Exactly one week later Clodagh arrived in Paris on her way to England.
Simonetta Ottolenghi--an Italian woman, who had been in her service as
maid for nearly four years--was her only companion; there was no friend
to meet or welcome her in the unfamiliar city, and even the dog
Mick--the companion of so many solitary hours--had been left behind in
Florence until she could conveniently send for him; yet, incongruous as
it may sound, her feelings were happy--her mind was free from
loneliness as her train steamed into the crowded railway station and
she found herself free to drive to her hotel. After all, life
undeniably stretched before her, and there was no prohibition against
letting her eyes dwell upon the vistas it opened up!
Knowledge of duty done--be the doing ever so tardy--is the best
stimulus for the wayfarer in the world's by-ways; and Clodagh, as she
stepped from her train on that February afternoon, was conscious of
some such reassuring certainty.
In the last two years, life for her had been a thing of physical
inaction, accompanied by a subtle process of mental development. The
night of tempestuous excitement--when, in a whirl of pain, chagrin, and
passionate self-contempt, she had repudiated Venice and her newly made
friends--had been the birth of a fresh phase in her existence. With all
the ardour, all the enthusiasm, whereof her vivid nature was capable,
she had veered from her former point of view to another almost as
extreme. The return to Florence, the taking up of existence in the
secluded villa, had been like the incidents of a dream; then, in the
days that had succeeded--in the early mornings, or the late
evenings--as she sat upon the marble rim of the drowsy fountain in the
garden, gazed down from Fiesole upon the sleeping Roman amphitheatre,
or knelt in a dim recess of the old church of San Dominico, rendered
mystical by the smell of incense and the flicker of wax tapers, the
dream had shaped itself. It had become a tapestry, into the pictures of
which many figures were woven, but where only two took place and
prominence--her own and one other.
For in those silent hours the thought of Gore--the remembrance of
Gore--had come back to her as tangible things. In that solitude peopled
by imagination, she had forgotten the hurt vanity, the bitter
disappointment, that had clothed her last interview with him; and
remembered only that, seeing fit to reprove her, he had dared to do
so--that, seeing the brink upon which she had stood, he had put out his
hand to draw her back.
And, standing in this new light, Gore became an ideal, a being apart,
endowed with endless power to inspire high deeds. An idealist born,
Clodagh was created to make-believe. The make-believes were probably
the swaying of an impulsive mind from one emotional pole to the other;
but in this case, at least, benefit accrued. She developed a sudden
gentle tolerance of Milbanke--an altogether unprecedented care for his
comfort and well-being.
The working of this profoundly subtle emotion was far too deep to be
even guessed at by herself. And had any student of human nature told
her that the new tenderness for the timid, unassuming husband, who made
so few demands upon her consideration, arose from the fact that another
man had crossed her life--rousing at once her imagination, her
antagonism, and her admiration, showing her new depths in the world
around her, new possibilities within herself--she would have been both
incredulous and indignant.
But no student of human nature visited the villa. And she lived
undisturbed in her atmosphere of dreams. Whether the vague,
subconscious thought that Gore, away in his own world, might hear of
her graver attitude towards life and might secretly approve, ever lent
zest to her self-imposed duties, it would have been impossible to say;
but certain it is that if the thought came, it came unbidden and stayed
unrecognised.
And now Milbanke was dead. And life--not the mythical life of memories,
of dreams, even of ideals, but the life of hope and warm human
possibilities--was hers, as it had been long ago, before her husband's
name had ever been spoken in her presence.
Her mind was at peace, as she drove through the narrow streets of
Paris, with their cheerful characteristic chorus of shouting
newsvendors, and cracking whips.
The hotel she had chosen was a small one, close to the Place Vendome;
and when her fiacre stopped and she entered the vestibule, her sense of
pleasure and contentment increased. The quiet air of the place
contrasted agreeably with her previous experience of hotel life.
Still conscious of this impression of security, she turned away from
the bureau where she had registered her name, and crossed the vestibule
to the lift. Taking her place on the velvet-covered seat, she watched
the attendant close the iron doors and turn to set the lift in motion.
