, became a personal element in touch with her

own existence.

In studying the effect of this incident upon her actions, it must be

borne in mind that Clodagh's moral position was strangely

incongruous--a position to which not one amongst her new acquaintances

possessed a key. She was a married woman with the vitality, the

curiosity, the sense of adventure of a girl in her first season. She

was like a plant that, having been shut for long in dark places, is

suddenly exposed to the influences of warmth and light. She glowed, she

blossomed, she expanded under every passing touch.

As she leant back against the cushions of the gondola and met the

amused and quizzical glance that accompanied Barnard's explanation, her

thoughts sprang forward under a certain stimulus of excitement; her

blood--the blood of a reckless, adventurous race--leaped suddenly in

response to a new idea. She looked up at her companion, her face

glowing, her hands clasped lightly in her lap.

"Mr. Barnard," she said, "will Sir Walter Gore be at the Palazzo

Ugochini to-night?"

Barnard met her glance. For a moment he studied her whimsically, then

he responded by putting a question of his own.

"Mrs. Milbanke," he asked, "is it true that when you dare an Irishwoman

to do a certain thing, that thing is as good as done?"

Clodagh's lashes fluttered, and she coloured hotly; then with the naive

defiance, the intoxication of youthful assurance, she lifted her eyes

again and gave another bright, clear laugh.

"Two unanswered questions should be as good as one reply!" she said,

looking straight into his face.

All that day Clodagh went about her concerns with a delightful, furtive

sense of things to come. In the evening she came down to dinner arrayed

in a dress of lace and embroidery that had come from Vienna only three

weeks before. The dress possessed sweeping lines that defined her

slight figure; and above the jewelled lace of the bodice her graceful

shoulders, smooth as ivory, and as warm in tone, showed bare of any

ornament. The faint olive of her skin was enriched by the neutral

colour of her dress, and in the bright light of the hotel rooms, the

underlying gleam of gold was distinctly visible in her brown hair. Her

whole appearance as she entered the dining-room was subtly attractive;

and in every detail of her expression pleasure and anticipation gleamed

like tangible things. From the colour that wavered in her cheeks to the

dilated pupils that turned her eyes from hazel to black, she was the

embodiment of eager expectation.

Neither Deerehurst, Serracauld, nor Barnard dined at the hotel that

night, but from the eyes of more than one stranger she read the

assurance that she had not arrayed herself in vain; and youthfully

conscious of a subtle, impersonal success, her eager spirits rose high.

Regardless of Milbanke's monosyllabic answers, she kept up a stream of

conversation; and at last, when she rose with the general company, she

did not leave the room, but paused with her hand on the back of his

chair.

"I am going for my cloak, James," she said. "Mr. Barnard is to call for

me. Shall we say good-night now?" Her face, as she bent forward,

leaning over his shoulder, was filled with a bright preoccupation.

The scene was no new one--nor was its lesson new. It merely expounded

the eternal disparity between the present generation and the past. On

the one hand, was the patient surrender of the being who has known life

with its poor compensations and its tardy requitals; on the other, the

impatience, the ardour, the egotism of the being who longs to

understand, to tear the bandage from his blind, curious eyes, to shake

the fetters from his eager, groping hands. It was a scene that is

enacted every day of every year by fathers and daughters, mothers and

sons. A scene in which, daily and yearly, a merciful nature mitigates

the tragic truth by means of a blessed sanity--an instinctive

renunciation. But this was no case for natural healing balm; this was

no case of father and daughter, but of husband and wife.

"Shall we say good-night?" Clodagh asked again.

Milbanke started and looked up; and something in her warm

beauty--something in her gracious youth affected him.

"Clodagh," he said timidly. "Clodagh, are you--are you very anxious?

Will you enjoy this party very much?"

Clodagh looked down on him in frank surprise.

"Why, of course!" she said. "Why do you ask?"

His gaze wavered before her level glance. He looked round at the fast

emptying room.

"No reason, my dear!" he murmured--"no reason, I assure you! Go to your

party. Enjoy yourself!"

At his words she bent quickly and brushed his forehead with her lips,

but so lightly, so unthinkingly that the act was valueless.

"Good-night!" she said--"good-night, James! And thank you!"

She straightened herself quickly; and with a mind already speeding

feverishly forward towards the night's amusement, she turned and walked

out of the room.

It was nine o'clock when she and Barnard arrived at the Palazzo

Ugochini, and already the deep purple of the Venetian night was

wrapping the waterways in mysterious shade. But to-night she was less

absorbed in outward things. An engrossing idea occupied her mind. She

felt at once surer--and less sure--of herself than she had felt the

night before.

The time occupied in reaching the palace and mounting the marble steps

seemed to her very brief; and almost before she realised that the

moment had come, she heard her own and Barnard's names announced by

Lady Frances Hope's English servant.

Her first sensation upon entering the salon, was an almost childish

satisfaction in the thought that she had dressed so carefully; for it

needed but a glance to show her that the evening's gathering was of a

very much more important nature than that of the previous night. Quite

fifty people were grouped about the lofty room, whose centre and pivot

was again the gaudy, modern roulette-table; and towards this table,

with its surrounding group of gay and noisy votaries, she and Barnard

turned as if by instinct.

Nearing the circle of players, she saw that Luard--her acquaintance of

last evening--was officiating at the game to the delight and amusement

of his clients; while at a little distance from the table, she caught

sight of her hostess in conversation with a tall man whose remarkably

fair and close-cropped hair gave her a sudden thrill of recognition.

As in duty bound, she walked straight forward to where Lady Frances was

standing. And as she murmured her greeting, her hostess turned quickly,

appraising in a single rapid glance her dress, her hair, her

complexion, while she extended her hand with a cordial gesture. It may

be possible that the cordiality cost Lady Frances an effort--that the

smile with which she greeted her radiant guest covered a suggestion of

feminine chagrin; but if so, no one detected it. Her welcome sounded

genuine and even warm.

"My dear Mrs. Milbanke!" she exclaimed. "How charming of you to

remember! And how charming you look!" she added in a whisper meant for

Clodagh's ear alone.

Then with a movement of seemingly spontaneous hospitality, she turned

to the fair-haired stranger, who had fallen into conversation with

Barnard.

"Walter!" she said, "I should like you to know Mrs. Milbanke! Mrs.

Milbanke, allow me to introduce Sir Walter Gore!"

It was the affair of a moment. The stranger made a gesture of excuse to

Barnard; turned quickly, and bowed with well-bred deference. Then he

raised his head, and for the first time Clodagh met his glance--the

clear, fearless glance, slightly reserved, slightly aloof, that carried

with it the suggestion of the sea. His look was quiet, steady, and

absolutely impersonal.

And Clodagh, instantly conscious of this polite reserve, felt her face

redden. She was aware of a distinct sensation of being smaller--less

important to the scheme of things--than she had been five minutes

earlier. Her vanity was inexplicably--yet palpably--hurt. Her first

feeling was a distressed humility, her second an angry pride. Then a

new expression leaped into her eyes. Smartingly conscious of Barnard's

interested, quizzical glance fixed expectantly upon her, she challenged

the stranger's regard.

"How d'you do?" she said. "I think I have seen you before."

He smiled politely.

"Indeed!" he said. "In England?" His tone was courteous and attentive,

but neither curious nor interested.

Her colour deepened.

"No. Here in Venice--this morning. I was in Mr. Barnard's gondola when

you were coming from the station to your hotel."

He looked at her, then at Barnard--a perfectly honest, unaffected

glance.

"Indeed!" he said again. "I certainly remember seeing that Barnard was

not alone, but I was remiss enough not to notice who the lady was."

For one second a feeling of resentment--almost of dislike--stung

Clodagh. The next, her old daring mood of years ago sprang up within

her.

"Where I come from," she said, "no man would have the courage to say

that."

Barnard laughed.

"Assume a virtue, if you have it not! Is that the Irish code?"

Gore smiled.

"If that _is_ the Irish code," he said gravely. "I'm afraid Ireland only

echoes the rest of Europe. Assumption is the art of the twentieth

century. The man who can assume most, climbs highest! Isn't that so,

Lady Frances?"

He turned to their hostess.

Clodagh stood silent. She was filled with a humiliating, childish

sensation of having been rebuked--rebuked by some one whose natural

superiority placed him beyond reach of childish temper or childish

violence. The sensation that many a time in old and distant days had

sent her flying to the shelter of Hannah's arms, rose intolerably keen.

With a defiant sense of futility and loneliness, she turned away from

the little group--only to encounter the pallid face and stiff,

distinguished figure of Lord Deerehurst, as he came slowly towards her

across the room.

Extending his hand, he took her fingers and bowed over them.