But at the moment that he laid his hand upon the button, she saw the
swinging doors of the hotel open, to admit a lady.
The new-comer, seeing that the lift was about to ascend, hurried
towards it; and Clodagh, idly interested by the sound of rustling silk,
leaned forward in her seat. But the light in the vestibule was dim, and
she caught nothing beyond the outline of a large hat and the suggestion
of a pale green dress. Then, suddenly, the stranger spoke, and her
heart gave a tremendous leap.
"Wait!" she called in French--"wait! I am coming!"
It needed but the five words, spoken in a clear, dictatorial voice, to
assure Clodagh that the speaker was known to her; and as the attendant
paused in his task, and, turning promptly, opened the grilled door, her
mind was prepared for the vision of Lady Frances Hope.
But if she was prepared for the encounter, the new-comer was taken
completely by surprise. Entering the lift, she glanced casually at its
other occupant; then her whole face changed.
"It is---- It can't be! It _is_ Mrs. Milbanke!" Her glance passed
rapidly over Clodagh's deep mourning and her expression altered in
accordance. "My dear Mrs. Milbanke," she said softly, "how thoughtless
of me not to realise at once! I heard through Mr. Barnard. How are
you?--how are you?"
She pressed the hand Clodagh had offered her, and looked
sympathetically into her face. Then, as the lift, gliding upwards,
stopped at the first floor and Clodagh rose, her expression changed
again.
"Are you located on this floor? How delightful! We are neighbours. I am
number five. What are you?"
"Seven," Clodagh said gently, speaking for the first time. There was
something very strange to her in this meeting--something not altogether
unpleasant. In the two years since they had met--and in the light of
her last evening in Venice--the image of Lady Frances Hope had become
slightly distorted. And there was a sense of surprise, of reassurance
in finding her so kindly, so gracious, so unalarming.
"Seven!" Lady Frances repeated. "Delightful! You must dine with me
to-night. I have a private room, and am quite alone. It will be an act
of charity. I am on my way south. By the way, where are you bound for?"
Clodagh smiled.
"I am going home."
"Home?"
"To England."
"England! My dear child, not England in February? Why, the atmosphere
is a combination of fog and sleet; and the people----" She made a
gesture of horror. "Everybody who hasn't influenza is either expecting
it or shaking it off."
Clodagh laughed a little.
"I have never had influenza. It will be an experience. But I must look
after my maid. Travelling is new to her."
She glanced down the corridor to where Simonetta was awaiting her
beside a mountain of luggage.
Lady Frances made haste to echo her laugh.
"Well, well!" she said. "It's good to have the enthusiasm of youth. But
you will dine with me? Dinner in an hour."
Clodagh hesitated. Yesterday she would have ardently avoided a meeting
with Lady Frances Hope. Now that it had been thrust upon her, it seemed
to possess no danger. What was it Gore had said on that memorable
night? "I am not depreciating Lady Frances Hope or her social
standing----" Very swiftly she recalled the words and construed them in
the light of her present feelings. After all, she was not the child she
had been two years ago. And it was not Lady Frances, but the set that
surrounded her, to which Gore took exception.
Her companion, seeing the hesitation in her eyes, gave a quick, bright
smile.
"Do come! I will give you news of--every one."
Clodagh coloured slightly.
"Very well!" she said. "In an hour. Thank you very much!"
And with an agreeable, unfamiliar sense of interest and excitement, she
turned and passed down the corridor to where Simonetta stood.
Before opening her own door, Lady Frances Hope stood for a few seconds
watching the retreating figure; then, apparently without reason, she
frowned, drew her lips together, and pushing her door hastily open,
passed out of sight.
Still imbued with the sense of contentment, Clodagh changed her heavy
black travelling dress for one of lighter texture, allowed Simonetta to
rearrange her hair, and, at the appointed hour, presented herself at
Lady Frances Hope's door.
Lady Frances had also discarded her elaborate costume for something
lighter and more comfortable, and was ensconced on a low divan, reading
a French novel, when her guest was announced. Immediately Clodagh's
name reached her, she threw the book aside, and rose with great
cordiality.
"How sweet you look!" she exclaimed. "You are the first dark woman I've
ever liked in black. But then, of course, you are not exactly dark. Sit
down! Dinner will be served in a moment. How did you know of this
place? Have you stayed here before?"
Clodagh had come forward and seated herself beside her hostess. Now, as
she looked about her, she noticed with a feeling of restfulness that
the room was pretty and homelike, and that there were flowers on the
tables and soft yellow shades on the electric lamps.
"No; I have never been here before. Mr. Barnard gave the address to
my--my husband, when we were in Venice; and I came across it among his
papers after--after----" She hesitated.
Lady Frances leaned forward sympathetically.
"Poor child!" she murmured. "Don't talk of it! You have had a most
trying time. Barny told me all about it only a week ago. But this place
is really quite good," she added, in a cheerful voice; "better now than
ever. They have just secured the chef from the 'Abbati' Restaurant in
Venice. But, of course, you knew 'Abbati's.'"
Her quick glance passed over Clodagh's face. Then she rose and moved to
the table, as two waiters entered, and dinner was announced.
Clodagh coloured, and crossed the room in her hostess's wake.
"Yes," she said, taking her seat at the table--"yes; I once dined
there. It was a wonderfully fascinating place. Has it been a failure?"
Lady Frances shrugged her shoulders.
"Vanished! But tell me about yourself!" She turned to her guest with a
change of manner. "You are not seriously contemplating England at this
time of year?"
Clodagh smiled calmly.
"Quite seriously."
"But, my dear child, why, if one may be inquisitive?"
"Because I want to know England--to know the English."
Lady Frances's eyes narrowed very slightly; then she gave one of her
bright laughs.
"Then come back with me to the Riviera! Any English people worth
studying will be found there. Change your plans! Come back with me!"
Clodagh looked up. She was uncertain whether the suggestion had been
made in jest or earnest, and the smiling, searching glance of her
hostess did not enlighten her. With a slight feeling of embarrassment,
she broke off abruptly into another channel of talk.
"And how is Mr. Barnard?" she asked.
"Barny! Oh, optimistic as ever!"
"Then there is one amusing person left in England!"
Lady Frances laughed.
"Only temporarily. He takes his holiday next month. Last March he
joined the Luards and me in Naples, and we all went on to Sicily. It
was tremendous fun."
She laughed again over some recollection; and entered upon a history of
her Sicilian adventures that occupied the rest of dinner.
At the termination of the meal, however, when the waiters had brought
in coffee and silently retired, she dropped her reminiscent tone, and,
rising from table, moved back to the divan, which was drawn pleasantly
near to a bright wood fire.
"Come here, and let's be comfortable!" she said. "I always have a
cigarette after dinner. I forget whether you smoke."
Clodagh smiled, as she came slowly forward.
"Not since my cousin and I used to smoke in the top branches of an
apple tree in Ireland. I should be afraid to try the experiment again;
I might lose an illusion. No other cigarettes could taste like those
stolen ones!"
She gave a little sigh, then a little laugh, and seated herself.
Lady Frances looked up from the cigarette she was drawing from her
case.
"Illusions!" she said. "Why, life is all illusions at your age!" She
paused; then, after a moment's silence, went on again, but in a slower,
more considered voice: "You thought I was jesting at dinner, when I
asked you to come south with me. But I wasn't. I meant it." She struck
a match and lighted her cigarette. "You don't know how you would enjoy
Nice. You lost yourself in the delights of roulette at Venice. Think
what Monte Carlo would be!"
With a sudden tumultuous confusion, Clodagh flushed.
"I--I have ceased to care about things like that," she said in a
hurried voice.
Lady Frances's expression changed to one of deep interest, sharpened by
surprise.
"Ceased to care?" she repeated softly. "Since when? And why?"
"Since"--Clodagh hesitated--"oh, since that time in Venice."