"Mrs. Milbanke," he said, "I have just been mentally accusing Lady

Frances of surrounding me by so many acquaintances that I could not

find one friend. Now I desire to retract!"

In the sudden relief--the sudden touch of unexpected

flattery--Clodagh's mobile face underwent a change.

"Then you have found a friend?" she said.

At sound of the words, Sir Walter Gore involuntarily turned; and,

seeing the old peer, made a slight movement of surprise and extended

his hand.

"Lord Deerehurst!" he said. "I did not know you were in Venice!"

They shook hands without cordiality; and having murmured some

conventional remark, the older man turned again to Clodagh.

"Yes," he said, "I have found a friend!"

His cold eyes gave point to the words.

She laughed and coloured. Again she was conscious of Barnard's amused,

speculative gaze; but also she was conscious of the quiet, slightly

critical eyes of her new acquaintance. Goaded by the double spur, she

glanced up into Deerehurst's face.

"Well?" she said. "And now?"

"Now I am in my friend's hands."

He made a profound and eloquent bow.

Again she coloured, but again vanity and mortification stirred her

blood. With a winning movement, she took a step forward.

"Your friend would like to listen to philosophy on the balcony," she

said in a recklessly low voice.

CHAPTER IX

To the superficial student of Clodagh's character, this development of

a phase in her mental growth may present itself as something

distasteful--even unworthy; but to the serious student of human nature,

with its manifold and wonderful complexities, it must perforce come

clothed in a different guise.

Placed by circumstances in a singularly isolated position--springing

from a race in whom love of power, love of admiration, love of love

itself are inherent qualities--it is not to be wondered at that, in the

first flush of her realised sovereignty over men, she should view the

world from a slightly giddy altitude.

No one grudges her triumphs and her innocent intrigues to the girl in

her first season. Humanity looks on indulgently while she breaks her

first lance with the candid joy, the pardonable egotism that is bred of

youth. And, incongruous as it may sound, Clodagh's was the position of

the debutante. She was comprehending for the first time--and

comprehending with accumulated emotion--the fact that she possessed an

individual path in life. And with the arrogance of inexperience, she

sprang to the conclusion that every foot crossing that path, should

yield her a toll of homage.

And now one foot had crossed it without pause, without even a desire to

linger! Her cheeks burned under the smart of her hurt vanity, as she

turned from the little group that surrounded Lady Frances Hope, and

allowed Deerehurst to lead her across the salon. Her emotions were many

and confused, but one personality occupied her thoughts against the

angry expostulations of her reason. By an illogical, but very human

sequence of impressions, Sir Walter Gore had, in one moment, become the

most objectionable--and the most interesting--person of her

acquaintance.

As she stepped out upon the balcony, Deerehurst drew forward the low

chair that she had occupied the night before; and she sank into it with

a little sigh. For the first time in the glamour of her new-found

excitement, she felt glad to escape from the crowd and the lights of

the salon.

For a while her companion made no effort to break the silence that she

seemed anxious to preserve, then at last he changed his position,

stepped softly forward, and laid his hand on the back of her chair.

"Is what Barnard tells me true?" he asked. "Are you really leaving

Venice in a week?"

She bent her head without looking up.

"But surely we can persuade you----"

His voice quickened, then broke off, as Clodagh turned to him.

"Does it matter to any one whether I go or stay?" she asked in a

slightly tremulous voice.

The only surprise that Deerehurst betrayed, was shown in the narrowing

of his cold eyes. He studied her penetratingly for a moment; then he

spoke again very quietly.

"Mrs. Milbanke," he said, "can you ask that question in good faith?"

A faint touch of last night's embarrassment wavered across her mind,

but this time she swept it defiantly aside.

"Yes; I mean it."

She turned, and again looked up into his face.

"And am I to answer in good faith?"

She bent her head, still looking at him.

"Then judging by the one case of which I can confidently speak,

yes!--distinctly yes!"

There was a pause; and Clodagh gave a faint laugh.

"And whose is the one case?"

Her voice sounded cool, high, even slightly indifferent. It piqued

Deerehurst to a further step. He answered her question with another.

"Mrs. Milbanke," he said, "have you ever heard of Circe?"

Again she laughed.

"My education was extensive, if very intermittent," she said. "Yes, I

have heard of Circe--and her wild beasts."

He echoed the laugh in his thin, expressive voice.

"I see the implication! But I would willingly play even wild beast--to

your Circe!"

He bent over her chair.

She drew away with a slight, sharp movement; but he did not alter his

position.

"Do you know that a man would follow you--anywhere?"

"Anywhere?"

"Anywhere."

He let his hand glide softly from the back of the chair to her

shoulder.

At the touch of his fingers, she slipped away from him with a noiseless

movement, and rose to her feet.

"Then follow me back to the salon!" she said in a voice that still

sounded high and light.

There was a constrained pause, but it was one of short duration.

Deerehurst was not the man to be easily taken at a disadvantage. For

one instant a glimmering of chagrin showed on his composed face; the

next it was gone. He straightened his dignified figure, and felt

mechanically for his eyeglass.

"'Pon my word!" he said. "I believe you _are_ Circe. Use your

prerogative!"

He turned, laughed a little, and indicated the salon with a courtly

gesture.

Clodagh looked at him. He puzzled and disconcerted her. To one whose

innate instinct was a yielding to impulse, his absolute impassivity in

face of disconcerting situations was something incomprehensible. And

now, as he stepped aside to give her passage, she gave a quick laugh,

expressive of both embarrassment and relief; and crossed the balcony

with a certain instinctive haste.

During their absence, the crowd in the salon had increased; the press

about the roulette-table had become denser; while at half a dozen

card-tables, sheltered from the general gathering by large screens of

old Italian leather-work, parties of four were playing bridge.

Ignoring these latter groups, Clodagh crossed the room towards the

roulette-table, and paused upon the outskirts of the crowd that

surrounded it.

Deerehurst, following her closely, narrowed his eyes with a touch of

interest as he saw that, either by intention or accident, she had

halted beside Sir Walter Gore.

"Well," he said in his thin, satirical voice, as he gained her

side--"well, shall we combine forces as we did last night? I brought

you luck, remember!"

She turned upon him almost sharply.

"No!" she said--"no! I don't play roulette."

At the vehemence of her denial, he raised his eyebrows; and Sir Walter

Gore looked round. Seeing the speaker, an involuntary gleam of surprise

crossed his face.

"Surely you are not so unfashionable as to disapprove of gambling, Mrs.

Milbanke?" he asked.

Clodagh raised her eyes; and this time her glance was free from

coquetry.

"I have not been fashionably brought up," she said.

"Indeed!"

The surprise--and, with it, a reluctant interest--deepened in Gore's

glance. But his eyes wandered doubtfully over her dress.

Invariably quick to follow a train of thought, she gave a short,

comprehending laugh.

"Oh, I know what you are thinking of!" she cried. "I don't look as if I

belong to the wilds. People never understand that dressing is a knack

that comes to women, and does not really mean anything."

He smiled, amused against his will.

Again she laughed, like a child who has been praised.

"Oh, it's quite true!" she added. "I could tell you of dozens of

cases----"

But her flow of confidence was suddenly terminated. Valentine

Serracauld, catching sight of her through the throng of people, had

made a hasty way towards her. His finely cut colourless face was

animated and his dark grey eyes looked excited.

"How d'you do?--how d'you do, Mrs. Milbanke?" he exclaimed. "Please

congratulate me! I've had a run of luck! Netted seventy pounds!"

Clodagh's lips parted.

"Seventy pounds!" she said breathlessly, and instinctively she turned

to Gore. But Gore's place was empty. At Serracauld's approach, he had

moved unostentatiously away.

At the knowledge that he was gone, a sense of disappointment fell upon

her. She glanced uncertainly at Deerehurst.

The old peer, who had been a cynical observer of the little scene, gave

a thin laugh.

"Our friend Gore is fearful of contamination," he said, glancing at his

nephew.

Serracauld laughed.

"Gore!" he said contemptuously. "Oh, Gore and I never did chum up! But

where have you been hiding yourself all day?" He turned again to

Clodagh. "We have had dark suspicions that old Barny has been buying up

your society with Stock Exchange tips. Come, now, confess!" He paused

and laughed, looking with intent admiration into her expressive face.

And Clodagh--sailing upon the tide of present things, elated by the

eager interest of two men, and excited by the grudging interest of a

third--forgot that, for every frail craft such as hers, there is an

ultimate harbour to be gained, a future to be reckoned with. She lifted

her head, met Serracauld's searching glance, and echoed his

inconsequent laugh.

CHAPTER X

The next day Clodagh made one of a party to the Lido, and the same

night accompanied Lady Frances Hope, Deerehurst, and Serracauld to a

theatre; but on neither occasion did she meet, or even see, Sir Walter

Gore.

On the afternoon of the second day, however, he again appeared upon the

scene of her interests, and in an unexpected manner.

The hour was six; and she, with Barnard and Milbanke, was seated on the

hotel terrace, chatting desultorily in the warmth of the early evening.

While they talked, a gondola glided up to the hotel steps; and in the

glow of the waning sun, they saw Gore step from the boat, pause to give

some order to the gondolier, and then mount the stone steps.

They all three saw him simultaneously. Clodagh, to her own annoyance,

coloured; and Barnard smiled in his observant, quizzical fashion.

"I didn't tell you that Gore was coming to see me this afternoon, Mrs.

Milbanke," he said in an undertone. "I had a fancy that you might run

away."

The flush on Clodagh's face deepened.

"Run away?" she exclaimed in angry haste.

But Barnard rose without replying, and went forward to meet his

visitor.

Having greeted his host, Gore turned to Clodagh.

"How d'you do, Mrs. Milbanke?" he said, raising his hat. Then he looked

interrogatively at Milbanke.

Barnard made a sweeping gesture.

"My old friend Mr. James Milbanke!" he said. "James, Sir Walter Gore!"

Milbanke looked up quickly; and the younger man held out his hand with

a pleasant touch of cordiality.

"How d'you do, sir?" he said. "Are you making a long stay in Venice?"

With a friendly movement, he pulled forward one of the wicker chairs

and seated himself beside Milbanke.

Clodagh, leaning far back in her own long, low seat, looked at him

curiously. Unconsciously the remembrance of Serracauld's careless

manner upon a similar occasion of first introduction recurred to her

mind, coupled with the knowledge of Barnard's contemptuous idea of her

husband--his fads and his peculiarities. What could this man see to

attract him in a dry archaeologist of twice his age? She found herself

waiting intently for his next remark--his next action.

"Are you making a long stay?" he repeated, settling himself in his

chair.

Milbanke, surprised and pleased at the unexpected attention, sat up

stiffly in his seat.

"Oh no!" he said--"no! We are leaving in three or four days. I--I am

interested in antiquity, and should, properly speaking, be in Sicily at

the present moment. Perhaps you have heard of the very remarkable

researches that are being carried on there?"

Gore smiled.

"No, I'm afraid I must confess ignorance. I know disgracefully little

about the past."

Barnard, fearing a dissertation from Milbanke, interrupted with a

laugh.

"I'm afraid most of us find the present more alluring!"

He cast a swift glance at Clodagh.

But Clodagh, still annoyed with him, and with herself--still puzzled by

Gore's attitude--lifted her head sharply.

"At least," she said, "we can be sure that the present is genuine."

Gore turned and looked at her.

"Are you quite sure of that, Mrs. Milbanke?" he asked quietly. "Don't

you think there is trickery and deception in the manufacture of many

things besides the antique?"

Her glance faltered.

"I have seen a lot of unauthentic relics," she said with a touch of

obstinacy.

"And I, a lot of unauthentic life."

He looked at her with a slight smile. The smile stung her unreasonably.

"Some people can never become connoisseurs," she retorted quickly.

Gore laughed, but without offence.

"Not of treasures, perhaps, but with experience and observation, surely

any one can become a judge of men--and women."

Clodagh forced herself to smile.

"You disapprove of women?"

"Disapprove! Indeed, no!"

But here Barnard interposed with one of his suave gestures.

"He only disapproves of the modern woman, Mrs. Milbanke!"

Gore turned to him good-humouredly.

"Wrong, Barnard!" he said. "I admire the modern woman--the truly modern

woman. It is the society woman--of any period--that I lose patience

with."

Barnard smiled.

"The present-day woman is very proud of her complex life," he said

smoothly, "her big card debts and her little intrigues."

Gore's healthy face turned a shade redder.

"I know!" he said tersely. "But to me, a woman with no higher ambition

than the playing of cards winter and summer, afternoon after afternoon,

is--is pitiable."

Clodagh leant forward.

"Perhaps they play cards because they have no real interests."

He looked at her quickly.

"And why have they no real interests, Mrs. Milbanke? Isn't it because

they reject all simple, natural, wholesome things? Such women do not

know the meaning of the word home. They do not want a home--or home

life, as the women of the last generation understood it."

"Ah, there you touch bottom, my dear Gore! There you are in your

depth!" Again Barnard gave one of his smooth, tactful laughs. "This

young man has a great pull over us, Mrs. Milbanke, when he compares the

present generation with the past."

At the suave words, Gore made a slightly embarrassed gesture, and

looked instinctively towards Milbanke.

"Forgive my tirade, sir!" he said a little confusedly. "Mr. Barnard is

right. I have rather a high ideal of womanhood. I am possessed of a--a

very remarkable mother."

"A mother!" Clodagh looked round impulsively. "Oh, tell me what she is

like!"

With a certain spontaneity, Gore turned to respond to her question; but

before his eyes met hers, their glance was intercepted by a shrewd,

amused, inquiring look from Barnard. The effect of the look was

strange. His emotion so suddenly aroused, died suddenly. His face

became passive, even a little cold. He straightened his shoulders, and

gave the restrained, self-conscious laugh that the Englishman resorts

to when he feels that his sentiments have entrapped him.

"Oh, you must not ask me what my mother is like, Mrs. Milbanke," he

said. "I could not give you an unbiassed opinion. As it is, I have been

wasting your time unpardonably. Barnard, do you think Mrs. Milbanke

will excuse you for ten minutes?"

Barnard rose slowly.

"Do not put me to the pain of saying 'yes,'" he exclaimed. "Let me

imagine that I am tearing myself away against Mrs. Milbanke's express

desire. Au revoir, Mrs. Milbanke! Au revoir, James!"

He nodded, and sauntered off in the direction of the hotel door.

A moment later Gore shook hands silently with Clodagh and her husband,

and moved away in the same direction.

As he disappeared into the hotel, Milbanke folded his newspaper with

interested haste.

"What a well-mannered young man!" he said. "Who is he? What is his

name?"

Clodagh was sitting very still, her hands clasped in her lap, her eyes

fixed upon some distant object.

"Gore," she said shortly--"Gore. Sir Walter Gore."

"Gore!" Milbanke repeated the name as though it pleased him. "A fine

young fellow! Very unlike the majority of young men of the present

day."

Clodagh said nothing.

"Don't you agree with me, my dear?"

As if by an effort, she recalled her wandering gaze, turned her head

slowly, and looked at her husband.

"He--he certainly seems unlike other people," she admitted in a low

voice.

After this rejoinder there was silence. Clodagh, her brows drawn

together in a perplexed frown, relapsed into her former absorbed

contemplation; while Milbanke, having changed his position once or

twice, shook out the sheets of his newspaper and buried himself in the

lengthy report of a scientific meeting.

But scarcely had he reached the end of his first paragraph, than a

large shadow fell across the page, and, looking up quickly, he saw the

ponderous figure of Mr. Angelo Tomes.

At the sight of his hero he started, coloured with pleasure, and rose

hastily.

"Mr. Tomes!" he exclaimed. "Clodagh, my dear, here is Mr. Tomes!"

Clodagh turned without enthusiasm, and looked at the loose figure and

unkempt hair of the scientist.

"I do not think you and my--my wife have met, Mr. Tomes!" Milbanke

broke in with a nervous attempt at geniality.

Mr. Tomes bowed.

"No; but I have many times seen Mrs. Milbanke," he said ponderously.

Clodagh bent her head, noting with the fastidious intolerance of youth

that his clothes were baggy and his hands unclean.

Milbanke gave a nervous, conciliatory laugh.

"I--I have noticed that great men are always observant," he said

jocularly.

Mr. Tomes smiled.

"That is scarcely a compliment to Mrs. Milbanke," he interposed

consciously.

Clodagh looked up and met his eyes.

"I don't wish to be paid compliments, Mr. Tomes," she said. "Please

don't try to think of any. Did you come to take my husband out?"

Mr. Tomes stammered, visibly crestfallen.

"Well," he began, "there is a certain archway in one of the smaller

churches, which I think Mr. Milbanke ought to see. But as an archway is

not too weighty for a lady's consideration, it struck me--it occurred

to me----"

But Clodagh cut him short.

"Oh, Mr. Tomes, I'm much too frivolous even for archways. Don't take me

into your calculations; I should only spoil them. Of course it's very

kind of you," she added with tardy remorse, "but the experiment would

be a failure. Ask my husband----"

Milbanke looked distressed.

"Oh, my dear----" he began.

But Clodagh's nerves were jarred.

"I know!" she broke in--"I know it's awfully kind of Mr. Tomes! But I

couldn't go to see an archway to-day. I couldn't. I really--really

couldn't."

Mr. Tomes relapsed into a state of pompous offence.