Her hostess flicked the ash from her cigarette.
"Some new influence?"
Clodagh was taken unawares.
"I--I have got to know myself better since that time in Venice," she
said below her breath. "Some one--something--has made me see that it
was not my true self that showed then. I was foolish in those days. I
was carried away----"
A very faint smile flitted across Lady Frances's lips.
"That idea belongs to the some one else?" she said in a quiet, cordial
tone that invited confidence.
Moved by a sudden impulse, Clodagh leant forward in her seat and
clasped her hands. As on the day in Florence--the day when she had
written her letter to Laurence Asshlin--her soul thirsted for
confession. After two long years of silent thought, the temptation to
open her heart in speech was overmastering. The room was comfortable,
dimly lighted, almost homelike; the hour was propitious; her hostess's
voice was extraordinarily kind. She stole one half-shy, half-eager
glance at the averted face.
"Lady Frances," she said suddenly, "I was very childish, very foolish,
that time in Venice. I knew it even before I--before I left."
With extreme tact, Lady Frances refrained from looking at her. Smoking
quietly, she made her next remark in a low, reassuring voice.
"Then that was why you left so suddenly?"
"That was why."
"Walter Gore must have been very eloquent!"
Lady Frances spoke in the same even tone; but, as she felt the thrill
of surprise with which Clodagh received her words, she turned quickly
and decisively, and met her startled eyes.
"I always knew that Walter Gore went back with you to your hotel on
that last night," she said. "I always knew that he read you a very
moral lecture."
Clodagh drew a quick breath.
"But how did you know?"
Lady Frances studied her face for a moment; then she gave a direct
answer to the question put to her.
"Walter himself told me," she said.
After she had spoken there was silence in the room. On her part it was
the silence of the experimenter, who has taken a step in a new
direction and is waiting for results; on Clodagh's, it was the silence
of incredulity, of doubt, of dread. That Gore should have spoken of
that last night in Venice to any third person was a circumstance that,
at very least, needed explanation. She sat breathlessly waiting that
explanation.
During the moment of fruitful silence Lady Frances Hope remained very
still, fingering her cigarette, drawing in fitful puffs of smoke,
avoiding with elaborate carelessness any observation of her companion's
manner.
Then, as if some psychological crisis for which she was waiting had
been achieved, she altered her position and her expression; and,
turning, laid her hand upon Clodagh's.
"Dear Mrs. Milbanke," she said, "I am glad all this has happened; I am
glad we have met. You are at a moment in your life when you need a
friend--a friend who understands----"
Her fingers tightened upon Clodagh's in a warm, sympathetic pressure.
"You are young; you are free; you have the whole world at your feet.
Don't spoil your life by taking it too seriously!
"When I was your age, or only a little older than you, I was left a
widow--as you have been left; but I was unlike you in one particular: I
had a very wise and far-seeing mother to help me with her advice. Do
you know what her advice was?"
Clodagh sat silent.
"It was comprised in one sentence. 'Avoid scandal, but fly from
sentiment!' Do you see all the wisdom in that advice to a woman who has
just become her own mistress?"
Still Clodagh was silent, filled by a sense of uncertainty, of
loneliness, of fear. She waited for Lady Frances's explanation with the
numb sense of helplessness that is born of ignorance.
"Of course, I may be wrong," the strong, reliant voice went on; "but I
feel you are in need of just such counsel. You are emotional; you are
an idealist; you are coming out into life expecting it to be a fairy
tale--and it is not a fairy tale. It is a realistic story--sometimes a
long one, sometimes a short one, but always realistic. Take my advice!
Make the best of it as it is! Don't break your heart because there are
no dragons, or castles, or princes."
She paused at last; and at last Clodagh spoke.
"You are very kind--very good. But I don't see what it all has to do
with me."
With a frank, almost an affectionate gesture, Lady Frances took both
her hands, and, looking into her face, spoke the words for which she
had so carefully prepared the way.