Milbanke looked from one to the other in nervous misery.

"Certainly not--certainly not, my dear!" he agreed. "You are tired; you

have been doing too much." He peered at her through the softly falling

twilight with a look of helpless concern.

She felt, rather than saw the look; and that sensitive dread of being

rendered conspicuous that attacks us all in early life, caused her to

shrink into herself.

"Nonsense!" she said a little coldly. "I am perfectly well. Please go

and see Mr. Tomes's archway. I don't mind being left alone. I would

like to be left alone."

Milbanke stirred uneasily.

"Of course, my dear, if you wish it!" he murmured. "Mr. Tomes, shall

we---- Are you ready----"

He waved his hand towards the canal.

Mr. Tomes drew his loose limbs together, and bowed formally to Clodagh.

"Certainly, if you wish it, Mr. Milbanke!" he said stiffly; and walked

off along the terrace.

Milbanke did not follow him at once. He stood looking at his wife in

pained uncertainty.

"Clodagh, my dear," he began at last, "if there is anything I can

do----"

But Clodagh turned away.

"No," she said almost inaudibly; "no, there is nothing. I'd like to be

alone. I want to be alone."

And Milbanke--perplexed, embarrassed, vaguely unhappy--turned slowly,

and walked across the terrace after his scientific friend.

Clodagh waited until the last sound of Mr. Tomes's loud, rolling voice

had melted into the distance with the departure of his gondola; then

with a stiff, tired movement she rose, walked in her own turn across

the terrace, and, leaning upon the stone parapet, gazed out into the

purple twilight, as she had gazed on the evening of her first arrival.

How long ago--how infinitely far away--that first arrival seemed to

her! With the capacity for the assimilation of new emotions that

belongs to all her race, she had lived more keenly during the last

three days, than during the preceding four years. To one of her

temperament, life is not a matter of time, but of experience. At

eighteen she had been a child; on her twenty-second birthday she had

been a girl; and now, when that birthday was past by but a few months,

she was conscious of the stirring of her womanhood--roused into swift

activity by the first approach of the world with its men and women, its

laxities and prejudices, its infinite potentialities for good or evil.

Some vague foreshadowing of this idea was casting itself across her

mind, when the thread of her musings was suddenly broken by a quick

step sounding across the deserted terrace, and with a slight,

involuntary movement, she straightened herself, and brought her hands

together upon the cold surface of the parapet.

Sir Walter Gore had parted with Barnard in the hall of the hotel; and

now he crossed the terrace quickly, conscious of the fast falling

twilight. He was close to the flight of stone steps that led to the

water, before the flutter of Clodagh's light dress caught his

preoccupied attention.

Seeing her, he paused and raised his hat.

"You look very mysterious, Mrs. Milbanke," he said. "Has your husband

gone indoors?"

Clodagh felt herself colour. Unreasonably, and seemingly inexplicably,

the mention of Milbanke's name jarred upon her.

"My husband has gone to see an archway in one of the churches," she

said with a tinge of sharpness.

Caught by the inflexion of her voice, Gore looked at her more closely

through the gathering dusk.

"And you do not share his taste for the antique?"

She turned towards him, her eyes alight with a sharp, cold brightness.

"I hate the antique!" she said with sudden vehemence.

Almost against his will, Gore looked at her again.

"And yet you come from Ireland? Isn't everything there very old?"

For an instant she looked away across the darkening waters; then her

glance flashed back to his.

"Yes, old," she said passionately; "but so naturally old, that its age

is not thrust upon you. Where I come from, there is a ruined chapel on

the edge of a cliff that dates from the fourth century. And at the

present day the peasants pray there, just as their ancestors prayed

centuries and centuries ago. They don't stare at it, and read about it,

and write about it, like the antiquarians do. They pray there. The

chapel isn't a curiosity to them; it's a part of their lives."

Gore was silent. An unconquerable surprise--a reluctant

fascination--held him chained, forgetful of the gathering darkness and

of the gondola that awaited him at the foot of the steps.

As he stood hesitating, Clodagh spoke again.

"Don't you believe that things should be lived--not merely looked at?"

she asked, her voice low and tense. Almost unconsciously the desire to

interest this man, to win his attention, to compel him to share her

opinions, had sprung into her mind.

Gore answered her with directness.

"No," he said. "All things cannot be lived."

His voice was quiet and controlled; the pose of his body, the look in

his eyes, all suggested a tempered strength--a curbed vitality. The

desire to dominate him rose higher, overshadowing every other sensation

in Clodagh's brain.

She stepped nearer to him, her hand resting on the stone balustrade,

her body bending forward.

"Don't you think that when life is so very short, we are justified in

taking all we can--when we can?"

Her warm lips were parted, her eyes shone with an added light. She was

walking on the edge of an abyss with the ardour of one whose gaze is

fixed upon the sun. But Gore--seeing only the abyss--girded on his

armour.

"No," he said slowly and deliberately. "No; that has never been my

standpoint."

"Then you refuse the good things of life when they come your way?"

"Good is a very elastic word."

He was fencing, and she realised it. With a subtle change of tone, she

made a fresh essay.

"Isn't the meaning of every word merely a matter of inflexion?"

He hesitated.

"I--I suppose so," he admitted guardedly.

She smiled suddenly, looking up into his face.

"Then to me, the word 'good' means all that is warm and light and

happy. And to you, it means something cold--or unattainable?"

"Indeed no! You have made a wrong deduction."

"Well, what does it mean to you?"

"Mean? I--I am not sure that I can tell you."

"Perhaps you have not found the meaning?"

"Perhaps not."

"But you are seeking for it?"

He laughed a little constrainedly.

"I may be--unconsciously."

Again she averted her eyes, and turned towards the mysterious canal.

"Now I understand one thing!" she said in a soft, slow voice.

"What is that?" Gore was curious, despite himself.

"Why they call you 'Sir Galahad'?"

There was a moment of silence. His face flushed, then turned cold.

"Indeed!" he said stiffly. "And, if it is not indiscreet, may I ask who

calls me 'Sir Galahad'?"

At the tone of his voice, Clodagh wheeled round.

"Didn't you know?" she asked. "I thought--oh, I was sure you knew----"

He laughed.

"No!" he said with elaborate indifference--"no! To whom am I indebted

for the name?"

But his companion was silent. Acutely conscious of having struck a

wrong note, she felt angry with herself--angry with him.

"Who gave me the name?" he asked again.

"I had better not say. I thought you knew of it."

"Then I am at liberty to guess. It was Lord Deerehurst?"

His tone was curt--even contemptuous.

Clodagh flushed. It seemed as if, by a subtle insinuation, he had

scorned her.

"And if it was Lord Deerehurst?" she asked sharply.

Gore made an exclamation of contempt.

"You dislike Lord Deerehurst?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"You dislike Lord Deerehurst?" She was persistent, remembering keenly

and uncomfortably the favour she had shown the old peer in his presence

the night before.

Gore gave a short, indifferent laugh, and the sound galled her.

"Lord Deerehurst is a friend of mine," she said unwisely.

He bent his head with a stiff movement.

"If I have transgressed," he said, "please forgive me! I have already

trespassed on your time. Good-bye! Perhaps we shall meet later at the

Palazzo Ugochini."

His voice was cold and very reserved.

The blood beat hotly and uncomfortably in Clodagh's veins, but she

raised her head and answered in a voice as indifferent as his own.

"Good-bye! It's quite possible that you may _see_ me at the Palazzo

Ugochini; but I can't promise more."

Gathering up her light skirt, she turned and walked across the terrace

to the door of the hotel.

Gore stood and watched her until the last gleam of her dress was lost

in the lighted hall; then slowly--thoughtfully, almost reluctantly--he

began his descent of the steps.

CHAPTER XI

Clodagh's mood was inexplicable even to herself as she entered the

hotel, ran upstairs to her own room, and began to dress for dinner.

She changed her dress with an almost feverish haste, giving herself no

time for thought; and then, scarcely waiting to take a final look into

the mirror, left the room and hurried down into the hall. There she

encountered Barnard.

"I have just been speaking to your husband," he said, greeting her with

a smile. "He has been lured into attending some secret conclave of

Italian scientists. He asked me to make his excuses to you."

Clodagh's glance fell.

"Oh!" she said with a curious little inflection of the voice.

"Of course he knew that you were going out to-night?"

"Oh yes! Of course!" She still kept her lashes lowered.

Barnard smiled.

"Mrs. Milbanke," he exclaimed in a cheerful voice, "suppose we have a

gay evening! Lord Deerehurst has asked me to dine with him and

Serracauld at the 'Abbati.' Let's form an even party! The old man will

be absolutely charmed; and you have never dined at a restaurant. Say I

may arrange it!"

For a moment longer Clodagh studied the ground; then very quickly she

raised her eyes, and in their depths Barnard read a new expression.

"After all," she said tentatively, "why shouldn't we take what comes

our way?"

He extended his hands.

"Why, indeed? Let me spread the good news?"

Again she let her lashes droop.

"Very well!" she said--"very well! Say that I want to enjoy myself."

The dignified and placid serenity of Venice had been intruded upon that

season by the establishment of a fashionable dining-place, which, under

the name of the Abbati Restaurant, had taken up its position in a

beautiful old house on one of the narrower waterways.

Its distance from Clodagh's hotel was short; and the journey

thither--taken in Lord Deerehurst's gondola, in company with the old

peer, Serracauld, and Barnard--occupied but a few minutes. Clodagh's

first impression, on gliding up the still, dark waterway and stepping

out upon the time-worn garden steps, was one of delight. And as she

stood for a moment in the shadow of the ancient wall, above which the

tree-tops rose, casting black reflections into the water that ran

beneath them, she was conscious of the subtle touch of the warm night

wind upon her face; of the subtle poetry in the scent of unseen

flowers; of the subtle invitation conveyed by the long row of lighted

windows, seen through a screen of magnolias.

She had momentarily forgotten her companions, when Deerehurst--the last

to leave the gondola--stepped softly to her side.

"This appeals to you?" he said.

She started slightly at his unexpected nearness; then, with a quick

impetuosity, she responded to his question.

"I think it is exquisite," she said. "The light through the trees

suggests such wonderful, mysterious things."

He smiled under cover of the darkness.

"It suggests an enchanted banquet. Let us find the presiding genius!"

He laid his fingers lightly on her arm and guided her up the long, dim

garden.

Followed by Serracauld and Barnard, they traversed the shadowy pathways

and emerged upon an open space of lawn that fronted the house.

Three or four of the private rooms were already occupied; and with the

faint streams of light that poured from their open windows, came the

pleasant murmuring of talk and laughter.

As the little party stepped into the radius of this light, a stately

personage came forward deferentially; and, recognising Deerehurst, made

a profound bow.

The old nobleman nodded amiably, as to an acquaintance of long

standing, and, drawing the man aside, addressed him in French.

The explanation was brief, and almost at once Deerehurst turned back to

his companions.

"Come, Mrs. Milbanke!" he said. "Our friend Abbati proves amenable to

persuasion. He will give us his prettiest room--though we are

unexpected guests."

Clodagh stepped forward with eager curiosity.

"I never thought a restaurant could be like this," she said.

"Very few of them are, Mrs. Milbanke," murmured Barnard, close behind

her. "The usual restaurant is an ostentatious place of white enamel,

palms, and lights, where a hundred tongues are vainly endeavouring to

drown a band. This little corner will scarcely outlive another season.

It's too perfect--too quiet to find favour with the crowd. It was

opened under the patronage--rather, at the suggestion--of Prince Menof,

a sybarite millionaire temporarily out of sorts with Paris. But now

Paris smiles once more; Menof has wearied of Venice; and poor Abbati

begins to tremble."

Clodagh looked round.

"But could anything so exquisite be a failure?"

"Easily, my dear lady! People like to eat their expensive dinners where

others can comment on their extravagance! It's a very vulgar world!"

The three men laughed; and Clodagh, slightly distressed, slightly

puzzled, stepped through the wide hall to the room that Deerehurst

indicated.

It was a small chamber, long and narrow in shape. The walls were

panelled in faded brocade, and the lights were shrouded in silk of some

soft hue; the floor was covered with a carpet in which wreathed roses

formed the chief design; and the furniture consisted of one oval table,

four beautiful old chairs, and a couple of ancient French mirrors. As

Deerehurst stepped forward to relieve Clodagh of her cloak, four

waiters entered noiselessly; and almost immediately dinner was served.

It was a dinner such as Prince Menof would have delighted in. There was

nothing tedious, nothing monotonous in the six or seven courses that

comprised its menu; each stimulated and gratified the appetite, without

a hint of satiety. It was an Epicurean feast. And it was interesting to

study the varying ways in which the guests responded to its appeal.

Barnard--placid man-of-the-world, indulgent connoisseur of all the

luxuries--openly lingered over the delights of the meal; Serracauld ate

quickly and almost greedily, as many men of slight build, and thin,

sensual faces do eat; Deerehurst alone toyed with his food, giving

serious attention to nothing beyond the dry toast with which he was

kept supplied; while Clodagh--young enough and healthy enough to have

an appetite that needed no tempting--frankly enjoyed her dinner,

without at all comprehending its excellence.

During the first portion of the meal, conversation was fitful and

impersonal; but as the waiters left the table to carry in one of the

last dishes, the tone of the intercourse underwent a change. Deerehurst

turned to Clodagh with a sudden gesture of concern and intimacy.

"I see you do not endorse my choice of wine!" he said in a gently

solicitous voice.

She looked up with slight confusion; then looked down at her untouched

glass, in which the champagne bubbles were rapidly subsiding.

"I--I never drink champagne," she said a little diffidently.

"Oh, Mrs. Milbanke! And my poor uncle has been sacking the Abbati

cellars for this particular vintage!" Serracauld glanced up quickly and

almost reproachfully.

Barnard laughed, as he blissfully drained his own glass.

"You are really very unkind, Mrs. Milbanke," he murmured. "You make one

feel such a deplorable worldling."

But Deerehurst looked round towards a waiter who was re-entering the

room.

"Bring this lady another glass and some more champagne!" he said.

Clodagh turned to him sharply and apprehensively. But he touched her

wrist with his finger-tips.

"Please!" he said in his thin, high-bred voice--"please! I want you to

taste this wine. I generally have some difficulty in getting it outside

my own house."

His pale, far-seeing eyes rested on her face; and it seemed to her

excited fancy that their glance supplemented his words. That, as

plainly as eyes could speak, they added the suggestion that some day

she might honour that house with her presence. The idea confused her.

She turned away from him in slight uneasiness; and at the same moment

one of the waiters filled her long Venetian glass with the light golden

wine.

"To please me!" Deerehurst murmured again--"to please me!"

She looked round, confused and still embarrassed; gave one unsteady,

yielding laugh; then lifted the glass.

"If--if I must----" she said deprecatingly.

Barnard and Serracauld smiled, and Deerehurst raised his own glass.

"To the next occasion upon which you consent to be my guest!" he said

with a profound and impressive bow.

On the surface, this incident seems scarcely worth recording; yet for

Clodagh it marked an epoch--an epoch not evolved through yielding to

her host's persuasions, not evolved through drinking a single glass of

unfamiliar wine; but evolved through the fact that one item in the sum

of her prejudices had gone down before that potent fetish, the dread of

appearing conspicuous.

With her action, a fleeting shadow of self-distrust fell across her

mind; but she swept it aside, as she had previously swept the memory of

her interview with Gore. Deep within her lay the specious knowledge

that, for her, this bright existence was only transitory--that

somewhere behind the lights and music and laughter lay her own

individual groove, to which she must return like a modern Cinderella,

when the enchanted interlude of brilliant days was ended. And in this

knowledge lay the secret of her greed for joy. Certain of the monotony

to come, she caught passionately at every proffered pleasure.

Ten o'clock had struck before the little party left the restaurant; and

although she had drunk no more champagne, and had refused the liqueurs

that had been served with coffee, her eyes were excitedly bright, as

she stepped from the gondola at the steps of the Palazzo Ugochini.

Mounting the marble stairs with Deerehurst close behind her, she was

filled with an exhilarating sense of confidence in herself--of defiance

towards the world at large. The memory of the afternoon, when she had

stood on the dark terrace and listened to Gore's contemptuous voice,

had left her--or remained only as a spur to her enthusiasm.

The animation--the zest for pleasure--was plainly visible in her eyes,

as she entered the salon, and went forward towards her hostess. And

Lady Frances Hope, looking round at sound of her guest's names, saw

this peculiar expression with a stirring of curiosity.

"Where have you all been?" she asked, as she took Clodagh's hand.

Barnard laughed.

"We are shocking truants!" he said gaily. "We have been dining at the

'Abbati.'"

She looked at him quickly.

"All four of you?" she asked shrewdly.

He smiled.

"You have a suspicious mind, Frances! Yes; all four of us."

Lady Frances laughed.

"No," she said. "I never harbour suspicions. It is Mrs. Milbanke's air

of having just discovered some delicious secret that is always

prompting me to curiosity."

"How do you manage to look so triumphant?" She turned again to Clodagh

with a long, puzzled glance. "I wish you would impart the secret."

Clodagh's bright eyes met hers.

"My father used to say that the secret of happiness is never to look

beyond the present hour."

"A philosopher!" murmured Deerehurst.