"If what I am going to say hurts you, you must forgive me. I feel such
centuries older than you, that I can risk a great deal. Don't spoil
your life, don't throw away your pleasure, because of one moral
lecture! It isn't worth while. I know what I am saying. People like
Walter Gore are reprehensible. They take themselves so seriously, that
sometimes other people make the mistake of taking them seriously too;
and then things go wrong."
Clodagh's face became a shade paler.
"I--I am stupid," she said. "I don't seem to understand."
"My dear! It is so hard to say it bluntly."
"Please say it bluntly."
For an instant the older woman hesitated before the coldness of
Clodagh's tone; but the next, she took the opening offered her.
"You are deliberately turning away from the best in life because some
one, in a moment of enthusiasm, preached you a sermon. You make the
mistake of thinking that Walter Gore did something unusual when he
warned you against cards and roulette--against Lord Deerehurst and Val
Serracauld and me--whereas, Walter was born to preach!"
Clodagh's lips parted. Lady Frances had justified herself. Gore _had_
spoken of that last interview. But why? And how?
"Lady Frances," she said very quietly, "why did Sir Walter Gore tell
you all these things?"
Lady Frances freed the hands she had continued to hold.
"Oh, we are old friends. He tells me many things. I fought more than
one battle for you, while you were in Venice--and afterwards."
"For me? After I left Venice?"
"Oh, many battles. Walter is so extreme in his judgments of men and
things. I lose patience with him sometimes."
"And what was Sir Walter Gore's judgment of me--after I left Venice?"
Lady Frances gave a little deprecating laugh.
"Would that be quite fair?"
"Yes, I think so, if I wish to know."
The older woman took a fresh cigarette from the case beside her.
"And you won't be offended?"
"I won't be offended." Clodagh's voice sounded a little dry.
"Well, then--oh, really, it's very stupid! Perhaps I'd better not."
Clodagh rose quietly from the divan and walked to the mantelpiece.
"Please tell me," she said.
At her tone, her hostess ceased to dally. She struck a match and raised
the cigarette to her lips.
"Well," she said, with another little apologetic laugh, "I think Walter
has always imagined you a very pretty, very fascinating--little fool!"
There was another silence--very short but very tense. Lady Frances laid
down her cigarette unlighted, and blew out the match.
"Mrs. Milbanke, you don't mind?"
Clodagh laughed--suddenly and almost loudly.
"Mind? Mind? Why _should_ I mind?"
Had her denial been a shade less intense, its steadiness might have
deceived her companion; as it was, the faintest flickering smile
touched her lips, as she also rose and came slowly forward.
"My dear child!" she murmured reproachfully--"my dear child, you have
misunderstood. I never implied that Walter interested you personally; I
merely used him as an illustration--as a means of conveying the folly
of taking serious people seriously. But you are tired. I have been
cruelly unreasonable. I shall send you straight to bed. You are fagged
after that long journey."
She put out her hand and laid it on Clodagh's arm; but Clodagh was not
in a mood to be caressed.
"It's all right!" she said abruptly. "I suppose we both misunderstood.
I _am_ a little tired. I think I _will_ say good-night!"
"Good-night, dear child!" Lady Frances pressed her hand, and walked
with her slowly across the room. As she passed out into the corridor,
she waved a gay farewell. "Sleep well!" she called. "But dream of an
English February--and wake with a changed mind!"
As she said the last words, Clodagh paused for a moment; then went on
again without speaking, and entered her own room.
Tired though she was, she scarcely slept that night; and in the early
hours of the morning she saw the bright dawn break over Paris. At eight
o'clock she rang for Simonetta, and asked for ink, pen, and note-paper.
Sitting up in bed, she wrote the following note.
"DEAR LADY FRANCES,
"As we are both women, I can hope that you won't call me variable.
If you still want me as a companion, I think I will, after all, go
with you to Nice. Looking into the matter more closely, I find I
really have no affinity for sleet or influenza!
"Yours,
"CLODAGH MILBANKE."
Having despatched the note to Lady Frances Hope, she wrote two long,
feverishly hasty letters--one to Laurence Asshlin at Orristown, the
other to Nance at her school near London.