"I should say a bold man." Barnard looked from the old nobleman to his

hostess.

But almost as he spoke, the name of Sir Walter Gore was announced, and

Lady Frances looked sharply towards the door.

With a quiet, unembarrassed bearing, Gore crossed the salon.

As he approached the little group, Lady Frances stepped towards him

with outstretched hands.

"How nice of you!" she said softly. "I began to fear you had forgotten

about to-night."

He took her hand calmly.

"But I had promised to come," he said simply.

And at the words, his eyes turned involuntarily towards Clodagh.

"Good evening, Mrs. Milbanke!" he added in the same level voice.

At his glance and his words, Clodagh's expression changed. The vague

excitement of the past hours seemed suddenly to focus itself. She

realised abruptly that she had not yet vindicated her right to the joy

of life. With exaggerated difference she bent her head in

acknowledgment of his greeting; and almost immediately turned to

Deerehurst.

"Lord Deerehurst!" she said, very softly and distinctly, "I want you to

do me a favour to-night! I want you to teach me to play roulette!"

It was her declaration of war--the moment towards which she had

unconsciously been tending ever since the interview of the afternoon.

She knew it instantly the words had left her lips--knew it by the quick

surprise in Barnard's eyes, the sharp curiosity in Lady Frances Hope's,

the veiled triumph in Deerehurst's, and the cold disapprobation in Sir

Walter Gore's. Without another glance she turned away and walked slowly

forward across the salon, to where a couple of dozen people were

grouped about the roulette-table.

As she moved deliberately forward, many heads were turned in her

direction, but she was heedless and almost unobservant of the interest

she evoked. Her heart was beating fast, she was rejoicing recklessly in

her vindicated independence.

Deerehurst overtook her, as she halted by the roulette-table. And she

was conscious of his presence without looking round.

"Will you stake for me?" she said in a quick undertone. "You were lucky

the other night."

He stepped forward, smiling with a cold touch of wisdom, and took the

coin she handed to him.

"What! A convert!" cried Luard, who was again officiating at the game.

"Luck to you, Mrs. Milbanke!"

He gave a pleasant laugh, as her coin touched the table, and a moment

later set the ball spinning.

Clodagh waited, holding her breath. The ball slackened speed--hesitated

over the gaily painted board--and finally dropped into its place. There

was a general laugh of excitement; the little crowd pressed closer to

the table, and she saw her coin swept into Luard's hands.

The incident was eventful. Quite suddenly the colour leaped into her

face and her eyes blazed. In total unconsciousness of self, she stepped

forward to the table.

Deerehurst, closely watchful of her, moved to her side.

"Shall I stake again?" he asked in a whisper.

But she did not turn her head.

"No!--no!" she cried. "I'll stake for myself."

Her voice sounded distant and absorbed. It seemed in that brief moment

that she had forgotten her companion and herself.

Thrice she staked, and thrice lost; but the losses whetted her desires.

She played boldly, with a certain reckless grace born of complete

unconsciousness. At last fortune favoured her, and she won. Deerehurst,

still standing close beside her, saw the expression of her face, saw

the careless--the almost inconsequent--air with which she accepted her

spoils; and, noting both, he touched her arm.

"You are a true gambler!" he said very softly. "You care nothing for

gain or loss. You play for the play's sake!"

And Clodagh, with her mind absorbed and her eyes on the roulette-board,

gave a quick, high-pitched, unthinking laugh.

CHAPTER XII

At nine o'clock on the night following her first venture in the world

of gambling, Clodagh was again standing by the roulette-table in Lady

Frances Hope's salon. She had been playing for two hours, with luck

persistently against her; but no one who had chanced to glance at her

eager, excited face would have imagined even for a moment that the

collection of coins in her gold purse was dwindling and not increasing.

Deerehurst had been correct in his deductions. She played for the

play's sake. The losing game--the hazardous game was the one which

appealed to, and absorbed, her; the savour of risk stimulated her; the

faint sense of danger lifted her to an enchanted realm. And on this

night she made an unconsciously picturesque figure as she stood

fascinated by the chances of the play--her face flushed, her eyes

intensely bright, her fingers restlessly eager to make their stakes.

Round about her was gathered a little group of interested and admiring

men--Deerehurst, Luard, Serracauld, and a couple of young Americans who

had come to Venice with introductions to Lady Frances Hope; but on none

of them did she bestow more than a pre-occupied attention. She

permitted them to stand beside her; she laughed softly at their

compliments and their jests; but her eyes and her thoughts were

unmistakably for the painted board over which Barnard was presiding.

Another half-dozen rounds of the game were played; then suddenly she

turned away from the table with a quick laugh.

"The end!" she said to Serracauld, who was standing nearest to her; and

with a quick gesture, she held up the gold netted purse, now limp and

empty.

With an eager movement, he stepped forward.

"Let me be useful!" he whispered quickly.

"Or me! I represent your husband, you know!" Barnard leant across the

roulette-table.

"Oh, come, Barny! I spoke first----"

But Clodagh looked smilingly from one to the other, and shook her head.

"No!--no!" she said hastily. "I--I never borrow money."

Serracauld looked obviously disappointed.

"Nonsense, Mrs. Milbanke----" he began.

But Deerehurst intervened.

"If Mrs. Milbanke does not wish it, Valentine----" he murmured

soothingly. "Mrs. Milbanke, let me take you out of temptation!"

He bowed to Clodagh, and courteously made a passage for her through the

crowd that surrounded them. If any cynical remembrance of her first

vehement repudiation of the suggestion that she should gamble, rose now

to confute her newer denial, no shadow of it was visible in his face.

As they freed themselves from the group of players, they paused

simultaneously, and looked for a moment round the large, cool salon,

about which the elder or more serious of the assembly were scattered

for conversation or cards. Neither spoke; but after a moment's wait,

Deerehurst turned his pale eyes in the direction of the open windows,

and by the faintest lifting of his eyebrows conveyed a question.

Clodagh laughed; then silently bent her head, and a moment later they

moved forward together across the polished floor.

As they passed one of the many groups of statuary that brightened the

more shadowed portion of the room, she caught a glimpse of her hostess,

once again in conversation with Sir Walter Gore, and she was conscious

in that fleeting moment of Gore's clear, reflective eyes resting on her

in a quick regard.

With a swift, almost defiant movement she lifted her head, and turned

ostentatiously to Deerehurst.

"Is it to be philosophy to-night?" she asked in a low, soft voice.

He paused and looked at her, his cold, pale eyes slow and searching in

their regard.

"Not to-night--Circe," he said almost below his breath.

Clodagh coloured, gave another quick, excited laugh, and, moving past

him, stepped through one of the open windows.

Gaining the balcony, she did not, as usual, drop into one of the deep

lounge chairs; but, moving forward, stood by the iron railing and

looked down upon the quiet canal.

The night was exceptionally clear, even for Italy. Every star was

reflected in the smooth dark waters; while over the opposite palaces a

crescent moon hung like a slender reaping-hook, extended from heaven to

garner some mystic harvest.

For a moment Deerehurst hesitated to disturb her; but at last, waiving

his scruples, he went softly forward, and stood beside her.

"Are you offended?" he asked in a very low voice.

"No!"

Her answer came almost absently; her eyes were fixed upon the moon.

"Then sad?"

"I don't know! Perhaps!"

He drew a little nearer.

"And why sad?"

She gave a quick sigh, and turned from the glories of the night.

"I have only two days more in Venice. Isn't that reason for being sad?"

"But why leave Venice?"

"My husband is leaving."

He smiled faintly.

"And is he such a tyrant that you must go where he goes?"

She laughed involuntarily.

"A tyrant!" she said. "Oh no! I can scarcely say he is a tyrant."

"Then why do you go with him?"

She looked round for a moment, then her eyes returned to the pageant of

the sky.

"Why does one do anything?" she said suddenly in a changed voice.

With a quiet movement Deerehurst leant forward over the railing, and

looked into her face.

"Usually we do things because we must," he said softly. "But compulsion

is not always disagreeable. Sometimes we are compelled to action by our

own desires----"

Clodagh, conscious of his close regard, felt her breath come a little

quicker. But she did not change her position; she did not cease to

study the sky. She knew that his arm was all but touching hers; she was

sensitive to the faint and costly perfume that emanated from his

clothes. But she felt these things vaguely, impersonally, as items in a

drama unconnected with herself. When his next words came, it was

curiosity rather than dread that stirred in her mind.

"It is my desires that are forcing me to speak now. The desire to see

you again after you leave Venice--the desire to see more of you than a

mere acquaintance sees--to be something more than a mere friend----"

Clodagh still looked intently at the stars, but unconsciously her lips

parted.

"Why?" she asked below her breath. And it seemed to her that the word

was not spoken by her, but by some one else.

With an eager gesture, Deerehurst extended his hand, and his long, pale

fingers closed over her own.

Then out across the darkness and the silence of the balcony floated the

strong, decisive voice of Lady Frances Hope.

"Lord Deerehurst!" it called. "Lord Deerehurst! So sorry, but Rose

wants you to give an expert opinion upon one point in a game of bridge.

It won't take two minutes."

The voice faded away again as its owner moved back into the room.

At the sound of his name, Deerehurst had drawn himself erect. Now,

bending forward silently and swiftly, he lifted the hand he was still

holding and kissed it vehemently. The next moment he had crossed the

balcony and entered the salon.

Left alone, Clodagh stood motionless. With a vivid physical

consciousness, she could still feel the pressure of his cold lips upon

her hand; but her mental sensations were benumbed. That something had

occurred she dimly realised; that some point--some climax--had been

reached she was vaguely aware. But what its personal bearing upon her

own life might be, she made no attempt to guess. With a dazed mind she

gazed out across the quiet canal, striving to marshal her ideas.

For several seconds she stood in this state of mental confusion; then,

with disconcerting suddenness, a new incident obtruded itself upon her

mind. With a violent start, she became conscious that some one had

passed through the open window, and was coming towards her, across the

balcony.

She turned sharply. But as she did so, her fingers slipped from the

railing, and all thought of Deerehurst's kiss was banished from her

mind. With a sense of acute surprise, she recognised the figure of Sir

Walter Gore.

Taking no notice of her dismayed silence, he came quietly forward.

"Good-evening, Mrs. Milbanke," he said. "Have you been enjoying

yourself?"

With a certain vague confusion, she met his gaze.

"Yes," she answered. "I--I suppose so."

There was a short silence; and Gore, moving to the balcony railing,

rested his arm upon it.

"It is getting late," he said. "Time for us all to be thinking of our

hotels."

Again she looked at him in faint bewilderment.

"Yes. I--I suppose so," she said once more.

Another pause succeeded her halting words; then, with a gesture of

decision, Gore stood upright, bringing his glance back to her face.

"Mrs. Milbanke," he said suddenly, "let me take you home! I have a

gondola waiting at the steps."

The words were so totally unexpected that Clodagh remained mute, and,

leaning forward, looked down into the heavy shadows cast by the ancient

palace. There was a strange sensation of triumph in this unlooked-for

moment--in this sudden capitulation of a man who had previously ignored

her: a sensation before which all lesser things--Deerehurst's passion,

Serracauld's ardour, Barnard's friendship--became meaningless and

vague.

But Gore, guessing nothing from her bent head, glanced behind him

towards the salon.

"Well?" he said. "May I be your escort?"

Under cover of the dusk, Clodagh smiled.

"Mr. Barnard generally takes me home----"

Involuntarily Gore's figure stiffened.

"--But," she added in a low, quick whisper, "I--I would very much

rather go back with you!"

Under many conditions, the words would have seemed bold. But the manner

in which she uttered them disarmed criticism. Gore's face relaxed.

"Then let us make our escape!" he said. "Lady Frances is settling a

bridge dispute; and quite a dozen people have slipped away in the last

ten minutes. No one will question which of them has taken you home."

And Clodagh gave a short, light laugh of sudden pleasure. The small

conspiracy made Gore so much more human--drew them so much closer

together than they had been before.

"Yes!--yes!" she said eagerly. "And I am lunching with Lady Frances

to-morrow. I can explain then."

"Yes! Quite so! Now, if you are ready!"

He moved to the window.

Very quietly they re-entered the salon; and a flush crossed Clodagh's

face as she saw Deerehurst bending over a card-table with the nearest

approach to boredom and impatience she had ever known him to evince.

Her heart, already beating to the thought of her new conquest, gave an

added leap at this silent evidence of her power.

In the corridor outside the salon Gore took her cloak from the servant,

and himself wrapped it about her as they descended the stairs; then,

passing to the flight of worn steps that led to the water, he signalled

to a waiting gondolier.

"Mrs. Milbanke," he said, as he offered her his hand, "I am going to

make a strange request. I want to talk to you for half an hour before

taking you home. Will you give me leave to make a tour of the canals?"

He spoke very quietly and in a tone difficult to construe.

At his curious appeal, her heart gave another quick, excited throb,

though instinctively she realised that neither Deerehurst, Serracauld,

nor Barnard would have proposed a midnight excursion in quite his voice

or manner. But the very mode of the request enhanced its charm. She

looked up into his face as she laid her hand in his.

"I give you leave!" she said gently.

He met her glance, but almost immediately averted his eyes. And as he

handed her to the seat, he turned swiftly to the gondolier, addressing

him in Italian.

The colloquy lasted but a few seconds, and at its conclusion the boat

shot silently out into the canal.

"This man does not understand a word of English," he said, as he

dropped into his place by Clodagh's side.

Again his words were peculiarly suggestive, and again his tone was

curiously frank. Why should he suggest that their conversation was

unintelligible? And suggest it in so impersonal a tone? She leant back

in her cushioned seat and let her eyelids droop. Her mind was full of

puzzling and delightful thoughts. Never had she tasted the mystery of

Venice as she tasted it to-night. Every passing breath of wind, every

scent blown from the dark and silent gardens, every distant laugh or

broken word, was alive with unguessed meanings. The feverish excitement

of the past week seemed to fall away. This was romance! This drifting

with an inscrutable companion through an unfathomable night!

Her eyes closed; she lay almost motionless, filled with an aimless,

vague delight. All creation--with all creation's limitless

possibilities--lay in the warm darkness that enveloped her. Then, with

the instinct of senses newly and sharply astir, she became conscious

that Gore was watching her. With a thrill of expectancy and

anticipation, she opened her eyes.

There is something very curious--something subtle and almost

intimate--in the opening of one's eyes upon the steady scrutiny of

another. As Clodagh raised her lids, her glance encountered Gore's; but

on the instant that their eyes met, her joy in the moment--her exultant

triumph--was suddenly killed. For the look that she surprised was not

the look she had anticipated. It was interested, it was attentive, it

was grave, but it held neither subjugation nor passion. As her brain

woke to this realisation, she involuntarily raised herself in the

cushioned seat.

At the same moment, her companion leant slightly forward.

"Mrs. Milbanke," he said quickly, "I have been watching you and

thinking about you ever since I came to Venice. And at last I have

decided, that I must tell you what my thoughts have been.

"I am not very old--perhaps I have no right to speak. But a man sees a

good deal of life, even if he wants to keep his eyes shut; and I have

seen a great many people throw away their chances--take the false and

refuse the true. I have seen some men do it, and I have seen many

women--many, many women." He paused, but did not look at her. "It is a

common, everyday occurrence; so common that one generally looks on at

it with indifference. But sometimes--just sometimes--one stops to

think. One feels the great, great pity of it!"

He paused again, looking fixedly down at the strip of carpet beneath

their feet.

Clodagh glanced at him--a swift, searching, almost surreptitious look.

"There are times when one stops to think." He raised his head and

looked at Clodagh, sitting erect and pale, her large eyes wide open,

her hands clasped in her lap. "There are times when it seems

cruel--when it seems a sacrilege to see a girl going down the easy road

of lost illusions and callous sentiments. I know this sounds

incomprehensible--sounds impertinent. But I cannot help myself. I must

tell you what no one else will tell you. I must put out my hand."

He paused, but Clodagh did not speak.

"You are very young, you are very high-spirited, you--you are very

attractive. And the world is full of people ready--waiting--to take

advantage of your youth, your high spirits, your attractiveness. You

are not fit for this society--for this set that you have drifted

into----"

"This set? Isn't it your own set?" At last Clodagh's lips parted.

He made an impatient gesture.

"A man has many sets."

Her pale face flushed suddenly.

"I don't think I understand," she said.

"No. But I am trying to make you understand. I am not disparaging Lady

Frances Hope--or her social standing. She is a charming woman--a clever

woman, but she is a woman of to-day. Her pleasures, her ambitions, her

friends----"

Clodagh lifted her head.

"--Her friends?" she said faintly.

"--Are not the friends for you--for any inexperienced girl. Take them

one by one. There is Serracauld--indolent, worthless, vicious;

Barnard--decent enough as a man's friend, and as honest as his clients

permit him to be, but no proper guide for a girl like you;

Deerehurst----"

But Clodagh checked him.

"Lord Deerehurst? What about Lord Deerehurst?" Her voice was high and

strained.

Gore made a gesture of contempt.

"Deerehurst----" he began hotly; then suddenly his tone changed.

"Mrs. Milbanke," he said earnestly, "whatever you may say, whatever you

may do, I cannot believe that in your heart you are in sympathy with

these people, whose one object in life is to gamble--to gamble with

honour, money, emotion--anything, everything that has the savour of

risk and the possibility of gain.

"You have no justification for belonging to these people. You have the

good things of life, the things many women are forced to

steal--position, a home, a good husband----"

At the last word Clodagh started violently. And with a quick impulsive

movement, Gore turned to her afresh.

"You are intoxicated with life--or what seems to you to be life! You

are forgetting realities. I have seen your husband. He is an honest,

simple, trustworthy man--who loves you."

The tone of his voice came to Clodagh with great distinctness. It

seemed the only living thing in a world that had suddenly become dead.

While she had been sitting rigid and erect in the stern of the gondola,

everything had altered to her mental vision--everything had undergone a

fundamental change. The purple twilight; the mysterious night scents;

the breezes blown in from the lagoon had become intangible, meaningless

things. She was conscious of nothing but Gore's clear words, of her own

soul, stripped of its self-deception. At last, with a faint movement,

she turned towards him.

"Take me home," she said in a numbed voice. "I wish to go home."

At the words, he wheeled round in sudden protest. But as his eyes

rested on her cold face, a tinge of self-consciousness chilled his

zeal--self-consciousness, and the suddenly remembered fact that his own

action was, after all, unjustifiable. His own figure suddenly

stiffened.

"As you wish, of course!" he said quietly. "I suppose my conduct seems

quite unpardonable."

For one fleeting second an impulse--a desire--crossed Clodagh's face;

but as it trembled on the brink of utterance, Gore leant forward in his

seat and gave a quick, imperative order to the gondolier. A moment

later they had glided up a narrow waterway and emerged again upon the

Grand Canal.

From the door and windows of Clodagh's hotel, a stream of light was

still pouring out upon the water. As they drew level with the terrace,

she turned her face away from this searching radiance, and rose quickly

to her feet.

"Good-night," she said in an almost inarticulate voice--"good-night!

Don't stir! Don't help me!"

But Gore had risen also. And in a sudden return of his earlier, more

impulsive manner, he forgot the self-consciousness that had chilled

him.

"Mrs. Milbanke----" he said quickly.

But Clodagh evaded his eyes; and with a sharp nervous movement, shook

her head.

"No!" she said--"no! Don't help me! I don't want help!"

Stepping past him with an agile movement, she ran up the steps, and

across the terrace to the door of the hotel.

Obeying a dominant impulse, Gore turned to follow her. But as his foot

touched the side of the boat, he paused, drew slowly back, and dropped

into his former seat.

With almost breathless haste, Clodagh ran up the silent staircase of

the hotel, and entering her own room, turned on the light; then,

walking straight to the dressing-table, she paused and stared into the

mirror at her own reflection.

The sight of that reflection was not reassuring. Her face looked

colourless, as only olive-tinted skin can look; her wide eyes with

their narrowed pupils seemed almost yellow in their intense clearness;

while her whole air, her whole appearance, was frightened, tired,

pained. As she looked, a nervous panic seized her, and she turned her

gaze away.

With freedom to look elsewhere, her eyes roved over the dressing-table,

and suddenly fixed themselves upon a large, square envelope bearing her

name, which stood propped against a scent bottle.

In nervous haste she picked it up, and looked at it uncomprehendingly.

It was unusually large and thick and addressed in an unfamiliar hand.

With the same unstrung haste she turned it about between her fingers,

halting with new apprehension, as she saw that its flap bore an

elaborate black coronet and monogram.

At last, with a strange sense of apprehension, she tore the envelope

open.

"CIRCE," the letter began.

"I will not reproach you for deserting me. Life is too brief for

reproaches--when one longs to fill it with pleasanter things. But

be kind to me! Give me the opportunity of finishing that broken

sentence. I shall smoke a cigar on the terrace at eleven to-night.

If you are generous, wrap yourself up, and keep me company for ten

minutes. I shall wait--and hope.

"DEEREHURST."

She read to the end, and stood for a space staring at the large,

straggling writing; at last, as if suddenly imbued with the power of

action, she tore the letter across--tearing and retearing it into

little strips; then, throwing the fragments on the ground, she turned

and fled out of the room.

Milbanke's bedroom was on the same floor as her own, though separated

from it by half the length of the corridor. Leaving her own apartment,

she hurried towards it; and pausing outside the door, knocked softly

and insistently. A delay followed her imperative summons; then

Milbanke's voice came faint and nervous, demanding the intruder's name.

She answered; and a moment later the door was opened with a confused

sound of shooting bolts.

Milbanke's appearance was slightly grotesque, as the opened door

disclosed him, silhouetted against the lighted room. He was garbed in a

loose dressing-gown; his scanty hair was disarranged; and there was an

expression of alarm on his puckered face. But for once Clodagh was

blind to these things. With a swift movement she entered the room, and

closing the door, stood leaning against it.

"James," she said breathlessly, "you finished your business with Mr.

Barnard to-day, didn't you?"

Milbanke, suddenly conscious of her white face, began to stammer.

"Clodagh! my dear--my dear----"

But Clodagh waved his anxiety aside.

"Tell me!" she said. "It's finished, isn't it?"

"Yes!--yes! But, my dear----"

She threw out her hands in a sudden, vehement gesture.

"Then take me away!" she cried--"take me away! Let us go in the

morning, by the very first train--before any one is up."

Milbanke paled.

"But, my dear," he said helplessly, "I thought--I believed----"

Clodagh turned to him again.

"So did I!" she cried--"so did I! I thought I loved it. I thought I

loved it all--the music and the gaiety and--and the people. But I

don't. I hate it!--I hate it!--I hate it!"

In a strangled sob, her voice gave way; and, with it, her strength and

her self-control. She took a few steps forward; then, like a mechanical

figure in which the mechanism has suddenly been suspended, she stopped,

swayed a little and, dropping into the nearest chair, broke into a

flood of tears--such tears as had shaken her four years ago, when she

drove out of Carrigmore on the day of her wedding.

_PART IV_

CHAPTER I

The penetrating Florentine sunshine was enveloping the villa that stood

upon the hill above San Domenico; but it was not the full, warm

sunshine of late April that had opened the roses in the garden and

deepened the shadows of the cypress trees nearly two years earlier,

when Clodagh had dreamed of her visit to Venice. It was the cool

sunlight of February, and it fell across the polished floors, and threw

into prominence the many antique and curious objects that filled the

rooms, with a searching clearness that almost seemed like a human

scrutiny.

In a small salon that opened upon the terrace Clodagh sat at a bureau.

In front of her was a formidable array of letters and business papers,

neatly bound into packets by elastic bands, and under her hand was

spread a sheaf of unused, black-bordered note-paper.

Whether it was the multitude of her own thoughts that retarded the task

she had in hand, or a certain air of absolute stillness that seemed to

brood over the villa, one could not say; but certain it is that for

nearly half an hour she sat in an attitude of abstraction, her fingers

poised above the note-paper, the tip of her pen held against her lips.

At last, however, a new idea seemed born in her mind, for she laid down

her pen, rose suddenly to her feet, and moving across the room, paused

beside the window.

For a long, silent space she stood at this closed window, her gaze

wandering over the scene that custom had rendered so familiar,--the

hillside, cut into characteristic tiers of earth, until it sloped

downwards almost like a flight of steps, from which the grey olive

trees and the black cypresses rose sharply defined in the brilliant

atmosphere; at its foot, Florence, with its suggestion of dark-roofed

houses and clustering spires; and beyond all, encircling all, the low

chain of mountains, blue and purple in the sun. Quite suddenly, with a

swift, impulsive movement, she unfastened the latch and threw the

window open.

In the added radiance that poured into the room, she stood more

distinctly revealed, and the slight changes that even two years can

make became visible in her face and figure. The pose of her body and

the carriage of her head were precisely as they had been, but her

cheeks were a little thinner, and some of her brilliant colouring was

gone; but the fact that would most speedily have appealed to one who

had not seen her for the two years was the circumstance that she wore

deep mourning--a mourning that lent an unfamiliar, almost a fragile air

to her whole appearance.

That would have been the first impression; and then, as one studied her

more closely, it would have been borne in upon one that these were mere

outward signs--that the true, the real alteration lay not in dress, not

in the thinness of her face nor in the unwonted pallor of her skin, but

in the very curious expression with which she gazed out over the

distant hills; the look of kinship--of comprehension--of that illusive,

subtle sentiment that we call anticipation, with which her eyes met the

far-off sky line.

For many moments she stood as if fascinated by the sense of promise

that breathed and vibrated in the spring air; then, at last, with a

quickly taken breath, she turned away from the open window, and,

recrossing the room, seated herself again at the bureau, picked up her

pen, and with new inspiration began to write.

"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; I _shall_ live 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.